Tribulations - Chapter 61

Moira, Giles thought, would most likely have found his pace laughable, as would Buffy, no doubt, were he to reveal to her his guilty secret. The truth was, though, it felt had felt to get out of his flat, and now it felt good to run, as if, by the effort of motion, one might somehow shake off all that was dark and dismal in Sunnydale, losing one's self in the slap of trainers on wet pavements, and in the fresh scent of rain-washed air. Giles loved this weather as much as Buffy hated it, and never liked to miss the chance to revel in Sunnydale's infrequent downpours.

Besides which, after his afternoon's encounter with Joyce Summers, a brisk run was the closest he'd allow himself to an actual escape. Not being completely daft, he'd stopped short, in the history he'd related to her, of his University years, of Randall and Ethan and the bloody horrors that led him back to the questionable embrace of the Watchers' Council. To tell anything at all, though, seemed like a violation, as if he'd been forced to break a vow of silence he'd meant to keep unto the grave. Even now, he wasn't sure why he'd said the things he'd said, except that they were true, and something in Joyce seemed to demand from him the absolute, unvarnished truth, even when one ought to tell her it was none of her bloody business.

Giles stopped suddenly, breathing hard, letting the cool rain stream over his flushed face. His glasses had long since steamed up to the point of uselessness and he'd put them away in the zippered pocket of his tracksuit. Buffy was right, he supposed--he ought to invest in a pair of lenses for just such occasions, because in such weather and without correction, his vision blurred to the point that the world around him became something like a Turner landscape, swirls of pink and blue, brown and green without a point of reference anywhere. The lack of clarity made him feel removed from the world as well, as if he heard a bit less sharply, as if he floated slightly rather than being anchored firmly by gravity's pull to the ground beneath his feet.

Sometimes, Giles quite liked that feeling of disconnectedness. Other times--just now, for example--it filled him with unease. He found himself unable to entirely shake of that morning's sensation of being watched, intensely, by hostile eyes.

"Hi, Giles," said a voice from behind him. "Out for a run?"

He spun round, nearly losing his balance in the process--which left him feeling quite ridiculous. The voice was only Willow's, after all. His young friend stood beneath the awning of the magic shop, a carrier bag of what he assumed were magical supplies cradled in her arms.

"Hullo, Willow," he answered, smiling as he fumbled his glasses from his pocket once more. The lenses were still blurred with the wet--but better than nothing, he supposed. "Out shopping?" There, now they'd both stated the bloody obvious. Willow's expression told him clearly enough that she found the thought of him actually enjoying a bit of exercise only slightly less odd than if she'd suddenly discovered he could fly.

She shrugged, rustling the bag slightly. "I have a project. That I'm working on."

"Nothing dangerous, I hope?" Giles fell into step beside her. Willow seemed in rather a hurry, but she couldn't equal his stride. He kept up easily.

Willow engaged in a spot of adolescent eye-rolling. "Giles, you worry too much."

"That's hardly an answer, Willow."

For an instant, Willow's features appeared to harden slightly--though perhaps that was no more than a trick of the light, the rain, or his own indistinct sight.

"No, Giles, it's not dangerous," she said at last, with exaggerated patience. "Something's kinda digging up my parents' lawn, and I thought, maybe, some kind of pest-be-gone thing might help. Sort of a Blessed Be somewhere else."

Giles couldn't help but laugh. "You'll have to keep me abreast of your results. Meanwhile, may I carry your supplies for you?"

For an instant, Willow clutched the parcel to her chest, then, in rather a forced manner, gave a laugh of her own, passing Giles the carrier bag. He, in turn, fought the urge to snoop through her purchases, knowing that, however much he cared for her, it wasn't his right.

"We stopped by Wesley's place," Willow told him, in an obvious attempt to bring their conversation onto safer ground. "He's doing okay, I think. Better, anyway."

"I'm glad to hear it," Giles answered.

"Did you know that rock Buffy found was a wish? The one your little sister had, I mean. With the wings on it. Wes called it a...umn...a lapis desiderium. Have you heard of that before?"

"I've heard of them, but never seen one," he replied. "They're meant, I believe, not to be stones at all, but rather the eggs of some fabulous creature of antiquity."

