Tribulations - Chapter 16

Moira awakened from the sort of dreams she'd been taught since girlhood to decode, with the feeling she wouldn't have been capable of interpreting a dream of walking naked through the local shopping precinct. Her mouth felt like a desert, and her eyes burned, an unpleasant accompaniment to the throbbing in her head.

Belatedly, she realized that the jet had landed and was, in fact, currently stopped at its gate. A man rushed by, jostling her seat in passage. Moira blinked at him, experiencing a vague, bleary sense of familiarity. He'd worn tweed, that was it, and her brief, blurred glimpse of the back of his drab suit had made her think of Watchers.

She did not want to think of Watchers, just then. Or of anything else, for that matter.

Moira's visions from the lip of the Hellmouth struck her, making her press all ten fingertips against her closed eyelids until her eyes themselves ached. A simple call to Wesley might have allayed these misgivings--why hadn't she rung him? What did she fear, that she'd discover the truth of her apprehensions?

She truly ought to have rung. No doubt her fears were only that, meaningless phantasms conjured up by the death throes of an evil place. In an hour or two she'd barge into their house only to find her dear boy snugly asleep in his crisp pajamas, the coverlet pulled up to his chin.

She smiled at the image. Provided she took care not to duly alarm him, the element of surprise might add an extra spark to their reunion. Not that such a meeting required the introduction of any artificial excitement--Moira felt fairly certain they'd experience fireworks aplenty as it was.

Wesley's delighted astonishment, though, would lay on an added level of pleasure.

Moira could feel the touch of his hands--too smooth, really for the hands of a Watcher, compared to Rupert's, or her own--the glide of those unscarred, uncallused palms over her skin. She granted herself permission to linger awhile within these fantasies of approaching joy, until she realized, again belatedly, that the jet had emptied. She collected her handbag and prepared to depart, presenting a slightly unfocussed smile to the flight attendant who had helped her earlier.

Climbing the deserted ramp, Moira felt a stirring in the short hairs at the base of her skull, a warning of doubled resonance from both her LeFaye being and her lifetime's experience as a Watcher, her too-intimate knowledge of the dark things of the world. She groped in the bottom of her bag for a slim ironwood knife, one of a pair given her at her last birthday by young Simon Quartermass. The grip fit her hand excellently. With a magician's deftness, she made the blade vanish up the long sleeve of her silk jersey, there to lie concealed in readiness.

Keep out of the shadows, keep to the crowds--good enough advice for any woman on her own after dark. Moira knew she would be more than a match for a human assailant, and for many inhuman ones as well, even tired and distracted as she was presently. Still and all, the lesson taught to her by the vampire Spike had not been worthless: Moira forced herself to focus, scanning the crowd for potential dangers. Her leg and hip ached after their long confinement aboard the jet, and the last days had not been kind to--though she hated to admit it so--her middle-aged body. She forced herself to move briskly, hoping to walk out the stiffness.

She made her way to the car-hire counter, and there accepted the keys to a Sport Utility Vehicle from a blandly handsome young man in a maroon waistcoat. Their hands made accidental contact in the passing of the keys, and Moira watched his generic pleasantness transform to something else as her LeFaye glamour took hold. At that moment, had she wished to exercise control over him, she might easily have done so. Instead, she returned to the young man her own generic smile and departed, locating, after a short search, the shuttle that would convey her to her hired car.

At the carpark, the thought struck her that she'd need to procure a new digital telephone during her stay, whatever its duration. A sudden desire to hear Wesley's voice overwhelmed her, to hear him answer her call whilst some bit of silly music played in the background. To hear him say "dearest" to her in his own, particular, prim--yet somehow appealing--way.

She'd never been called dearest by anyone in her life--well, perhaps by Rupert a time or two, but not in that way that Wesley said it to her, that way that told her she was, truly, the cornerstone of his existence, that he would give up his own life and happiness before he hurt her. Despite what others might surmise, she'd only had three lovers in her life: Rupert, Helena and Wesley. With those three only had she been willing to lower her guard, and only with Wesley--perhaps because he carried within himself such an aura of vulnerability--had she revealed her own tender side, that which had been buried within her so long she'd nearly begun to believe it dead.

Moira started her car and left the airport, merging into the streams of traffic on the northbound freeway entirely by instinct. She was very tired, she realized, even after her long sleep aboard the flight--so tired that taillights of the vehicles before her seemed to blend together into streamers of red. It made her shiver, made her think of other red streamers, that had flowed so terribly from the bodies of the men and women who'd given their lives in defense of the Compound.

