Tribulations - Chapter 17

"What a day!" Buffy sighed, gazing out the thick-glassed little window of the 747. The big, gray sprawl of London wheeled away below, getting smaller and smaller, then giving way to a flash of green countryside, then to water. They were heading home, finally, and she almost couldn't believe it--she'd expected to die in England about nine times over.

When Giles didn't answer, she glanced at him, concerned to see him sitting with his eyes closed, worry lines between his brows, his whole face looking more creased than usual. When she touched his hand, Giles jerked a little.

"Hey," she said, to which Giles gave a wan smile. "Sweetie, what is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he answered. "Tired. I slept poorly last night."

"I woke up a couple times, for a minute, and you weren't there."

Giles pulled off his glasses, and used the other hand to rub his eyes. "I'm very sorry if I disturbed you."

"Nope. You didn't." Buffy raised her own hand to touch his face, and Giles turned into the caress, his cheek pressing against her palm. She loved the texture of his skin, which had its own, masculine kind of softness. She'd cried at the funeral-thing that afternoon, and so had all the others, but not Giles, even though he--filling in for Moira--and Sebastian had conducted most of the service between them.

Simon said (Buffy couldn't help it, that phrase made her grin) that some of the older guys stationed worldwide had been called back home, but they hadn't arrived yet, and the remaining Watchers were young, mostly inexperienced, and seemed to ask Giles questions about every two seconds, until he must have been just about ready to pull his hair out.

He'd stayed patient, though, which made her proud of him. He'd always been a strange mixture of patience and impatience: patient with going through book after moldy book, night after night, or with training her; impatient when people didn't pay attention, or were deliberately being what he called tiresome. In the way he treated the young Watchers, listening to them carefully, guiding them, she saw how he'd be with their own kids someday, and it made her heart feel all funny, in a good way--big and warm and overflowingly full.

"I love you so much," Buffy whispered to him. "I wish there were better words than that to say it."

Giles's lips pressed softly to her palm, sending a tingle up her arm. Buffy reached up her other hand to him, pulling him down until their foreheads rested against one other, then kissing him just over the worry-lines. He trembled a little under her touch, a combination, she thought, of exhaustion and emotion, and of the sheer nearness of her. It still frightened, excited, thrilled her that she possessed so much power to move him.

"Would you like a beverage?" the flight attendant asked, with completely sucky timing. Giles pulled away, blinking up at the woman.

"Uh, Diet Coke," Buffy said. "If you have it." She tried not to be disapproving when Giles ordered scotch. He was a grown man, after all, and she knew he liked the taste, as well as needing a little of that unwinding effect. Scotch always made her think of Eyghon, though, and all the bottles that appeared in his apartment after Jenny died, and the way Willow described finding him post-Cruciamentum. He certainly didn't drink all the time, she'd seen that--but sometimes she wondered if he drank for the wrong reasons.

She popped open her Diet Coke, concentrating on pouring it into the plastic cup with the ring-shaped ice cubes, watching Giles carefully unscrew the cap from his little bottle. He sipped and swallowed, making a face.

"Not of the best, huh?" she asked him, taking the cup from his hand, sniffing the contents--it smelled rank. She sipped. It tasted worse, like something burning and rotting at the same time.

"God, Giles, I can't believe you like this stuff!"

"It's a toast," he said. "To Callum. Wherever he's gone to, may he enjoy better then this." He flashed one of those small, tense, Gilesean smiles, and then his eyes got shadowy.

By Callum, he meant Mr. Briggs, Buffy knew. She wished he'd talk about his friend, reminisce maybe, even, finally, break down into tears. He wouldn't though--she knew that too--certainly not now out in public, maybe not ever. That a demon had killed yet another of his closest friends would probably be one more thing he shoved back behind a locked door in his head and never let out again. Buffy passed the cup back to him.

"Don't worry," he said softly. "I shan't embarrass you."

"I never thought that," Buffy answered, watching him toss back the entire glass at once, swallow, then shudder. "It's just...I am a worrier. I worry."

"No need," he said, but his expression, and the way he said the words, told her maybe there was, maybe there wasn't. "I shan't drink any more, if that troubles you, love."

"But you want to?" She searched his kind, tired green eyes.

"Yes, I want to." Giles sighed, straightening in his seat. "I sometimes..." he began, then stopped. Buffy laid her hand over his, rubbing his knuckles with her fingertips. She wondered what he'd intended to say. Maybe just that he sometimes needed to forget stuff. That he sometimes suffered, just the way other people did. He'd been through too much, lost too much in the past year, and her heart hurt for him.

It hadn't been a normal funeral. Seb had taken the place of the usual Watcher chaplain, who was missing, presumed--though no one exactly liked to say so--eaten. The Watchers themselves, what remained of them, anyway, were just pitiful, a handful of shattered-looking people in conservative dark suits. If it hadn't been for Giles, helped by Simon, who was nice, and that pushy library girl Angela, she kind of doubted they'd even have remembered to do the basics, like eating and showering and brushing their teeth. All of them had moved into one building, the one with the nicer rooms, but even that didn't seemed to cheer them up.

