Tribulations - Chapter 46

When, at last, Wesley returned to the Orthopaedic Ward, he once more found Moira awake. Her green eyes, always remarkable, now appeared bright and alert within their circles of bruising. She watched him enter, then take his usual seat at her bedside, with an expression he could only interpret as one of approval.

"My knight errant has returned," Moira murmured, with that slight smile that always seemed, to Wesley, to contain worlds of mystery. In response, he raised her now-fragile hand gently in his, bending to kiss her torn knuckles with his warmthless lips.

"As you see," he answered.
"And, it appears, returned successful from his quest," Moira commented. "I believe I might have been rather proud of you, my love."

"If nothing else, I show signs of becoming quite a credible liar." Wesley slumped forward until his cheek rested on Moira's drab blanket. If he forced himself to breathe, the cotton bore the pleasantly fresh scent of recent laundering, but he couldn't keep up the pretense for long. He felt, suddenly, completely spent.

Moira's hand moved, then, to stroke his hair, the soft, rhythmic touch bringing him, simultaneously, feelings of intense comfort and ever-deepening pain. Would a time ever come that he'd cease to mourn all they had lost?

"My clever, clever Wes," Moira said softly, without irony.

"T-the others..." he stammered. "They're all well. Fairly well. Roughed up a bit, I'm afraid, but breathing."

Unlike me, Wesley thought, before he could restrain himself.

"Mmn," Moira replied. Her hand rested now on the back of his neck. Such a warm and accepting touch, that he felt, for that time, completely safe, nearly at peace. Even as they were, the connection between them had not weakened, and Wesley could almost feel that everything, somehow, would work out. What harm in deluding himself for this little while?

"I felt something," Moira continued, after a few moments had passed. "A stirring of a sort I've never felt before. Something very specific, very much a disturbance of the LeFaye bond, but not like..." Her voice trailed off and, raising his head, Wesley was surprised to see tears well in her eyes. "Not at all like the devastation of earlier this summer, when so many of our girls were lost."

Wesley glanced up, blinking at her in incomprehension. Moira had mentioned, in passing, bits and pieces of her family history, but much of it he did not understand, and would most likely never fully comprehend. Her reference to a family bond, for example, struck him as more-than-usually cryptic. But then, he'd never experienced even the more run-of-the-mill sense of what others called family feeling. The majority of his familiar relations could most nearly be described by the word "dreadful." With strong emphasis on the "dread."

"Willow..." Moira murmured, interrupting this downward-spiraling train of thought. "How did Willow seem to you, Wesley?"

"I...er..that is, I drove her here. To hospital." Wesley wasn't exactly sure what he was being asked, even less so how to answer. "She seemed a-a trifle subdued. Tired, perhaps." He glanced up into Moira's eyes. They were keen, feverishly bright.

"Was Willow injured?" she asked.

"No, not at all, so far as I could tell. She'd come to look after Xander. He...that is, I believe he'd struck his head. On the stones."

"Poor hapless Xander," Moira gave a little smile. "I trust he'll recover?"

"Yes, I believe so. His injury didn't seem severe." Wesley experienced a strange sensation, as of being examined, probed at. A chill ran up his spine.

"My poor Wesley." Moira smiled again. "Here I've begun to interrogate you, yet again. My questions can certainly wait until I've spoken to Willow myself. There's no need to trouble you with them. I see that you're very tired, my love." Her hand rose to touch the half-healed cut on his arm. "And you've been injured."

"Only a little." Ruefully, Wesley returned her smile. "I'm afraid I've learned the hard way why one doesn't startle a Slayer."

"And Buffy is a fine Slayer, isn't she? Still, I'm sure she appreciated your help."

Wesley shrugged.

"My diffident Wesley. What's troubling you, love?"

Wesley rested his chin on his arms, regarding her. He felt strangely unable to express what he'd seen, much less why it concerned him. "Em...it's that... Most likely nothing, but..." He forced a deep breath, the habits of a lifetime dying hard. "That is, I startled Buffy out of...of a kind of catatonia, and even after she came to herself, she seemed quite distant, quite distracted. One might go so far as to say concerned." An image of Buffy's pale face hung again in his mind's eye, and his own worry awakened anew. "I know that many Slayers experience prophetic dreams, and my own fear is that she may have received visions she feels too frightened to share."

"You've become quite empathetic, haven't you?" Moira's face displayed a worry that belied her light tone. "Have you spoken to Rupert about this?"

"Didn't see him, actually. Would he have been there?"

"Didn't see him?" Moira's look of unease intensified. "Wesley, he most certainly would have been present. They'd have been trying to counteract the effects of the London Hellmouth, and the ritual would have called for the physical involvement of all who'd fallen under its influence. Myself excepted, of course." She frowned slightly. "Rupert's the most likely candidate for the casting of that sort of circle. It's very much in his line..."

Wesley waited as Moira sank deeper into thought, her lips moving slightly, as if casting a spell all her own--which, for all he knew, might actually have been the case. Suddenly, her gaze regained focus, shifting to glance over Wesley's shoulder.

"Good Lord, Sebastian, is that you?" she exclaimed.

