Transitions - Ch. 32

They'd held it together pretty decently while they said goodbye to Seb and Celeste, and then the aunts--who fussed a little about food, and having enough blankets, and the way the two of them looked, the way it was their auntly duty to do. Father Brounslow came over from the church, and though it had seemed at first like he wanted to give Giles a good talking-to, one glance at their faces apparently made him apparently change his mind. He murmured something about being sorry, and that Giles should come speak to him when he felt up to it.

Giles gave him a washed-out smile and thanked him for stopping by. Only he used more, and bigger, words.

When the priest had gone, Giles sank back down onto the couch again, and Buffy crawled up into his lap. His arms went around her, holding her tightly, though not so tightly it hurt. She felt as if she couldn't get warm unless she was next to him, and couldn't rest unless she could feel the beat of his heart. It wasn't fear that she felt, not exactly--more like the feeling that they'd both had to take too much, and it needed to end, soonest.

"What are we going to do?" Buffy asked, finally.

"I don't know," Giles answered, sounding desolate. "I don't know."

A few weeks ago, she might have given him a hard time, telling him, "You have to know, you're the answer-guy." Not anymore, though. He'd come up with all the answers he could, the way he always did--her Giles wasn't a slacker, ever--but she knew now that he was human, that sometimes he just needed room to breathe, or time to let things sink in. He didn't need her to nag at him, not that she had the energy to really nag. Her headache had gotten worse--in fact, her body was achy all over--and her stomach still felt yucky.

"I was speaking with the ghosts," Giles said finally.

Buffy shivered. The little stone house had been a mausoleum, she'd known that--what else could it be? In fact, that was probably the place where his sisters were buried--she could see their faces, looking out of the picture that Giles had showed her, stubborn Marianna and cute Clarice.

She slipped down from his lap to sit beside him, holding his hand. "You were talking to the ghosts? To Marianna and Clarice, you mean?" she asked, carefully.

"And Laurence." Giles threw his glasses onto an endtable, not even being careful.

"You'll scratch them," Buffy cautioned.

Giles gave her a look, then turned his eyes away.

"Well, you will. And then you'll be sorry. Giles--"

He looked at her again--a sweeter look that time, as if he'd pulled himself well back from losing his temper.

"We'll get through this. We always do. The bad guys threaten us, we beat 'em. That's the way we work."

"It's only that--" he began, sounding a little wistful.

"I know you're tired." Buffy touched his cheek--it was late enough in the day that his jaw had started feeling bristly again. "Me too. But we'll get through it."

An unexpected wave of dizziness hit her, and she put her hand to her head. "Whoa! Maybe I'm tireder than I thought."

"Buffy?" Giles's voice sounded concerned.

Buffy could feel the steady touch of his hands on her arms, but everything else had gone all shaky and wobbly, as if she was sitting on top of a washing machine during spin cycle.

"Not good. Not good," she muttered.

"Buffy!" Giles seemed to be calling her name from a long, long ways away.

"All right. I'm all right," she muttered, not even convincing herself. The room reversed and spun the other direction. "Unh. Cancel that."

Giles made her lie down on the couch, his cool hand on her forehead. "You've gone very white," he said.

"Little dizzy," Buffy mumbled. "Not bad." But it was, it was horrible, and in about three seconds she was gonna throw up--which Giles must have realized, because he grabbed some random thing for her throw up into.

"Better?" he asked, rubbing her back when she was finished.

"Except for the complete and utter humiliation." With a groan, she fell back.

"You certainly needn't feel ashamed," he told her gently. "I ought to have realized you felt so unwell."

"How, through your powers of mind-reading?" She opened her eyes a crack to look at him. "It's probably just stress or something, but maybe I should get into bed, sleep a little?"

"Yes. Yes, of course." His forehead creased; Buffy hated how worried he looked.

"Giles, chill. It's just stress, or the flu, or something."

