Trust - Chapter 10

Buffy didn't end up calling Celeste for a ride home after all. Instead, she and Willow walked over to Main Street and had iced mochas at the Espresso Pump, talking about nothing in particular--guys in general and clothes and what stuff they wanted to put in their dorm room--just like in the old days. If she tried a little, Buffy could even make believe that things hadn't changed, that she really was the same old Buffy, and Will was the same old Willow, everything all right, best friends forever.

The problem with make believe, though, was pretty much the same problem she'd had since she was four years old: it wasn't real, and she knew it wasn't real, no matter how much she wanted it to be. They didn't mention magic, or Xander or Oz or Giles, and they didn't talk about anything that had happened since they'd left Appleyard, which was the point at which Buffy's memories suddenly dropped off the edge of the world.

When Willow said she had to go home, Buffy was almost glad. The whole time, it had been like half of her was there, giggling and chatting, while the other half looked on all worried and afraid. After she'd hugged Will goodbye, she just kind of sank back down at their favorite pink table, stirring the semi-melted ice cubes around and around the bottom of her second mocha, trying to summon the strength of mind to do something. Anything.

She wished she could talk to Giles about this, without running up against either his stubborn or Buffy-protective streaks.

About the time she'd moved on to stabbing the individual cubes with the end of her straw, a girl--the one they'd seen at Orientation, with the zig-zag part in her hair--sat down across the table from her, shivering a little as she slid into the chair Will had occupied.

Buffy let go of the straw, trying not to glare at the intruder, even though she felt glarey. Her first impression was that this girl looked shy, and someone like that didn't just barge in on you without a good reason. Her eyes were big and soft and timid, reminding Buffy of the doe she'd seen at the edge of Becker's Woods one morning, coming back late from patrol: graceful and wild and looking like she might bolt at any moment.

"I guess..." the girl said, in a sweet, quiet voice that went well with those eyes. "I guess maybe I shouldn't have followed you."

Buffy gave her a look, not letting her face reveal anything.

"I'm not crazy." The eyes pleaded, I'm not, I'm really not, please believe me.

"O-kay." Suddenly, Buffy couldn't be there anymore. She got up from the table, hoping now that the girl would get scared away, and not come after her. Whatever she had to say, Buffy had a feeling she didn't want to hear it.

But shyness aside, the girl seemed determined. When Buffy headed out the open front door, she followed.

"Please," she said, "Just listen to me. For a minute." She took a big gulping breath. "That girl you were with. Your friend..." Her hand touched softly, lightly, on Buffy's arm for just a second before she snatched it away again.

"Uh-huh?" Buffy answered, putting on her faux-patient voice. Because she was scared. She was so scared, and she knew she didn't want to hear the words this girl had to say, because once they'd left her mouth, Buffy didn't know why, but she'd have to believe them. She'd have to. This girl wasn't a person who told lies.

"She was...I know this sounds weird, and I know there's no reason you should believe me...but she was putting a spell on you A...um...a magic spell.." The words came out all in a rush, and once they'd been said, the girl stared down at her own toes, her long, soft hair falling forward to half cover her face. "There's no reason your should trust me. Or believe me." She glanced up, just for a minute. "But I swear..."

"I know," Buffy answered quietly. "I do know." The backs of her eyes stung, and a lump came into her throat as if she'd swallowed one of the ice cubes whole.

And she did know. She'd known all along. The girl who'd sat with her in the dorm room and laughed with her over coffee had been an imposter pretending to be the Willow she loved. None of it had been real. Not one minute of it.

With a strange, graceful hesitancy, this girl's hand went to Buffy's shoulder. "I'm sorry," she said gently. "I am."

"Me too," Buffy answered, and sighed. Sadness settled over her like a heavy, soaking-wet blanket. "How did you know?"

"She was so...bright. So bright. And it was beautiful, but..." The girl's broad forehead creased and her breath caught. "Wrong. It was wrong."

"You're a witch?" Buffy asked her.

The girl shook her head violently. "No. Oh, no. Not me. I just..." Now she really looked like she was getting ready to bolt. "That is, I..."

"It's okay." Buffy took a few deep breaths of her own, until she could come up with something almost like a smile. "Whatever you...I mean.. Uh, thanks. Not everyone would have bothered to say. Most wouldn't. I'm glad you did, um...?"

