Tribulations - Chapter 57

Buffy let herself in with her own key, and shut the door quietly--though she'd much rather have slammed it behind her and shot a thousand bolts to lock it, just to keep the world outside, really outside for a little while.

Only she didn't. For one thing, she'd have needed to install about 998 more locks. For another--her real reason--she hoped Giles had finally made it home and was upstairs sleeping. They'd been missing each other ever since morning, leaving messages back and forth on the machine but never getting the comfort of an actual conversation. Each one of Giles's messages she'd heard had sounded increasingly sad, frazzled, stressed--if you spoke Gilesean, that was. To the casual listener they'd just have sounded softer, with his accent getting a shade more precise, a little bit of hoarseness eventually creeping in there.

After the last one, Buffy had expected to walk in after her patrol and find him drinking scotch with the lights off, a sure sign of ultimate GilesWorld despair.

Giles had said she should skip patrol--but Buffy couldn't tell a lie: it had felt good to get out there. A couple of hours good, steady pummeling, when she was the pummeler rather than the pummelee, did wonders for working off that long, long day's emotional overload. Besides, whenever she took even a night off the vampires of Sunnydale always seemed to think that someone had officially declared vampire happy hour, with bottomless well drinks all around. She'd gotten plenty of opportunity to unload her frustrations in the course of spreading her simple message: blood bar's closed; go home. No soul, no pulse, no service.

Still... Buffy sighed, and ran her hands back through her hair. Bleah. It felt gross, vamp-dust gross, and she'd have to do something about that before she crawled under the covers. A quick shower took care of the ickies, though, and a clean pair of pj's made her feel even better. Sometimes it was the little things that counted.

She wanted nothing more than to just clomp upstairs and snuggle in for the night, and the old Buffy probably would have done exactly that. Instead, the new and improved Buffy sighed again, slouched over to the phone, and dialed Wes's number. She'd left Xander to Wesleysit, but Xand had seemed a little shaky himself lately, and what with the little peek she'd gotten into her friend's head, she couldn't help but wonder if she'd done the right thing. Wes seemed willing enough to have him there, and Xander had been on his best behavior--nice-guy Xander instead of foot-in-mouth Xander--but maybe Wesley had agreed to the arrangement just because he thought Xander might be easier to fool than she or Giles would be.

Of course, if Wes really decided to do something desperate, she couldn't stop him. Probably no one could. After that one frantic moment, though, of teetering on the edge of the sunlight, he seemed to have pulled himself at least partway back together. They'd talked a long time, in the chapel. Some of it was ramble-y, but a lot of it wasn't. Buffy ached for him, and for everything he'd lost.

"Hey, Buff," Xander's voice answered suddenly, making her jump. "What's shakin'?" He was low-talking, probably so he wouldn't disturb Wesley.

"Good guess," she told him. "Everything okay there?"

"If you count one seriously depressed vampire sitting alone in the living room with the lights off as okay, then everything's peachy. I even stopped by Jake's Fine Meats to get him a treat, but Wes hasn't touched it. How long can vampires go without food, anyway?"

"Pretty long," Buffy told him. "How are you, Xander?"

"Sad. Wigged. Sleepy. How 'bout yourself?"

"The same. Make Wesley promise on his word of honor that he won't do anything drastic, and try to get some rest, 'kay?"

"You don't have to tell me twice on that one," Xander answered. His voice lowered again. "How's Giles handling all this?"

"Haven't seen him. I've had a couple messages, though. He sounded rough."

"This has to be, like, nine different kinds of hell for him," Xander said sympathetically, surprising her yet again, in a different way. Buffy wasn't sure when she'd clued into SensitiveXander's presence, but these days she saw more and more of him.

"Oh, it gets worse," she told him. "Apparently, Giles caught up with Seb and Celeste in my mom's gallery right after introductions all around. Mom wasn't...uh...pleased. And you know my mom--when she isn't pleased, she likes to share."

"Ouch." For a few seconds, all Buffy could hear was Xander's breathing. She wondered if he'd gone to sleep.

"Look," Xander told her. "You didn't hear this from me, 'cause you know my brain recoils, but be nice to him tonight. Be nice to each other. You deserve it."

"You too. I mean, not in that way. The way you meant." Buffy shook her head, as if she could somehow rattle the dumbness out of it. "God, I need a new brain! Just...don't be locked away in your separate realms of guyness. It's okay to be sad together."

She heard Xander's breath catch. Time passed before he said a word, and then his voice sounded funny, strained and a little too high, a pretty solid clue that he was trying not to cry. "These days it sometimes seems like I don't get to be anything else."

