Tribulations - Ch. 26

Somewhere far away a small, soft voice spoke words in a foreign tongue, and for some reason Giles was reminded of another place and another time, even farther removed, of a voice that once had sung to him quietly in Gaelic. The memory make him feel young again, cared for, protected, as he had not felt protected in all the years during which he'd cast himself in the role of protector, of Watcher, never allowing himself to be the one who is watched over.

There had been pain, Giles recalled, a pain so intense it stole his consciousness and his ability to reason. He sensed it still, lurking like a demon outside a warded door, scrabbling for a way in--but for the present that threatening force possessed no power to harm him. He lay in a state of drowsy contentment, and the fact that Buffy lay beside him, slumbering peacefully, only added to his joy.

The soft voice spoke on, and it came to Giles that he ought, actually, to decipher the words it murmured. When he looked up, focusing his vision, he glimpsed Willow kneeling by the bedside, her eyes shut, their lids seeming almost translucent. She looked so terribly fragile to him--but then, she always had done, from the moment she'd first appeared inside his library at Sunnydale High.

Giles remembered her there, gazing up at him with those great, leaf-green eyes, her expression seeming, always, to say, "I will trust you with my self. I will trust you not to harm me." Then and now he'd been touched by her seeming fragility--even as he recognized the strength of spirit underlying that air of vulnerability.

"Willow?" Giles said softly, but his young friend did not glance upward. Her slender fingers clutched a piece of paper, and their skin bore a bluish cast. When he touched Willow's hand, he found it deadly cold, and that chill made him rise at once to full wakefulness.

"Willow?" he repeated, still gently, but with greater force than before. Willow's lips moved in numb repetition, and the smell of magic--not merely candlewax and burning herbs, but the far headier essence of magic itself--hung heavy in the air. Willow's body swayed, as if any moment she might succumb to an overwhelming weariness.

Giles sat slowly, holding his breath, half-expecting the pain to sweep over him once more, hardly daring to believe that it would not. Although a sense of unreality and of barely-abated menace lingered, and his vision seemed slightly haloed, he found that he was, once more, entirely himself. Carefully, not wanting to disturb her, he slipped the paper from Willow's grasp, scanning the words as rapidly as he was able.

The paper scroll contained a spell, of course, the very spell he'd suspected--and one he would have said, mere weeks before, would be far beyond Willow's capabilities. Giles knew better now. Willow might be untutored, but in terms of natural ability she had no limits, and Giles wished he'd taken the opportunity to examine Moira more closely as to what precisely her LeFaye blood might mean to his young friend. So easy, really, to get caught up in the swirl and eddy of magic, as one might be carried away by a flooding river. So easy, too, to make poor choices, to let the thrill of arcane forces overwhelm even one's better nature.

Giles set the spell carefully upon the nightstand and touched Willow's shoulder, feeling her sway into his touch. "Willow?" he called, for the third time, but again she did not answer. Her cold cheek rested now against his arm, and Giles laid his other hand upon her soft hair. Willow gave another small murmur, but whether of protest or recognition he could not tell.

"Willow, you can stop now," he told her. "Your magic's worked quite well."

The translucent lids opened. Willow gazed up at him, her eyes reddened, weary, luminous. When she realized that Giles returned her look, an expression of joy transfigured her face.

"Giles! I fixed you!"

"Most admirably, it seems," Giles answered gently, taking her small hand in his larger one. Willow's grin lost none of its happiness, but gained a further expression of shy pride.

"I did good, huh, Giles?"

"Excellently, Willow."

Despite her obvious exhaustion, Willow's smile broadened. "You're you! I mean, you sound like you. Like Giles-you."

"Yes, well." Giles found himself somewhat at a loss as to how, precisely, one was meant to respond to Willow's bursts of enthusiasm. He gave her a gentle smile and watched the young woman almost literally begin to glow with pride.

Giles slid his legs over the edge of the bed and rose carefully, with no ill effects, then stooped to lift Willow to her feet as well. She swayed slightly, but so far as he could tell it appeared only a temporary weakness, one that stemmed from the extremity of her weariness rather than from any lasting harm caused by the magic she'd performed.

"Ooh, sleepy," she sighed.

