Trust - Chapter 18

The Aries K gave out--typically--in the middle of the night in the middle of the flat, boring country where they grew artichokes and garlic and stuff. The air itself smelled faintly garlicky, and a little salty, too, though without any hint of actual ocean. Really, the smell was more like sticking his head in a seriously humid spice cabinet.

At least, Xander guessed it was humid. The Aries wasn't air conditioned, not anymore, and even with the windows rolled down and the sun setting he'd felt stickily hot the whole way, sweat rolling down his face, his neck, his back and chest, pooling between his thighs. Xander's jeans and t-shirt clung uncomfortably to his skin, feeling like they were made of sandpaper instead of cotton, and the rubberband around his chest had gotten tighter and tighter.

When he got out of the car, his legs felt rubbery, too. Worse then rubbery. Melted. They dumped him straight onto the ground, and he had to lie there gasping and getting mosquito-bitten for a long time before he could sit up again. If this was how things were going to be, it might have been a good idea after all to check out the stuff the hospital had sent home with him.

Another good chunk of time passed before Xander managed to drag his duffel off the back seat and onto the ground beside him. A bunch of the stuff inside he just pulled out and dumped onto the car floor. He'd come back for it, or else someone would steal it and he wouldn't have to bother. Either/or. He didn't really care which, only that he didn't have to deal with the weight right now. The little paper sack from the hospital pharmacy contained an inhaler and a brown bottle what he guessed must be antibiotics. He took a drag from the first, making a face at the sour, plasticky taste in his mouth, and dry-swallowed a couple of the pills, wishing he had a coke, or something, to wash them down. Wishing, too, that he'd stopped at a motel for the night anywhere before this.

"What can't be cured must be endured," his Gramma Mahoney had always said, which Xander guessed was true enough--and sometimes, once he'd finally made it to his feet, he got the weird feeling that she was walking there beside him. A time or two he even saw her, striding along in her white K-Mart sneakers and her polyester grandma-pants with the seams stitched down the front. The strap of his bag rubbed the sore spot on his neck, no matter which shoulder he hung it from, and he would have committed acts of murder for a single drink of water, especially after he had to stop and throw up the pills along with the total absence of anything else in his stomach. Which brought back the flashy-edged black dots that he thought he'd left behind back on DemonWorld. His stomach felt like it was bleeding now, but Xander wouldn't let himself stop.

He had a feeling that if did stop, he wouldn't be able to get going again, and suddenly he didn't want to die. He'd never really wanted to die. He'd just wanted a life that was other than the one he had.

Only maybe this was all part of the nightmare. Maybe he'd never killed the demon queen, or her eggs, or come back after all. Maybe...

No, that had been real. He was sure that was real.

He found himself shivering, afraid of waking up to find himself back in the caves, with Giles's emptied-out-of-everything eyes staring up at him.

Xander didn't want to think of that. He didn't ever want to think of that.

It wasn't until he found himself squinting against the unbearable brightness of the lights that he realized he'd actually reached someplace. Someplace with big diesel gas pumps and neon signs and a 24 hour convenience store. Half-sleepwalking, and taking a ridiculous amount of time to cross the pavement, Xander went into the store, bought himself some stuff and staggered out again. He had the weird impression of having seen a sign with a big "M" somewhere in back, and sure enough, there it was. M as in motel. The place looked like the dive of all dives, and had what appeared to be a roadhouse right next door, blasting country and western music even though it had to be past three in the morning. Xander didn't care. He was in pain, and country music was, after all, the music of pain, as he'd told Willow a lifetime ago.

By sheer dumb luck, he found his way to the office, and after a fair amount of fumbling handed the guy behind the desk Giles's credit card.

The guy gave him a look. "Rupert?"

Xander gave him a look back, or as good a one as he could manage. "My dad's English. It sucks. People call me...uh...Rob."

Good name for a thief, his brain informed him, but the counter-guy just shrugged. "Park around back. How many nights?"

"Uh...I dunno." Xander realized that the guy was getting that suspicious look again. "I'm supposed to meet my girlfriend up in...uh...Yreka tomorrow. Only I've caught this flu, and I feel like crap." He coughed, not having to fake it. The guy took a step back, but the suspicious look went away again.

"Yeah, you don't look so good, kid," he said. "Make her wait a day or two while you rest up. Won't kill her."

"Try telling her that," Xander answered, coughing again, and then the two of them shared the mutual dames-who-needs-'em eye-roll of macho guys everywhere. Xander even remembered to sign Giles's name to the registration card (though it was a near thing) making sure to write really, really small. The desk clerk didn't look at the signature, only handed him back the credit card and passed him a key.

Gramma Mahoney was waiting for him out on the porch. "No grandson of mine has ever been a thief," she told Xander disapprovingly.

"Well, I'm your only grandson," Xander answered.

