Tribulations - Chapter 14

When the "Fasten Seatbelts" sign lighted, Quentin Travers obeyed promptly, then settled back in his seat for the descent. He couldn't help but feel a certain satisfaction: he had lived, whilst others who'd thought themselves cleverer, more powerful, more important than he, had not. He'd only to marshal his own forces, summon his allies, and his triumphant return would be assured.

Travers fought down a sense of distaste. If only his allies...if only he trusted them better. If only their leader weren't an insolent trollop, the way they all were insolent trollops--the so-called rebel Slayer the worst of the lot. Well, then: a trollop to kill a trollop. That was fair enough.

Travers rubbed his jaw tenderly. He'd a hairline fracture there, painful, though it would heal on its own, his physician informed him. The break had come courtesy of a hockey stick wielded by Miss Tremayne, the little snip who ruled the Archives. He hoped, sincerely, that the demon Istirel had devoured her, slowly and messily by preference.

At the thought, Travers withdrew the handkerchief from his breast pocket, wiping his palms on its pristine linen. Actually, he wished no such thing--or at least wished not to think of it. He disliked disorder of any kind--that was the one rule he insisted upon in his own household, that order be kept at all times--though in other ways he might be thought an indulgent father.

He felt glad that his own children had gone on holiday--an extended holiday, at that--with their Cousin Anthea in the Lake District, and weren't to know of his temporary disgrace, or wonder at his absence. With luck, they should never know. He'd have his vengeance, carry through his plans, and rejoin them well before the dog days of August made the California heat unbearable.

The jet executed a low turn, banking over the myriad lights of Los Angeles. Travers's distaste returned. He'd no desire to renew his acquaintance with that godforsaken town, although he knew he must, were his future to be secured. The trollop Maria del Ciello possessed, no doubt, a certain genius for the sort of revenge he had in mind, for bringing about an agony of grief and loss, hopelessness and self-recrimination. To speak to, she seemed nearly human, and perhaps it was this quality which gave Maria her power. She'd related to him with gusto the tale of how she'd caught the Slayer's father, a capture that apparently went swimmingly, and Travers had no reason to doubt her version of the events.

Yes, Phase 1 had been accomplished with ease, and he'd no doubt that Phase 2, the demise of the Slayer's mum, would follow with similar smoothness. Travers had watched Joyce Summers, seen the way she allowed emotion to rule her life, and knew that she would indeed be perfect prey for the man she'd once married, a man she could never, entirely, distrust.

The jet touched down on the runway with only the merest jolt, slowed, and made its ponderous approach to the gate. Travers smiled, anticipating the events to come. Del Ciello had said she'd meet him, and would serve as his chauffeur from Los Angeles to the Holiday Inn that passed, pathetically, as Sunnydale's good hotel. It was, he supposed, comfortable enough, though hardly worthy even of the three stars the guidebook condescended to assign its questionable amenities.

The plane docked safely and the door opened. Travers stood at once, removing his attache case from the overhead compartment. He could hardly wait for others, but forced himself ahead, muttering some story about a nonexistent flight to Japan, a connection that could not be missed. Nearly bouyant with excitement--though he astounded himself with his capability for such intense emotion--he strode up the ramp toward the terminal, only to come face to face with nearly the last person on earth he'd expected to see: his nephew Wesley.

Life in the Colonies suited the boy, it appeared. He wore a European-cut suit of fine black silk, a crisp white shirt, a tie of subdued greys and blues which brought out the blue of his eyes. He stood very erect, taller than Travers remembered, and his demeanor seemed extremely calm. So calm, in fact, that his uncle scarcely recognized him.

"Uncle Quentin," Wesley said to him, and the young man's voice, too, seemed altered--low and measured, with none of the stammering or nervous shrillness with which his nephew had seemed habitually afflicted. "I'm so very pleased to see you."

"And I--" Travers halted, a nervousness of his own passing over him.

Wesley smiled. "You must be tired after your journey, Uncle."

"No. That is...er..." Travers could not believe. Could not bloody believe that he'd allowed Wesley--Wesley, for God's sake, of all the useless creatures on the green earth!--to undermine his composure. And now the young man had taken the case from his hand, proceeding him away from the gate, and Travers felt the threads of his carefully-laid plans slip out of his hands.

Wesley turned only once, glancing only his shoulder, and his eyes appeared strange--but then, his usual spectacles were absent. Perhaps he'd forgone them, in favour of some sort of lenses, and their presence was what gave his eyes that unusual mirrored sheen.