"Wesley didn't tell us that part," Willow said, looking thoughtful. The flower on her thoroughly-soaked hat now drooped despondently.

"With such a thing in Clarice's possession, I'm rather surprised she hadn't used it up in wishing for a year's supply of sweets. Or perhaps for the creatures in her storybooks to come alive."

"Maybe she was too little to have a real heart's desire."

"Perhaps," Giles answered, wondering what he might have done, had he known a lapis desiderium existed within easy reach. Wished his father to life again? Wished Horace Stanley somewhere far, far away? A hundred other heart's desires crowded into his memory, and Giles considered that it might have been better not to have known, not to have wished and later regretted. One never knew what, ultimately, was for the best.

While lost in thise less-than-cheering thoughts, he found they'd stopped at the edge of the pathway that led to Willow's house.

"Well, here we are," Willow said, with forced heartiness cheer. "This is me. My house, I mean."

"Indeed it is," Giles replied, passing her the carrier bag once more, even as he wondered what had fallen between them to make this chance meeting so fraught with awkwardness.

"I'd ask you in, but--" Willow stopped. Obviously, she'd no intention whatsoever of issuing an invitation. On the contrary, she seemed to be wishing him miles away.

"I understand," Giles told her, even though he most emphatically did not. "We'll see you tomorrow, then?"

"Tomorrow? Umn, yes. Sure. Of course." Willow gave him a version of her usually sunny smile that seemed strained, perhaps even desperate. Misgivings shot through Giles's mind, too rapidly to be clearly identified, yet plain all the same.

"Willow, tell me honestly: is everything all right?"

"Sure," she answered, a bit too quickly. "Why wouldn't it be? I mean, except for Moira. And the stuff with my mom. And--" She bit her lip, eyes stricken. "Do you ever feel like it's just piling up on you?"

"Frequently," Giles answered. "Willow, if you'd rather not be alone..."

"No!" she snapped, then shook her head. "I didn't mean that. I'm just all..." Willow stuck out her tongue and shook her hands wildly to convey this undefinable feeling. "I wanna think about the mole invasion, and curl up with a good book, and probably fall asleep at the bedtime I had when I was seven. Together time is good--but sometimes I like alone time too, you know?"

"I do," Giles told her feelingly. "And I respect your wishes. Please do call, however, if there's anything at all you need. Yes? Promise me?"

"I promise." She stretched up on tip-toe to kiss his cheek. "G'night, Giles. See ya."

"Goodnight, Willow. I'll see you soon," he answered, watching Willow's slight, rain-soaked form hasten up the path. Chances were, she and Buffy had cooked something up between the two of them, and Willow's nervousness was merely the result of her total lack of ability as a liar.

Somehow, though, he doubted that easy explanation. Carefully, hoping that Willow would not notice, he set a minor ward round the house's perimeter, a little something to warn him were a certain level of magicks performed. Having thus eased his mind, Giles turned, setting off at a slow jog toward home.

The minute she came into the house, Willow knew everything was okay again. The air felt alive, spicy and perfumed with magic. Closing the door softly behind her, she stood still for a minute with her eyes closed, just breathing, just letting that amazing richness soak into her skin. The shopping bag dropped from her hand and onto the floor.

She felt, rather than heard her guest approach, felt the closeness of that lush body next to hers, the silky hair tickling her skin, the warm, strong hands cupping her face. Willow lifted her chin, lips parting, inviting the kiss that she knew would come--then it did come, soft on her mouth, tasting and exploring.

Willow didn't want it to stop, and when it did, she opened her eyes. Her guest smiled down on her, light in the depths of her own green eyes. She was so beautiful Willow could hardly stand it, just looking on that much beauty made her feel little, and awkward, and ugly by comparison.

"Don't think that, sweet one," breathed her guest's lovely voice. "You've done well, so very well, and I could not be more proud of you."

Willow found herself laughing suddenly. "You were so right! It was easy! I can't believe how blind they all are."

"You are so very special, my love," her guest told her, and kissed Willow again, so deeply this time that Willow found herself rising up on her tip-toes--no, not even that: she was floating. they were floating together, weightless and wonderful, those perfect hands just beginning to touch her in that way she was learning to love. Timidly, she began to touch back, just with her fingertips at first, then with her whole hands, then her mouth, hungrily. Their clothes--her own t-shirt and shorts, her guest's soft green draperies, drifted away from them, falling to the floor like autumn leaves.