"A strong casting takes quite a bit out of one," Giles told her quietly, "As I'm sure you've learned by now." The time of her childhood had ended, he realized, with a pang of nostalgia, She was young still, and inexperienced, but she had become an adult and an equal, and must henceforth be treated as such. Still, he could not keep himself from asking, "Ready for a bit of a lie-down, Willow?"

"Ooh, yeah!" Willow's eyes closed almost before the words left her mouth, and Giles lowered her into his own recently-vacated place in the bed, covering her over with the light summer quilt. In sleep, her innocence appeared even more profound, as if she had never been so much as momentarily touched by the troubles of the seen or unseen worlds.

Buffy, by Willow's side, possessed nearly the same look, and Giles found himself wishing that the two young women could still be, in fact, as unhardened as they appeared, and that they'd been allowed to live the lives that would make them so.

He sighed, straightening. Such a fate was not possible for them. It could not be--and yet he still wished it for them, wholeheartedly.

Giles walked soundlessly round the bed and stopped by Buffy's side, stroking the hair back from her seemingly untroubled brow. She frowned slightly in her sleep, then smiled with all the radiance that comprised the greater part of her waking self. A second pang went through his heart as Giles realized he'd begun to fear the world they lived in, not for the demons and the evil creatures it contained, but because he and Buffy--and Willow, Xander, Seb, Celeste--were mortal, all of them fragile, all of them so easily lost.

He ran a fingertip along the smooth warm curve of Buffy's cheek, knowing that it would only become harder and harder, in days to come, to see his love melt into the night, to helplessly watch her battle those same undead or monstrous creatures. To do so was her calling and her destiny, to watch and aid her, his--and yet fate and the knowledge of destiny made nothing easier, for either of them.

What will become of you, my dearest? he wondered, And what should become of me, were I to lose you?

Giles could not encompass the thought. To merely allow it room in his mind sent something akin to panic rushing through his veins. He believed himself to be, in his essential nature, a logical and rational man, and yet the very notion of Buffy's absence from his life filled him with this unreasoning terror. This spell-born illness had frightened him, he admitted, nearly as much as the one the sorcerers of the Watchers' Council had inflicted upon her.

Buffy sighed, her rosy lips parting as, even in sleep, she turned to him, sensing his presence. Her right arm lay over the covers, and Giles stroked it tenderly, savouring the gentle warmth, delighting in the healthy glow that once more suffused her skin. His fingertips ran slowly from her shoulder to her wrist, until at last he closed her small hand lightly in his own larger one.

"You are more precious to me, Buffy, than anyone ever has been," he murmured, "Or ever shall be." Giles gave a slight smile, touching her cheek again as if he meant to memorize the curve of it--as if that curve wasn't something he'd long since learnt by heart.

"Although I suppose it's very tiresome to declare myself so," he added.

"Uh-unh," Buffy answered sleepily, the wordless negative making Giles startle violently. "Boring--or tiresome. Whatever. It's not." Her blue eyes shone up at him. "It's just sweet. Sweet, and very, very Giles."

"Which at one time, I believe, was thought to be synonymous with very, very dull indeed."

"Nope. Not dull. Just Gilesy."

"And what's meant by that?" he asked in the same soft tone, smiling.

"What does it mean?" Buffy sat up slowly, her own hand sliding along Giles's arm to the spot where the hated Mark of Eygon had once marred his skin. Her gaze never wavering, Buffy stretched up to him, as Giles, by instinct, bent down to her. Their closed lips met softly, chastely--but even that undemanding meeting was enough to make Giles's pulse quicken.

Buffy's hand touched his chest, just over his heart. She pulled back, her eyes once more seeking his.

"Are we all right?" she asked, in a low and--for her--serious tone. "I feel all right--kinda. But kinda not, too. Like I feel all right, but then there's badness somewhere I can't see, and the clock's gonna strike midnight and my coach will change back into a pumpkin again."

Giles took her face between his hands, bending down to kiss first her brow, and then her temple. "Willow's said a spell," he told her. "Quite a powerful spell, in fact, and one that I believe will serve to ward us until a more permanent solution can be found--at least within the confines of these walls."

"Within-?" Buffy's brow creased faintly. "You mean we're trapped here?"

"I fear so."

