Tribulations - Chapter 18

Somewhere, a woman wept, and the sobs tore through Moira's body. Someone's hand rested on her shoulder, its presumed owner speaking words she could not make clear. A blanket had been spread to cover her, but the soft, synthetic fleece had no power to give warmth.

Moira could not imagine attaining that blessed state of comfort again. Rather, it seemed Wesley's touch, the coldness of his mouth against hers, had invaded all of her being, and a lifetime would prove insufficient to thaw away the chill.

In Moira's fancy, the two handsome young men, the dark-haired and the fair--who were not truly men at all, but representatives of an ancient, hungry, evil--leaned over the railings above, gazing down with demonic glee. She could not see them, really. She lay on her stomach, the upper half of her body pressing down through the collapsed windscreen, her eyes filled with red. She could not see, and quite likely Wesley and Spike had long since slipped away in any case. They'd not linger. They would vanish, to reappear at a more expedient time.

Moira gasped in a breath, the pain like a stake through her chest. She ached to wail her lover's name again and again into the night, as if somehow the shape of the call upon her lips might contain the power to summon him back.

That was impossible: even if the words existed, she'd no ability to achieve them, and the thought exploded in her head. "What have I done to myself, oh godesses, what have I done?"

He was dead. It struck her like a physical blow, far harsher than the impact of her body against glass and metal. Her dear, uncertain, tender, amazable Wesley was dead, and a cold, mocking creature wore the body she'd once told herself she would lie beside, and cherish, now, and as an old woman, and for all the years in-between.

Dimly, Moira became aware of other hands. Straps now tightly circled her head, her chest, her waist. A rigid collar had been fastened round her neck, supporting the too-great burden of her head, and she'd the sensation of the world rotating--as the hands turned her, she supposed.

Moira began to make out words. The sobbing woman--whom she'd thought none other than herself--cried again and again, "I didn't mean...she was just there."

"Tisn't your fault, love," Moira wanted to say, for the poor woman sounded young and terrified, but of course she'd lost the ability to comfort anyone.

Klaxons sounded as the ambulance sped away with her inside, yet another frantic wail. As the vehicle rounded a corner, a massive wave of pain washed through her body. It seemed only appropriate. Moira did not fight the sensation, thinking instead, in its wake, Ah, yes, this is how it's meant to be.

And yet, she hadn't wanted to die, still did not want to die--only for that all-pervasive sense of grief and loss and spiritual agony to leave her. She wanted to disbelieve. She wanted to deny.

She wanted to sleep, and so she shut her eyes and forced herself downward, deep into that other place where present losses could not touch her.

They were tired, that explained it--and they had become cross to the point where perhaps it might be best not to speak to one another at all. Xander continued to look pale and shaken from the journey, Willow appeared close to tears, and Buffy had adopted as her mode of behavior a fierce jollity that made Giles fear for his life. His own eyes burned with weariness, and an ache so deep it made him clumsy and snappish throbbed behind them. He'd the feeling of having reached the end of his tether, and couldn't imagine how he'd manage the drive home to Sunnydale.

They depended upon him, however, and so he must collect himself. Giles saw his beloved and his young friends settled amidst the mound of their assorted luggage, and went to arrange for a car, rousing the three again, with an effort, when he'd at last secured the keys to a suitable vehicle from the bored young man behind the counter. The ensuing complaints seemed to drill directly through his skull, until he bit off a terse, "Enough!" which then gained him three hurt, large-eyed gazes.

With an effort, Giles swallowed his irritation. "I'm sorry to have spoken so abruptly, but the sooner we're on our way, the sooner you all can rest. Will you please come along now?"

"Cranky," Buffy muttered in passing, to which Giles replied:

"I know, and I'm sorry," in a tone that sounded less than gracious, even to his own ears. Another forty-five minutes had passed by the time the shuttle collected them, and they'd situated themselves within the hired vehicle, Buffy by his side in the front, Xander sprawled out in the back and Willow tucked up neatly as a little kitten beside him. All three promptly fell to sleep.

"Sod it," Giles muttered, and put the car into motion, hoping that he would revive once he was on the road, and that the headache was merely caused by differences in the air pressures. The truth was, however, that it had been his unwelcome companion for better than thirty hours, and with it came a sense of foreboding that sat uneasily in the pit of his stomach.

He'd suffered appalling nightmares the previous evening, dreams that alarmed him nearly as much as those he'd torn himself out of, sweating and shaking, before Eyghon made his final reappearance.

Was it the aftermath of the Hellmouth Closing, or something more immediate? The ever-efficient Angela Tremayne had photocopied a selection of writings on other closings worldwide, both natural and magical, including, most especially, accounts by those in their vicinity when the closure took place. Perhaps those accounts might contain information bearing on his own current state.

