Trust - Chapter 1

Buffy woke up feeling warm and strangely comfortable. Before, she'd had doubts about her choices, and even she had to admit that sleeping in Angel's bed in the deserted mansion had seemed, back when she'd been falling asleep, more like a way to punish herself than like any source of real comfort. She'd thought Graduation Night--which for some reason felt like a long, long time ago, instead of just a few hours past--was going to be it, that when she'd watched Angel walk away from her in a swirl of black coat and a few wisps of smoke, that was the end of things between them. She'd never see him again.

Or, at least, never see him in any way that made a difference to her life. Never without sorrow, regret, longing and a bunch of other emotions even less positive.

The sounds he'd made, drinking from her, still echoed in Buffy's ears, and she couldn't quite suppress a shudder. The pain stuck with her too. Angel's teeth, tearing into her, had hurt worse than anything she'd ever felt, worse than the Master's bite even. For a minute, there, she'd thought he was going to rip her throat out, he went for her so savagely.

But that's what you wanted, Buffy told herself. That's what you forced him to do. Angel wouldn't have done it, otherwise. It's not like he asked to be a vampire.

Well, okay, he sort of had, but that was a long, long time ago, and...

...That was far away, and in another country, and besides, the wench is dead. She'd heard Giles say that once, or something like it, and the words were pretty much what she meant, Darla being the wenchly type. Only now, great, she was quoting Giles, or quoting Giles quoting some old dead guy, and pretty soon she'd be lining up for her very own pretty pocket protector.

Which really wasn't fair, since she'd never seen Giles use a pocket protector. Actually, over the last year he'd started wearing some fairly decent suits, and then there was that nice gray sweater he'd had on when he ran Mayor Wilkins through on her behalf. With a sword, no less. She'd had the weirdest urge, afterwards, to go up to Giles when the others weren't there, and bury her face in that sweater, and have his arms go around her and hold her tight, so that she could feel warm and loved and safe.

Even if she wasn't. Even if she'd never be any of the above.

Buffy found herself shuddering harder, and all of a sudden she didn't want to be at the mansion anymore. She didn't want Angel's solidly, undeniably male body to be denting the mattress beside her. Once, she'd thought his presence made all the sacrifices, all the fighting and doubts and fears worthwhile. To wake up beside the one she loved--wasn't that all she'd ever asked for? Okay, maybe she'd asked for a few other things, but that one ranked particularly high on the list. Number one with a gold star beside it.

To wake up beside the one she loved, yes. But not, necessarily, now, to wake up beside Angel. That little girl who'd looked into the future with wide, trusting eyes and seen only him...she just wasn't there anymore. Buffy only wished she knew who'd taken her place.

Fingers trembling, she touched the side of her neck. Hardly anything there--just a little, little scar without the least bit of soreness to it. Chalk one up to Slayer healing. Or something. Could it be that what had seemed, at the time, so horrible, so frightening, had really been nothing after all? Could she have been so keyed up, that she'd exaggerate to such an extent?

Buffy frowned. She didn't think so. Slayer healing was great, but it didn't work that well. Angel had taken so much from her that she'd almost died, and what she'd felt, what she'd heard...maybe her brain had made things seem worse, but she found that hard to believe. She'd seen enough, been through enough, that the things that would have sent other girls screaming straight into therapy seemed like ho-hum, just another day to her.

But maybe things would be okay now that the pressure was off, now that they were here together again? Maybe she just needed time to get those feelings back?

"Honey," she said, in her softest voice, laying her hand on his bare back where the bird tattoo should have been--and there Buffy got her first shock: his skin was warm, almost feverishly warm. Beyond that, where her hand touched was stickily wet, and the moan that followed her touch...

That wasn't Angel's voice. It wasn't Angel there with her.

It was...

Buffy flew backwards out of the bed, her momentum nearly carrying her over the railing. She'd been in Giles's bed. In Giles's bedroom. In...

Oh, God. Oh. God.

