Tribulations - Ch. 22

Buffy woke up before it was light and by instinct reached across the bed, wondering how Giles had managed to move so far away from her in his sleep. He was a mover, that was true, but even in his most violent bad dreams he hardly ever went more than an arm's length away. The mornings she liked best were those when he'd turned back toward her sometime in the night, and taken her into his arms, so that she woke up inside the warm circle of that embrace.

This morning though--and the clock told her it was morning, 3:30 AM to be exact--her groping hand encountered a sleeping body definitely not Gilesean in nature. Her fingertips met a delicate shoulder, and long, curly hair spilled over what should have been Giles's pillow.

Where are you? she wondered, half a second before the previous night's events crashed back into her memory.

Buffy jerked upright, a silent "Oh!" on her lips, the room swooping around her. The shoulder and the hair belonged to her mom, of course, who was sleeping beside her too peacefully to be disturbed. Joyce would be unhappy when she woke up, shocked and frightened and grieving. Buffy slid out of bed as quietly as she could, hoping not to disturb her, and tiptoed down the stairs.

The dragonfly lamp--which she knew now had been a special present from the museum people, and because of that maybe the thing Giles loved best of all his stuff--cast its dim golden light into the room, showing the pieces of Giles's desk lying scattered across the floor. The desk had been a pretty hefty piece of furniture, but still not equal to the weight of two big men crashing full force onto its top from the height of the loft--and so, goodbye desk. Papers lay like snowdrifts over the floor, with boulders of books sticking up out of the mess. Buffy felt suddenly that she needed to tidy them up, to set everything right, even though bending down made her head go swimmy again.

When she'd finished with that clutter, she went to the kitchen to sponge the spilled scotch from the counter and the floor, the smell of it, which usually didn't bother her at all, making her stomach turn over and over.

He was here, Buffy thought, as if she hadn't known before whether Angel's presence had been real or a dream. He was here, and I didn't even talk to him. I didn't want to talk to him.

She'd woken up in the half-light the night before, knowing at once that Angel stood beside her, and feeling a shiver of something that might be fear or disgust or shame move through her body. She hadn't been able to speak then, either, but she'd known, the minute Giles joined them in the loft, what must have gone through his head: he'd seen Angelus standing over her, and twenty years of Watcher training had flown straight out the window, all that careful control dropping away, leaving only a man who would fight for her to the death if he had to.

"No," Buffy breathed, pressing her fists against her throbbing temples. It came back to her in a rush, everything Giles had suffered--at Angelus's hands, at Angel's hands, at her own.

She stood beside the passthrough, feeling suddenly very small and lost and alone. The things she'd overheard, guessed, been told, struck her consciousness in an instant, left their wounds and withdrew, until the dizziness couldn't be denied. The living room seemed too quiet, as if Giles wasn't there at all.

He killed your daddy, her inner voice said, sounding like a spoiled little kid. Your daddy's dead, and Giles killed him.

Buffy knew that wasn't true, and wasn't fair. She hated that voice, but the thought, just for a minute, still seemed to build up a wall between them. Feeling like a sleepwalker, she crossed to the couch, standing by the narrow table, so that it and the couch-back stood between them.

One more minute, looking down on him, really seeing him, and the feeling flew away. Giles slept with such an expression of pain on his face that it tore at her heart. Even asleep, his breathing sounded cautious, shallow breaths that caught on their way in. The back of his left forearm lay across his eyes, shielding out the light, and the other arm hugged his ribs. Again, a thousand thoughts rushed through Buffy's head, sharp and glittery, like pieces of shattered crystal. Fear washed over her. Something had gone wrong. Something had gone really wrong. Buffy didn't know how she knew it, but she did, and the wrongness didn't just have to do with her dad--it lay everywhere, all around them.

She took a deep, steadying breath, trying to get back some sense of emotional balance. Okay, this was Sunnydale, home--as Xander might say--of the big brewin' evil, but there wasn't much she could do about that tonight, especially feeling the way she felt.

Giles had sprawled on the couch in his shirt and pants, not even bothering with a blanket, and the apartment, from what she could tell, was not all that warm. Tenderly, taking care not to wake him, Buffy unfolded the afghan to cover Giles's sleeping body, watching him shiver at the touch of the wool against his skin. Silently, she kissed her fingertips, touching them lightly to his mouth as she whispered, "Sweet dreams."