"None other," a man's voice replied. "Willow told me--my God, mum, what's happened to you?"

"Bit of a fall." Moira shrugged, a flicker of pain crossing her face.

Mum? Wesley thought, with stunned disbelief. He'd known that Moira had a son, somewhere. Had known too, that she'd been quite young when... But, merciful heavens, this chap was his age, or very near to it! Very near to it. No doubt, either, as to the man's paternity: except for a head of waving auburn hair, clearly inherited from his mother, the interloper could not have been a more perfect image of Rupert Giles.

Awash in a sea of conflicting feelings, Wesley found he had to look away. He'd known, of course. Known everything, really--after all, Moira had been quite candid in relating to him the story of her troubled youth. And he had sympathized. Truly sympathized. Yet, to be confronted by this...person...

"I say," Sebastian exclaimed. "Wyndham-Price, is that you?"

What fresh hell is this? Wesley thought, and heard himself utter a moan, one he'd been quite powerless to contain, of utter despair. The oddest feeling of familiarity had struck him when he'd first met Giles, and now he quite understood why. Certainly, Giles was the father of this young man--and, only a little more than a decade before, this young man had been the bane of his own, personal, hellish existence.

Not that Master Sebastian Born-with-a-silver-spoon-rammed-firmly-up-his-arse Delacoeur would have been aware of the fact. Childish, really, and foolish, the way these memories flooded back to him. Delacoeur had never injured him by word or deed. Which fact had always, somehow, made things worse. Easier, by far, to hate a rival who did not, unfailingly, treat one with consideration, most especially if that kindness invariably seemed mixed with a generous dollop of pity. Oh, dear, Wyndham-Price's muffed it again--let's help him out, shall we?

He hadn't ever wanted Delacoeur's pity. He'd wanted to be him, with all the wealth, the brilliance, the casual good nature, that entailed. That Delacoeur had never seemed to want anything in particular, and yet, unfailingly, seemed to receive everything with a sort of effortless grace, had seemed to Wesley one of the great injustices of the universe. Even his own father, who made a religion of never having a good word to say about anyone, had been impressed by Delacoeur. And, naturally, rubbed Wesley's nose in the fact.

Wesley realized that Moira's son--how odd, if not impossible, those words sounded--had been standing with his right hand outstretched. Now, slowly, it began to drop back to his side. "Ah. Yes. I'd forgotten..." He seemed genuinely distressed.

That I despised you? Wesley thought. I'm surprised you hadn't noticed earlier. Certainly it must have been a rare event, for you to be hated. One would have thought you'd remember.

Sebastian's eyes, of a shade of green halfway between Moira's and Giles's, slowly lowered to the lino. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean...ah, didn't mean to presume, old man."

Wesley found himself taking a step toward his old schoolmate. Then another. To his own very great astonishment, he felt his own hand rising, reaching out for Sebastian's. They shook with a solemness more worthy of a treaty-signing--but then Delacoeur's face broke into a sudden grin.

"So, you're my mum's Wesley? Good Lord, this is a strangely small world." Shaking his head, he caught hold of a straight-backed chair that stood by the door, positioning it close by the foot of his mother's bed.

Moira's eyes had narrowed slightly. Her gaze flicked back and forth between the two of them. Sebastian laid a hand over the small elevation her feet made in the covers and, for an instant, they regarded one another with an intensity that seemed as if it might be, literally, magical.

"I understand I've you to thank for saving Celeste's life," Sebastian said at last. "At the risk of sounding like a character in a Victorian novel, Wyndham-Price, I'm eternally in your debt."

How did one answer such a statement? "It was nothing" seemed inappropriate. Neither did, "My pleasure" exactly suit. "The young woman--Celeste, that is--i-is your wife?" he managed at last.

Sebastian nodded, for an instant looking terribly young, even more terribly afraid. "If anything... That is, if you hadn't..." He stared downward, as if committing to memory the blanket's less-than-memorable weave. "Celeste has far more of the hero in her than I do, and I understand, I suppose, what she meant to accomplish. And yet..." He met Wesley's eyes fully for the first time. "I failed her, and I can only be grateful that you did not."

"That aside, Sebastian," Moira said, with what might have been a touch of impatience. "What did you accomplish? What happened?"

Sebastian folded his arms upon the bedrail and, with a sigh, rested his chin upon them. "It was very odd, Mum. In short, I don't know."

"You can do better than that, Seb," she answered, with a bit more tenderness. "Remember the heathen I am. You're hardly likely to shock me."

Her son gave another, deeper sigh. "Is that so, Mum? Then make what you will of this: we--Willow and I--became into gods. Avatars of gods, at least. Or whatever such beings actually call themselves."

As usual, Moira remained unperturbed. "Ah. So that is what I felt. Would you care to describe the experience?"

Sebastian shuddered, looking more distressed and exhausted than before. "Honestly, Mum? No." He rose, and with unneeded precision, returned his chair to its original position by the door. "The more I think about it...no, I bloody well would not care to describe so much as a moment of it."

"Xander, did you hear what Dr. Singh said?" That was Willow's voice. Very close to his ear. In Xander's opinion, Willow very close to him was in no way a bad thing.