"Those bastards," he muttered. "Those utter, bloody bastards."

"Giles!"

He looked up.

"Steer me in the right direction?"

He helped her to sit up, steadying her as she almost fell back again. This wasn't right--in fact it was scary. She'd had the flu plenty of times, but it never hit her this fast, or took this much out of her. She was half-afraid she'd fall down if she tried to stand, but Giles made that a moot point--her Giles phrase of the day--by scooping her up in his arms. She tended to forget his strength until he did something like that.

"I can walk," Buffy protested--whether she could or not.

"Indulge me," Giles answered.

He carried her up to what looked like a boy's room--if the boy in questions wasn't allowed to have any hobbies or any interests of his own, and got off on reading reference books. The bed was on the narrow side, but not too uncomfortable. Giles laid her down on top of the covers and started to undress her, more that a little awkward with only one usable hand. Buffy tried to help, but she was really out of it, and seemed more than anything to get in his way. Once the suit was off, he dressed her in sweatpants and one of her tank-tops, then tucked her in.

Buffy shut her eyes. The dizzy feeling was better when she could just lie still, though her stomach still seemed to want to commit acts of badness. Giles left and came back again, pressing a damp washcloth to her throat and her face. "It's like when I lost my powers," she said, "And you took care of me."

She opened her eyes a slit and saw a look of pure pain on his face--then realized that probably hadn't been the most tactful thing to say.

"I swear to you," he said, in a choked voice. "I swear to you on my life I had nothing to do with this. Please, Buffy you must believe me."

She wanted to say something comforting in return, to take back the words, but she had to throw up again instead, and again he took care of her, wiping her face with the cool cloth, giving her little sips of water to take the burning out of her throat.

"Was it them?" she gasped. "Did they to this to me?"

Giles shook his head, but even through her dim, swirly vision, Buffy could see a little bit of Ripper in his eyes.

She kept drifting in and out for hours, feeling hot and prickly, then freezing-cold and achy. She felt like she'd had to get sick about a thousand times, until her throat felt like she'd swallowed fire, and her stomach was clenched up like a fist. Giles stayed with her every minute, and it was only the quiet sound of his voice, reassuring her, and the gentle touch of his hand that kept her from believing she was going to die.

Toward morning, Buffy woke from an uneasy sleep to the flickering light of candle-flames and the slightly bitter smell of burning herbs. White smoke hung in little wisps all around her, and when she glanced down, she saw Giles on his knees beside the bed. He was saying words in some language she didn't understand--big surprise there--and his voice didn't sound gentle anymore, it sounded hoarse and raw.

To Buffy's messed-up brain the words seemed like one of Will's protection-circle thingies, only way more complicated--or maybe that was only the result of her complete muddledness.

It made her want to cry happy-tears that Giles would do such difficult magic for her--and she didn't like to tell him it wasn't working, that, if anything, she felt worse, and the smoke and flickering lights didn't help her headache either--or maybe, she tried to tell herself, that was just the bad magic putting up a fight against the good.

She hadn't meant to disturb him, but when she shifted, Buffy couldn't help but make a little noise, it hurt so bad. Giles heard her at once and jumped to his feet--obviously getting up too fast, because he staggered and nearly lost his balance. He clutched at the bedpost to steady himself, but unfortunately it was on the wrong side, so he'd gone for it with his hurt hand, which made him let out a swear-word that Buffy never would have guessed he'd known.

"Buffy, dearest," he said, in a voice it made her own throat hurt worse to hear. "How are you?"

"Better," she lied. "Really."

Even all discombobulated, she hated to see him so worried about her--but maybe he'd always been that worried about her, and that's what made the lines appear, the lines on his face that hadn't been there when he'd come to California--he wasn't really afraid of the monsters and stuff, but he was scared for her, and now more than ever.

Giles gave her some flat ginger ale to drink, which tasted nasty, then cupped her head in his hand while he turned her pillow over, giving it a good hard shake to fluff it up for her.