"Tara," the girl said. "Tara McClay."

"I'm Buffy. Summers." She ran her hands back through her hair (great, now she was picking up Giles-habits) and sighed again. Life sucked. "Tara, did you ever have one of those just totally screamworthy days?"

The other girl nodded emphatically.

"Actually, I think I'm having a screamworthy life." More than anything she'd ever wanted, Buffy wished she could run after Willow and catch her, spin her around, beg her to say that all this was wrong, that Buffy could still trust her, that everything would be just the way it had always been between them. Half of what bothered her wasn't even the spells, or the lying. It was having Willow, her Willow, the best friend she'd ever had, smile in her face while stabbing her in the back.

Giles would probably think she was naive. And she was. Buffy knew that. In part of her head life was still supposed to be fair and all decisions easy and the people you loved would love you back forever.

There was Tara fumbling in her backpack for a wad of Kleenex, her face all tight with worry and sympathy, but when the tissues were in Buffy's hand, all she could do was stare at them blearily while the tears ran down her cheeks and over her chin.

"I loved her," she said, in a choked little voice. "She was my friend."

"I know," Tara answered, in that same sad, sweet, gentle tone. "I could tell."

Buffy walked home the long way around, finally taking off her sandals when her feet started blistering too badly to stand wearing them any more. On the surface of the world, everything looked normal, everything seemed nice. Smoke rose from backyard barbecues, kids splashed in their wading pools, other kids raced up and down the sidewalks screaming at the top of their lungs. At first, that made Buffy cringe, until she realized they weren't screaming because they were hurt or afraid, just yelling for the sheer joy of being noisy.

She'd been the same way, once, playing with her cousin Cecilia. Somewhere in the back of her head the two of them were still racing around the yard on their Big Wheels, yelling so loud it made the windows shake.

Buffy understood. Right now, she wanted to scream herself. Maybe instead of going home she should walk up to King's Bluff, over the ocean, open her mouth and just let everything pour out in one big, noisy blast of anger and fear and frustration. At the moment, she didn't think she could face going inside the apartment, into the shadowy quiet, being with Giles in his pain, his kindness, his practicality.

She didn't like what it said about her, but she couldn't.

Only she didn't know where else to go.

After a while, Buffy started to feel dumb, standing out there on the hot sidewalk, shifting from foot to foot like a little kid who needed to go to the bathroom. Grow up, she told herself. Just grow up. Giles was kind, he was practical, and if she told him how she was feeling, he'd do his best to understand. Maybe he could even say or do something that would help. If she didn't give him the chance, she wasn't being fair. It's not like he'd ever tell her "I told you so."

In the end, she went up--and down--letting herself in with her key. Inside, it wasn't shadowy after all--someone had drawn back the heavy curtains, allowing the apartment to fill up with a lot more light than Buffy had ever seen there before. By the way the glass sparkled, and from a lemony hint of furniture polish in the air, she kind of suspected the hand of Celeste had been at work, tackling a few of the household chores she and Giles had been neglecting.

She watched sunlight move in ripples over the walls and the hardwood floors, knowing, somehow, that Giles wasn't there after all. The moment the realization hit her, Buffy began to miss him terribly, almost desperately.

Besides which, what was he doing out and about? He was supposed to be here, at home, resting. Waiting for her.

As if that was fair. Probably, if Celeste had been by, she and Seb had taken him out somewhere. Even Giles could get bored, cooped up here all day by himself.

Only, where had he gone to this morning, while she'd been oversleeping? It's not like he'd be up for a brisk jog around the block.

So, maybe Aunt Flora had taken him out. She struck Buffy as an early riser, and the two of them probably had things to talk about. Maybe this was Flora's first time in California, and Giles had decided to show her around a little.

Yeah, Buffy said to herself. 'Cause Giles is so in shape to do a little sightseeing. She wandered over to check the answering machine. No messages. Nothing under the refrigerator magnets, either, or on the pass-through counter. Bingo, though, on the narrow table behind the couch--which wasn't at all one of their usual places for leaving notes, that she remembered.

Only maybe it was now. How would she know? Being memory-loss girl sucked even worse than her life in general.