Beside him, Buffy murmured in her sleep, shifting away from the window until her lovely face turned toward him, her legs curling beneath her. Irritation ebbing, Giles reached out to stroke a tendril of silken hair away from her cheek. Tired or not, he needed to guard his temper. It wouldn't do to allow a cross word to wound or alienate her--she whom he had already injured or alienated so many times before. How could she love him, his Buffy, with all her brightness, her courage, her beauty? That she'd come to see him not merely as a Watcher, but as a man. That she'd understood the completeness of his love for her, seemed to him a miracle far exceeding any of even good Father Brounslow's description. The Hellmouth had shown him a future in which she remembered none of this, in which she was lost to him, never to be regained--to have been given the gift of her once was more fortune than such as he could possibly deserve; he could never expect to be so very lucky again.

But to lose her, Giles knew, would mean his death. Perhaps not of his body, but the heart and soul of him. He would always belong to her entirely, even if she turned from him. That would not change, could not have changed, really, from the moment he saw her. Even as their wills collided and bitter words passed between them, during the first days of their acquaintance and later, she had owned him. That was what it meant for a Watcher to be Chosen. And now...

Now, he would serve her until he died. Not merely for duty (if one could apply the term "merely" to a sense of duty so deep it could not for any reason be denied) but because, having loved Buffy, having seen her awaken within him all the better aspects of his nature, Giles could never love another. That he'd been Chosen for her Watcher was only the beginning of something that grew and blossomed until it had become the best and greatest part of himself.

Buffy stirred again, drawing closer to him even in sleep, her head resting heavily upon his shoulder, her breath warming his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. Giles took his right hand from the wheel briefly, touching her lovely, soft thigh, feeling a slight motion against the skin of his arm as she smiled in her dreams.

Giles blinked as the lights before him blurred and went into streamers. He'd entered one of Los Angeles's dreadfully confusing freeways, and on the whole he'd prefer to fight a pack of demons. He continuously felt the need to overadjust his driving, which in turn made him tense, increasing the ache in his head until he could scarcely bear it. Reluctantly moving Buffy back into the confines of her own seat, he hunched forward over the wheel, his teeth clenched as he concentrated, trying to make some sense of the traffic ahead. After what seemed an unnaturally long stretch of travel, he thankfully spotted the exit one took toward Sunnydale, following it down to a highway that, while well-traveled, hadn't the terrifying stream of cars that wove in and out of the freeway's lanes at such unbelievable speeds.

Giles squeezed his eyes shut briefly, then opened them again. Lord, his head! He considered looking for a motel, stopping there for the night so that he could get some decent rest--and yet that seemed foolish so close to home. He nearly missed the exit for Highway 101, an exit he must have taken a hundred times, for the mere reason that the white letters on the sign blurred together like snow. Shaking his head, his pulse still accelerated from the near miss, he bent forward even further, squinting at the curving road.

Gradually, the highway wound down until he drove with dry hills to his right side and a steep cliff to his left, overlooking the sea. The pounding of the surf seemed to fill up his skull, and he felt, suddenly, uncomfortably, warm--the influence of the California weather, he supposed, after England's milder clime. He rolled down the window slightly, hoping to revive himself with the fresh night air, then noticed Buffy shivering beside him and closed it again.

"Not long now, love," he murmured. "We'll soon be home, tucked up in our own bed."

"Mmnn..." came a drowsy voice from behind him. "What time is it? Where are we?"

"Awake, are you, Willow?" Giles answered softly, hoping that she would remain so, and that to converse with her would serve to somewhat revive him. "Nearly half-past one."

"Mmn, ocean." Willow leaned forward in her seat. "I missed that smell. We're in a car. I don't remember getting in a car."

"You were rather tired, I believe."

"I'm still tired." Her shadowed face reflected in the rearview mirror and, as he watched, Willow's fists rose to rub her eyes, the action of a much younger child. "I'm the tiredest I've ever been, I think."

"You're not accustomed to such a long journey by airplane. It often leaves one remarkably weary."

"And thirsty." Willow took a long draught from the bottle of water stowed on the floor by her feet. "Xander's out cold. How 'bout Buffy?"

"They same, it appears. I quite envy them their rest."

"Poor Giles." Willow drank again, deeply. "You always have to be the grownup, don't you?"

"Ah--er--yes. But, well, I suppose that..."

"Technically, we're all grownups now." Willow wiped the neck of the water bottle on a tissue, then reached between the seats to hand it forward. "Sorry about the Willow-germs."

Giles gave a small, dry laugh, then drank, gratefully. He'd been terribly thirsty, even more so than he'd realized, and yet the water seemed to settle uneasily in his stomach. His hand shook as he returned the bottle to Willow's hand, a bit of the liquid sloshing over their fingers.

