Helplessness - Ch. 8

Exhausted, Buffy had fallen asleep in his car, leaned up not against him, but against the hard, cold metal of the door. When they arrived at Revello Drive, Giles hadn't the heart to wake her. He moved her gently in the seat so that she wouldn't spill out when he opened the door, then came round to her side. Buffy didn't so much as stir when he lifted her in his arms, but her breathing was good and steady, her pulse strong--this was only the sleep of a young woman tired beyond her endurance, not something more serious.

Joyce met him anxiously at the door, fluttering over her daughter in much the manner of an agitated hen. She'd a pale, strained look, lines showing on her face that he'd never seen before, and he had obviously interrupted her having a bit of a drink--a light fragrance of rum hung around her, and a slight glaze covered her eyes. "Is she--?"

"Only sleeping, I should think. Shall I..?" He gestured, vaguely, with his head, having no idea, in his weariness, in which direction Buffy's room might lie--even though he'd been there once previously.

"Oh, yes. Please." Keeping one hand on the wall, Joyce led him up the stairs. Her own room, he recalled had been tasteful, feminine--except for the hideous tribal mask on the wall. Even before he'd known its function, the mask had seemed an odd touch--one expected gentle watercolours, or, if one must have masks, perhaps something Italian.

"Ah...er...R...Mr. Giles." He'd been woolgathering, and Joyce was indicating a room--Buffy's room, of course, the door of which she'd already opened.

"Ah, thank you, Ms...Joyce."

"Ms. Joyce?" She nearly laughed, covering her mouth with her hand to hide the sound.

"Joyce," Giles amended. It still shamed him, the knowledge he'd taken of her body, nearly one of the most irresponsible acts of his life--without love, without precautions, in utter disregard for who she was, and who he was. Yes, Ethan had a great deal to answer for, but the truth was...

The truth was, he'd been lonely, she'd been lonely, and eager, and it had been such a long time--not since Eva, at Christmas, what was it? four years before? During those minutes, his rational mind switched off, it had felt so good, that soft, willing body moving hungrily beneath his, her hands and her lips bringing him to the edge and beyond.

Then the guilt, and the shame--the knowledge that although he liked and admired this brave, sweet, tenacious lady, he loved, with his whole heart, her daughter. Her daughter who was too innocent, and too young, and loved someone else besides.

Giles carried Buffy into her pretty, childish room, allowing Joyce remove the soft toys and turn back the coverlet before he laid her down. He paused a moment to slip off her trainers, lest they dirty the pristine sheets, and stood just a moment looking about this sacred place, as Joyce covered her daughter tenderly: parasols and straw hats, a girlish clutter of cosmetics and nail varnish, a picture of Buffy and her friends in a ceramic frame. He felt too big here, a giant in a doll's house--too large and rough and male, the dreary colour of his clothes leeching colour from the room.

Joyce touched his arm gently, escorting him down the stairs. No doubt she suspected the worst, but was too tired, for the moment, to quarrel with him. She'd blamed him for Buffy's life, always had--and this, of course, was a far greater sin than any that had come before.

"Did you need--?" She asked, indicating, with a gesture, his bruises.

"No, no, they'll be fine. I merely intend to go home, have a bit of a drink, and fall into bed."

Joyce did laugh a little then. "Oh? Me too."

"Goodnight, then, Joyce," Giles said.

"Goodnight," she answered, opening the door, and after a pause, added, "Rupert."

He couldn't get drunk anymore, Giles decided, with the Sunday evening light stabbing into his eyes. Or rather, he could--had, in fact, swallowed the bloody stuff down, well into the morning hours. The burning in his stomach and throbbing in his head were ample evidence that he could, in fact, experience all the worst effects of getting pissed.

What he couldn't have anymore, it seemed, was what he most desired--the sweet oblivion which was, really, the thing he wanted most of all. No matter how much he'd put away, his mind remained clear, bitter memory surfacing in abrupt spasms, rather like being sick--which he'd also done enough of, this time.

As penance, he forced himself to rise, shower, shave--quite the challenge with his hands shaking as they were, dress himself decently and stumble down the stairs. The clock read half-past-five, and a golden quality had come into the painful light.

He tried to make himself read, but the words refused to stay still on the page, and the motion threatened to bring another bout of illness. He shut the covers, leaning back into the cushions of his sofa with the tome clutched to his chest, wondering if there was any chance of him actually drifting into sleep. For he hadn't slept--hadn't even passed out. He'd been awake through it all.

The act of closing his eyes made the room rock rather horribly, and Giles opened them again, just as a sharp knock came at the door, launching a spike of pain through his skull.

"Lord!" he moaned, not even sure that he could answer the knock--or should, in his present state--but he managed to make it across the room.

When he opened the door, Willow stood in the doorway--at least he thought he'd glimpsed Willow before he'd had to throw his hand across his eyes to block the daylight.

"So," she said, brushing past him, and shutting the door, when he could not. "Either you got changed into a vampire on your way home last night--a theory I'm gonna have to throw out, because you didn't actually catch fire when you opened up--or you, Mister, are a man with a serious hangover."

"Smart money goes on the latter," Giles said.

"That was my thought." Her little hand curled into his, and she led him back toward the sofa. "Actually, it was my thought even before I got here. Did it do any good?"

"Not really."

Gently, she eased him down into a nest of cushions. "Are you gonna do it again?"

"Truly, I would like to say no." He managed to look at her, the sweet, sympathetic face peering up at him from beneath the brim of one of her silly hats which, as always, Giles found charming.

"Say no, then." Her cool hand rested on his brow. Abruptly, the spinning stopped. "I don't mind if you have a little drink, occasionally--you're wound up pretty tight, Giles, and you're a grownup, so if it helps you to relax, okay. But I don't like to see this, and I especially don't want Xander to see this, 'cause he looks up to you, and it's just way, way too close to what his parents do. Also, as my mom might say, there's a limit to my enabling behavior."

"Xander doesn't look up to me," Giles answered, incredulous. "He thinks I'm..." He paused, searching for a word, but his muddled brain could only produce, "Tweedy."

"You're so silly, sometimes. Don't you know?" Her little arms slipped around him, pulling him close, so that his head rested on his shoulder and he could hear the small, steady beat of her heart. Her hand, gently, stroked his cheek, the sensation so soothing that all at once he felt himself begin to unwind, slipping into that state, that oblivion, that he'd so foolishly sought in the bottle.

Willow knew, he realized. She knew what he had done, and yet she didn't hate him--in the generosity of her nature, she could forgive him far more readily than he could forgive himself. Her touch, for once, was unafraid. It healed.

"Know what?" he murmured, going ever deeper.

"That we love you," Willow answered, as if there could be nothing else to say.