Tribulations - Chapter 36

Buffy decided she was just about ready to take up knitting. Or needlepoint. Or maybe that kind of embroidery where you had to count a whole bunch of teeny squares and match all the colors up with a bunch of little squiggles. Anything was better than going crazy, the way she was going crazy cooped up in the apartment with nothing to do but worry about what might be going on outside while she sat there all useless.

Already she'd washed everything washable, scrubbed everything scrubbable, changed every last sheet and towel, dusted each and every one of Giles's nine million weird little knick-knacks, practiced every yoga position she knew, including the one where you stood on your head and put your feet flat on the floor behind your ears. She'd even gone so far as to try to start organizing the orphaned library books--until Giles had noticed what she was doing and shot her a look of pure alarm.

It was all right for him Buffy thought, with a feeling somewhere in the neighborhood of resentment. He was happy as a clam--however happy clams were-- with his huge stacks of Seb's and Willow's notes and about a hundred of his musty, dusty books spread out across the dining table that usually lived in the storeroom, except for holidays and other special occasions. Giles had made a mountain of his own notes, run his hands back through his hair so many times that it was now standing on end in a way that was really kinda cute, and had gotten to the point of muttering to himself things that would have sounded really alarming if you didn't know him as well as she did.

Buffy sighed and slumped over to the window. Yup, she really was as bored as bored could be, and she would have welcomed an invasion of the slimiest, stinkiest vampires in the world, just to give herself something to do.

Outside the sun had gone low in the sky. Every now and then she heard a door slam--people who could actually go to their jobs getting back from work, kids coming home from after-school stuff. Buffy just hoped they knew what was good for them, and would stay put after dark. When she and Giles had been in England, she'd thought about Sunnydale's special nightlife every now and then, but now she was back and feeling fine, it really hit her--right now, those people had no one to protect them, no one to watch over them. It made her shudder to think how many must have been hurt, or even killed, while she'd been off the job.

"This sucks beyond suckiness," Buffy muttered at the glass. She hadn't thought she'd spoken up enough for Giles to hear, but when she turned again, she saw him watching her.

"I bet you never thought you'd hear me say this," she told him, "But I should be out there."

"I believe it's been quite a long while that you've felt that way," he answered.

"Mmn." Buffy shrugged, going over to him. He looked tired (when didn't he?), and she wished she'd been able to do more, but after three of four hours, her eyes had begun to cross, and she knew Giles would just have to go back over the ones she had thought she'd read. As Slayer stuff went, the books--even the ones actually written in English for a change--would never be her strong point.

"Shan't be long now," Giles informed her reassuringly, and began to tell, in detail, what he'd uncovered. Buffy's not-exactly-helpful brain tuned most of it out: his voice soothed her, she trusted him, and she'd remember what she needed to know. Heaven might be in the details, but if you paid too much attention to Watcherese, so was Hell.

"So, you almost have it?" Buffy said when Giles had begun to wind down. He gave her that quick, flickering Giles-smile.

"More or less. To how much of that rather lengthy lecture did you actually listen?"

"Umn...the parts that went, 'I think I have it!' and 'I'll get you out of here soon, Buffy'?"

Giles laughed, shaking his head. "I thought as much. Would you care for the honor of notifying the others, or should I?"

"And tell them what?" Buffy grinned back at him; suddenly she found it impossible not to.

"Giles and I would very much like to get out of here. Please come over as soon as humanly possible?"

"For you, that's pretty quick and snappy. I like." Buffy sat cross-legged on the floor next to the phone, dialing, while Giles stretched--making himself look incredibly tall--then started to organize the mountain o' notes for about the hundredth time. That was her sweetie: nothing if not obsessive.

Willow picked up on the first ring. Xander was there at the Rosenbergs' with her, and they agreed to come over right away. Celeste took all four rings, then answered sounding breathless-- but that only lasted a couple seconds before she was her Perfect Hostess self again. Buffy wondered what she'd interrupted.