She chided herself for the morbid thought, yet at the same time, a wash of guilt flowed through her. She'd left the others so abruptly. As the senior--in fact the only--remaining Councilor, she ought at least to have lingered to recognize the dead, to speak the words In Memoriam that, although meaningless to those lost ones, might at least restore some sense of order and peace amongst those left behind to mourn them. She'd owed them that, at the very least, and had reneged on her duty.

This one time, Moira told herself. Only this one time. She'd be back to perform whatever tasks were expected of her soon enough.

Her heart beat too fast, and her hands felt cold--her personal reaction to excitement or nervousness. Certainly a response to the former in this case, rather than the later. She called upon her training to calm herself, but despite all her efforts the response seemed to increase rather than lessen, until she felt nearly ill. She sighed with relief when she caught sight of the Sunnydale exit sign.

The time had gone to past midnight, and except for a lighted window here and there, the town revealed few signs of life, though still less evidence of the unnatural beings for which Sunnydale could certainly be noted. Moira looked carefully for signs of more uncanny activity, but managed to detect nothing. If vampires roamed, they'd become subtle in their movements.

She breathed another sigh as she pulled her hired SUV into the narrow driveway, behind Wesley's never-to-be-the-same-again van (as she'd learned to call such a vehicle). What had Helena always said to her? "Caravans involve camels crossing deserts, Em. Unless you have a bunch of camels hidden in there, just call it a van."

Lord, how her mind wandered.

Moira parked and shut off the ignition, stowing the one key in her handbag even as she fumbled for her personal ring in the depths. Still searching, she slipped down from the high seat, shouldering the vehicle's door shut behind her. The plants bordering the walkway looked rather unkempt, and drier than they ought, and the front steps might have used a good sweeping--rather at odds with Wesley's usual penchant for neatness--and yet nothing appeared particularly untoward. Most likely her love had merely been busy, though with what she couldn't imagine. Perhaps he'd discovered a prophecy of some sort, a rising evil that would require their mutual attention.

She paused on the front stoop, stretching a bit, trying to loosen the knots in her back and neck, shivering slightly. She'd been far too tense when driving, resulting in her present stiffness, and the night seemed, for some reason, unseasonably cold. Odd that Wesley hadn't left on a light, though she scarcely needed one, really, to accomplish such a simple task as unlocking a door.

Moira let herself inside. The little house smelled musty, in need of a good airing. Her fingers sought and switched on the outside light--a case of shutting the barn door after the horse has run away, but it struck her as an act of normalcy. Nothing seemed amiss with the entry, neither did she spy anything untoward in the lounge, although the room might have used a dusting. Moira drew a line with her finger along one of the occasional tables. Might have used quite a thorough dusting, actually. She set her handbag on the table, calling, "Wes? Wesley, love, are you at home?" into the darkness beyond the door.

She'd hoped to hear a sleepy voice answer, the sound of someone rising, stumbling a bit, perhaps, with the grogginess of the newly awakened. No answer ensued.

Swallowing a sudden, unreasoning panic, Moira fled the lounge. She tore down the narrow corridor to the bedroom, flinging open the door. Her shaking hands sought feverishly for the light and she blinked when it came on suddenly, revealing a room like all the others: tidy, deserted, dusty.

Moira's heart hurt her. Her legs trembled with too great a violence to bear her weight any longer. She sank down on the end of the bed, arms wrapped round her body, rocking with a harsh, irrational misery as she muttered, "Oh, my Wesley, oh my sweet Wesley," hot tears springing up in her eyes, burning their way down her cheeks.

He was dead, she knew he was dead, with everything in her of the Watcher and the LeFaye--and yet, she'd no evidence whatsoever to carry her to that conclusion.

Swallowing once more against a rising sickness, Moira climbed numbly to her feet. Some invisible hand seemed to propel her from the room, through to the kitchen, out the back door--and there he was, her Wesley, her beloved, standing by the rail. She detected a brief flash of red, then a plume of smoke, black against the blackness. She smiled a little to herself.

