Tribulations - Chapter 62

As the Citroen groaned its way up Highway 101, Buffy felt a quiet settle over her that was almost like being at peace, or as close to at peace as she'd been in a very long time. The ocean whispered softly in her ears and Giles held her hand as he drove, only releasing her, every now and then, to shift gears. Even the Citroen's grumblings were comforting, somehow--like the not-really-serious complaints of a crotchety but beloved old friend.

"Did you enjoy tonight, Buffy?" Giles asked her softly, after several miles of highway had passed them by.

Buffy wasn't sure how to answer, and she hoped he wouldn't take her silence as a "no" or think she was taking the time to make up a lie. Because she had enjoyed it, every minute of it.

Giles had taken her to a Spanish restaurant that served interesting little appetizer-type thingies called "tapas." The part of the restaurant they'd been seated in was like an arbor, with vines twining through the lattice-work and hundreds of little multicolored lights threaded through the vines. Besides that, she'd never seen Giles so--well, she wasn't sure exactly what the word was. Not relaxed, exactly. Maybe "centered" was closer to what she was looking for: so focused on making her happy, and comfortable with their surroundings. She'd probably been the youngest person there, but she'd seen other women--and guys too--near enough to her own age that she didn't feel completely freaky. Instead, she'd felt special, and sophisticated, and she'd loved being dressed up, the way everyone who'd come there was dressed up. She'd sneaked little peeks, every now and then, at the other couples--its was definitely a coupley kind of place--and seen the same kind of looks on their faces that she and Giles had: those crazy-in-love expressions that told her this was a romantic night for them, too, a night to be remembered and treasured.

She'd liked seeing Giles by candlelight, as well--the way it caught in his green eyes and brought a certain mystery to the familiar lines of his face. Most of all, she'd loved dancing with him. The restaurant featured a live band, a really good live band, and a big, shadowy dance floor. When Giles led her out there she'd gotten a fluttery feeling in her stomach, one that only grew when he breathed in her ear, "Follow me, love."

She'd surprised herself, because she could follow him, first in a slow tango, then in a faster one, the closest she'd ever come to actually making love in public--how was that for a bizarre thought?--because that's what was there in the spins and the dips, the long, slow touches of Giles's hands on her body, the strength of his arms as he held her. Buffy found herself breathless by the time they finished--and definitely not with the exercise.

Now, riding home in Giles's rattly little car, she fought to hold onto that magic, that removal from the time and space of her everyday life. She felt guilty, somehow, for having enjoyed herself that much, when Moira lay dead and so much badness existed in the world. It surprised her, sometimes, how much her feelings about these things had flip-flopped since she'd first been Called.

And now, Buffy realized, the silence since Giles asked his question had stretched out way past the point of anything she could explain.

After giving her a little glance, Giles reached down to signal a turn--a left-hand turn, surprisingly enough. Half a minute after that, he down-shifted to actually take the turn. The Citroen bounced over not-particularly smooth asphalt for a few minutes, then juddered onto an unpaved road, little pieces of gravel hissing up from beneath the tires.

They passed through a cleft between two big rocks like camel's humps, at which point the road started angling downward at such a steep angle Buffy had serious doubts about whether the poor, grumbling car would ever be able to make it back up again. At least without suffering a slow and noisy death.

The gravel road snaked back and forth through the series of low hills beneath the cliffs until it stopped, all at once, in the middle of a little stand of scrubby pines. After giving her another quick look, Giles parked, right there at the end of the road.

Buffy peered between the tree trunks, amazed by what she saw. They'd reached a secluded little cove, and the Pacific stretched in front of her, all dark and crumply with waves, bits of silver flashing off the water from the full moon overhead.

Still not speaking, Buffy slipped out, breathing in the sharp, salty ocean-smell, her high-heeled shoes making her wobble a little on the crumbly, pine-needle-cushioned soil.

Giles's door shut with a little click, and suddenly, as Buffy stood gazing up at the huge, blue-velvet expanse of the night sky, he was behind her, draping his jacket over her bare shoulders.

"I've never seen the sky look so big before," she whispered. "Not in California."

"In the Midwest, perhaps?" Giles's soft, comforting voice replied. "Where your aunt lives?"

"Mmn," Buffy answered--which wasn't really an answer, she knew, but all of this had caught her so completely off-balance she no longer knew what to say or feel.

Surprising her yet again, Giles lifted her, setting her down on the still-fairly-warm hood of his car. His eyes caught and held Buffy's as he gently, deftly, unbuckled first one, then the other of her blue-satin sandals. Smoothly, then, his hands stroked up her legs, his eyes widening a little as they encountered the tops of her stockings, then the garters that held them in place.

"You think you're the only one full of surprises?" Buffy whispered, laughing softly now, the sense of guilt fading slowly from her mind.