She was purring like a kitty, those hands stroking her thighs, her stomach, her breasts, making her nipples harden into little buds, when the door opened behind them, and her dad's voice rang out:

"Willow Rebecca Rosenberg! Get down from there!"

She turned in her lover's arms, saw the other woman's cocked brow, the look of amusement that said to her, "Would you care to take care of this, or shall I?"

"Glaciare," Willow pronounced lazily--and her dad did exactly that: froze solid. He looked so silly standing there with his droopy hat in one hand, his soggy suit dripping icicles and a look of fury in his normally sad and serious eyes, that Willow couldn't help but laugh.

"Shall I send him away, or keep him here as part of the decor?" her guest inquired, directing one of her dark veils to drape across Ira's face.

"Send him away," Willow told her, still giggling. An instant later, her dad was gone, the veil drifting down again gently to cover his damp footprints on the floor. Where he'd gone to didn't seem important at the moment.

"Did you know that your meddling friend has warded this house?" asked her guest.

"He'll have other stuff to worry about soon enough, "Willow answered. "And the cool thing is, none of them will ever think to blame me." She paused, thinking about Buffy's surprise, just before all her memories went--POOF!--away. Well, serve her right, Miss Perfect Chosen One. Deep down, Willow felt a flash of what might have been guilt, but that lasted no longer than the next touch, the next pressure of her skin on her guest's skin, velvet on velvet. One long leg encircled her, bringing Willow closer still, and she bowed her head, rubbing her cheek against the curve of a full breast, tasting her guest's name in her mouth for a minute before she spoke it. "Morgana. I love you, Morgana."

"Aren't you a clever girl," the sorceress replied, smiling her lazy, beautiful, catlike smile, gazing down upon Willow's face as she cradled Willow's head in her hands. "You've guessed!"

Buffy came home in a weird mood: kind of weepy, kind of antsy, kind of...she just didn't know. She'd pretty much made up her mind to tell Giles everything they'd found out, and what Willow had offered to do, only he wasn't there when she arrived. Neither was her mom, thank God for small favors, but there didn't seem to be any bloodstains or holes in the wall, so she guessed they'd both made it out alive. Either that, or Giles was off somewhere burying the body.

No, that was dumb. Giles and her Mom were both civilized adults. They could come to some kind of understanding without killing each other. It was just the rain and--well, everything--that was getting her down. A funeral in a couple days, a visit from a demon any time now...gee, why wasn't she feeling her usual perky self?

The thing was, without Giles there, his not-overly-large apartment felt too big for her, and too empty. She felt just like a little blob of gray clay sitting alone in the middle of it. Quiet as he was, Giles took up space, she felt him--and she missed him when he wasn't there. How sad was it that she couldn't think of anything to do while he was gone?

Sad as sad could be, she guessed, but that didn't change anything. He was still gone, and here she was, clay-blob-girl, lonesome as possible. She flopped down on the couch, dug the TV remote from underneath a cushion and started flipping channels. News, news, news, sports, more news, a rerun of Gilligan's Island, one of those religious programs with the loud-mouthed preacher telling her she was gonna burn in hell. Heh. He should have her life.

Buffy switched off the TV. Maybe she should take a page from the Giles guide to fun things to do and curl up with a book and a nice cup of tea. Only, books made her think of that book, the one she'd been looking at with the other's at Wesley's house. And tea...

Well, better not even to go there. Every time the morbidly curious part of her brain started asking "Secreted from where?" she told it sternly to shut up. Some things it was better not to know.

She could take a bath, a nice long bath, with candles all round the tub. Just the thing to make her feel all warm and toasty again, and she could pretend the rain was far, far away. Only it all seemed like too much effort. Better to just lie here and sulk. She scooted down on the couch and pulled a cushion over her face. Bleah.

Just as Buffy was about to settle in for a prolonged pout, she heard Giles's key in the lock and jumped up again. "Where...?" she started to say as he came through the door, then saw his soggy clothes and sneakers. "You've been running. You run?"