"Not s'posed to lift things with your bad hand," she muttered.

"Hush now, that doesn't matter," he told her quietly, gave her a little more to drink, then sat beside her, bathing her hot face with a clean cloth and cool water. "Try to hold on, my dearest," he said. "I've put in a call for help."

"Help?" she asked.

"Ssh, ssh, time to sleep again, my love." He stroked back her hair and began to murmur something that sounded like another kind of spell, a sleepy-spell, maybe, that would take her back down into the deep, calm darkness, where nothing hurt quite so much as it did when she was waking.

Moira was organizing, and Wesley trying not to be selfish--though he found it rather an uphill struggle. The fact was, he didn't want to let her go, but couldn't think of an even remotely decent reason. Somehow, that he wanted her to kiss him, and stroke him, and pleasure him nearly into catatonia seemed oddly insufficient with the Slayer's life at stake--and so, Moira packed, and planned, whilst he followed her about like a lonely puppy. Very much like a puppy, he tended to trip her up nearly every time she turned round.

"Wesley, my darling," Moira said at last, with elaborate patience, "Would you care to make us some tea?"

Disconsolately, he sloped off toward the kitchen. The very sight of the cups and spoons she'd washed that morning and left to dry filled him with a sense of mourning--though that did not prevent Wesley from polishing each with a clean tea-towel until it shone, then replacing the used cups and utensils neatly in their appointed cupboard and drawer.

Wesley squared his shoulders. He should have to do better. He should have to. Left alone to mind the Hellmouth--never mind its extreme quietness, at present--he must remain calm, and vigilant. He must impress Moira with his unflappable dependability.

He warmed the teapot with extra care, and added tea from the caddy, each tiny motion an act of love. He never questioned that she must go--after all, he'd spoken to Rupert himself, and the poor man had sounded nearly unhinged--but he missed her already. With greater than necessary concentration, he added water from the whistling kettle.

When Wesley looked up, he saw Moira in the doorway, watching. He never questioned that he hadn't heard her approach--when she desired, his love could be amazingly quiet. He'd still a tendency to startle and shriek when she appeared, unheralded, beside him.

As usual, he couldn't fight his alarm, and the lid to the pot leaped from his hand, to skid across the tiled worktop and crack against the lino.

They both stared. To Wesley, it seemed a bad omen.

Moira cleared her throat. Oddly--and this he had not expected--she looked apprehensive, her eyes reddened by unshed tears. "My sweet--" she began, but then could not continue.

"I don't want tea," Wesley told her, meeting her troubled green eyes.

"What did you want, then?" Moira asked him hoarsely.

Wesley crossed the room to her, and put his hands on her shoulders. He'd abandoned the neck- and leg-braces, and for the first time felt intact, if a little sore. He wove his fingers into her hair, that was like dark fire, and brought his lips to hers, tasting again her rich sweetness--nearly the first time, he realized, since that terrible night of Wild Magic, that he'd taken the initiative, bringing to her his own passion, like a gift.

Moira closed her eyes, and Wesley kissed her eyelids. Her fingers gripped his shirt, and he felt his love for her filling his chest with a sensation of aching pleasure, even as he loosened her hold and slipped the now-resized ring onto her finger.

"Wesley--" she began, her tone tender, laughing, perhaps the slightest bit exasperated.

"I know." He touched her soft lips with his fingers. "I know. I've inexcusable timing, and I've no desire to put undue pressure..."

"Wesley," Moira repeated, in a slightly different tone.

"I'm dithering, aren't I? I don't mean to."

"I accept," she told him, her arms slipping round his waist. Her eyes gazed into his. "My love, you are so innocent."

"I--"

"So innocent," she said again, "And so kind. I always know what you are to me, and I to you."

"My goddess," he breathed.

"No, dearest." Moira laughed a little, "That's a bit much for even me to live up to."