Celeste promised to get Seb back to the apartment as soon as a taxi could bring them.

"Mission accomplished," Buffy informed Giles, picking herself up off the floor. "Wanna give me a quick run-through before the crowd gets here? What's going to happen, and will it work? I swear I'll actually listen this time."

"I believe so." Giles sneaked a quick peek at his top page. "That the ritual will be effective, that is, not that you'll listen." He flashed her another smile, one that told her that he was not only pretty damn proud of himself for having come up with a solution, but that he was jonesing just as badly as she was for a peek at the great outdoors.

"Very funny, British guy." Buffy perched on the edge of the table, trying to read the notes upside down. "I can so pay attention. If you use small words."

Giles pushed about half a dozen books to one side, and perched beside her, his big hand curling warmly around Buffy's much smaller one. "Then, to sum up, the purpose of the ritual is to recreate those energies that brought these difficulties upon us: the Sunnydale Hellmouth will echo the malevolent influence of the London scar. Our cast of characters will remain the same, except for the substitution of Willow for Moira."

"Any idea what that's gonna do to Will, though?" Buffy pulled up her feet to sit cross-legged, facing him. "And just for the sake of argument, why can't we just use the real Moira? Since we've found her and everything?"

Giles looked down on her with a look that said "N-O" in capital letters, and held about a ton of sadness besides.

"It was that bad, huh? When you saw her? Or is she just hurt too bad. Badly."

Giles left his perch on the edge of the table, paced back and forth a couple times, then sank back down into his chair--the tall-backed one, with the zig-zaggy pattern. Not looking at her--or at the book either, really--he ran his hand over a stained leather cover.

"Just now, Moira could not help us," he told her, after a long and semi-awkward silence, "And we would be mad to ask her."

"Okay," Buffy said, feeling fairly sad herself. "Fair enough." Giles had told her exactly nothing, but she guessed she knew anyway. Whatever had gone between the two of them had been huge and scary, had reminded Giles of the bad old days, and had, at least in his mind, driven a great, big nail in the coffin of his friendship with Moira. It worried her too. Not that she expected, any more, for the older people around her to be perfect, but once upon a time Moira had seemed so tough, so together. If the kind of life they led could make someone like that come so completely unglued, what would it do to the rest of them?

But Giles didn't need her to share those kind of thoughts. Later maybe, when things had gotten as far back to normal as they were going to get. Make that much later. Buffy scooted over to face him, seeing what she'd already guessed: Giles's eyes were that wintery gray they got when he was feeling really bad about something. Sometimes it amazed, and even scared her a little, how well she'd started to read him--at least as well as he read her--and that was a great big thing she'd never experienced before. With her and Angel, things had been so different, full of so many illusions on her part, and so many...so many whatevers on his.

"You're missing Moira a lot," she said at last. "Maybe even more than you did when you thought she was dead."

"Foolish, isn't it?" Giles gave a shaky laugh. "I've remembered a song that was popular when we...when I was young..."

Buffy waited for him to go on.

"'We were so close, there was no room. We bled inside each others wounds.'"

"Cheery," Buffy said, but she knew what he meant. She'd been there herself.

"Isn't it?" Giles shook himself a little then, gently, pulled her closer to him. "And perhaps...that is, I know it's past time for that to end, and yet I can't help but mourn the fading of our friendship."

"But maybe you shouldn't have..." she began, then noticed his expression. "Oh. You didn't. She did. Yikes. That hurts."

"It wasn't a time to pass judgement upon Moira, or take any sort of moral stand." Giles rested his chin on the top of Buffy's head, one arm wrapped warmly around her, while the other hand stroked her hair. "There was...that is, I felt..."

Buffy waited again.

"She'd no longer any need for me. Or, at least, any desire for me in her life." Giles held her a little tighter, and Buffy slipped her own arms around him.

"I know it's hard, sweetie, but don't take it personally? She's crazy if she pushes you away. Maybe later..." Buffy stopped herself before she went into babble-mode. She couldn't tell him anything he hadn't thought of himself--or maybe she couldn't say anything about the situation, right then, that he'd be able to believe. "I'm here," she said at last. "I'll always be here."