Aha, she'd discovered dear Wesley's secret vice! A sense of relief so strong it nearly undid her washed through Moira's body. Obviously deeply lost in thought, not expecting her, he'd failed to hear the door open behind him, or to detect her presence. If she spoke now she would startle him--she could imagine the yelp, the quick fumble as the cigarette flew from his hands to tumble into the shrubbery below--and so she stood watching a moment, savouring his presence, loving him, looking out over the same view that appeared to have so captured the whole of his attention.

The night sky seemed strangely close, a velvety indigo canopy brilliant with stars. The moon, likewise, shone brilliantly, and the air smelled of near-tropical flowers, and of the sea. A coolish wind touched her face, drying the needless tears almost instantly. She watched Wesley extinguish his smoke, carefully, in a metal ashtray, loving the familiar, slightly fussy precision of his movements.

"Caught in the act, love," she breathed.

Wesley turned to her, smiling, though it was not the smile she expected. Moira took an involuntary step backward toward the door--why, she could not have said, for the expression appeared welcoming enough. And yet...

Moira forced herself forward again. Wesley's unwavering gaze made her feel awkward, a schoolgirl awkwardness she'd never before experienced. "You're cross with me, aren't you?" she said, not recognizing the breathiness, the uncertainty that had come into her tone. "I ought to have rung you far more often."

"That doesn't matter," Wesley said, and there was something in his voice that she wanted to think of as pain, or perhaps a desperate attempt to maintain his dignity--though in her heart Moira could not help but recognize it as coldness.

"It does, love," she answered. "And I'm so very sorry. Events...so much has happened, dearest." She needed, badly, for the coldness to thaw, to feel his arms around her, arms stronger than he knew, holding her so close that no distance remained between them. An abridged version of the last few weeks' events tumbled from her lips, and still Wesley made no move in her direction.

Instead, when she'd ground to a halt, he laughed softly.

"It's hardly a laughing matter," Moira responded, suddenly cross herself.

"Oh, Emmy," he answered. "The entire Council? And poor old Briggs? And all the others? That's quite a to-do."

Shock, she thought. It was shock that made him laugh. Some of the recent dead included those who, if not his friends, had at least been his colleagues. She crossed the porch in three quick steps, taking his face between her palms. His skin felt cool, cooler than one expected. He must have been standing out here for quite some time.

His hands rose to cover hers, those familiar, smooth hands she'd fantasized about, cool, as she face was cool. Lightly, they slid over her wrists, up her arms, down her shoulders, her back, a lovely, long caress that ended at last at her bum. He rubbed her slowly, sensually, bringing her hips in close to his.

Wesley's mouth sought hers. His tongue, cold as his face and his hands, parted her lips. Realization dawned upon Moira with a horrible, swooping sensation of vertigo.

"Oh, no," she breathed into him. "Oh, Wesley, no."

He did not breathe in return. He did not breathe, and his heart did not beat, and the mouth kissing hers tasted not of tea, not of Wesley, but of the cold, sweet, coppery flavour of blood.

Moira froze as his mouth left hers to kiss her at those spots beneath her jaw, down her throat, that had always made her hum with pleasure. His tongue licked out again, stroking the place where her pulse beat so madly. She felt the vibration as he chuckled against her. His hands rose to grip her arms, and he pulled back to look down at her.

"You guessed from the moment you walked in the door, didn't you, Emmy?" he said, in something so very like his own voice that Moira wanted to fall down weeping. "And yet you chose not to listen to yourself."

She raised her eyes to his: the dark made their blue a lovely, deep colour, one that nearly matched the sky. His expression was not what she had expected: she'd thought he would mock her, humiliate her, but his face was still and intent.

Moira could not answer him. Her powers of speech seemed to have deserted her entirely. There existed no magic to remedy this, no cure. He was gone, her Wesley was gone, and nothing, nothing would bring him back again. The burning tears started up again, blinding her.

"Do you know that I still love you?" he said, his voice, once again, humming against her throat. "Now we'll have forever, Em. Imagine that."

"No," she managed to breathe.

"You would have allowed Helena." A tooth grazed her throat, over the numb but oddly sensitive skin of her scar. "Do you love me less?" His fingers bit into her arms, bruising her. "Do you love me less than Helena, Emmy? Do you mean to deny me?"

Moira cried out, the noise torn from her in an avalanche of loathing, bitter grief and regret. Her body reacted as it had been trained to react, one knee rising without hesitation, striking hard between his slightly-parted legs so that he bit off a curse and released her. Not pausing to think, Moira flung herself backward over the railing, rolling to ease the impact, though she thought she felt something give in her shoulder.

