Tribulations - Ch. 43

"Wanna help," Xander mumbled, shuffling toward Wesley with the half-drunken gait of the deeply concussed. "Help. You. With..." All at once, his long legs folded and he subsided to the floor, dust and his own floppy clothing billowing up around him. "Help?"

Whether the boy's last word was a cry for aid, or a further avowal of his intentions, Wesley could not be sure, for Xander's eyes glazed and rolled back. He slumped over, once more, to a state of less-than-comfortable-appearing rest on the rubble-strewn floor. Wesley knew that he ought to attempt to wake him, but Xander's face looked so peaceful that he hadn't the heart: he tried to console himself with the thought that perhaps the boy slept merely out of pure exhaustion.

At any rate, he'd other worries to occupy his attention. The injured woman's bleeding had slowed, but Buffy's eyes continued to gaze blankly over his shoulder--at what, Wesley could not even begin to surmise. She appeared shocked, catatonic, the absence of expression stealing a great deal of the loveliness from her face. Despite their previous animosity, he hated to see her looking terribly haggard, aged beyond her years.

In truth, Wesley surprised himself. Even when his out-and-out conflict with Buffy had resolved itself into a form of unspoken truce, he'd continued, in some deeply-buried corner of his being, to resent the girl: her beauty, her confidence--odd, really, that he'd disliked in her the same qualities which drew him to Moira--the closeness of Buffy's bonds with her Watcher, and her friends. He'd hated the feeling of having doors repeatedly slammed in his face, or perhaps, more accurately, of being cast in the role of the starving child with its nose pressed to the sweet shop window, held away from all he desired by a barrier he could somehow never break through.

Sighing, Wesley reminded himself that this was no time for introspection, or self-pity. And Buffy was not a girl, she was a young woman. Whatever else his thoughts on the subject of Buffy included, he'd known from the first that she'd long since left childhood behind, and was not to be bullied or dictated to. Impossible, really, for one to act as Slayer for so long and retain one's innocence.

He sighed again, feeling helpless, and at the same time, rather hopeless as well. Buffy's cerulean eyes brimmed with unshed tears and even as he watched, strong emotion began to grow on her face--such stark emotion, in fact, that Wesley found it difficult not to turn his eyes away.

When Buffy spoke, it was in a soft, breathy voice, made nearly childlike by the depth of her feelings. She was in torment, and he, as usual, was powerless to help her.

"I can't live this life. I can't live this life," she repeated over, and over, with increasing desperation. "Please, I can't live this life."

As she pleaded, the last of Wesley's earlier prejudices dissolved. The past was past. Her words struck deep at his heart, in a way her demands for the saving of Angel's life had not, though whether the difference was in Buffy or in himself, Wesley could not have said--he only knew that he would have gone to any lengths to ease her present anguish. Disgusted by his own impotence, he shifted one hand from the bloody compress he held, reaching over the injured woman to touch Buffy's shoulder.

The Slayer gave no sign that she'd become aware of his presence, or of anything in that hellish place.

"Buffy," he called sharply, hoping vainly that the sound of her own name would serve to rouse her. Buffy's voice had become nearly inaudible; even Wesley's vampiric hearing could detect little more than the faint sibilance of the word "please," repeated endlessly.

"Buffy!" he repeated in a louder tone, closing his fingers around her upper arm to give the young Slayer a brisk shake. Her head moved bonelessly on her neck; the tears spilled in glistening tracks down her cheeks. Her eyes looked hollow, her distorted by her pain. Wesley could not bear to watch her.

"Buffy!" he shouted a third time, this time raising his hand to slap her with all his not-inconsiderable strength. Buffy's reaction was instantaneous, most likely a matter of instinct rather than conscious thought: her small body struck him harder than Wesley would have believed possible, driving him backward for some distance across the torn and broken floor, the gravel lacerating his bare shoulders. He fetched up with Buffy on top of him, one arm locked across his throat, the other hand, already armed with a rough-hewn stake, descending rapidly toward his heart.