Buffy flopped down on the couch to read, unsealing the envelope and pulling out a single sheet of cream-colored paper. Uh-oh. The good paper. She hoped that wasn't a sign.

Giles's penmanship, on the page, was a lot bigger and scrawlier than usual, though that wasn't the least bit surprising with his fingers all splinted up the way they'd been. She skimmed the contents, then took it from the top, reading carefully the second time. It was a dry letter. A very Watcher/Slayer kind of letter, despite the fact that he'd probably (knowing Giles) lain awake half the night planning what to say.

But it all boiled down to this: he'd lied to her, for whatever reason, for whatever motive, he'd lied. A slow, burning anger began to push its way out from behind her eyeballs. Wasn't there anyone, anyone she could trust? Why didn't Giles think he could come right out and tell her? Were the words, "Buffy, I'm going. I gave my word and I have to do this" so hard to say?

Only he had said them, hadn't he, the night before? He'd said them, and she'd blown up at him. Giles had known she'd try to stop him, the way she'd stopped him every other time he'd tried to go out and do something brave and crazy, something that would take him away from her.

Only now he was gone, and this was what was left: a note with bad handwriting, telling her to call Sebastian if she needed help. Great. Just great. Sebastian? What the hell kind of good would Sebastian be, when all she really, really wanted and needed was Giles?

She crumpled the letter up in her hand and tossed it across the room, where it landed (of course, gotta love that perfect Slayer aim) in the fireplace, a white lump against the soot-blackened brick inside.

"I'm gonna kill you," she muttered. "Giles, when you get back, you're history." Even to her own ears, her voice lacked any sort of strength of conviction, and far from wanting to kill him, she really just wanted to curl up in his arms and have him hold her, gently or tightly, whichever he could manage, she didn't care. She needed him just to be there.

After a long time, she caught a little ripple of color on the edge of her vision. Then another. Blues and greens like light flashing through an aquarium. Buffy glanced up to see a little bubble, almost like the soap bubbles she and Will and Xander still--okay, not really still, but recently--liked to blow with the little wands that came in plastic bottles of bubble-stuff. The thing hovered right in front of her eyes, swaying as if caught in some sort of current from the air conditioner, one that didn't quite have the power to move it all the way.

"Glinda?" Buffy said, but that was just silly. No Good Witch in a big dress was going to pop out and explain everything. There wouldn't be any wizard or any magic shoes. She was on her own for this one.

Still, she felt a weird compulsion to touch the little green-and-blue ball. When she ran her fingertips over the surface, it felt satiny, a little warm--and more than that, she caught a sense of...

Buffy reached up, capturing the ball between her hands, all awareness of the world around her fading away. When she held it, he was there, her Giles, his presence cupped inside her hands, all his strength, his warmth, his protectiveness right there for her to hold.

Buffy scooted down against the cushions, pulling the chenille throw up over her head, curling up into a little ball herself as she held the sphere even tighter, pressing it against her heart.

Safe now. Safe and loved and secure. No need to move. No need to go anywhere. Everything soft and muted and warm, like Quiltworld.

Moira's voice was calling to him, and Giles's first impulse was to burrow deeper beneath the covers, even though his hard narrow bed felt even less comfortable than usual and winter's chill seemed to radiate from the old stone walls of his Compound room.

"Five more minutes, Em," he mumbled. "Five. Can't hurt." It couldn't be time for training yet, could it? He felt as if he'd barely shut his eyes, and Merrick had had them at it past one o'clock last night--this morning, actually, he supposed, if one were to be accurate--though it wasn't as if either of them had gone straight to bed, after. Not to sleep, at any rate.

Moira, evidently, intended to be merciless. She shook his shoulder quite roughly, and it hurt more than Giles could have imagined possible. Was this more than a wake-up call after all? Had he been injured, or...?

In a moment, it all came crashing back to him: these weren't his old rooms at the Watchers' Compound. Being late to a session with Mr. Merrick was the least of his worries, for Merrick, was, in fact, long dead.

And Moira was dead too. That was the point of this exercise, wasn't it? That Moira was dead?

Despair washed over him, and in that moment Giles remembered everything. Moira was dead, and he'd brought them--Wesley, Xander and himself--to this terrible place. This terrible place where demons dwelt.