In an instant she gained her feet, crossing the overgrown garden at record speed, vaulting the back wall. Wesley seemed to have recovered himself. She heard his heavier tread behind her even as she began to run, pain stabbing into her leg and hip.

Moira did not look back. One must never, never look back, even for one instant. She breathed in fierce, tearing sobs but she did not slow, only skirted the neighbors' dustbins and gained the pavement, pounding down street after quiet residential street until one flowed into another in her mind. She'd no idea where she was, no idea of where she might take shelter, no time to pause long enough to find some branch or stick that she might use as a weapon. Her speed surely broke any records achieved during her Olympic days, and yet she sensed the vampire directly behind her, nearly within distance that he might catch her, bear her to the ground.

She found herself skirting the Elysium Lawns Cemetery, one of Sunnydale's older graveyards. A main thoroughfare lay straight ahead across its grounds, she recalled, and Moira entered, not slacking her pace despite the increased unevenness of the ground underfoot, despite the need to hurdle intervening headstones. Even at this late hour she knew cars would travel such a busy street. Someone amongst their drivers might take pity upon her.

Moira stumbled and nearly went down, but righted herself. Not far now. Not far. Someone would help her. Oh, gods, someone would help...

She raced into the thoroughfare. A car nearly struck her, but swerved and did not slow. At least the going would be easier there, at least someone might notice a lone, frightened woman racing desperately to escape the tall man who pursued her. Even if no driver stopped, perhaps the police might at least be called.

The street sloped upward, rising toward an overpass. Moira's breath sounded ragged in her own ears. Already, her legs had begun to feel leaden. The pain stabbed through her like long-bladed knives. She hadn't much left, whilst the undead creature behind her had no need to breathe, no chemicals in its body that would cause it to succumb to exhaustion as she, inevitably, must. Even without looking she felt his closeness.

Throwing her head back, Moira found within herself an extra burst of speed, one that carried her to the apex of the bridge and down the other side. Below her feet, she could make out the hiss of traffic. Headlights and taillights flashed in her peripheral vision. She ran harder, then just as suddenly, stopped, a scream torn from her already tortured throat.

The footsteps also stopped behind her, and she heard a soft laugh. Other footsteps approached. It could not be. It simply could not be. This was a nightmare, and she must wake.

Moira wrapped her arms around herself, sick with exertion, sick with fear, unable to tear her eyes from the man who approached her.

He was very beautiful--she'd thought that from the first--like one of the stern, masculine angels that guarded St. Paul's. The streetlights glinted off his pale hair, and his eyes were dark and intent, much as they'd been that other night, the night he'd driven the railroad spike through her body, tearing open her womb, ripping her intestines, shattering her hip so that it could never quite be made right again.

Spike, he was called. Spike, after the weapon he'd used to destroy her and so many others. He climbed the rise slowly, moving toward her with a dreamlike laziness, smiling as he came, the long dark coat billowing around his body. Wesley touched her shoulder from behind and Moira spun to face him, still sobbing her breaths whilst he remained calm and cold and bent upon her death.

They would kill her between them. These handsome young men, who were not truly men any more, would drink her blood until she died. They would make her one of them.

Moira possessed no illusions as to what she would be as a vampire, no illusions of being able to control the demon. She would be gone, leaving only her brain, her skills, her memory, and the demon would use those to kill Buffy, Rupert, the children--and when other poor girls were Called, to kill them as well. The pitiful remnant of the Watchers' Council could do nothing to contain her.

"It won't be so bad, Emmy," Wesley told her. "I believe you'll enjoy it, rather."

The solution came to Moira like a bolt of lightning, one of those moments of perfect illumination. As Wesley reached out to her, she dodged him, racing to the side of the overpass.

Without hesitation, Moira flung herself out into the night.

It seemed to take hours, the descent, just as it had the other time, when she was a girl, fleeing her cruel Aunt Ivy and the other LeFayes. She remembered the brutal impact, the frigid icy water of the Thames closing over her head. Somehow, falling, she expected water again, but met only metal and glass that crumpled and shattered under her weight.

Breaks squealed angrily. Voices shouted. Car hooters sounded all around her. Moira lay still, and listened, and wept.