"You're going the wrong way," she said, after a minute more, and Xander saw she was right. He turned himself about--just like the Hokey Pokey--and even though he overshot the door to his room on the first try, he got it on the second and even managed to unlock the door after five or six tries. Once inside, he hung out the Do Not Disturb sign, then locked all the locks, the knob one, the deadbolt and the chain, then propped a cross on the windowsill and laid another on the floor in front of the door, just to be safe. A cat couldn't have made it in through the bathroom window, so that was okay.

The room was fairly basic, but surprisingly clean, even the bathroom, enough so that Xander didn't feel weird about dropping his bag on the floor or lining up his groceries on the table. He didn't think he'd wake up to find them crawling with cockroaches--though he also really hoped that wasn't just wishful thinking.

He dumped his shaving stuff and toothbrush in the bathroom and zipped up all his valuables inside the slightly-toothpasty bag that had previously contained them. The bag went under his pillow. So did a stake and a bottle of holy water. Better safe than sorry and all that. Maybe a day would even come when he didn't feel the need to take those precautions when he slept in a public place like a motel.

He'd meant to get ice, but had forgotten. He had, wonder of wonders, remembered to pick up a can opener when he he'd bought his other supplies, and the room had a coffee maker, so he guesstimated the amount of water a soup can would hold, poured it into the machine and opened a can of Campbell's Chicken and Stars into the carafe. He hoped future guests of this room would forgive him when they had to drink chicken-flavored coffee.

Not that they'd ever know he had been here. Not that anyone would ever know.

A shower would have felt good, but Xander was too beat to even consider anything beyond stripping down to his shorts and stretching out on the fairly comfortable bed with just the sheet over him. Even with the A/C cranked to full, the air was too hot for anything else. He moved the six-pack of Coke he'd bought, one of the bottles of water, the aspirin and his hospital prescriptions to the wooden TV tray that was posing as a night stand beside his bed, and he was done. Vampires could have broken down the door, and he wouldn't have been able to move a muscle.

Instead, Xander drifted, as the room started smelling vaguely chickeny. It was too much effort, though, to get up and eat, even if he just brought the soup back to bed with him. The coffeepot must have had one of those automatic off-switches, though, because when he really woke up again, with sunlight coming in beneath the curtains, the air wasn't filled with the aroma of burnt soup, and the little red on light was off again.

His bladder ached from needing to pee so bad, but he couldn't stand up, could hardly move even--his head wouldn't turn at all--so he ended up just kind of slithering over the edge until he could inch his way across the floor to the bathroom. Even when he got there, he had to relieve himself sitting down, like he hadn't done since he was about two years old.

This was bad. This was very bad. Xander began to suspect he shouldn't have left Sunnydale, or maybe even left the hospital at all. He had to rest for a long, long time before he could even consider crawling back, and when he did he snagged the disposable ice bucket on the way, just in case he couldn't make it the next time.

Don't be dumb, Xander told himself. This is temporary. Give it a few hours and you'll be fine. You just need to rest, that's all. And once he was lying down in bed again, he did feel better. He even managed to eat a couple crackers and take a few sips of Coke before he drifted off again.

Everything would be all right by nightfall or, if not then, by the morning. By morning he'd be ready to roll.

"Roll, baby, roll," Xander muttered into his pillow, before the lights went off again.

By around nine at night, Giles still hadn't woken up, and Buffy was starting to get antsy. At nine-fifteen the night staff kicked her out, saying visiting hours were over, and that Giles wasn't in any immediate danger.

Nice phrase, no immediate danger. Like saying you're not going to die this moment, but I wouldn't book anything for tomorrow. Still, Buffy left, fuming. What did they imagine she was going to go do? Sleep?

Like that was happening.

She decided, instead, to patrol, thinking she'd work out a little frustration that way. But either the local vampire and demon populations had gotten the news that the Slayer was back on the job, or else some big future evil was brewing, because all she got for four hours of diligent cemetery prowling was one little newbie who didn't even put up a struggle, just let her stake him with a surprised look on his face.

Loser.

In between searching in vain for something to slay, she'd tried every place she could think of where Xander might have gone: Wesley's, The Bronze, the Espresso Pump and a million places in between. Even his parents' house, which was quiet and smelled weird. Why in the name of all that was holy and effective against vampires hadn't her friend just stayed put? From what the nurses had told her when she'd gone down to check on him, Xander shouldn't have been released from the hospital for at least a couple more days, if then.

And he'd saved them. He'd saved everyone. What did he think he was running away from?

Maybe that was the operative word. Phrase. Whatever she meant. Xander had been running away. Maybe he'd seen something so wigsome where he'd been, he just couldn't stand to come back to life as they knew it. Well, she could relate to that, Buffy guessed.

Or maybe he didn't know. Maybe he'd thought he'd failed, and he couldn't face her, couldn't face anyone.

Or maybe he was just too sick to be thinking right.