Waves of emotion rippled over Buffy's face--concern, which changed to worry, then to fear--but after all that she shook herself and calm descended again. She gave a small, flickering smile.

"What is it?" Giles asked her.

"Don't get me wrong," Buffy answered, "This isn't the bestest thing ever. But I realized that you're here, and I'm here, and so--" She stretched up to him again, her mouth once more seeking his, her small tongue parting his lips, stroking in a brief touch along the roof of his mouth. Giles shivered as her hand first alighted upon, then squeezed his thigh.

"And so," she told him, pulling back, gazing up at him with an almost fiendish sparkle in her blue eyes. "It could be much, much worse, right? Come downstairs with me?"

Still faintly dazzled by the speed of her recovery, Giles allowed her to slip past him and take him by the hand. He paused only briefly to snag a packet from the nightstand drawer, which made Buffy laugh at him, softly but wholeheartedly.

"How'd ya know I didn't just want you to come talk to me while I made us some lunch?"

Giles glanced at the clock, then at the dark beyond the window-curtains. "It's past midnight."

"Okay, a midnight snack, then." Buffy grinned, walking backward, his hand still held fast in hers. "I haven't had anything but juice and Jell-O in, like, days. I might be starving."

"I've no doubt that you are, and that we'll shortly be consuming a rather sizable midnight feast," Giles answered. Perhaps it was the magic, but that brief, light kiss had awakened something within him. He positively ached for her.

"But?" Buffy laughed again. They began to descend the stairs, scarcely looking where they were going, until all of a sudden they'd achieved the lower level. Giles stumbled a little at the unexpected absence of steps, but Buffy steadied him. "We mustn't awaken Willow," she said, mimicking Giles's accent with fair accuracy.

"Absolutely not,"Giles agreed. "She's quite worn herself out for us."

Some of the laughter fled from Buffy's eyes, and she held Giles's hand a bit tighter. "Willow's a good friend," she said. "The best best friend ever, really."

Giles nodded, understanding her mood: thankfulness, fear, relief, and the need to laugh in the face of the danger that never ceased to surround them, all co-mingled. He brought her body nearer to his, holding her a moment merely for the comfort of the closeness, her arms wrapped round his waist, her face pressed to his chest as he enfolded her in his arms, stroking her silken hair. He knew she loved that feeling, strong as she was, because it allowed Buffy to tell herself, if only for a moment, that she was protected too, that someone else stood between her and the darkness.

As he did. As he always would, so long as he had breath in his body.

"I love you, Buffy," he murmured. "Now and always, I am yours."

I love it when you say that," she answered, her voice humming against his chest. "I know it's hokey to think so, but it makes me feel all princessy, and like you're my knight in shining armor, going out to fight dragons. Not that I want you to do that, but you get what I mean."

"I would fight dragons for you, love," Giles answered softly. "Without hesitation."

"Well, you blew up a hell of a big snake for real," she laughed. "So I've gotta give you full points."

Giles laughed too, feeling Buffy's ear press tighter against his chest-which hurt the bruises, rather, though he'd no intention whatsoever of reminding her of them. Let her laugh. Let her take comfort. Let them both take pleasure in one another, and love one another, for all the time they were given.

"That's my most favorite thing ever," Buffy told him. "Feeling you laugh. Being so close to you. And I guess I forgot to say it back." She shifted slightly, the point of her chin resting now against his sternum as Buffy gazed up at him. "I love you too, Giles."

Again, Giles took her face between his hands, and this time bent to kiss her fully, tasting those flawless lips, exploring the warm, sweet depths of her mouth, all the softness and the secret spaces. Buffy was slightly breathless by the time he pulled away, and the tell-tale flush of arousal had begun to rise on her throat. He bent to kiss her there, over the pinkness, over the hard white lines of the scar where Angel had torn her soft skin.

His tongue traced the mark, and Giles felt in that act a kind of claiming. He wanted nothing more than to take away her pain, to erase the hurt and the fear and the suffering, now and always, with his touch.

Buffy's fingers moved through the short hair at his nape, and from her throat emerged that faint humming sound that spoke to him with perfect, wordless clarity of her need and her desire. Giles let his hands slide slowly over her shoulders, down her back, curving round her ribs as he knelt before her, kissing her stomach, kissing her between her breasts, relishing the softness of her clothing against his face even as he longed to taste the sweet, salty flavour of her naked skin.

