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Out of Africa

by spikeNdru

Genre: Gen; Action/Adventure

Pairings: Xander and Ensemble; no pairings yet.

Rating: PG-13

Timeline: Two years post-Chosen

 

Disclaimers: The characters belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy and 20th Century Fox; they aren't currently using

them so I'm borrowing them for awhile.

 

Chapter   1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9  10  11  12  13  15  16  17  18  19  20  21  22  23  24  25

 

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Chapter Fourteen

“Hmmm . . .” Willow sipped a cup of mocha coffee and tapped her fingertips on the kitchen table. Her stomach rumbled and she realized it was way past her lunchtime, but she didn't want to break her train of thought by stopping to cook. She opened the denuded refrigerator and absently stared at the contents, then finally chose the last yogurt. Boysenberry. Of course it's boysenberry. If it was anything other than boysenberry, it would already have been eaten. Don't worry, unwanted little boysenberry yogurt, alone and rejected, while all the good flavors fulfilled their purpose. I'll rescue you from the fate of languishing uneaten until you go bad and get thrown out without ever providing the nourishment for which you were intended. She grabbed the last apple and the jar of peanut butter which, she calculated, contained about a spoonful stuck to the sides of the jar.

Willow hadn't been able to reach Giles, so she'd contacted Althenea. While they were chatting, Althenea had broken off in mid-sentence to inform Willow that the Coven's seer had a message for her. According to the seer, Faith and Connor would be bringing 'a damaged soul that has lost its way' back with them, but this 'damaged soul' wasn't supposed to stay with them. He, she, or it was supposed to stay with . . . Harmony? Faith would help to guide the damaged soul, but it would be Harmony who would help it find peace. But Harmony—helper of the hapless—wasn't the reason Willow was Hmmm-ing.

Currently, the top of Willow's list of Things That Make You Go Hmmm was Althenea herself—or, rather, the interesting little change in tone of Althenea's voice when the conversation turned to Giles.

Willow poured another cup of coffee and thought about the conversation. From several things Althenea had mentioned in passing, Willow got the impression that she and Giles had been seeing a lot of each other since he'd returned to England. Of course, they'd been friends for ages, but still . . . there was something in her voice that implied more sparkage than just long-standing friendship. And I should know, Willow thought. She was sure she recognized the same hidden longing for something more than friendship that had been in her own voice for years when she talked about Xander.

“Hmmm,” Willow said again. “I wonder if Giles knows?” She'd definitely have to sound him out about his feelings for Althenea when she got the chance—if she could think of a subtle way to do so. But it was . . . interesting . . . that Althenea knew Giles had gone to the Cotswolds to see an old friend about Quor-Toth, and he hadn't told them. Oh, well. She guessed he'd tell them about his trip when he got back, especially if he had anything to report. But still . . . Hmmm.

The door opened and Xander's cheerful voice calling, “Sustenance has arrived!” brought Willow out of her reverie. She jumped up to help bring in and put away the groceries.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Giles pulled up in front of the small cottage and turned off the engine. Pale pink Tudor rosebushes flanked the door and perfumed the air with a rich scent. Giles thought, once again, that he really must order some of the wonderful Heritage varieties of roses for the new Council Headquarters. The Heritage roses were so much more fragrant than the modern tea rose hybrids, which sacrificed scent for perfection of form. Thankfully, the pendulum was swinging back, and for some years now, dedicated horticulturists and cottage gardeners had been attempting to revive long-forgotten strains of old-fashioned roses. These new/old roses would add a feeling of timelessness that the new Headquarters sorely lacked. And perhaps some yew hedges and a small orchard for the back of the property, as well?

The door opened, and Giles looked up. A tall, sturdy woman of late middle-age stood framed in the doorway. Her iron-gray hair was pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck and her clear hazel eyes radiated kindness. She wiped hands speckled with flour on a tea towel she held and called out, “Well, Mr. Giles? Are you planning to come in, or are you having trouble tearing yourself away from that lovely new machine of yours? If it'll help you decide, I've just made a fresh batch of scones and there's sweet clover honey and my own raspberry jam to go along. If I remember, you were quite partial to my raspberry jam the last time you visited.”

Giles grinned as he got out of the car and started up the flagstone walk. “I am indeed, Mrs. Knightsbridge. How have you been?”