She climbed the stairs to find her mom sitting up in bed with the lamp switched on. Joyce's face looked sad and pale, and she was sipping from a glass of water with the expression of a woman being forced to drink poison.

"That's good," Buffy said, feeling awkward. "The water. You drinking it. That's good." It struck her suddenly how beautiful her mom was, even so upset--the yellow light glowed in her ash-blonde hair, and her light blue eyes showed almost too much feeling, the way they always did, all the sadness and kindness, disappointment and pride there for anyone to see. They made Joyce look vulnerable, but not weak.

Her mom's face made Buffy think of Mary's in one of those old paintings--not the Mary with the halo and the little round baby on her lap, like a Christmas card, but the older Mary who didn't get shown nearly so often, the one who'd lost just about everything a mother could lose.

"Sweetheart." Joyce set her glass on the nightstand.

Buffy perched on the edge of the bed beside her. Carefully, she peeled up the taped-down gauze that covered the marks on Joyce's neck. They looked ragged, but then vamp-bites always did, and they hurt worse than anything. Buffy took a fresh Bandaid from the nightstand drawer, opened the little paper package and covered the wound again.

"It hurts, huh?" Buffy asked, not sure exactly what she meant--the bite or the whole situation. Her voice came out funny.

Joyce didn't answer, but touched the raised white scar on Buffy's own neck. "Even more when it comes from someone you love."

"Are you--" Anything she might say seemed like not enough, and Buffy wondered if her mom had the same hysterical voice in her head she kept hearing in her own, the one that yelled, "Hank! Hank! Hank!" the way hers cried out, "Daddy! Daddy!" again and again.

"It wasn't him," Joyce said softly. "I know it wasn't, but for a minute..." Her voice trailed off, and her mouth twitched a little. She took Buffy's right hand between her own, stroking the back of it with her silky fingers, and while she did that something came to Buffy in a lightening-flash: suddenly Joyce didn't look like a mom-person anymore, she just looked like Joyce, a nice lady who had dreams and got scared and had been crazy in love with a guy named Hank, even though she knew he was bad for her.

It came to Buffy, too, that in a million ways, she and her mom were just alike.

Buffy's voice broke when she told Joyce, "I love you." They held onto each others' hands, her mom gripping so tight it hurt, Buffy forcing herself to be gentle, not trusting her Slayer strength, even though, all at once, she felt bone-achingly tired, as if all the life had been sucked right out of her.

Joyce's eyes welled with tears, but she noticed at once how Buffy had wilted. Freeing her right hand, she pressed the palm against Buffy's forehead, feeling her fever. She made Buffy lie down, tucking the covers up under her chin, and all at once she slipped back into full mom-mode. Maybe that was how she coped, a mask she could put on to help her deal.

"I don't care what Dr. Freas says," Joyce fussed. "He's taking a look at you tomorrow, or he'll have me to answer to!"

"Beware the wrath of mom," Buffy murmured, feeling sleep sneak up on her.

"Darn straight," Joyce answered, but in a gentle voice, her fingers stroking back Buffy's hair.

When Buffy woke up again, Giles was sitting beside her, in exactly the same place her mom had been the night before, his much bigger fingers doing the same thing Joyce's had done--brushing the hair back from her forehead. Sunlight spilled in around the edges of the curtains, lighting the room to a pale gray.

"You seem a great deal cooler," he said, in a soft, hoarse voice. "How do you feel?"

Buffy scooted up against the pillows. "Better than you, I bet."

Giles gave one of those small, tight smiles. There were tension lines between his eyebrows, and he shut his eyes when Buffy reached up to rub at them with her thumb--he'd been holding himself stiffly, she realized, hiding something from her.

Buffy slid her hand down to his shoulder, keeping it there as she scooted over to his side of the bed. "Lie down beside me," she said, just as softly.

He lay there as if he didn't have the power to do anything else, his eyes shutting briefly as his head touched the pillow. Giles had changed his shirt, she realized. Obviously he hadn't wanted to come to her here with that dust all over him, and she knew suddenly that if she looked she'd find his other shirt in the garbage, never to be worn again. His collar was open, and even in the dim light she could clearly make out bruises on his jaw and throat.

"How bad?" she asked.

"It's not...not bad," Giles answered. He tensed up again as she reached for the buttons, and for a minute she thought he'd move away, but he didn't.