He hung up, and Buffy set the phone down thoughtfully. The message light flashed a red three at her. She pushed the button and listened to a man offer to clean her ducts. Yeah. Right. She couldn't tell if it was meant as an advertisement or an obscene phone call. If the former, the guy seriously needed to rethink his marketing strategy. The second message was from her mom: how could you not tell me...blah blah...what are you thinking...blah blah...we need to have a serious discussion...blah blah bliddy bliddy blah.

Okay, she knew that wasn't fair, that all this just came from her mother's love and protectiveness, but Joyce was getting to be like one of those radio stations that five-song play lists. "Time for some new tunes, Mom," she muttered at the poor, innocent answering machine. They'd been over all this, hadn't they? Over and over it, as far as she was concerned. Enough, already. Delete.

Giles had left the last message, to say he'd be home soon. His voice sounded scratchy, drained of its last little drop of energy. Buffy found herself touching the receiver, wishing that he was home NOW, and that she could be touching him instead. Wishing all this could just be over.

Only, since when did wishing solve anything?

That being the case, she decided to take Xander's advice and try to make things a little more bearable. To start with, she dragged one of the living room chairs into the kitchen, climbing up onto the seat and from there onto the counter, muttering to herself as she did so. Slayer strength and agility counted for a lot of things, but getting stuff off the ridiculously high top shelves of kitchen cupboards wasn't one of them. Knowing Giles could probably reach the same shelf without even needing to stretch didn't help things. She found what she was looking for, though: a bottle of actual Scottish scotch older than she was.

Climbing down, she pulled the cork--no screw-top on that baby--found one of Giles's heavy crystal glasses and poured about an inch into the bottom. This may have been the good stuff, but it still smelled putrid to her. Cautiously, Buffy took a sip. Uck. It tasted worse, like a combination of garden peat moss and fire. How DID Giles stand it? Give her a margarita any day.

Having returned the chair to its rightful place, she carried the glass upstairs, setting it neatly, with a coaster underneath, on Giles's night stand, right beside the little copper bowl-thingy where he always shed his watch and ring. Mission accomplished, she trotted downstairs again, meaning to leave him a note in case she couldn't help herself and fell asleep before he got home.

She'd gotten as far as writing, "I'm upstairs," when it hit her that some serious rewording was in order, unless she wanted to completely freak Giles out the minute he stepped in the door. Like maybe she should leave a little Puccini playing as background music and complete the job. Shaking her head at her own dumbness, Buffy scribbled out those words and wrote underneath, "I love you. Come to bed." in their place. With a little heart underneath, because she knew the girlyness of it would make Giles smile, if anything could. She anchored the note beneath the dragonfly lamp.

Mission accomplished, Buffy climbed the stairs agin, yawning so hard she thought her head would come off. Giles had better hurry home, because if he took more than thirty seconds getting there, she'd be so far gone in dreamland, nothing would wake her. It was all she could do to change into her favorite (and Giles's) lavender silk nightie with the spaghetti straps before she literally fell into bed.

Buffy didn't hear Giles come in, or climb the stairs, but something woke her anyway. She could tell he was trying to be super-quiet with his undressing so as not to disturb her, and was too tired, really, to have to be that careful. His fingers were all fumbly with the buttons.

She stirred sleepily, watching him for a second or two before she spoke. "Hi there, stranger."

"Buffy." He voice held worlds of gratitude--just to be there with her, in that quiet, secure place. Buffy found that humbling. "I never intended to wake you, love," he told her.

"You didn't." Buffy yawned, covering her mouth. "I just did. Woke up, I mean."

Giles folded his clothes neatly, as if he wasn't going to toss them--or, in his case--lay them gently in the hamper three seconds later. She'd be willing to bet he was the kind of guy who even made his bed in hotel rooms. She'd have to ask him about that one some time. But not tonight.

Giles pulled on his pajama pants, not bothering with the shirt, and climbed in beside her. For a long time, though, he sat with his back against the headboard, staring blindly--or, in his case, glasses-free--out into space as he sipped the drink she'd left for him.

"I thought today qualified as the kind of day that calls for the good stuff," Buffy said, rolling over onto her side. She laid her hand on his thigh, rubbing gently. "I missed you. I thought about you every second."

Shakily, Giles reached to set down the glass--he would have missed, too, if Buffy hadn't stretched across his body to steady his hand.

"Hey," she said softly.

Giles didn't say anything. His fingertips pressed fiercely against his eyelids, as if that could somehow hold everything in.

"Hey," Buffy repeated, closing her hand around his wrist, applying gentle pressure until at last the hand came down. He'd fought her, though, and fairly hard. When she saw his face she understood why--he looked as though the least little thing would send him exploding in a thousand pieces, as if he was afraid that if he let himself go, he'd never stop grieving.

"You know," she told him, "You'll have plenty of opportunities to display your iron self-control before this all is over. Now you don't need it. Now you're here with me, and whatever you feel you can feel. Nothing needs to be buried."