Giles let out a quiet breath, and after a little bit said, "Remember that night you asked me to lie to you, Buffy? To assure you that everything would work out for the best in the end, and that life would be forever clear and simple? I wish that you would lie to me, now."

Buffy held his head against her chest, stroking the back of his silky hair. "It's not a lie, Giles. It will all work out," she told him. "Honest. It will."

Giles looked up again, meeting Buffy's eyes, and at least he didn't answer her as she'd answered him, with the single word, "Liar."

Sebastian had forgotten the frustration of being unable to speak, and he had to call upon all his reserves of strength merely to keep himself still, to be calm, not to race ahead of Celeste like a large overexcited dog, improperly trained. Celeste, for her part, seemed rather cross with him, most likely because he'd no intention of allowing within a mile of the ritual, much less of letting her take part. Being Celeste, everything in her nature cried out against being forced to remain passive when there was a cause to be fought for, and won. Instead, she fumed silently, occasionally snapping at him when he crossed over the line.

"Xander will stay with you," he scratched on his notepad.

"Xander!" Celeste spat out in return, although Sebastian knew her to be quite fond of the boy. "This town isn't large," she muttered under her breath. "How bloody long can it take to go from one place to another?"

"We're nearly there," Sebastian wrote, in an attempt to be soothing. Their taxi driver had, in fact, been taking what appeared to him a perfectly direct route, and was driving at quite a reasonable speed.

"I'm not an idiot," Celeste answered. Seb wasn't sure how she accomplished it, but his wife's lovely caramel-coloured eyes actually appeared to be blazing. Not being a complete fool, he knew when to let discretion be the better part of valour, and beat his retreat. He tucked pad and pencil into the breast pocket of his coat and reached for Celeste's hand. She stiffened for a moment, then relaxed, turning her palm up to his and the taxi made its way to the kerb in front of Rupert's flat. One-handed, she paid the driver, then made her smooth exit from the confines of the cab, as Sebastian followed somewhat less gracefully.

They stood together on the pavement for a moment, watching the small yellow vehicle pull away, the California air warm and soft around them.

"I know you don't mean to come over the overbearing husband," Celeste told him, and Sebastian could hear in her voice her effort to calm herself. "And I'm to stay here only because of the baby--"

Sebastian nodded as vigourously as he could, giving Celeste a look which he intended as sympathetic and appealing.

"It's only that I'm frightened," Celeste confided, her voice so low that at first Seb thought he might have misheard her. She raised his hand to her mouth, brushing its back with her soft, full lips. Sebastian's love for her rose in him so powerfully that he could not have spoken even if the curse had not taken his voice away. He wondered if she recognized his own fear: not for himself, not really, but that something would go amiss and take them from one another.

"But I trust you," she said. "I trust you, Bastian. You'll come back to me."

Sebastian nodded again, quietly this time, if a nod could be said to be quiet. Still hand in hand, they took the steps down to his father's flat, where he knew the preparations would be perfect, and complete, and utterly terrifying.

He swore, were they to escape all this, he'd never go near a Hellmouth again.

Dark had come again, time to cease his senseless wandering of the sewers and tunnels and rise to the surface again. It worried Wesley somewhat, that those underground ways, which he would once have found unbearably foul, scarcely bothered him. Perhaps that unconcern was a sign of his demon nature--or perhaps he merely had other things on his mind.

Everywhere he walked in the world aboveground, the air smelled amazingly, tantalizingly of rich, warm blood. Every voice he heard in the streets merely provided a backdrop to the throb and whisper of blood in ripe, full veins. He knew that he could, and must, sustain himself from other sources: pigs' blood purchased from the local butchers', all of whom knew better than to ask questions. The temptation, though, was everywhere.

Just a little drink, tempted the demon within. You needn't drain them, needn't really harm anyone...