Wesley could not escape her blow, though he did manage just enough movement that the wicked point struck his left arm instead of its intended target, tearing through flesh, juddering against bone until it wedged in the pavement below.

The wound hurt far worse than anything Wesley would have believed possible in his unlife, but in a way he'd accomplished his goal. Buffy's face, as she bent over him, her long hair brushing his face and chest, had become all too aware. Her breath came in panting bursts as her expression had changed from one of blank misery to a cheerless comprehension.

"Wes," she said, rough-voiced, then cleared her throat and tried again. "Wesley."

"As you see." He felt shy with her, still quite unable to meet Buffy's eyes, and so took refuge in action. "Your friend... I'm afraid..."

Buffy looked up, and misery once again suffused her features. "Celeste.. Oh, no...."

"If you would..." Wesley began. Buffy seemed to catch his meaning, rising wearily so that he, too, could rise. He returned at once to the stranger's side, kneeling to inspect her wound. She'd bled very little during his absence: either her blood contained excellent clotting factors, or the injury, after all, was not so serious as it originally appeared.

"She's stopped bleeding," Buffy said, her voice unusually flat. Wesley found he missed her habitual animation. Missed it dreadfully. She had, he realized, assumed the worst.

"Your friend isn't dead," he informed her gently. "See? She's breathing quite normally, and though her pulse isn't as strong as one might like, it is very much present." He fought the urge to clutch at his own wounded arm. The pain continued to be sharp, but in truth had already begun to ebb. He could actually feel the tissues knit together--an uncanny sensation, and one that saddened him, proof as it was of his own lack of humanity.

Buffy knelt across from him, a flicker of tenderness breaking through her own unhappy look as she stroked her friend's sweat-dampened hair away from her brow. "You idiots," she said softly, obviously addressing the unconscious woman, "What did you think you were doing?"

The injured woman didn't answer, though her eyelids fluttered open briefly.

"Buffy," Wesley began, hardly daring to intrude upon her grief, yet feeling that he must. "What did you mean, when you said you could not live this life? Was...did you refer to...the life of a Slayer?"

A mirthless grin flickered briefly across Buffy's face. "What? And miss out on all the fun and games?" She shook her head, looking weary beyond bearing. "No, it's not that. It's..." She shook her head again. "It's a long story. Can you catch me on that one later?"

Wesley cleared his throat, unspeakably moved. "Yes, yes, certainly. It's not that I mean to intrude Buffy..." Suddenly, he could look at her no longer. "It's only... You seemed..."

"Later," Buffy said again, but there was no sharpness in her voice, only a tired sympathy. "I'm sorry about the arm. Slayer reflexes." She gestured to his no-longer-bleeding wound. "Can I help you with that?"

Wesley chanced an upward glance, reading clearly the rueful kindness in Buffy's eyes. "It will heal," he answered. "Soon enough. Sooner than it ought."

Buffy reached to him, laying her small hand over his much larger one. "Are you okay, Wes? Really okay?"

To his shame, Wesley found his own eyes tearing. "I..." He voice came out choked, not at all his own. "Buffy, it's...it's really extraordinarily painful," he told her, not meaning his injury. "I don't.... That is, I can't..."

"I'm sorry," she told him softly. "You're a good guy. You didn't deserve it, and we shouldn't have left you alone here. Believe me, I'd take it all back if I could."

"I was... I was wrong about everything," he choked out, his tears flowing freely now. "I thought, by coming here, that I would prove myself as a Watcher. As a man. I was so very proud, thinking that I'd been sent here for my skill, my acumen... God, what a bloody, bloody fool."

"We...umn...should call 911 or something?" she asked him, in the same gentle tone. "For Xander and Celeste?"

"Yes, of course." Wesley staggered to his feet, thankful for the reprieve. He felt utterly humiliated, utterly foolish. What must Buffy think?