Even the voice had deceived him. It wasn't Moira's voice after all--he hadn't heard from her since the dream or vision or visitation that sent him on this insane quest--but Wesley's, and Wesley's hands that shook him, as well.

"All right," he muttered, in a voice that sounded nothing like his own. "'m all right." He struggled to get an arm beneath his body, to lever himself upright out of the slippery, almost greasy-textured dust that coated the ground everywhere in this place. Movement, and the disturbance of this dust caused a violent coughing fit that lasted nearly a minute, and when it was over at last Giles thought he'd never be able to breathe again--he struggled long and hard before his tortured lungs began their work once more, pulling hard on the thin air. They'd come in to one of those periods of too-bright, pulsating colour, and the moment he opened his eyes, his head seemed to throb with it.

"Sorry," he said. "Didn't mean..."

"Perhaps I should not have awakened you," Wesley said softly. He'd lost, at this point, something of the fanatic's look he'd worn since their journey began, and seemed, instead, desperately sad, his mouth set in a line of hopeless determination.

Giles wondered how long it had been, really--days? hours? Time seemed to have no meaning.

"No," Giles told him, "You were right to do so." He ran his good hand over his face, careful not to look at the dust and blood that he knew had come off on his palm. "It's time... Time I attempted...another spell..." The mere thought seemed to increase his weariness tenfold, but there, just across from him, lay Xander, as deeply unconscious as he himself had been moments before. It filled Giles with horror to see how aged and worn the boy appeared.

He tried to rise, but the ability, at that moment, eluded him. He was forced to content himself with creeping closer to his young friend, stroking the matted hair back from Xander's brow. The boy's eyelids fluttered, but did not open. Either this faint was more serious than those that proceeded it, or Xander had, at last, succumbed to utter exhaustion.

"If there's a way," Giles said softly, "I ought to send him back."

"He wouldn't thank you," Wesley answered.

Giles glanced up sharply, surprised at the younger man's perceptiveness. Wesley, too, looked worn, almost gaunt, and Giles could feel how the blood-thirst tore at him, even if he was otherwise unaffected by this murderous country.

"No, I suppose he would not." Half-blindly, Giles groped for the carryall, bringing out herbs and candles with shaking hands. It was hard to find his focus here, hard to locate even his own magical center--hard even to make the candles light--but Giles forced himself to do so. Already, the protection spell he'd thrown about them had grown ragged, and at times he wondered if the meagre shelter it afforded was worth the energy required to knit it up again.

Sometimes, it seemed it might be easier to let the spell fall altogether, to allow everything to collapse around them, to lie down in the dust and sleep without waking.

Such a temptation, at times, to wave the white flag of surrender. So sweet it would seem. So very sweet.

In his mind's eye, Giles saw Buffy's angry face, her eyes flashing at him, and knew he would not give up, not for as long as his body possessed the strength to drive on. Slowly, painfully, he worked the spell, and when it was finished felt a little relief wash over him. Xander's eyes opened, blinking. An expression of confusion suffused his features.

"Uh. I crashed again?"

Giles took hold of the boy's arm, helping him to sit. "As did I, I'm afraid. Rest a moment. I've restored the spell."

Xander wiped his face on the inside of his shirt. "You can do that, huh?"

"For now," Giles responded.

"For now," Xander echoed, gave a dry laugh and coughed. "Go team?" He glanced round at the too-bright, boulder-strewn landscape. "Hey, Giles, rocks! Are we here?"

"We seem to have..."

"Quiet," Wesley snapped. He climbed to his feet, his entire body tensed in an attitude of listening.

Giles attempted to listen as well, but heard nothing beyond the pulse of his own blood in his ears. His other senses, however...

Oh, God, there it was! The demon, closer than he'd ever felt. Excitement drove him at last to his feet, and he stumbled over the uneven ground, sword in hand. So near now, so very near...

"Run!" Wesley shouted, his tone not one of equal excitement, but of fear. Roughly, he hauled Xander upright, sending him forward with a shove. The boy staggered, nearly falling again, but he too seemed to hear something that Giles still could not.

"Oh, not good, not good," Xander muttered, scrabbling amidst the stones for his own weapon, a short-handled axe, managing to uncover its blade just as something--a terrible, nearly soundless something--bounded over the rocks.