Giles looked so cute, napped out in his wicker chair, that Buffy couldn't resist going to him, perching on the arm as she gazed down into his beloved face. He'd been sleeping a lot, the past couple days, but he needed it, the poor guy--she knew doing the Hellmouth closing had taken more out of him than he liked to admit, and if anyone deserved an after-tea nap in the garden, it was her sweetie.

"Is he okay?" Willow asked, her face creasing in concern. "He seems okay--but he also seems--I don't know--a little bit something."

"Something?" Buffy said, smoothing the hair back from Giles's forehead.

Willow shrugged. "I guess it was a really big spell, huh?" She pulled up her feet to sit cross-legged in her chair. "And, hey, I can't believe you guys didn't call me!" She glanced at Xander, just as asleep as Giles, only sprawled out on the grass. His arms and legs seemed to take up the entire garden. "Us, I mean. I mean, we're your Slayerettes. We're s'posed to be there."

"It's not the sort of magic you needed to be around, Willow," Sebastian told her, glancing up from his book. "I know dad would have told you the same."

Celeste laughed softly. "I hope you can endure him, my dears. He's going to be the most infuriating elder brother ever to walk the face of the earth."

"Am not!" Seb exclaimed, making all three of them giggle--it was cute, really, how indignant he got. Just like Giles when you suggested that he might secretly like watching TV. Sebastian's indignantness never lasted more than a minute, though, and this time was no exception. Pretty soon he smiled, accepted another filled teacup from his wife, and returned to the big musty book in his lap.

This had been a perfect day, really. Minus Seb and Celeste, they'd taken a little trip to the museum that morning, Giles giving them a guided tour that made Will go nearly loopy with GeekGirl enthusiasm, and even Xander admitted had its moments. They'd enjoyed a long lunch with the museum people, then come home to sit in the back garden, basking in the sunshine, surrounded by flowers, then gobbling up Celeste's tea--which wasn't just a beverage, it was a whole meal.

Buffy munched down another little sandwich, then another. She'd helped Celeste make them, while Giles and Sebastian chatted out in the garden--being good guys, of course, they'd offered to help, but Celeste was territorial about her kitchen, the way Joyce said artists got about their paints and brushes and stuff. She seemed to like having Buffy's help, though. They worked well together, chatting, sometimes laughing so hard they could hardly even see what they were doing.

Thoughtfully, Buffy picked up a third sandwich. Well, they really were only little--one more couldn't hurt. Celeste grinned at her.

"Okay, that's it. Stop me before I kill again," she said, moving the tray over to Xander's neighborhood. As if sensing the presence of food within easy reach, he woke up.

"Huh? What? Oh, sandwiches!" He blinked. "It's okay if I--?"

"Eat as much as you like, Xander," Celeste told him. "I'd take it as a favour if you finished them, actually."

Xander grinned, saying in one of his silly voices, "Always glad to be of service, Ma'am."

Buffy swallowed her own last bite, returning her attention to Giles's face. Somehow, while she'd been looking away, he'd lost his peaceful expression and started to frown, the familiar lines appearing around his mouth and his eyes. Willow was right. There was something. Maybe just all he'd been through that summer, but something. Half of her wanted more than anything to get home, to see her mom and settle back into normal life--the other half wished that duty wasn't waiting for her, that there wouldn't be any big brooding evil to fight. She wished that Giles could have a better rest, just be a guy for awhile, even though she knew that wasn't in the cards.

This was their last day in England, really. Tomorrow would be the memorial service for poor Mr. Briggs and all the other Watchers, then she, Giles, Xander and Willow would board the plane for LA. Seb and Celeste were scheduled to follow a week later, once they finished sorting everything out. Buffy missed them already.

Beside her Giles moved restlessly, and his frown deepened. Not that he slept all that often during the day, but when he did, he didn't usually have nightmares. Buffy leaned closer, stroking her thumb across his cheek, murmuring something meaningless and soothing into his ear. Often that quieted him, but his time he jerked awake with a yell, sitting blinking and confused for a minute before he seemed to realize where he was.

"I--er--sorry," he said, rubbing a hand over his face. "Nodded off, did I?"

Buffy bent down to kiss his temple. "Bad one, huh?"

Giles blinked again. The frown went away, but a look of concern lingered. "Er--yes. Quite a dream."

"What about?"

Giles shook his head. "I--honestly, I don't remember." He reached up to pull her down into his lap, holding her tight, and even with the warm summer sunshine, he was shivering.

Buffy felt the first faint stirrings of a wiggins.