"Aren't you coming, Uncle?" the boy asked quietly--but that term could no longer be used to describe his nephew, for Wesley no longer resembled a boy in any respect. The silent, contained, somehow menacing person before him seemed almost preternaturally mature--as if he could not be swayed by any power on earth. Wesley's smile was no longer an uneasy flicker, or a gormless grin. It seemed, rather, quick and cold, like the sudden flash of a concealed knife.

"Don't be a fool," Travers commanded himself silently. "Good Lord, this is Wesley. Only Wesley."

"Aren't you going to follow me, Uncle Quentin?" Wesley said, and smiled again.

Travers considered himself a brave man, but his nephew's smile made him shudder.

"Ah, yes. Yes, of c-course. Naturally, my boy," Travers answered.

By the time they'd reached the carpark, he'd nearly convinced himself of the foolishness of his misgivings. Most likely that horrid witch, Moira Bannister-St. Ives, had merely decided to remake Wesley in a version of her own image, hence the suit, and that chilly control with which he carried himself. Perhaps she'd even managed to stifle, for once, the young man's foolish splutterings. Travers supposed--for that, at least--he ought to thank her.

Wesley seemed to have left his vehicle in an extremely distant corner, and Travers found himself out of breath by the time they reached the sleek, dark car.

"Good Lord, Wesley!" he panted. "That's a Jaguar. You can't possibly--"

Wesley opened the boot, stowing Travers's suitcase and attache within. "Cost is only a question, Uncle, when one deigns to pay." He shut the boot with a sharp click and looked up, eyes narrowing as he studied Travers's face. "Do you know," he asked quietly, "How many unfortunate souls come to Los Angeles and simply vanish?"

"Quite a n-number, I should think," Travers answered, wanting to back away. He found himself rooted, however, to the spot, his mouth dry, his knees like water.

"What did you think would happen when you sent me to the Hellmouth?" his nephew asked, seemingly rhetorically, in that same soft, pleasant voice--a voice that reminded Travers, oddly enough, of Rupert Giles's, when Giles bothered to hide the brutal thug that he was, really, at the core.

Wesley's hands settled on his shoulders, only a light touch, but one that filled Travers with a fear so profound it seemed to dissolve his insides. He wanted nothing more than to plead for mercy, but even that ability seemed gone from him.

"What happened to Hobson, or what happened to Blair," Wesley said. "That's what you expected, wasn't it, Uncle?"

Travers yelped as his nephew's face altered, as he'd known in his heart it must--the brow corrugating, the blue eyes shifting hue to that hideous, demonic yellow. Wesley's hands moved to his neck, the thumbs pressing beneath his jaw to tip back his head, and though Travers struggled, he found himself utterly powerless.

"Have you a message you'd like me to convey to Aunt Constantina?" Wesley asked, with utmost politeness, just before his teeth tore through the skin of his uncle's throat.

It hurt incredibly, far worse than one imagined. Teeth, even vampire fangs, were not so sharp that they cut cleanly through flesh, and after that horrid ripping sensation came the terrifying fear as one's blood was suctioned into the vampire's mouth, each draught making one's heart beat harder and harder, until all that remained was the pain, the fear, the dreadful, harsh thumping that only seemed to increase the weaker one became.

Suddenly, it stopped, and for one brief, hopeful instant Travers believed he might be allowed to live, that it had all merely been an object lesson, one of those that didn't destroy one, but made one stronger.

But Wesley had only paused to whisper in his ear, "I won't turn you," before he began to drink again, more powerfully than before. Travers experienced a swooping sensation, and the narrowing of his vision, then blindness. He became aware of tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, and he thought of his daughters in their summer frocks, waving to him from the door of the train, bubbling with excitement about their journey to Derbyshire.

"Bye, Daddy! Goodbye! Goodbye!" they piped in their sweet, high voices, and Travers's frantic heart seemed to swell.

It came to him in his final agony: "What have I done?" he pleaded, knowing there could come to him no stay of execution, and no mercy. "Oh, dear God, what have I done?"

Celeste had started in with the fussing from the minute Buffy and Giles walked in her door, and didn't let up until they'd eaten her soup and bread, been issued clean clothes and pajamas, and agreed to her orders to sleep around the clock. Buffy didn't think she'd manage to obey that one, really, but Giles looked like he needed to, and then some. He kept up with her pretty well, usually, but she tended to forget he was not only older, but that he didn't have Slayer bounce-back powers. By the time they headed up the stairs, she was steering, and he was practically out on his feet.

He'd worn a sweater--too hot for the summer weather, but just right for hell's basement--on their little adventure, and Buffy noticed again the big, dark, sticky patch on the left sleeve. When Giles sank down on the edge of the bed in the world's most perfect bedroom, she took advantage of his stillness to whisk the garment over his head, followed by the t-shirt underneath. Giles gave a little mumble of protest, but didn't fight her, just kind of flopped backwards the wrong way across the bed, asleep before his head hit the mattress.