Wesley knew the the lie for what it was: he only lived this vestige of a life through the agency of the demon within his body. One couldn't ever give in to the demon's will, its unholy desires. To submit, to the spite of one's soul, would be to surrender to an entirely more terrible level of damnation.

Dear Lord, but he was starving. Pale, shaking, nauseated with hunger, as he'd never actually been in his mortal life. The feeling reminded him of those spectral youths one saw from time to time in the streets of London, trying to cadge or steal enough for their next infusions of chemical joy. His mouth felt as if he'd been chewing ashes.

Someone brushed so roughly against him that Wesley lost his balance and fell to his knees on the pavement. A handful of youths--of the fit, golden, Californian variety--laughed at him, showering him with comments that he was too far gone to hear before they jostled on their way.

A hand closed around his arm, pulling Wesley to his feet once more. A pair a clear green eyes looked into his. "Poor Wesley. Poor, poor Wesley. It hurts, doesn't it?" said the owner of the eyes, a young woman with a bright smile and a softly-swinging cap of coppery hair. In life, he would have found her quite attractive. As it was, he jerked away from her grip.

Melissa laughed--for of course it was she. How long had she been following without his knowledge? Or had she merely spotted him in the crowd and circled in for a spot of torment?

"Ooh, it hurts worse than anything, doesn't it? But, you know..." Melissa linked her arm with his, drawing Wesley close enough to whisper in his ear. Her skin carried a blush of warmth, and her mouth the faint spiciness of blood, informing him that she had fed, and fed well, quite recently.

"You can end it all," she continued. "You can give in any time. These people--" Melissa gestured with her free hand, indicating the men, women, young people strolling unconcernedly along Sunnydale's high street. "They know what kind of place they live in. In their hearts, they know we're out here, but does that stop them?" She smiled up at him, her face so close to his that Wesley could make out the darker flecks in the sea-green of her irises, "It only takes a minute, just a little minute of choice. Things don't have to change for you. It can be just like it's been. You can be happy." She gave a little ripple of laughter.

Horrified, Wesley pushed her away, his soul recoiling from what she'd suggested, disgusted at himself for how much he'd wanted to let go of all his inhibitions and simply let temptation take him. "NO!" he cried out, causing the passersby to laugh, or to turn from him.

Melissa grinned at him. "Poor, poor, prissy Wes. See you around, hon."

Wesley struggled for a word, just one word to rebuff her, but Melissa had already gone. He sank down on the kerb, head cradled in his hands, feeling so lost and bereft that even the solace of tears was denied him.

In time, he staggered once more to his feet, sought out the nearest of the accommodating butchers, and in the alleyway behind the butcher's warehouse, gulped down the foul, thick, cold stuff he had purchased. It brought him none of the pleasure, none of the golden rush of joy that he'd come to associate with the act of feeding, but it did still the shaking and the pain. This, then, was to be his life: devoid of pleasure, of joy, even of mere satisfaction. Perhaps it would have been better, and braver, after all, to await the rising of the sun.

Instead, he sought out the antiseptic halls of Sunnydale General Hospital, where so recently he and his one-time minions had enjoyed their bloody feast. Moira had been moved to a room on the fifth floor, in the wing that housed Sunnydale's orthopaedic patients. Her eyes were open, watchful, and they turned to him at once as he slipped past her door.

"Wesley," she cried out to him, in a phantom of her old voice. "Wesley, it's true: you've come back to me."

How had he not seen, when he'd come to her before? Had his demon nature made him so blind? He'd destroyed her, utterly destroyed her, the one he'd loved a hundred times more than his own life. There was no need to read the chart placed neatly in a box by the door: his vampire senses told him the story far more clearly than any cryptic words. She would not recover from that fall, not, at least, in any way they a woman of her spirit would call living.

Awash in a sea of guilt, Wesley crossed to the bed, taking Moira's battered hand in his own lifeless one. "Yes, love," he told her softly, even as the floor of cold tears started in his eyes. "Yes, my dearest love, I've come back to you."