"You're shaky," Willow said. "Are you okay, Giles?"

"Merely rather over-tired," he answered. "I ought to sleep quite well once we finally reach home."

"If you'd like..." She tightened the cap neatly and returned the water to her feet. "My mom and dad are out of town for the nine-millionth time this year. Xander could camp out in our guest room, so you and Buffy could have a little private-time your first night home."

"That's extremely thoughtful of you, Willow." Giles found himself smiling, despite his crossness. The offer touched him--not that such kindness wasn't precisely what he'd come to expect from the young witch.

"That's me, Thoughtful-girl," Willow answered, the shadow of her answering grin flickering across the glass. "Is Xand...? I mean, what's gonna...? What's gonna happen with him?"

"He's welcome to stay with me--with us--of course, for as long as he wishes."

"In a loft apartment?" A note of skepticism underlay the usual sweetness of her tone. "That's gonna drive you guys crazy."

It took Giles a moment to work out her meaning, and then he answered, with some embarrassment, "We do possess a certain degree of self-control, Willow."

"Oh! Oh, well, I didn't mean--! Well, yes, I guess I kinda did, but--" Willow gave one of her endearing small giggles. "Why don't I just keep him until mom and dad come home, and then we'll worry about the next step, okay?"

"And Oz?" Giles asked, anxious to keep her talking. The headache hadn't ebbed, but at least, while they spoke, his concentration seemed a bit more acute. Besides which, he'd missed their conversations. There entire time in England, he'd rarely experienced the opportunity to merely speak with Willow--it seemed they'd always been planning, or involved of some dreadful turmoil or another.

Willow did not answer the question, and when Giles glanced over his shoulder, he saw her face turned to the window, her eyes sad and dark as they gazed, a bit too intently, at the ocean below.

"Oh, Willow, I'm sorry," Giles said, meaning it sincerely, for both Willow and Oz's sake. He quite liked the young musician, for his intelligence, his kindness, his good sense--even for his somewhat rebellious ways.

"No, no, it's not that," Willow answered, obviously attempting to sound cheery, though her voice trembled slightly. "I just... I mean..." She sighed. "I've been a little hard to track down, you know?"

"I--Buffy and I, that is--greatly appreciate your coming to our rescue. You are a good friend, Willow." Giles paused, searching for appropriate words--he wasn't good at this, he knew, and he hoped not to put a foot amiss. "I would be sick to think that our troubles had caused any hardship between you."

Willow gave a soft little laugh. "You don't have to take the blame for everything, Giles. If there are problems between Oz and me, they're our problems. Only..." She sighed again. "Do you ever worry about loving someone too much? Like you've put too much of yourself into them? Like maybe there wouldn't be enough you left in you if they weren't there anymore?"

Giles glanced at Buffy, her lips now parted in sleep. Almost without his intention, Giles's hand rose to brush her cheek. Her skin felt warmer than he expected.

"Look who I'm asking," Willow said, with another soft laugh. "If Buffy asked for your eyes on a plate you'd give them to her--but you'd look first to make sure you'd found the best plate."

"That makes me sound rather--what is the current term?--rather whipped."

"You know that isn't what I meant," Willow told him, all seriousness.

"I know," Giles said in return, wanting to tell Willow of his vision, but at the same time, strangely reluctant. To put what he'd seen into words seemed to bring it one step closer to reality, and that he could not abide. Sighing in his own right, he ran a hand back through his hair, then rubbed the space between his eyes.

"Giles--?" Willow said. "Are you okay?"

"Me?" His vision blurred again, so badly that for an instant the road before him turned into a smear of darkness and wavy lines, and the vehicle's tyres juddered over the dots that divided one side of the road from the other.

"Giles!" Willow exclaimed, rather sharply, his seat lurching as her small fingers dug into the upholstery.

His sight clearing, Giles brought the car under control. "Yes, quite all right, Willow," he answered, with perfect calm.

"What was that, then?"

"Momentary lapse of attention. Look, here we are." He slowed as the lights of Sunnydale brightened around them, then signaled for the street that would lead them toward Willow's home.

"You've your key?" Giles asked, when he'd stopped at last. Despite the Rosenbergs' absence, lights shone indoors, one in the lounge and another upstairs--operated by some sort of timer, he assumed. At least Willow would not have to come home to a house entirely dark and deserted.

"Mmn-hmn," she answered, absently, which he took as an affirmative.

Giles shut off the motor, using the dashboard lever to pop open the boot. He and Willow slipped out at the same time, though he nearly lost his balance rising fully to his feet, his vision once again fading into a momentary muddle.

Willow steadied him with one small hand. "You're really tired, huh?"

"I'm perfectly all right," Giles answered.