Buffy opened his shirt, looking down on a stomach and chest marked darkly with continents of deep bruising. She touched a particularly angry-looking one over his ribs. "Not again!" she said.

"I'm afraid so." Giles gave a weak little smile. "But only cracked, I'm certain, and swiftly mended. The leg of the bloody barstool."

"I should get you some ice," Buffy said.

"No, no, lie still. You've been very ill. I'm quite--" His voice caught, his eyes squeezing shut as if he was fighting some intense pain. "Quite all right."

"Liar." Buffy brought her face close to his, kissing his forehead, his cheek, finally his lips, exploring that softness gently, not wanting to hurt him. "You're just too much the perfect gentleman. How uncomfortable were you last night, sleeping on the couch?"

"I could hardly make your mother spend the night there."

"See what I mean?" Buffy kissed him again. "Speaking of which...?"

"Gone to hire a car,"Giles answered, sounding sleepy. "Said she'd be back at two to collect you for your doctor's appointment."

"At two?" Buffy glanced at the bedside clock. It was noon. How could it be noon? She never slept that late, or that hard. "Whoa. Nap of the dead."

"Hmn?" Giles answered, not one of his sleepy, contented hmn's, but one that sounded as if he was too exhausted or suffering too badly to say anything more--but then he opened his eyes, forcing himself up onto one elbow with a grunt, his eyes shutting again, one hand straying to his forehead, then lowering again. "I...I ought to... Did you...?" He took a deep breath, obviously trying to steady himself.

Buffy noticed that the hand he'd raised, then lowered again, was shaking badly. She touched it lightly with her fingertips, feeling the vibrations through the bones of her hand. Alarm shot through her, feeling those tremors. "Giles, look at me."

Again, he forced his eyes open. The whites were horribly bloodshot, the pupils large and unfocussed--though the left seemed a little bigger than the right.

Buffy gripped his shoulder, a lot harder than she intended, and Giles gave a hiss of pain. "Giles, what's up?" She was scared, really scared. "What's wrong with you?"

He sat up, with what seemed like a superhuman effort. "Nothing," he said quietly. "Nothing's wrong with me. Bit tired, that's all. Bit of a headache."

Behind the pain in his eyes, though, Buffy glimpsed a little of her own fear.

Sebastian woke from a deep sleep, and a dream about swans, to find Celeste dozing beside him. So beautiful she looked, his Celeste, draped across the bed like a woman in some marvelous old painting, her great, dark, expressive eyes closed, the thick lashes lying dark against the lovely golden-brown of her cheeks. He could tell by the light in the room that it was day, and why he should be sleeping in daytime escaped him--then he remembered. He'd be ill, and no doubt he'd worn poor Celeste out, caring for him.

The memory of that touched him, the way she'd been so tender, and yet practical. He hadn't been an easy patient--his health, in general, was excellent, and to have his strength taken away frightened and alarmed him, making him cross and intractable.

Poor Celeste. He touched her satin cheek, then the tiny swell of her belly through the simple white frock she wore. Lovely Celeste. He almost thought he could feel the tiny flutter of the other life within her, and for a moment wondered what he was doing, taking her away from their comfortable house in London to a new country, a new city--and such an uncertain city at that. He wondered, too, what she saw in him, what made him deserving of her love, a gift he thanked God for every day of his life.

Celeste opened her eyes suddenly, smiling up at him. "Bastian? You look better." She stroked his cheek with the backs of her fingers. "How are you feeling, my love?"

Sebastian smiled back, feeling sleepy and happy, a warm flood of his love for her flowing through him--but when he opened his mouth to answer, not so much as a squeak emerged.

"Bastian?"

He scooted up against the pillows, trying again, his mouth opening on soundlessness. His throat felt a bit thick, slightly sore, but not enough to explain such total muteness. He waved a hand helplessly.

"Lost your voice?" Celeste asked, rubbing his throat with her thumb. "I'll make you some lovely tea, love, with honey and lemon, see if we can't get you at least squeaking again."

Sebastian nodded, grinning a bit at the image, thinking that she'd soon have him set to rights. That's what Celeste did: she set things to rights. He sat up entirely, meaning to follow her, but Celeste pushed him gently back into the pillows, bending to kiss him, her mouth lingering on his. He wanted to warn her not to, that she needed to mind the baby, in case what he had was catching, but as the kiss deepened, he found himself helpless to resist. When she parted from him, he felt her absence like a physical ache, and when the door closed behind her, he longed for her return.