"What the hell?" Buffy wondered aloud, shame and a feeling of utter...she didn't know, but it wasn't good...warring for equal time inside her. She looked down at herself, and for a moment couldn't believe it. She was wearing a pair of her shortie pajamas, the blue ones with the smiling moons and stars.

Wiping her wet hand on her leg, Buffy tiptoed forward until by stretching her arm out as far as she could, she switched on one of the bedside lamps. Sure enough. Green walls, dark wood, loft rail. GilesWorld. If there was a big blue crystal anywhere around here, someone was so dead.

No, that really wasn't fair, and Buffy felt sorry the moment she thought it. The Council had made him do that, and even so, Giles felt so guilty he'd probably never get over it again. Besides which, he was a good person, a decent person, and she didn't think even a terminal case of demon possession would make him do anything to harm or take advantage of or shame her.

Giles is Giles, she thought fondly. And the thought that she was here instead of at the mansion actually began to make her feel safer, unconventional attire aside.

Which led her to the very big, very huge question of what, in the name of all that was holy, had she been doing in bed with her Watcher? A.K.A. Mr. Reticence, her knight in tweedy armor, the man who'd scarcely even touch her outside of training. Giles would probably drop dead of a heart attack at the mere sight of her in these jammies, much less one of the little Victoria's Secret numbers she'd picked up during the days when she and Angel actually had been together.

All that aside...

Buffy stopped to take a deep breath. Or ten. The stickiness she'd wiped off her hand was red, so either she and Giles had been having a big tea-and-scones fest in bed, and had fallen asleep without putting the lid back on the strawberry jam, or else...

Maybe it wasn't actually Giles in the bed. With her. Formerly. Maybe it was... Buffy shook her head. Nope, there wasn't anything she could come up with to improve this situation. And the moan she'd heard had sounded, if such a thing was possible, weirdly British.

She moved slowly around to the other side of the bed, pausing on her way to dig one of Giles's sweaters out of a dresser drawer. He was big, she was small. The hem would hang just about to her knees, and as long as she didn't have to fight while wearing those guy-length sleeves, things would be okay for everyone concerned. And she was concerned. Unfortunately, this being Sunnydale, the strawberry jam theory just didn't ring true.

Shivering a little despite the sweater, Buffy turned on the second bedside lamp, then bent down. She touched Giles's shoulder gently, wondering what she'd do if he suddenly woke up, perfectly all right and demanding to know what the bloody hell she was doing in his bedroom. Buffy even had an answer to that one: dying of embarrassment.

"Hey," she said softly. "Hey. Giles. You okay in there?"

Only, he didn't answer, and when she'd peeled back the quilt and sheet, Buffy saw that perfectly all rightness wasn't going to be an issue. There was blood. Lots and lots of blood. Where there weren't bruises, that was. And burns.

But he hadn't fought last night. He hadn't. He'd wanted to, of course, but someone had to man the explosives, and Giles was only one she'd really really trusted to get the job done. Maybe afterwards, though... Maybe there had been bad things out there that didn't appreciate their leader's demise, and she and the Scoobies had each other, but they'd left Giles all on his own.

Giles is a smart man, she tried to tell herself. He knows how to take care of himself.

Against what odds? Buffy's conscience asked her, Jiminy Cricketlike. Vamps aren't famous for fighting fair, and as your known Watcher, Giles is a pretty obvious target.

"God, Giles," Buffy breathed, her stomach doing a weird twisting-thing. She'd never so much as seen Giles with his shirt off--she'd barely seen him with his jacket off--and to come upon him looking like this, all torn up, just this side of unconscious... How had he even managed to get home?

She knelt by the bed, taking his hand as gently as she could, hardly noticing that two of the fingers were seriously splinted, the same way they'd been last summer when she'd watched him from across the street. Well, she wouldn't let him down this time the way she had then.

"Giles," she said, and was rewarded by the sight of his eyes opening. They were swollen, and so red their normal greenness was almost lost, looking more gray then anything else. "Giles, it's Buffy. Can you hear me?"

His lips shaped her name, and then, to her complete terror, his eyes teared up, the real tears following less than a quarter of a second later. His grip tightened on her hand, and Buffy was afraid, really afraid, he was dying.