Willow's hand lingered on his arm. "You know, it's okay to just say 'yes.'" Her eyes shone up at him. "Even for you, Giles."

Instead of answering, he took Willow's and Xander's luggage from the back, setting both cases at the kerb as he walked round to rouse the boy. Xander got up reluctantly, without really waking, sleepwalking up the path with a drunkard's gait.

"Umn...do you mind?" Willow asked, tugging at her own case while Giles shouldered Xander's, hurrying to catch the boy before he entangled himself in the shrubbery.

"There you are, Xander," he exhorted. "Up the stairs. That's it." He waited for Willow to unlock the door, then nudged the boy inside. "Across the entry and down the corridor. Willow--?"

"Guest room's in the back," Willow told him, stifling an enormous yawn.

"I. Find." Xander assured them, walking directly into the door. "Ouch. Doorknob. Open." He seemed, fortunately, able to follow his words with actions, and the bedsprings shortly squealed, obviously as the result of Xander's entire weight being flung across the mattress.

"One down, one to go," Willow said. "Gee, Giles, your eyes are red as...umn...as stoplights, I guess."

"An attractive image." Giles smiled down at her. Willow appeared so very sleepy and disheveled it was nearly amusing, and yet she returned his smile, following it with a warm embrace round his middle, the highest she could comfortably reach. For an instant, Giles held her close to him, loving her as he hoped, someday, to love a daughter of his own blood. "You'll have food to eat tomorrow, Willow? You will be all right on your own?"

She pulled away, though one hand still rested on his arm. "There's always stuff in the freezer, Giles. Don't worry, 'kay? Go home?"

"Gladly," he answered. "Call if you need anything, however. Don't hesitate."

"Night, Giles." She yawned again. "It's good to be back."

"That it is. Goodnight, Willow." As he headed down the steps, Giles heard the door shut behind him, and the locks engage. Always a bright girl, his Willow. Always cautious.

He slid into the driver's seat and started the car, reaching his own flat without any memory of the journey--it worried him, sometimes, that he could drive home so automatically, in such a state of unawareness--though obviously, tonight, no harm had been done.

Giles touched Buffy's shoulder, meaning to wake her, but she only moaned, and did not rouse. When he touched her cheek, her skin felt even warmer than before. "Buffy, love," he said softly. "Buffy, we're home."

"Ow," she said, and brought up a hand to rub her forehead. "Giles, ow, my head."

"Aren't you well, my love?"

Her eyes opened, then immediately shut again. "It's just a headache. Tired."

"You're a bit warm. Do you feel feverish?"

"Fine. 'M fine."

"I'm going to carry you inside."

"I can walk," she answered irritably, but made no move to rise, and so Giles slipped one arm beneath her shoulders, the other beneath her knees, lifting her out of the seat. For a moment he could not seem to balance her weight, and his shoulder stuck the edge of the roof rather sharply.

"Damn," he muttered, wondering when his beloved had got so heavy. She hadn't seemed to increase in size in any way--if anything, she seemed thinner--and yet to carry her seemed nearly beyond his strength. He found himself breathing hard by the time he'd brought her up the stairs, and had to set her on her feet, cradled against his chest, panting for a few moments before he could summon the energy to unlock his door--by which time Buffy had begun to make a small, soft moaning sound.

Giles meant to lift her again, but, his balance gone awry, he cracked his head against the jamb, nearly spilling his beloved to the ground. "Good God, man," he muttered, "Do pull yourself together."

"Huh?" Buffy breathed.

"Talking to myself, love. Are you able to walk as far as the sofa?"

"Sure. I'm the Slayer. Slayer strength," she assured him, but Giles had to steer her nonetheless. Once they achieved their goal, he laid Buffy down gently, covering her with the afghan--they'd neglected to turn down the air conditioning before they left, and the flat felt arctic.

"So sweet," Buffy murmured, shivering under the knitted blanket. "So good to me."

"I'll return momentarily," Giles told her. "I've only to fetch our luggage."

"Careful?" she asked.

"I assure you, I shall be." Returning his keys to one trouser-pocket, stowing a medium-sized cross in the other, Giles stepped out into the night, shutting the door carefully behind him. He'd hoped to collect their bags in one trip, but couldn't seem to manage it, and debated leaving the task until the morrow, although to do so went against his essentially tidy nature. He carried Buffy's things safely inside, returned for his own and locked the hired vehicle before repeating his ascent.

On his way up the stairs for the third and last time, Giles thought he saw a flash of darkness at the edge of his vision, gone as quickly as it was perceived. The resultant burst of adrenaline gave him speed, and he hurried back inside the flat, fastening the door securely behind him.

It's nothing, he tried to tell himself. Nothing. You just need to rest, old man.

Still, he could not escape the sensation of being watched.