The whole thing made her glad she'd quit, and that she had Giles. She didn't think the Watchers Council itself would be a whole heaping lot of help to anyone, not for quite some time.

Giles had said good things to them when he'd talked. Kind, understated Giles-things, not some hokey rah-rah speech. At then end, everyone stood up to do the Watcher-oath, and Buffy realized that, when they said, "We stand with her against the night," they were talking about her. Somehow, it seemed to perk them up a little. Afterwards, every one of them came up to her, and hugged and kissed her, until Buffy finally started crying again.

And then it had been time to head for the airport.

She was about to say something more when Xander bolted past them, nearly knocking down one of the flight attendants in his hurry.

"Perhaps I ought--?" Giles said, getting up to follow their friend a little more sedately. Buffy moved into his seat, the warmth of him surrounding her.

The minute he left, Willow came forward, climbing over Buffy's lap to drop into her empty seat. "Poor Xand," she sighed.

"I thought he'd be okay, with the pills and everything."

"I think it's the fear." Willow took a sip from her own root beer. "He's faced demons and cracked jokes about it, but he's really, really scared to fly. I hope the flight doesn't get bumpy." She leaned a little closer, whispering, "What's up with Giles? I thought he was all healed and everything, but he looks terrible."

"I think he's just tired. He's been through a lot."

"And then the Watchers and stuff..." Willow nodded. "Poor Giles. Maybe things will be really, really quiet back home. 'Cause, like, demons need a summer vacation too, right?" Willow was doing one of her optimistic chipmunk grins, which made Buffy grin right back at her.

"If only it worked that way," Buffy answered, wishing, more than anything, that it really, really did.

"And when are you guys moving? And did Giles ever hear back about that job at UC-Sunnydale?"

Two thoughts collided in Buffy's head: moving? He's moving? We're moving? And what job?

Once again, Willow had managed to reveal her greater Giles-knowledge. Buffy fought down a wave of irritation--it wasn't right to be irritated with Willow. If she was going to be p.o.'d at anyone, it should be herself.

"What job?" she asked.

"Remember last spring, when he was doing all that paperwork? You know, the forms, and the curriculum vitae, and the letters and stuff?"

Buffy wracked her brain, but she honestly didn't. How clueless had she been?

"Oh--" Willow's face fell. "I forgot. It was kinda--" The optimistic chipmunk gave way to the depressed chipmunk.

"What?"

"It was kinda during your Faithy time, so you might not...might not have noticed." Willow's next words came out in a rush. "And I'm sorry and I didn't mean to bring it up."

"It's okay." Buffy sighed. "That was not a time of goodness. I'm just uber-amazed you guys even managed to forgive me."

Willow touched the back of her hand. "We love you, Buffy." She brightened. "But it would be a really cool job, 'cause it's, like, a bran new professorship thing, sort of all different departments, and it's soooo Giles. They're calling it 'Professor of Antiquities.' He'd get to teach ancient history, and mythology, and archaeology, all that stuff he loves. And it's a full professorship, so the money would be half-decent for a change. And, well, he had those recommendations from the Washington Institute, and the Smithsonian, and the British Museum and everything, and he's written all those papers and had all that field experience, so I don't know why they wouldn't offer it to him. Except for maybe..."

Except for maybe the last three years. Those weren't going to look too great on his resume, three years as the librarian of some podunk high school--but then she doubted the Council had cared too much about a Watcher's future job prospects. She guessed guys in that line of work were either supposed to die with their Slayers in some horrible, untimely way, or were supposed to go back to the Compound. Having a Slayer that insisted on living, loving her, and then getting fired weren't part of the agenda.

How much had Giles hated Sunnydale High, Buffy wondered, having to do stuff like run the Talent Show, having to toe the line for a weasel like Snyder, spending day after day in that poky little library? Buffy glanced up and saw tears welling in Willow's eyes. "What?" she asked.

Will sniffed, fumbling for a Kleenex in her pocket. "I...Oh, just stupid me." She sniffed again, wiped her eyes, blew her nose. "I miss the library."

Buffy felt a lump grow in her own throat. Even with all the badness--and there had been a lot of badness--the old library had been their place, their special place, and she didn't feel as if anything would ever quite replace it. There was something about walking in to the dim light, smelling the leather of the old books, curling up in a corner, or in one of the chairs, waiting...and then seeing Giles emerge from somewhere, always so quiet she'd have to watch for him, she'd never hear.

Even then, she'd loved the way he'd walk around not looking where he was going because he had his nose stuck in an open book. She'd loved his rumpled tweed suits, and the way, when he did look up, she'd get that little smile, that soft voice, saying, "Oh, hullo, Buffy." She'd even loved the goofy looking pads he wore for training, and the way he'd always face up to her, even though he knew he'd eventually end up flat on his back on the floor. She'd hurt him pretty badly a couple times, but the most she ever heard about that was some dry little joke.

"I miss it too," she whispered.

Willow's hand touched Buffy's arm, the fingers icy from having been wrapped around the cold soda.