They'd been through so much these last weeks, come close to losing each other so many times that even a moment's separation felt like eternity.

You're hopeless, old man, Sebastian told himself, smiling again as he did so. Utterly, utterly hopeless.

When Celeste returned, the steaming cup in her hand, he greeted her like the promise of heaven.

"You're too bloody hopeless, the whole sad pack of you," fumed Maria del Ciello. "I swear on my grandmother's grave, you're not even worthy of an eternity burning in Hell." She rounded on her little party, only to see the grunts looking dumb as usual, Spike appearing singularly unimpressed, and Wesley, as usual, entirely absent. Only Lisa looked like she was completely on board--and while that was kind of sweet and loyal, it also got, sometimes, just a teensy bit irritating.

"Yeah, yeah," Spike told her, lighting up, in the absence of the Silk Cuts he favored, one of Maria's own unfiltered Camels--and damn, wouldn't you know he'd take the last of the pack? "Wasn't our grand plan now, was it?"

"You're a total berk, Spike."

Spike shrugged, inhaled, and blew a derisive smoke ring in her general direction. He seemed to have snapped out of his Drusilla-related funk, but that didn't make Maria like him any better--in fact, he now seemed to have made tormenting her his main entertainment

"It shouldn't have failed. Wes, you...Moira should be rising from the grave even as we speak."

"You don't know 'er." Spike took another long drag on the Camel. "Think ya do--but ya don't."

"And what makes you the expert?" Maria had intended her voice to drip sarcasm, but it just came out sounding cranky. Even demons got tired, and this sorry group of losers had sorely tried her patience.

"Spiked 'er, didn't I?" The blonde vampire smoked for a minute in silence. "Right on through. Lovely sight it was, bloody as 'ell. And what does the daft cow do but pull it out again and go fer me--'olding her guts in with one hand, the other wavin' that spike like one of them blokes in a video nasty. Most disgustin' sight me eyes ever beheld. And then 'er bloody Slayer sets the place on fire with both of 'em inside, nearly fried us all, and with the angry mob outdoors an' everything, I thought me and Dru were 'istory. Woulda been too, if the Slayer 'adn't been a total ravin' loony."

Maria sat on a packing crate and continued to fume for a few minutes, but in the end she had to admit Spike was right. She'd counted on Wesley, counted on Em's heart, the way she loved him, being the chink in her armor--had counted on Wes himself as one of the truly scariest, sneakiest, most cold-hearted examples of the vampire race she'd ever encountered. Crazy Helena had nothing on the new, improved Wesley, and truth be told, sometimes she regretted turning him. Wesley, after all, had actually been good at his little Watcher lessons, and he had inside him, beneath the coolness, a hard, burning fury that nearly frightened her.

Spike was right--his heart didn't seem to be entirely committed to their little scheme, but he had insight, and Maria had to admit he'd understood Moira better than she. It made her feel stupid, and she hated to feel stupid.

"Well, what do you suggest, then?" she asked crabbily.

Away in the shadows of the warehouse, another flame flared briefly then died. A red ember glowed, and then that glow faded as well. He walked out of the shadows, utterly silent, utterly cold, a slim figure dressed in black, except for the snowy whiteness of his shirt. A figure of contrasts: black hair and pale, pale skin, the white shirt and dark suit with its long, well-tailored coat. His eyes glowed at her, blue as flame, and a frisson of fear made its way up Maria's spine.

"I suggest," said the creature who had once been sweet, bumbling, stuffy Wesley, in his cool, clipped voice. "That you begin to listen to me, Maria." He took another drag on his cigarette: it was one of those thin European ones, with the black paper.

"I suggest that we all begin to play by my rules."

"Wes, I..." Maria began, but his look stopped her.

"Don't call me that," he told her, in a tone that should have been mild, but wasn't. "Maria, it's time to put things into my hands."

Maria wanted to argue, but instead only nodded, swallowing hard, a sense of numbness overcoming her body. He smelled of blood and fire and magic, and he frightened her more than anything she'd ever encountered, dead or alive.

"Yes, Wesley," Maria heard her voice answer meekly. "Of course. Whatever you say."