"Please don't," she begged him. "Please. Stay here. I'll call someone. 911. I'll call 911. For you. You'll be okay, Giles." All the time she was babbling, Buffy found herself backing away, finally creeping down the stairs in slow motion, even though her brain was yelling at her that time was probably of the serious essence.

This was Giles, and he was hurt. He needed her help. She cared for (loved? resented? needed?) Giles. If she was going to call, she had to do it now, with a quickness, not in whatever time it took her to get her ass in gear.

A knock on the door spared her any further action. Sleepwalking, she opened it up, half surprised to see Xander there, and half not.

"Buff? God, Buffy, what happened?" Xand seemed to have shot straight into instant-panic mode.

Willow. She should call Willow, it occurred to her. Will was the brainy one. She'd know what to do.

"I need to call Willow," Buffy mumbled.

Xander shot her an if-looks-could-kill kind of look. "And this would be why?" He caught hold of Buffy's blood-stained hand, then both her shoulders. "What did she do to you, Buff? Did she hurt you?"

"Willow? Hurt me?" Buffy felt herself dissolving into laughter, and sank down on the bottom step. "How?" she gasped, "With her mighty knowledge of calculus?"

Xander gave her another look, more patient than anything else. "Buffy," he said, slowly and clearly, as if speaking to a toddler, "Where's Giles? Is Giles upstairs?"

Wordlessly, Buffy nodded. Xander raced up the stairs. Seconds later, he reappeared, thrust a piece of paper into her hand and ordered, "Call this number. Now, Buff. Ask for room 739."

Numbly, Buffy called, but the voice that answered threw her for a loop. "Giles?" she said, wondering if she was dreaming after all. Things would all be so much easier if this was a dream.

"Buffy?" the Giles-voice said back to her.

"Xander said call here. Am I dreaming?"

"Xander said?" the voice echoed. "Buffy, where are you calling from?"

"Umn..." Could this get more surreal? Was it a prophetic dream? Maybe something bad was going to happen to Giles, and this was...

"Buffy!" the voice said sharply.

"Okay, okay, keep your shirt on." You could be rude to people in dreams, right? What were they going to do about it? "I'm at your place. Which is weird, because you're upstairs."

"Right." the voice answered, "Thank you for ringing. I'll be there directly," and hung up.

Slowly, Buffy wandered back to the loft.

"Giles says he's on his way," she told Xander.

"Sebastian," Xander answered shortly. Weirdly, her friend was skinnier than she remembered, and his eyes had a dark, haunted look.

Sebastian? Buffy thought. Who the hell is Sebastian?

The Giles on the bed said something in a hoarse whisper, which made Xander's eyes go even sadder. He'd been trying to dab at the bleeding spots on Giles's back, but there were too many, and Xander's hands were already covered with blood.

"Not like that," Buffy said, nudging her friend aside. If she was going to be stuck in a crazy dream, she might as well do something productive. She put big wadges of gauze onto a couple of the spots that seemed to be bleeding the worst and pressed down on them. "See? Steady pressure."

"Buff, what's the last thing you remember?" Xander asked quietly, even as his hands got busy doing what she'd said. Even knowing none of the injuries were real, Buffy still felt a little bit sick. This was horror-movie stuff, and it was Giles, and she didn't like having it in her head.

"Later," Giles said in the same raspy voice, talking to Xander, not her.

"But if you tell her..." Xander tried to argue.

"Later, please," Giles answered wearily. "There's no point, just now. Perhaps no point ever." Struggling a lot, he got out from under their hands, levering himself up until he'd slumped, sitting, on the edge of the bed. Buffy got a weird vibe from him, one that threw her off completely--the physical pain he was in must have been intense, but lots stronger than that, she had a strange sensation of emotional pain, one that ranked with the worst she'd ever felt. Absolute failure. Self-blame. Hopelessness.

A good minute or so of that, and then it was gone, like it had never been, and Giles's eyes were turned away from her. "Buffy, if you would..." He was panting, and had to stop for breath, touching his side tenderly as he did so.