Buffy had slept in a brief, sleeveless cotton shirt and one of those knit garments that always reminded Giles of men's underpants--except for their tiny pattern of yellow daffodils and pink tulips. He ran his hands up the backs of her bare thighs, his fingers curving round to stroke their insides, then travel upward, inside the openings to the legs of her short trousers, tracing slight creases just below her firm bum, rubbing the cheeks as he kissed her again, his tongue stroking her navel through the cloth. Buffy sighed, and her hands wove through his hair, pushing his head farther downward.

He breathed warmly against the vee of her thighs, making Buffy shiver, then raised his face to gaze at her. Buffy's head was thrown back, golden hair streaming over her shoulders, her eyes closed in pleasure. She made a wordless sound as he climbed to his feet, but did not open her eyes again, even as he steered her backward to the sofa, stopping her moments before she sat in order to spread out the chenille throw Buffy had brought with her from her mother's house, as an alternative to the rather scratchy knit afghan he'd used for years. Buffy shivered again as the silky, textured yarn brushed her skin, and she smiled, but did not open her eyes as Giles urged her to sit.

He paused with a hand on each of her thighs, savouring the expression of mingled love and anticipation that lighted her face.

"Lean back," Giles told her softly, and as she did so, began to work the tiny buttons that held her shirt closed, taking his time even though his own impatience made it nearly impossible to wait for what would be revealed.

Their long sojourn in England had left Buffy's normally tanned skin fairer than usual, her nipples, gathered already into little knots, a rosy brown against the whiteness of her breasts. He leaned close to her, laying his head between them, loving the softness of her, and the steady beat of her heart. Buffy's hands bunched the fabric of his polo shirt, sliding up beneath its folds so that her fingers could trace the lines of muscle on his back and shoulders.

Giles kissed the upper curve of her left breast, then down the slope until the nipple slipped between his lips, his tongue caressing its nubbled surface as Buffy's spine arched, her body pressing toward his. Blindly, she sought his left hand, lifting it to her right breast, which he squeezed rhythmically, brushing that nipple with his thumb.

"How long do we have?" Buffy asked him suddenly, something unreadable coming into her voice. Her palm rested over one of the darker bruises on his chest as if she wished, somehow, to hide it from view, even though her small hand could not possibly cover the mark fully.

Giles looked up, surprised to see fear in her face, even though he'd known at once by her voice, by the slight alteration of her position, that everything had changed. "How long, Buffy?" he asked her gently. "What did you mean by that?"

"How long before the clock strikes midnight and everything falls apart?" Buffy's eyes had opened, and their look appeared shadowed. "Giles, I'm tired of making love to you as if it's the last time ever, because some new horrible thing is just around the corner waiting to jump out at us." She'd begun to shiver again, but not with pleasure, and Giles could read her thoughts as clearly as one might read a book--Buffy was thinking of the spell, and of her father, even thinking, perhaps, with all the evidence before her, of how near a thing the fight between the two of them had been.

Giles folded the blanket tenderly around Buffy's shoulders and moved up to sit beside her on the sofa. His heart ached for all the fear and courage in her, and he wished, more than he'd ever wished anything, to be able to give her words of absolute assurance. For a time he merely held her trembling body, cuddling her in his lap, her head against his shoulder, until the shivering eased.

He whispered then, "Buffy, with us it's never the last time. It is always the first for us, and you are new and brave and wonderful. When I hold you in my arms I no longer fear anything, because time stops then, and every part of me is taken up with my love for you, leaving room for nothing else."

For a long while, she merely looked at him, and when she spoke her voice was soft and rough. "I guess I'm not as good as you. I'm not as brave as you." She tried to look away, but Giles held her gaze with his own.

"No," he told her at last. "You are every bit as good, and every bit as brave-if not more so. All that's required is an act of faith. Giles kissed her again, feeling her lips tremble at first as if she'd come close to tears, then, finally, open to his. He wound his hand deep inside the folds of the blanket, touching her, one by one, in all those places that gave her pleasure, until the tears, when they were shed, were as much of joy as they were of grief.