She put a hand on his arm, steadying him, her blue eyes shining up at his. "You really were--are--a good guy, Wes. Okay, so you weren't ready--but I wasn't ready either. Giles wasn't. Willow wasn't. Xander wasn't. Nobody is. Nobody can be. You tried, at least, and lots of people wouldn't have. We should have given you a chance to get broken in, but we didn't. We were rotten to you, all of us. Me most of all."

Wesley shook his head emphatically, but Buffy gave him one of her sudden grins--a real one this time, like sunlight breaking through clouds.

"C'mon," she said. "You know we were. I just hope you don't mind being one of the gang now. I think you're kinda stuck with us."

Wesley found himself struck speechless. All the time Buffy spent locating a capacious leather handbag and rooting through the depths for some sort of mobile telephone, he could only gape at her. Had he still been human, he'd have said he was in shock. Being as he was...he could not have said what exactly it was that he experienced, only that it seemed to negate at least some part of his grief.

The ambulance having been summoned, the two of them waited. Buffy broke their silence once, to ask, "Wes, did you ever do something that seemed totally right at the time, only it turned out to be just..." She shuddered, though the air continued balmy. "Just so very wrong?" She paused, looking up at him. "I can see how everything's gonna turn out," she said sadly, "But it's like some kind of runaway train--just keeps rolling on, and I can't think how to stop it without getting squished flat."

"Yes, Buffy," Wesley answered. He couldn't help but wonder precisely what it was she'd done, and what the consequences she dreaded could possibly be.

The fabric of the universe ripped open with a squeal like a thousand steel knives rending their way through a thousand sheets of rusty iron. Giles pressed his hands against his ears, which did absolutely nothing to deaden the sound--he was merely powerless to prevent himself from making the protective gesture.

He found himself equally powerless to prevent a fall of several feet, as whatever magic had propelled him thus far flung him once more into the known world. He tried to hit the ground rolling, but that seemed no more useful than his earlier efforts to protect his hearing, considering that the ground consisted of cracks, ridges and jagged spars of stone and concrete.

"Ooooooooh." Willow's voice. Sounding, unless Giles missed his guess, from quite close by. Its tone, so far as he could tell through the strident ringing in his ears, was once more soft and young, the voice of the young woman he knew and loved, rather than that of the towering red-haired stranger he'd encountered in the otherworld.

"Quite," Sebastian answered her. Seb's voice, too, seemed to have been returned to him. "It's dark. Where are we?"

Giles pushed himself up carefully, half expecting broken bones, but pleased to detect none, so far as he could tell--though he'd be scraped, cut and black-and-blue all over for days to come, that much was sure. "Sebastian, Willow, are you all right?" he asked, unable to dislodge the image of the avatars from his mind.

"My head's buzzing," Sebastian said.

Giles knew the feeling. Quite aside from the persistent clamour, which deadened all other sound, his brain itself seemed to be giving off a quite uncomfortable buzz, as if a roomful of argumentative people were all talking simultaneously in increasingly strident tones. Multicoloured motes of light swam in his vision.

"Mine too," Willow whimpered. "I'm scared. I don't like it."

Concerned for her--Willow rarely voiced her fears or her worries so openly--Giles forced himself to his feet. "Call to me," he told her. "I'm quite near by. I shall try to find you by the sound of your voice."

"It's not that dark, Dad," Sebastian informed him. "She's right there... Oh, you found her."

Willow's hand had, in fact, encountered his questing one. She pulled herself up against him, making little grunting sounds of protest as she moved a body undoubtedly as stiff and battered as his own. If Giles concentrated with all his might, he could just make out the shape of her form--or something like her shape--a tenuous shadow in shades of deep plum.

Giles rubbed his eyes. His glasses had vanished at some point in the course of their adventures, but even without them, his eyesight shouldn't have been so completely impaired.

Say nothing, he told himself. Don't alarm them. No doubt this will all sort itself out.

"Yes, of course," Giles said aloud. "It's only that...it took my eyes a moment to adjust." He forced a smile. "We've had quite an adventure, it seems."