"What?" she asked, strangely saddened for all the unreality of the situation. She had the weirdest urge to sit down beside Giles, put her arms around him, pull his head down onto her shoulder and just hold him.

Only she was afraid of hurting him more. And this was Giles, after all. Don't-stand-so-close-to-me Giles.

Only, no, that wasn't what she meant at all. Buffy didn't know what she meant, and it confused her. To make matters worse, Giles's wounded eyes were watching her, and though his face was all rigid with held-in pain, his eyes looked gentle, even loving.

Buffy stopped, looking down on him. My Watcher, she thought. My mentor. My...friend? Her mouth opened to say something, but just then, someone else knocked hard on the door.

"Got it!" Buffy called out and, shamefully, fled. She hadn't meant to make her escape so obvious, but it was, and she had a sneaking suspicion that whatever Giles was hurting from, she'd just hurt him that much more.

"I didn't mean it," she wanted to say. Only, by that time her hand was on the knob, and the door swinging open.

What she saw there only made her confusion grow. The guy standing there was, absolutely, Giles to a T. Except he wasn't. For one thing, the age was off by about fifteen years, and not-Giles's hair was red. No, not really red, but a cool dark-auburn color that you couldn't get from any Miss Clairol product she'd seen on the drugstore shelves. Also, not a hint of the tweed. This guy dressed, and dressed well. Even Cordelia would have approved. Buffy knew that she did.

In fact, she'd have liked to steal a page from Cordelia's book and say, "Hello, Giles the next generation." Except for two things. One, she was seriously worried about her Giles. Two, Giles Mark II wore a very tasteful, probably very expensive wedding ring on his left hand.

"Umn...hi?" she said instead.

The guy's hands went right to her shoulders, and he looked straight down into her eyes. No shyness there, no holding back. "Buffy, you said my dad's upstairs?" he said to her, after about a minute of that.

Buffy felt her jaw drop, but she nodded anyway. Sure, Giles was old, but the wasn't that old, despite all the stuff she'd said to him. He couldn't have a son that age. Maybe it was an honorary thing. That was it. This guy was...umn...a younger brother who thought of her Giles as his dad.

Another part of her wondered, Why don't I know about this person?

To which a third part answered, Because, Buff, you've always been too busy being a jerk where Giles is concerned. What do you know about him, really? I bet Xander and Will know lots, but you've never asked. The man puts his life on the line for you how many times, but you couldn't be bothered?

Giles Mark II was already bounding up the stairs. Buffy followed more slowly, arriving in time to see him and Xander, between them, helping her Watcher stand.

"Should you be doing that?" she asked. "Moving him, I mean?" She felt left out, and worried, and deep down somewhere in a place she tried not to acknowledge, close to panicked. Giles was hurt, and she hated for Giles to be hurt. And, this time, she even meant that for his own sake, not just for her convenience.

"The light's no good in here," Giles Mark II told her, speaking kindly, in his comforting Giles-voice. "I'd like to see if I should force him to go to hospital, or if it's safe to let him be miserable at home. All right with you, Buffy?"

He seemed to expect something from her, but all she could do was nod. When the bathroom door--Giles had an upstairs bathroom?--closed behind the three guys, she was left feeling something she didn't understand. Buffy tried telling herself it was just the after-effect of her dark thoughts about Angel, but that wasn't it. More like she'd had something wonderful, and lost it, and now couldn't even remember what it had been, only that the loss had left a great, big, empty hole inside her.

So, maybe it was Angel after all. Certainly, she had plenty of loss and hurt to go with her Angel-related emotions. Even though this felt different.

Buffy sighed, and for lack of something better to do, began to strip the bed. That done, she went exploring until she'd found clean sheets and pillowcases, then made everything up neatly, even turning down the covers. When she'd finished, Buffy sat on the edge of the bed, attempting to eavesdrop on what was going on behind that closed bathroom door and, at the same time, trying not to cry. The last thing Giles needed to see was her big boo-hoo face, which she knew wigged him out.