"You know how lucky you are, right?" Will had lost her chipmunk look. She looked the way Buffy had seen her a couple times in dreams, mysterious and beautiful, her eyes dark emerald and her hair like fire. "To have someone like him? To have him?"

"You have Oz," Buffy told her, not exactly sure what Will was trying to say.

"I have Oz. Oz is Oz. Oz is...great." Willow's hand pulled away until it lay in her lap; her fingers twisted together. Any minute she'd start biting her nails, and Buffy couldn't stand it. She put her own hand over Willow's, gripping firmly.

"You have Oz," she repeated. "C'mon, Will."

"He hasn't...I mean...I've been leaving numbers. Reach-me numbers. And he hasn't. Reached. Me, that is."

"It's a lot of money to call England."

"Giles would have called," Willow said. Her mouth and chin started getting that funny look, halfway between stubborn and weepy. "If you were in Australia, he would have called. If you were in Tibet, he would have called. If you were stuck in an ice station in the Arctic, with one of those radio phones that don't work when it snows hard and always make that funny kkkkghk sound, he would..."

"Okay, okay, I get it." Buffy wanted to laugh, but at the same time felt bad for Willow. But Oz really was a great guy--why hadn't he made the effort?

A picture popped into her head of that creep Cain (the first person, ironically, who'd ever taken her and Giles for a couple) with his gun and his nets and his silver bullets, hunting werewolves for fun and profit. She made the image pop right back out again, but not before Willow caught the look in her eyes.

"You think...maybe..." Willow swallowed hard. "We had a full moon. And maybe..."

"I'm sure he's fine." Buffy put all the confidence she could into her voice. "He told Devon and the guys, right? They'll watch his back."

"Devon." Willow snorted. "Yeah, Mr. Reliable."

"Okay, so, Devon's maybe not the greatest confidence-builder. But Oz is smart. He'll know to keep himself safe."

"He..." Willow turned to gaze out the window. "He...it's inside him. The wolf guy. You know, not just on those nights. Worst on those nights, of course. But always. I came in once, and I saw him by the fridge, and..." She shook her head violently, and her shoulders hunched up, until Buffy felt her eyes well with tears of sympathy. At least she didn't have to worry about her boyfriend turning into a ravening beast. All she had to worry about was having made an unbreakable promise to a demon, and about her vision of what living up to that promise might do to her and, worst of all, to the man she loved.

"Buffy? Willow? Has something gone amiss?" Giles asked.

Buffy jumped in her seat, his voice making her startle. She hadn't heard him approach--of course. Good thing most of the vamps she fought weren't that stealthy.

Buffy glanced up to see him looking down at both of them with concern. He had one hand around Xander's arm, kind of holding him up, and Xander's head flopped over onto his shoulder.

Buffy blinked back the tears, shaking her head. "We're okay. Just being...umn...being nostalgia-girls. What's up with Xand?"

Xander moaned. "What's not up?" he said, in a teeny little non-Xander voice.

Giles had his "I don't get it" expression, but he smiled at her. "Yes, well. Willow, why don't you move over to the window seat? Buffy can return to her own. We'll give Xander a bit of room to stretch out until he's feeling more himself."

Willow did a full body shake, but then seemed to pull it together, at least a little. She gave Buffy an apologetic look, and mouthed, "sorry," even as she slid over to the window seat. Behind them, Giles was tucking one of the thin red airplane blankets around Xander's shoulders. Their guy-friend had stretched out as much as possible across the three seats in his row--luckily, their flight wasn't too crowded--but he still managed to look bunched up and sprawling at the same time.

Giles leaned over him with his hand on Xander's shoulder, saying something Buffy couldn't quite make out in a soft, soothing voice. Just hearing him made her feel sleepy, and that clued her in to what Giles was doing.

"Hey," she said, when Giles once more folded himself into the seat beside her. "When are you going to make him quack like a duck?"

"Very amusing," Giles told her.

"Huh?" Willow said.

"Giles hypnotized Xander, just like--" Buffy sought his eyes, only to find them filled with a strangely closed-off expression. "In the movies," she finished, lamely, knowing that all he could hear inside his head would be the words, "Just like he did me," which really, really wasn't what she'd meant to say at all.

She rose up on her knees in the seat, kissed Giles's temple softly, then brushed her cheek against his. "That's the past, sweetie," she whispered in his ear. "All in the past. And what did we promise each other? That we're just going to look to the future?"

Giles kissed her cheek in return, then lifted her away just a little, only far enough that they could see each others eyes, nothing else. Nothing else in the whole world. Buffy felt as if she could get lost in that greenness, as if she could spend years looking and still not read every wonderful thing contained there.

"That is what we promised, isn't it?" he answered, a little undercurrent of laughter bubbling through his voice. "Oh, Buffy, my dearest. I shall be strangely glad to return home."

Home, Buffy thought, understanding exactly what he meant by the word. England might be where he came from, and it might still hold a piece of his heart, but home was where she was and he was. Home was where they were together, doing what they'd been Chosen to do.

"Sweetie," she said, "Don't you know? We've been home all along."

She bent to kiss him and, his lips warm and firm against hers, Giles kissed her in return, without shame, without hesitation, in front of Willow and everyone.