"Xander!" Giles called, but just as he stepped forward, meaning to catch hold of his young friend, something crashed into his shoulders, bearing him, once more, to the stony ground. For a mere second, the pain of the fall paralyzed him, but then the instincts of a lifetime's training kicked in and he managed to get his sword up before the creature's teeth tore into his throat. He'd a brief impression of fangs and raw sores and matted hair, rank breath and slaver. He rolled, the monster snapping furiously at him, its claws tearing his clothing and then his skin.

A second creature sprang just as he'd planted a knee in the chest of the first, his sword flashing down to sever misshapen head from repulsive body. Giles twisted, catching the dangerous teeth on his left forearm, his mind blanking out in a flash of white-hot light as the pain registered--and yet he did not falter. Again, the sword swung round, cleaving the monster's body in two.

"There's a cave!" Wesley shouted. "Behind us--no more than a hundred metres." He'd a sword of his own, and he fought with a skill Giles had not thought he'd possessed, fought like Moira at her finest, deadly and graceful. Already, half-a-dozen corpses littered the ground at his feet. "I'll cover you!"

"Are you nuts?" Xander shouted back, gasping. He'd managed to kill two of the beasts himself, but was bleeding from a gouge in his throat. And the monsters kept coming, a dark wave of them, making no outcry even as they fell, showing no fear of their weapons. "There's too many!"

"Get closer!" Giles commanded, as a welcome burst of adrenaline bolstered his strength. "We need to be able to defend one another." Wesley pulled back toward them as Giles forced himself nearer to the boy, riding a wave of the strange, mindless joy he always felt at a good fight, allowing every vestige of Ripper within himself to surge forward as the sword became, simultaneously, both an absolute part of himself and a dancing, flashing thing that moved almost of its own volition. A preternatural sense of space arose within him--he knew at once where the cave must be, where his companions must, necessarily move, what pattern their enemies followed. His mind perceived it all, sharp and clean and clear.

The monsters tried to block their retreat, but those that did so, died. Even as the pack redoubled its assault, the ground rose ever more steeply, and they'd reached, against all odds, the cave-mouth.

"Xander! In!" Giles gasped, and when the boy seemed to hesitate, gave him a less-than-gentle shove. "No arguments, son. Go!"

Amazement of amazements, Xander actually obeyed, though by the noises he made, he seemed to find the opening a tight fit. Moments later, however, he called out, "I'm in. Only now I know how toothpaste feels."

"Wesley, you next!" A particularly large beast leaped, nearly bowling Giles over into the younger man. He got his sword up just in time, even though he was tiring now, the flash of energy ebbing, and the shock of steel on bone went through his aching body like a brutal blow.

"I'm the stronger fighter," Wesley answered, swinging his own weapon to take out two of their assailants within seconds of each another. "You ought..."

"Wesley. Now," Giles snapped. "You heard Xander. There's a chance I won't fit through the opening, and I won't have you stuck on the outside."

Surprisingly, Wesley obeyed, though it took him some time to disappear altogether through the narrow crevice. The monsters paused, gathering in a half-circle, their misshapen monkey-faces seeming to crease into laughter as they crept closer, closer, closer still.

Sword at the ready, Giles prepared for his own descent, backing toward a hole that now seemed too ridiculously tiny for his companions ever to have made their way inside. This, however, was not the time to hesitate. Eyes fixed upon the threatening beasts, he dropped to the ground, wriggling backward, his legs going in easily enough, and his hips. Only when he got to his chest did further progress seem impossible. He would not fit. He simply would not fit, even when he released all the air from his lungs and drove himself backward as hard as he could, struggling inch by bloody inch, the stone lips shredding his shirt, scraping his torn back viciously.

Giles glanced up, half in panic. The monsters, still with that soul-chilling appearance of laughter, made their noiseless way toward him, so near now their reeking breath burned on his skin. He struggled desperately, the pain of his back now so intense that stars of multicoloured light burst before his eyes, a sickening contrast to the reality of the world around him.

"Glaciare," he called out in desperation, feeling even that small bit of magic sizzle out, like a damp firework. This was ridiculous. He refused to die this way, like Winnie-the-Pooh trapped in Rabbit's hole. He utterly refused.

Giles twisted and fought, heedless of anything but making his escape, and in that minute something changed.

He pulled free of whatever had caught him, and fell into the dark.