"Apparently not," Giles said, his voice low and throaty, full of emotion. He rolled the stockings down, the silk and his hands caressing her skin, then slipped them off her altogether.

"Walk with me?" he asked, lifting Buffy down again.

She clung to him a moment, her body pressed close to his, her hands on his shoulders, then backed up a little, steadying him as he kicked off his own shoes--and somehow managed to get out of his socks, as well. Either he used magic, or guys really did have it easy when it came to the whole dressing-and-undressing thing.

Hand-in-hand, they passed through the thin belt of trees, balancing their way over the drift-logs and onto the damp sand.

The tide must be ebbing, Buffy thought--and it must have been really high, because once they'd gotten past the logs, the whole beach was smooth and wet, sloping evenly down to the tideline. More stars than she'd ever noticed before twinkled coldly in the sky, and the line of the surf looked like something molded out of silver.

Except for the low roar of the Pacific, and the soft scritch-scratch of their footsteps on the damp sand, everything around them was perfectly quiet, no parties or bonfires or pesky demons anywhere.

Facing the ocean, Buffy shut her eyes, the wind stroking her face and tugging little tendrils of hair away from the pins that held her up-do. Her short skirt rippled against her thighs, and she was glad to have Giles's jacket, the light wool soft and warm around her, and smelling, indefinably, or him.

"Sometimes one comes to believe that he--or she--has forfeited the right to joy," Giles said quietly, his voice still managing to carry over the sound of the surf. "I'm afraid that, for a long while, I believed happiness and duty to be mutually exclusive things, and that duty must, in all instances, win out."

"What changed your mind?" Buffy asked, having to yell a little--she couldn't make her voice project the way his did.

Giles bent slightly, enveloping her warmly in his arms. "Do you actually need to ask, Buffy?"

She turned back to him, reaching up again, willing him to hold her, to keep holding her, his warm embrace keeping away every bad thing that had ever been, or ever would be. And he did. Of course he did--but then he moved away again, and something completely foreign to her came into his eyes. They danced at her, and Giles was laughing, swatting her playfully on the rump then scooting, just in time, out of her reach.

"Oh, you!" Buffy cried out in mock indignation, and then they were chasing one another, splashing into the breaking waves and out again, their bare feet kicking up sand and salt water and God knew what else.

"You're gonna wreck your suit," she called out to him, to which Giles answered, laughingly, that he didn't care.

She wasn't sure how long it lasted, but by the time they'd finally captured one another, by mutual consent, they were both breathless with the running and the uncontrolled laughter. The dark clouds, too, had blown up to cover the moon again, making everything around them shadowy. The air tasted like rain.

"It's going to--" Giles began, gazing down at her, his white shirt practically the only thing Buffy could make out in that sudden darkness. Except that, the longer she looked, the better she could see him, and she found that Giles seemed--not young, maybe, but completely himself, as if nothing at all was left of what others had drilled into him, or forced on him. He looked confident, and strong--and, to her admittedly biased eyes--absolutely perfect.

"I know," Buffy answered, reaching up to touch his cheek. Giles turned his face into her palm, kissing her. "I love you, Giles. You know that? Really, really, really, I mean?"

His eyes shut for just a moment, and when they opened again, she knew. He believed, and believed absolutely. Not even the tiniest bit of doubt remained between them. In the future, there might be exploration, even momentary confusion, but there would never again be any distrust or fear.

The completeness of that emotion took Buffy's breath away all over again. For just a second she wasn't sure if she was ready, yet, to feel so much--but then she knew that she'd never truly wanted anything else.

"Yes," Giles told her quietly. "Yes, my love, that's precisely what I feel."

At which moment, the skies chose to open up again, dumping what seemed like gallons of water on their unsuspecting heads. Which made them laugh all over again--how could they do otherwise?

"So--" Buffy said, as they sloshed their way back to the Citroen. "You really like this kind of weather, huh?"

"Like," Giles replied, digging for his keys in one thoroughly sodden trouser-pocket, "Might well be exaggerating matters a bit."

***

It had touched Wesley, rather, the way Xander seemed so completely intent on fulfilling his duty. In fact, the boy's devotion had, perhaps, its desired effect, that of preventing his contemplation of any rash and bloody--or, in his case, dusty might be the more appropriate term--deed. It seemed impolite to mention, even in passing, how greatly he'd have preferred to be left alone.

Somewhere far from him hunger gnawed. Xander might certainly have been relied upon to fetch some form of sustenance, would no doubt have almost enjoyed being sent on that useful errand, but the presence of such a bodily desire disgusted Wesley. They--and his sense of honour and decency--would not allow him to destroy himself, but neither could he bear to live as he must live. He could not be the thing he had become, not without his Emmy. Without the light of her presence, his existence must be utterly lightless.