“I'm well, thank you. And isn't this fine weather we've been having? You've chosen a perfect day to motor down. Couldn't ask for better. Bernard's been eagerly anticipating your visit.”

“I wish I could get down more often—”

Mrs. Knightsbridge patted his arm, leaving faint streaks of flour on his sweater. “Now don't you worry about that, Mr. Giles. You're here now.”

“How is Bernard?” Giles asked. He felt a brief flash of guilt that he only seemed to contact Bernard Addison when he needed information. He should really make the effort to visit more often, simply because he enjoyed Bernard's company.

Mrs. Knightsbridge chuckled. “Full of piss and vinegar, as usual. I hope I'm half as sharp as he is when I'm his age. Of course, his eyesight's nearly gone, but then Bernard never did depend on his eyes to See. And the fine weather's been kind to his rheumatism. I thought you'd like to take tea in the back garden, so if you'll just come on through . . .”

Mrs. Knightsbridge led Giles through the small cottage, redolent with the yeasty scents of baking, past the kitchen herb garden, to the back garden where she'd set up a table and chairs near the edge of the apple orchard.

“Bernard,” she called. “Mr. Giles is here to see you, and you must get him to tell you about the hot little number he just drove up in.”

She turned to Giles and said, “I'll bring your tea straight away. I thought I might pop over to the market and pick up a few things while you're here with him.”

“Oh, certainly. We'll be fine.”

Bernard tilted his head and extended his hand as Giles approached.

“It's good to see you, old man. I want to hear all about what you've been doing with the Council, and then maybe we could go for a short spin in your Triumph? I haven't had the pleasure of riding in one of those since 1973.”

Giles griped Bernard's hand with pure pleasure. Of course Bernard would have 'seen' his new acquisition—he didn't have the reputation as the 'best mystical psychic the Council ever had' for nothing! Giles' eyes twinkled as he said, “It's a little beauty, isn't it? If only it weren't such a bilious shade of yellow.”

Bernard shook a gnarled index finger at Giles and made tsk-tsk noises. “Blasphemer! Bilious yellow, indeed! It's one of the darker shades of British Racing Green, and you know it as well as I, Rupert!”

Giles laughed and conceded. He felt better than he had in a long time. His cares and worries seemed to melt away in the warmth of the day and the company. Giles hadn't realized how much stress he had been under for the last several years until he felt its temporary dissipation, blown away by the soft breeze that carried the sweet scent of roses, apples and mint, with the sharper undertones of dill, chives and rosemary. The robust scent of basil tickled his nose for a moment, and then his stomach rumbled as the cottage door opened and the subtle scents of nature were all overwhelmed by the wonderful smell of freshly baked scones.

The responsibilities of recreating an institution thousands of years old from scratch, in addition to making sure that slayers all over the world who had been activated by Willow's spell were contacted and given an explanation of what had happened to them, weighed heavily upon Giles. Most of the potential slayers identified by the Council and assigned Watchers had been murdered by the Harbingers of The First Evil. These new slayers whom they had spent the past two years tracking down hadn't a clue what had happened to them. They had no background information about the Council or the Slayer line—most of them had no idea of the existence of vampires, demons or other nightmares that existed below the threshold of most peoples' awareness. Giles was physically and emotionally exhausted. If he hadn't had the support of Althenea and her coven, he didn't know how he'd have managed.

A large part of his feelings of isolation and lack of support was his own bloody fault! He could admit that now. He'd made some bad choices. He'd thought he left Sunnydale to allow Buffy to stand on her own feet, but he'd been in error. Good lord, she'd lost her mother and been brought back from the dead, only to find herself responsible for earning a living, parenting a teenager, and performing her duties as the Slayer when she could barely function. She was absolutely overwhelmed by life itself, and had begged him not to go. But he'd chosen to leave anyway, because he bloody well thought he knew what was best for her! Or, did he?

Did he leave for her sake, or his own? Her death had devastated him. When Willow brought her back, he knew she was damaged, even if he didn't know the reason. Did he really leave to protect her. . . or himself? He couldn't bear losing her all over again. He couldn't bear watching everything that he loved about her—everything that made her Buffy—slip away piece by piece, emotion by emotion, until she was as hard and cold and dead inside as she eventually became. But . . . would she have become that shell of herself if he'd stayed? Somehow, he thought not. He'd been a coward. He'd gone away to protect himself, not her. And then he'd compounded the error by coming back only to bring her more problems—more responsibilities—in the form of dozens of scared teenaged girls for her to protect and nurture. And to top it all off, he'd then attempted to take from her the one person—yes, person!—who'd been there for her all along, providing the support and back-up and . . . love . . . that should have been his responsibility, but which he'd abrogated.