Willow took a sobbing breath that quickly gave way to a torrent of tears. When Giles touched her arm, she flung herself at him, weeping soundlessly against his chest until his shirt was quite soaked through. Wondering at the changes that only a few short weeks had wrought in him, Giles encircled her with his arms, stroking Willow's soft hair as he murmured meaningless syllables of comfort that, at last, restored his young friend to some semblance of calm. When she stepped back, sniffling a little, he presented her with the handkerchief he'd located in the depths of his left-hand trouser pocket.

"Let's get out of here." Sebastian, too, had apparently gained his feet. "This place is--as Buffy might say--a trifle creepy."

Willow gave a soft, unsteady giggle. "A trifle? Umn, Seb, that doesn't exactly sound like Buff."

"You know what I mean," Sebastian replied, somewhat snappishly. As to his assessment of their surroundings, Giles could not help but agree. He couldn't have said how, but despite the unreliable quality of his vision, he quite clearly detected human blood, quantities of vampire dust and the gritty, reeking residue of burnt-out magic. Whatever else had occurred, the rituals performed that night seemed to have erased the ill effects they'd carried back from the scar of the London Hellmouth. As for the rest...he couldn't help but feel uneasy.

"Was this really your library, Dad?" Sebastian asked in wonderment.

"Really, truly," Willow answered for him. "Or it looks just like it. 'Course it wasn't nearly this wiggins-worthy when we hung out here."

"The magic..." Sebastian began, then let his voice trail off. "Yes. Well. Quite."

Had he sounded so abrupt? So curt? Giles wondered. If that was the case, no wonder his young friends had concealed such a great deal from him, for so long. He rubbed his eyes again: the bright ceaseless movement in his vision had begun to make him feel dizzy and somewhat nauseated--as if he were viewing some frenziedly animated version of a Van Gogh paintings while drunk on red wine.

"Let's get out of here, 'k?" Willow said.

"Hear, hear," Sebastian muttered.

Giles tried to follow them as best he could, but found himself rebounding off one of the rough pillars, no doubt adding to his collection of bruises in the process. Willow took his hand, guiding him, her sympathy telegraphed quite clearly to him through her touch.

"I bet you have a major magic hangover going on," she whispered. "Remember that time I got carried away and browned out a whole city block? I was totally bouncing off the walls. And not in a good way. You did some serious spellcasting back there, Giles."

Giles nodded carefully, forcing a smile. Willow might well be right. Yes, that was it. A day or so of relaxation, free from magic, and he'd be quite himself again. And yet, he detected a certain falseness in the tone of her voice, one that seemed at odds with her sympathetic words. Despite Willow's guidance he stumbled over the threshold, falling to his knees. As if in response, the universe gave a great giddy whirl and the ringing in his ears swelled to a cacophony of churchyard bells. He fought back a moan, forcing himself, instead, to take deep, steadying breaths of the clean night air.

"Good Lord," Sebastian cried, his attention obviously focused elsewhere. His footsteps thudded away at a great pace.

"It's an ambulance," Willow supplied, sounding frightened. "No, two ambulances. God, I hope..." Her breath caught. "Xander. Giles, it's Xander!"

Carefully, feeling as if at any moment he might shatter into a thousand pieces, Giles pulled himself upright. "Go to him," he told her. "Go. I'm quite all right."

"But--" Willow hesitated, obviously torn.

"Please, Willow, go see to him," Giles told her. "I insist. I'll be...just behind you, as soon as I've caught my breath."

When she'd gone, he stood still, afraid to move through this giddy landscape that seemed to bear no resemblance to the real world, the voices clamouring more loudly than ever inside his head. Was this what Buffy felt when she'd been able to shut out the thoughts of anyone around her? Giles rather thought so, and yet these voice were not thoughts, not feelings--rather, it was if a throng of loud-voiced readers were shouting out the world's knowledge in a hundred tongues.

However unwillingly, he'd drunk the wine of the witch's--no, the goddess's fruit. Was this what it had done to him? Was this anything a mortal man would be able to bear?

Somehow, he found himself quite unsure. Sick and dizzy, Giles sank, again, to his knees.