Buffy gave his shoulder a gentle touch, but he didn't stir. She probably could have cranked up her loudest music and started aerobicizing right next to his ear and he still wouldn't have cracked an eyelid. Instead, she examined the long but not particularly serious cut on the inside of his arm--she could guess exactly what happened--he'd tucked his sword under one arm to open the door, and it had still been there when they all flew into the lobby and Seb fell on him. She could make out the corresponding bruise over his ribs where the hilt had dug in. He was lucky not to have been hurt worse.

The wound still seeped a little, and she decided to borrow Seb's first aid kid and play "Nurse Buffy and Her Favorite Patient." She wondered if she could get the favorite patient in question to wake up enough to enjoy her healing touch--but much as he might have enjoyed Nurse Buffy's alternative to the lollipop for brave boys, she didn't like her chances. By the time she went downstairs and got the kit from Celeste, she liked them even less: Giles hadn't shifted so much as a quarter inch.

Buffy took his arm tenderly in her hands, cleaning and bandaging the cut while he slept. She loved the feel of him: that perfectly smooth skin over the taut curve of his bicep, the slight ridges of his veins. Her work complete, she bent down to kiss his shoulder, then ran the tip of her tongue along the line of his collarbone. They reminded her of wings, somehow, his collarbones--strangely delicate even though his shoulders themselves were nicely muscular. She folded the injured arm carefully across his bare chest, noticing, as she did so, something that stopped her in her tracks.

It couldn't be. She checked the other arm, just to be certain, but Buffy knew she'd been right the first time. It was gone. The Eyghon tattoo, the reminder of Ripper and Randall, Ethan and that dark, dark time in his life, had vanished from Giles's skin. She wondered if that had been the faux-Briggs's doing, or if somehow, by destroying the Hellmouth that had been the demon's gateway into their world, they'd also destroyed Eyghon's mark, the last little hold the demon had over the man she loved.

"You're free from all the badness now, Giles," she whispered, "Free from Angelus and Eyghon and all the demons. It's okay to sleep."

As if he'd heard her, Giles turned to his side, burrowing a little deeper into the covers. Carefully, Buffy finished undressing him, scooting the bedspread and blankets out from beneath his body before she took off her own clothes and slipped in beside him, pulling up the sheet and a light thermal blanket around their shoulders.

Still not waking up, Giles turned to face her, pulling Buffy into his arms, until her head rested in its favorite place, against the beat of his heart. The way he held her felt warm, protective, loving even when he was so far gone the end of the world wouldn't have made him open his eyes.

Buffy kissed his chest, then snuggled closer. He felt so warm, so nice to lie against, maybe she could stay there all day as Queen Celeste commanded. Queen C. Buffy's own eyes began to grow heavy, and she dreamed, at first, about some sort of game show, in which Celeste was playing against Cordelia, and Cordelia kept stomping her feet and saying, "Not fair!" while Buffy laughed at her.

Not that it was nice to laugh at Cordelia. Really, she had a sneaking admiration for how the reigning bitch of Sunnydale High had sucked it up and moved on. She was glad when the game show host--who looked a lot like Wesley--gave Cordy a kiss and some lovely parting gifts.

Even asleep, she knew it was a silly dream--or was silly until Celeste put a hand on her shoulder, looking down into Buffy's eyes with her warm brown ones. "Are you ready to move on now?" the dream-Celeste asked.

"Oh...Uh...Yeah, I guess so." It reminded Buffy of when she and Celeste first met, and she couldn't get out even a half-smart little sentence to save her life.

"Good," Celeste answered softly, taking Buffy's hand in her own. They climbed a hill covered in green grass, grass that whispered actual words around their legs, though Buffy couldn't make out what they were. At the top of the hill they reached a door, just a normal one, with a little pattern of crosses all over it, like the one to Giles's apartment. Celeste put her hands on Buffy's shoulders, turning her until they stood face to face, then bent to kiss Buffy's cheeks, the left, then the right, the way Buffy had seen people do in the movies.

"Courage, love," Celeste told her. "You've seen so much--can you bear a little more?"

"This isn't like one of my usual prophecy dreams," Buffy said. "But I guess...I don't wanna. But I guess if I have to."

"We all want to help you more than we're allowed," the woman who looked like Celeste, but wasn't really, whispered. She touched the tip of her index finger to Buffy's lips. "Turn the handle, pass through."

Buffy turned and passed. When she looked back, the Celeste-woman was gone, and night lay behind her, even though daylight showed up ahead.

"What is this?" she muttered, "Buffy in Wonderland?"