He opened his eyes into two teeny, puffy slits. A version of Willow's resolve face hung over him. Or, rather, two versions. To go with Willow's two heads. Xander groaned.

"You're in the hospital, Xander. For tonight at least, but Dr. Singh says you're gonna be fine, and he'll probably send you home tomorrow. Can you hear me?"

Woozy. He felt woozy. Which made him think of the Heffalumps and Woozles song from Winnie the Pooh. Which made him laugh. Which hurt, and made him feel like he was going to throw up.

Xander shut his eyes again, and Willow stroked his forehead. If that was going to happen, he'd be perfectly willing to get bonked on the head every day. The touch of her soft little hand made him want to purr like a kitty, but he figured that was probably a bad idea too. Not to mention frightening for those around him.

"Ssh," Willow whispered. Such a sweet little voice, his Willow's. So soothing. As long as she didn't sing to him. Willow plus singing equaled not a a good thing. She pressed her lips lightly to his forehead, and that was maybe the best thing ever--except maybe for not being dead.

He'd have to put that on his list of good things: being alive, when he'd totally expected to be otherwise.

Even better, nobody was dead but some vampires, and they didn't count, being dead already. Willow kissed him again, sending him out on a wave of the most delicious sleepiness. She was saying something too him, but the individual words didn't matter, just that she was there. He'd saved her. He, Xander Harris, King of Cretins, had saved his Willow, and it was time for all the bad thoughts now to float away. Just float away...

He just hoped he wouldn't snore.

Joyce Summers paused just outside Buffy's room, wanting with every maternal fiber of her being to barge right on in and cover her daughter with a big, fluffy blanket of mother-love and all-occasion platitudes. Instead, she lingered on the other side of the door, shifting from foot to foot and curling her bare toes into the carpet. Now, that was something she hadn't done in a while, a nervous habit she'd carried forward with her from childhood.

Joyce sighed, wondering when things had become so confusing. She could even almost long for a return to the years of Buffy's teen rebellion. At least then she was the adult, the voice of experience, the wise one. So much easier to dictate what would be, even knowing full well that the odds were pretty much stacked in favor of Buffy not obeying her, than to find herself in this tricky middle ground.

Right now, it sounded as if Buffy might be crying, and Joyce couldn't stand it.

And what was she supposed to do in these situations? Leave her daughter alone, to let her work out her own worries and griefs? Pretend recent events had never taken place and breeze on in after all, bearing tissues and cookies and chicken soup?

No, she didn't have the right. Not now. Not anymore. Joyce wished she could pinpoint the exact moment when things had gotten so complicated between them, but she knew that was impossible. It had happened. It was. Her precious little one had been replaced by this other being, just as beloved, but infinitely more complex. A person in her own right, belonging only to herself.

Joyce sighed again. She just couldn't help longing for the old days. Not so much because she wanted to control Buffy, or keep her from her journey forward in life, but because, for that little part of the not-so-distant past, she'd had to power to fix everything.

As Buffy herself might say, not being able to fix anything sucked.

Probably, she should just walk away, go to her own bed and let Buffy sort out this present storm. The thing was, probably didn't work all that well for mothers. Until Buffy told her to get lost, Joyce had to offer something. She took a deep breath and rapped softly on the door.

At first, no answer. Joyce fiddled with the sash of her robe, running the slippery silk ribbon through her fingers. "Buffy?" she called, in an utterly unparental voice, feeling a little ashamed of herself. How much of this came from her own desperate need to be needed? To be the comfort-bringer again, if only for a little while?

Buffy's muffled, "Come in," caught Joyce completely off gurard. She almost asked her daughter to repeat herself, but pushed down the impulse just in time.

Instead, she turned the doorknob, padding softly across Buffy's carpet to her daughter's disordered bed. The smallish lump in the middle had to be Buffy, and she couldn't help but smile a little: some things never changed. If it wasn't the special safe place in the middle of the bed, it had always been Quiltworld--and she supposed Buffy had gotten a little old to crawl under the dining room table with her comforter draped over the top.

Joyce perched on the edge of the bed. She reached out, and found, by mom-radar, Buffy's back, rubbing it in rhythmic circles. "I know, " she crooned. "I know. It'll be all right. You'll see."

How easily those words, and that touch, came back to her.

"You don't have to be alone, Buffy. You can talk to me." That time, Joyce felt proud of herself. She sounded like an adult talking to an adult. She sounded like a friend.

After a little while, Buffy poked her head out, looking for all the world like a particularly slow turtle deciding to take a peek at some doubtful surroundings.

Joyce couldn't help herself: her memory flew straight back into the past, to five-year-old Buffy curled up under the covers on a school morning. Her own voice calling, "Where's my little turtle? Come out and play, little turtle."

Her eyes stung, and the familiar hollow ache filled the middle of her body.

By this time, Buffy was sitting up, her knees clasped to her chest, her face puffy and miserable. Joyce touched her cheek, stroking away the wetness, and the heat.

"Do you want to tell me?" she asked, glad her voice had apparently decided not to betray her any more.

To her very great surprise, Buffy told.