For a moment, that afternoon, caught up in the fruits of his research, he'd nearly brought himself to hope. What if evil could be turned to good? What if these terrible weeks and months might be stripped away from him, restoring him to a state of innocence? That he would still cherish his beloved without those events, he had no doubt. Hadn't he loved her from the first, however unwilling he'd been to admit the fact? And hadn't all his unwillingness stemmed from his own lack of any sense of self-worth? Emmy had awakened that in him once, she would surely do so again.

Only now, in this darker time, he'd discovered a deeper fear: was it the actual events that were undone by the demon's agency, or merely one's memory of those events? Would he, should Willow's spell be successful (and there was another point of doubt, one nearly too dire to be considered) be restored to himself, and Moira returned to life, or would he merely lose his knowledge of that time, the sweetness drained away with the bitterness?

Wesley nearly groaned aloud, then noticed Xander watching him over the top of a comic he'd only pretended to be reading. For the first time, it struck him how weary the boy looked, and how unwell. After all, he'd suffered rather a severe blow to the head, and ought to have been resting in his own right, not keeping vigil over such a creature as himself, one with no real need to sleep.

"Xander," he said quietly, "You look done in."

"'m okay," the boy muttered, even as his hand went to his head, rubbing the skin as if that might somehow ease the ache inside.

"Did you sleep at all last night?" Wesley rose from his chair, crossing the room to him--still astonished, after this time, by how quickly he was able to move, and how quietly.

"Whoa!" Xander recoiled, obviously just as surprised as he Wesley himself. "Wes. I'm begging you. Don't do that."

"Sorry," Wesley told him. And he was, truly. Of all Buffy's friends, he'd once, perhaps, liked Xander the least, had seen him as glib and shallow and hurtful in the things he had to say. He realized now how wrong he had been.

Em, after all, had seen a great deal in the boy.

He knelt, brushing his fingertips across Xander's brow. "Hurts, does it?"

"It's okay," the boy said again.

"Which means, I suppose, that you'd actually be more than happy to climb into bed and sleep for a week. Is that more or less the sum of it?"

Xander slumped back in his chair, his eyes warm, dark, filled with a hurt Wesley had never noticed before. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

"And when did you last eat?" Wesley inquired.

"About the time you did," Xander told him, with a flash of his old spirit.

"Did you want to...umn...order a pizza or something?"

Xander made a face of profound distaste--from what Wesley had seen of him previously, he knew this must indicate that the boy felt quite unwell indeed. "You don't wanna fill your house with garlic, Wes," Xander told him, with something of the air of the excuse.

"I'm afraid my own culinary skills don't extend much beyond the warming of tinned soup," Wesley told him. "Would that suit you any better?"

Xander shrugged, but at least did not appear sickened at the prospect.

"Soup it is, then," Wesley said, straightening. "Mind you, I make no promises." He clasped the boy's shoulder briefly, and was nearly pleased to discover that Xander did not shrink from the coldness of his hand.

"Fair enough," Xander answered, with the ghost of a grin.

The kitchen, however, Wesley soon discovered, held other ghosts, for Moira had occupied it fully, as she occupied any room she inhabited. He encountered the washing-up she'd done last, long dry now on the draining-board. Her reading spectacles lay folded neatly on the table, a bottle of half-used nail varnish stood on the small stand beneath the telephone. The very air, somehow, still seemed to carry traces of her scent.

For the longest time, he stood lost, rubbing his hand slowly back and forth across the top bar of the chair where she'd--he would still have blushed at the memory, had he been able to blush--where she'd enjoyed him so thoroughly. If he ventured back through the door and down the short corridor to the bedroom, he'd find more signs still: her lovely blue dressing gown, her vanilla and jasmine shampoo in the shower, the brush with which she attacked the flaming glory of her hair. Were he to turn detective and search further, he'd find still more traces of her presence, thousands of traces, each of them a tiny stake delivered to his silent but far-from-unfeeling heart.

Before he knew what had happened, the tears had begun again. At first, it had surprised him that he could weep, that such an action still belonged to this travesty of a body. Perhaps tears were a side-effect of the soul, a small kindness through which to cast off at least a portion of its pain.

Wesley half-sat, half-fell into the chair that had always been his, feeling her there, her presence over him, her weight across his lap, her strength and her scent and the silken roughness of her fingers on his skin.

"Oh, God!" he moaned, not knowing why he cried out, or to whom, only that this must end, must be resolved, somehow. "Please," he found himself praying. "Please...whatever I must do, whatever sacrifice I can make, I must have it back again. I can't go on like this. I can't... I can't..."

Somewhere in the back of his head, Wesley knew that he would echo Buffy's words, and that his voice would hold all the same anguish that hers had held.

"Please," he pleaded, "I can't live this life."