"How long before we must leave here?" Wesley took her hand and raised it to his mouth, kissing the palm.

"An hour. Perhaps a little less," she answered.

"Ah." Keeping hold of her hand, Wesley let her to the bedroom. Tenderly, he removed her clothes, as she removed his. He felt no shyness, and this amazed him. Perhaps he was innocent, innocent as someone born before the fall of man, with no knowledge of evil. In his heart, with his ring on her finger, they were married, though he quite looked forward to the future formalities. In his heart, Moira was his wife, his strong, lovely, astounding wife, and nothing in life could part her from him.

Wesley made love to her for the first time on their bed, touching her slowly and tenderly, saving up memories to last him until her return: her softness, the light in her eyes, the lovely, delicate shudder of her skin when she achieved climax. He wished to kiss or caress every inch of her, storing each sensation inside him forever, but there wasn't time. Only too soon, they needed to rise, wash, dress. Even doing so, he could hardly bear not to touch her.

In silence, he carried her suitcase to the van, then slid in behind the wheel. Moira glanced at him with sorrow and tenderness, a look he felt mirrored on his own face. They could think of no words as they drove to collect the children--Moira wanted young Willow as her magical second, and that irrepressible boy, Xander, insisted that he must accompany her--leaving him as, truly, the sole guardian of the mouth to hell.

The young people chattered all the way to Los Angeles, frightened and excited by the journey, but Wesley and Moira could not join them. Wesley held her hand as he drove, and Moira's eyes would not leave him, that green intensity leaving a permanent lump in his throat of barely-contained tears. Inside the airport, he wanted to fall to his knees and beg to accompany her, but knew he could not--he had his duty, and he would not fail.

Moira had somehow worked her magic, in circumvention of the usual rules, and Wesley was allowed to follow her all the way to her gate. Once there, moments before departure, Willow kissed his cheek and told him to be careful. Xander cuffed his shoulder, saying, "Yeah, watch your back, Wes. Remember: no screaming." Wesley knew the boy meant it kindly. Such banter had been common in the now-destroyed library.

Moira gave him a last long, slow kiss, then held him tightly, her body shuddering. "I love you, Em," Wesley told her. "Remember what you promised."

"I remember, my love," she answered. "And I will return to you, whatever happens."

A light shiver rose along Wesley's spine as he released her. Once she had vanished along the ramp, he stood by the glass, watching until the jet pulled away, and even after. He could not seem to leave, though night had long since fallen. Wesley realized that he was crying, but could not have said when the tears began.

Feeling, utterly, utterly alone, he shuffled back through the vast airport, all the hurts, little and great, in his body reawakened. He never drank to excess, but this night only he intended to kill some sort of bottle--even if it was only the good red wine Moira usually shared with him.

The carpark held a variety of motors, but no people. Yellow lights on high poles hissed and hummed with a sound almost below the level of his hearing, casting long, sharp edged shadows. Wesley wished that he could see the moon and the stars, but in Los Angles, that often seemed impossible.

Something moved in a pool of blackness beside his van, even as Wesley fumbled for the keys in his pocket. He'd nothing, he realized: no crucifix, no stakes, no holy water. God, what kind of fool was he? His heart began to beat to fast, and he backed away slowly, then turned, hurrying toward the airport as if he'd forgotten something.

"Hey, Wes." A woman's voice, oddly familiar.

He turned again, unable, with the darkness, unable to make out her face clearly. They were four, he realized, two men and two women--one of the men and one of the women tall, the others less so.

Wesley's mouth achieved a desert-like dryness. His pulse throbbed madly, yet between one beat and the next, he realized to whom the voice belonged.

"Wesley Wyndham-Price," said Maria Del Ciello, in her horrid south-Boston twang, that put him in mind of the scraping of rusty spoons on rusty pots.

She moved out of the shadows, a tall sinuous shape, smiling up at him. "Wesley, sweetheart--long time, no see."