"I do," Giles answered, with dignity, as he stripped off his wet sweatshirt--a dignity that got a little bit dampened as he struggled with the soggy garment. With the rain-soaked black t-shirt clinging to his chest, his hair all mussy and his slightly guilty expression, he looked so adorable that Buffy just had to fling her arms around him. Giles surprised her by lifting her off the floor feet and swinging her around, even as he protested, "I'm quite... You'll get..."

Buffy found herself laughing as he returned her to her feet, his protests giving way to good, deep kiss that made her tingle all over. Giles's skin was all warm and pink from the exercise, and he really was getting her all wet, but at that moment Buffy didn't care.

"I missed you," she told him. "I forgot that you're allowed outside now and then. And you probably love this icky weather."

"I must confess, I do." He smiled down on her, one of those slight, sweet smiles that reminded her somehow of the old days. "Do you mind very much coming out into it?"

"Ugh. Not yet," she whined. "It's too early for patrol." Buffy followed him across the apartment to the bathroom door, where Giles proceeded, unselfconsciously, to get rid of the rest of his wet clothes.

"I remember someone telling me once that a cranky Slayer is a sloppy Slayer. Or something of the sort. You look as if you've been feeling rather cranky in my absence." Without taking his eyes from her, Giles groped into the shower, turning on the taps. A second later, he vanished behind the curtain, and after two minutes--she timed him--he emerged again, squeaky clean. "And so I thought--" He dried off, toweled his hair briskly, and hung the towel neatly on the rack again. "That you might like to go out this evening."

"Huh?" Buffy said. She felt dense.

Giles slipped into his wine-colored robe. "I thought you might like to put on one of your pretty frocks, and come out with me." He touched her cheek gently, then cupped her chin in his palm, turning Buffy's face up to his. "Since, it occurs to me, that in all the time we've been together, I've never taken you out properly."

"Like, on a date?" She tried to think back, and was shocked to discover that he was right. All they'd been through, the pain, the fear, the joy that went beyond anything she'd ever known, and they'd never had so much as a simple dinner-and-a-movie together.

Giles's hands moved to hold her face between them, and his changeable eyes gazed down into hers. "I want to see you by candlelight, Buffy. I want to be surrounded by others, and still be alone with you. And, if it's not too humiliating..." A little bit of a twinkle came into those eyes, letting her know that whatever she answered would be okay. "I'd rather like to dance with you."

"Running I can accept. Barely," she said, teasing him back. "Dancing, I dunno. Don't we have to get permission from the Council, or something?"

"Considering that, at the moment, I may well be the senior member of the Council," he answered solemnly, "I feel fairly safe in granting permission. Providing no liberties are taken, of course."

Buffy laughed out loud, her earlier bleahness completely forgotten. Once upon a time, he'd thought Giles would be the last person to ever surprise her. He'd seemed as steady and as predictable as...well, as a really steady and predictable thing she couldn't think of at the moment. She stretched up to whisper in his ear, "Oh, I think liberties will be taken Mr. Giles. We just haven't reached that stage of the proceedings."

It was good to see him laugh back, good to feel him take her hand--and, to her very great surprise, spin her out and back again, right into the security of his arms, where he kissed her once more before sending her on her way.

Buffy ran up the stairs and into the loft. Even as she started shoving her everyday clothes down the rail to get at her special things, she knew exactly what she'd wear: that little navy blue dress with the silvery sparkles. Only, would that be right? She didn't want to look like she was trying out for women's figure skating, or going to the prom. Not that it was anything like a prom dress, but...

"Buffy, I order you to stop panicking," Giles laughed, climbing, more slowly, behind her. "Wear that lovely blue dress, it will bring out your eyes."

She popped back out of the closet, eying him suspiciously. "How did you know what I was thinking?"

Giles edged past her to reach for his tux, still in the plastic bag from the cleaners, then out again, beginning to dress himself calmly. "You haven't worn it yet," he answered.

"Some explanation," Buffy told him, frowning. Giles only smiled back at her. "You know, guys are lucky: no fashion dilemmas."

Giles continued to smile benignly. "Want me to do up your zip for you?"

"I'm nowhere near that point," Buffy answered, and retreated, once more, to the safety of the closet.