Buffy stuck her hands up into her hair and pulled hard on the roots, making a face of ultimate frustration. Aargh! She so didn't want to have to be thinking of this. She didn't want to have to be thinking of anything, except maybe her back-to-school wardrobe and accessories. Or maybe what classes she was going to register for next week. She hoped Giles would be awake by then to advise her, because she'd taken one look in the huge General Catalogue and gone straight into a state of too-many-choices wigdom.

Though, knowing Giles, he'd probably persuade her to sign up for Advanced Calculus, Ancient Sumerian and Gross Anatomy, and then she'd be praying for demons to get her.

Buffy sighed, then realized she's somehow wandered into her old neighborhood. When she walked by her house--her old house--the lights were on, which made her decide to pay her mom a visit. She could use some mom comfort-time.

To her very great surprise, Aunt Flora was there, and she and Joyce were drinking what appeared to be margaritas and eating nachos on the living room floor while engaged in a Jane Austen marathon. In fact, they'd just gotten to the place in Pride and Prejudice where Mr. Darcy dives into the lake, and when he gets out his breeches and his shirt are all wet and clingy.

Buffy liked that part, and she really didn't mind letting herself be distracted. She sat down on the couch and helped herself to a margarita. Come to think of it, the margaritas, whoever had made them were, pretty tasty too.

Celeste came out from the kitchen carrying another tray of snacks. She should have known.

Joyce groaned. "Oh, no! Celeste, please no!"

Celeste only laughed, then said, "Oh, hullo Buffy. Ought you to be drinking that?"

Joyce turned around, her puzzled look quickly replaced by a half-hearted scowl. She didn't say anything, though, and neither did Buffy. She just reached over to help herself to the nachos. Lunch, tasty as it had been, had also been a long time before.

"How was patrol?" Aunt Flora asked.

"Quiet. Pretty boring, actually."

"And Rupert?" Flora passed her a plate just in time to stop a big glob of guacamole from landing in Buffy's lap.

She shrugged. "They say he's doing okay. No immediate danger. What does that mean, no immediate danger?" Buffy took a napkin from Celeste. This wasn't her night for tidy eating. "Personally, I'd just like him to wake up. So I can kill him. And since when do all you guys know each other?"

The look Flora gave her had gone from smiling to serious. She reached up to press the pause button, leaving Mr. Darcy suspended halfway through putting his coat on. "Buffy, love, you know why..."

"Oh, I know," Buffy interrupted. She did know, really, exactly why Giles had felt the need to do what he'd done. Namely, leave her here alone to stress about him. His honor was a big part of him, and he'd not only promised Moira, or believed he'd promised Moira, he felt he owed it to his friend to at least try something to help her. No matter how stupid and dangerous that something might be.

Of course, that didn't mean Buffy had to like it.

"Only, Moira's being kind of a butt to me," she said. "And I can't help worrying about him. Giles, that is."

"Moira's being a...pardon me, Buffy?" Flora looked taken aback.

"A butt. She has Wesley-blindness." Buffy slurped up about half her drink. Mmn, tasty. And a pleasant little buzz was starting up at the base of her skull. "I've been trying every place I can think of to find Xander. Only I can't."

Celeste returned to the kitchen, coming back with a big glass of milk. Looking thoughtful, she took a seat on the other end of the couch, setting her fun drink carefully on a coaster. "But didn't...?"

"My new theory," Buffy told her, "Is that he didn't know. Maybe he thought he screwed up and didn't fix anything."

Looking a little guilty, Joyce picked herself up off the floor. Not saying a word, she handed a cheap white envelope to Buffy.

Flora's eyes narrowed.

"I found it under the front door," Joyce said. "When I got home from the gallery."

On the front of the envelope was, unmistakably, Xander's sloppy printing. On the inside she found a single sheet of copier paper, scrawled over with slightly smeary black pen. Buffy read, and after she was done she sat there in silence, aching for her friend.

Celeste took the note out of her hand, passing it to Flora, who read and passed it to Joyce.

"Poor boy," Joyce said, when she was done. "Poor, miserable boy."

"The thing is," Buffy said, "What do I do?"

"Perhaps..." Flora said thoughtfully, "Let him go with our prayers, and with our love?"

As ideas went, that one kind of sucked. She was ActionBuffy. She wanted to do something. She wanted to come charging in, sword drawn, and save the day. But maybe it was better to let Xander go--after all, like he'd said, this was the way he'd meant to spend his summer anyway, and after Willow and everything...maybe there was just so much Hellmouthiness one person could take.

Celeste said it for her, though. "But, Flora, dear, I'm not particularly fond of that solution. Isn't one meant to do something?"

Hear, hear, Buffy thought. Only, Flora was smart, and kind, and most of all, wise. If doing was going to be helpful, wouldn't she have said?

But you know Xander better, Buffy told herself. What do you think?

Celeste put her arms around her, hugging Buffy close, and for that minute that was all she wanted. Morning would be soon enough to decide. She didn't have the strength to do more.