So, she listened hard, not easy with two British low-talkers, even given the bonus of Slayer hearing. For a long time, all she got was a bunch of Latin, punctuated by an occasional "What?" from Xander, and finally, also from Xander, "I'll stay. You know I'll stay. Because A--you can't count on her. And B--won't it hurt worse, having her here?"

Thanks, Xand, Buffy thought dryly. Not count on her? Of course Giles could count on her!

Except for all the times he couldn't. Okay, that part had, maybe, been true. But why would it hurt Giles to have her around? Sure, they had their differences, squabbles, arguments, even, just about, knock-down-drag-out fights, but he had to know, didn't he, how she felt about him? He was her Giles, her Watcher, and she couldn't do her job without him.

Oh, great, she told herself. Now you've downgraded Giles to a business acquaintance. Maybe you can trade a little gossip with him by the water-cooler. You, Buff, are so kind.

Trying to make herself feel better, she drifted over to the dresser, meaning to find Giles something non-bloody to wear, even though she felt weird going through his drawers. Just watch her be Helpful Buffy!

Only, she'd just put her hand on the drawer-pull when the three guys came out again, Giles wearing his bathrobe and walking very stiffly, a little bent over, obviously trying very hard to appear one hundred per cent normal and failing miserably.

"It's late, Buffy," he said to her kindly. "You must be tired. Would you like to have Sebastian drive you home?"

"What about patrol?" Buffy asked, expecting the whole honor-and-duty speech, even though she was tired, and didn't feel up to much of anything.

"Not tonight, Buffy," Giles told her. "Go home. Rest. I'll see you sometime tomorrow, possibly."

"Giles, you're not--" Xander began.

Giles gave him a weary smile. "We've still Buffy's house to ward, and I'd rather not leave that any longer." His gaze turned to her, and if Buffy had thought Xander's eyes had looked haunted, Giles's were like Spook Central. "One thing, Buffy, before you go. Of late, Willow's forays into the field of magic have gone somewhat astray. There have been incidents. Serious incidents. I shan't order you not to see her, but it would, I believe, be better for all concerned that you remain apart."

"Apart?" Buffy echoed. "From Willow? From our Willow."

"Just so," Giles answered softly. His hand rose to her shoulder, lingering there, lightly, for only a few seconds. "I'm sorry, Buffy," he told her. "So very sorry."

Not exactly sure what she was doing, Buffy stepped closer, invading his personal space in a way she'd hardly dared to do before. "Giles," she said, "Call me wacky, but I think you're hiding something. From me."

"Not hiding," he answered. "Never hiding. Only..." That hurt, lost look was back in his eyes, stronger than ever. "Only it's late, and there's a great deal to tell. Do come back tomorrow, w-whenever you'd like."

"I'd rather stay," she answered, frightened and confused, but trying to be brave, even though she knew, somehow, arguing about it only hurt him more. Something she'd done had injured him terribly, or maybe not even something she'd done. Just something that had happened between them, only she didn't know what it was, and had no idea how to even try to remember.

"Whatever happened," Buffy told him, surprised to find her voice breaking, "I didn't mean it. You know I didn't mean it, right, Giles? You believe I didn't?"

"No, no," he brushed Buffy's cheek, just a whisper of a touch, and one that made her shiver, sadness welling inside her until tears came into her eyes. "You've done nothing, love. Nothing to fear. Nothing to be ashamed of. Tomorrow, I promise, I shall be stronger."

As the younger Giles look-alike--Sebastian? Was that his name?--herded her down the stairs, Buffy couldn't help but look back. Her Giles had sunk down on the edge of the bed, in the same spot where she'd been sitting previously. He was bent over, slumped over, really, with his head in his hands, and Xander had sat down beside him, his arm draped, very gently it appeared, around Giles's shoulders.

"He's not--?" she started to ask the stranger behind her. But that was ridiculous. Giles didn't cry. Her Giles never cried.

Except when he'd lost someone he really cared for.

Love? Buffy wondered, as she slid into the passenger seat of the younger Giles's rental car. Since when does Giles call me 'love?'