His eyes turned to hers, and for once nothing was hidden, nothing held in reserve. For an instant, Buffy was almost frightened.

Just as quickly, though, her fear went away. What was here that she needed to be afraid of? Just the man she loved, who would be her husband, the other half of herself.

"I won't say it's all right," Buffy told him, as Giles at last slid down in the bed until they both lay on their sides, face to face, watching each other. She reached to link her fingers with his, Giles's skin cold against hers, not because of anything unnatural, but because he'd been out all night, and was bone-tired and still half in shock. His skin looked gray with it, his green eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed. Buffy brushed his cheek with the back of her hand, then leaned forward to kiss him, her lips just brushing his, holding a moment, then backing away.

"It was good of you..." he began, hoarsely. "That is, I was quite proud..." His eyes closed briefly, then opened again. "With Wesley."

Any other time she might have teased him a little for the lack of coherence. This wasn't one of those times. "I was scared," Buffy confessed. "I kept thinking, 'what if I say the wrong thing? What if I do the wrong thing?' But--" She shrugged. "I guess it went okay."

"I stopped by the cottage on my way," Giles told her. "Wesley seems...resigned. Quite sad, naturally, but resigned. For the present, at least. You were wise, I think, to leave Xander with him."

"At the very least, Xander can distract him with a display of annoying American ways." Buffy caught Giles's look. "No, I don't really mean that. I think he'll be good for Wes because...well, just because. Xander doesn't want bad things to happen. He wants to take care of people, but he doesn't get the chance too often. Plus, I guess I'm not the only one who's done some growing up in the past year. Only--" She gave him a long look of her own. "Why are we talking about everyone else?"

Giles rolled over onto his back, arms folded under his head as he stared up at the ceiling. "For distraction, I suppose," he murmured, after a pause.

"For distraction, you know," Buffy answered, just as softly. Her hand strayed to his chest, feeling his heart beat under her palm. "Because what goes on in there doesn't matter?"

Giles shrugged--a little awkwardly, given his position.

"It matters to me," she told him. "I know you're hurting--probably worse, in ways, than Wes, even. Remember, though, that this is one of the perks of what we have going on, here. You get to unload on me, and I get to make you feel better."

"You do," Giles said, so softly she could hardly make out the words. "Just knowing you would be here..." He didn't say anything more, but his eyes searched hers. All of a sudden she felt that connection again, the one she'd been getting little tastes of for the past couple days.

Buffy closed her eyes, feeling all that complex love and loss. More complex, maybe, than she could completely work out. She just didn't have the experience, and sometimes that worried her. Would Giles think she was silly? Would he get tired of her little flighty habits, and the way she showed so much of what he buried deep inside right there on the surface, for anyone to see.

"No, love," he told her quietly, his voice deepening in a way that sent shivers up Buffy's spine. She watched him turn to her again, his eyes locked to hers so strongly she almost felt as if she'd be swallowed up in their changeable green depths. He rose up on one elbow, leaning over her, his other hand sliding beneath Buffy's head, bringing her face to his.

Buffy held her breath for a second, thinking she didn't know what was going to happen, when really she did. He kissed her--not one of those tender, slow, sensuous Giles-kisses, either, but with a fierce passion that went beyond anything in her experience. He rolled her over onto her back, still kissing her, harder, and deeper, both hands beneath her now, his fingers tangling in her hair. Buffy pressed herself against him, her softness against the hardness of his chest, her thighs opening to him, so that Giles lay in their hollow, her short nightie riding up as she clasped her legs around his hips.

He was hard already, the heat of him rubbing against her, her own heat rising. Somehow, between the two of them, they got hisr pj's out of the way, and then his skin was rubbing her skin, inflaming her further.

Giles hoisted her up until her shoulders lay against the headboard, his strong hands holding her hips a little off the bed as he entered her, pushing into her, filling her until she burned inside as well as out.

Buffy spread her arms along the top of the headboard, giving herself leverage, her spine arching to give him a better angle. Giles's hands moved to either side of her head. He was on his knees, pushing into her, harder and faster, Buffy's own body moving to meet every wave, ripples and pulses of arousal shooting through her until all at once she was at the edge, gathering together, holding him inside her through an explosion that seemed to go on and on and on until stars flashed behind her eyes and she could hardly breathe.

Slowly, then, she let herself relax, sliding down onto the pillows once more, her heart racing. Giles lay over her, still inside her, his own pulse thudding madly, his body shaking.

He was crying, Buffy realized. Not being obvious about it, but crying.. She raised her own still-shaky arms around him, holding him gently, stroking his hair.

She wasn't sure, exactly, when they both fell asleep, but when the light came the next morning, the two of them lay in nearly the same position, and Giles was still asleep in her arms.