It's no wonder things continued to be so strained between Buffy and himself. Looked at from her perspective, he'd been a bloody wanker—and unnecessarily cruel. Oh dear lord! How can I ever even attempt to make it up to her?

Mrs. Knightsbridge placed the silver tray containing a teapot, two cups with their saucers, a pitcher of cream, a small plate of paper-thin lemon slices, small cut-glass bowls of sugar, butter, honey and homemade raspberry jam, along with a large plate of freshly baked scones covered by a linen tea towel, on the table before them.

“Thank you, Dorothea,” Bernard said gently.

She bid them enjoy their tea, then hurried off to do her marketing while Giles was there to keep Bernard company.

A white Land Rover pulled away from the side of the cottage and turned onto the road. When it had gone, Bernard reached out and placed a gnarled hand on Giles' arm. Feelings of warmth and peace seemed to emanate from that hand, seeping into Giles' body and mind and spirit.

“It's not your fault, you know,” Bernard said. “We can only give that which we're capable of providing at any given time. When we are able to do more, we do. But I think you know that. Now, let's enjoy this lovely tea first, and then we will talk of Quor-Toth, yes? Will you be 'mother', Rupert?”

“Certainly,” Giles said, as he lifted the teapot and began to pour.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Xander was restless. The groceries had all been carried in and put away and now Willow and Dawn were in Dawn's room, doing mysterious girl-things and giggling. He thought he remembered seeing a no-frills gym not too far from the apartment and decided he'd go check it out. He slipped into his room and exchanged his jeans for a pair of comfortable shorts, then pulled sweat pants over them. The T-shirt he was wearing was fine. He didn't want to disturb Willow and Dawn, so he left a brief note on the kitchen table instead. He thought a moment and then added “and Dennis” to the salutation to include Dennis as a member of the team, in case he returned from his visit with Wesley before Xander got back.

Xander paused in front of the building as he tried to remember in which direction he'd seen the gym. The Pearson Arms, he thought as he read the name carved into the building. Huh. I wonder if there's another building somewhere called the Pearson Legs? He came to the conclusion that he'd probably seen the gym in the vicinity of the pizza place and the video store, so he turned in that direction.

The days were long past when he could just bumble around eating donuts and trying not to get in the way while Buffy did the heavy lifting. While he was in Africa, he'd trained intensively with Akuma and the slayers and developed his own eclectic mix of fighting skills. He'd never forget the sense of embarrassment he'd felt when he first arrived. Knowing he had fought at the Slayer's side in Sunnydale for seven years, Akuma had expected he'd be highly trained in a number of martial arts disciplines, and could take over some of the girls' physical training. Akuma couldn't quite hide his surprise when Xander admitted he had no formal training at all.

Why didn't he have any training? Why hadn't Giles ever offered to work with him and Willow, as well as Buffy? Sure, Buffy was the Slayer and, technically, the rest of the Scoobies weren't Giles' responsibility, but they'd been involved in the slayage from the beginning—you'd think somebody would have thought to suggest they get some training! As the group expanded, differences in skill levels became more apparent. Riley had his demon-fightin' military training, and both Angel and Spike were vampires, but he, Tara and Anya had no training at all. Willow and Tara had the magic mojo going but, damn it, he and Anya patrolled and fought with the rest of them—maybe some battle skills training would have kept Anya alive! Once he realized the lack, Alex had set out to rectify that lack immediately. Alex had become toned and hardened and deadly.

But Xander had let things slide. Other than the occasional set of Canadian Air Force exercises with Dawn, Xander hadn't trained in months. Which was really pretty stupid, now that he thought about it. They were planning to take on the denizens of a hell dimension so bad it had been completely walled away from all the other dimensions until recently. Did he really think he could survive Quor-Toth if he wasn't in peak condition?

Nope. He didn't. And Xander had a vested interest in his survival. Which meant, it was time to hit the gym every chance he got. And when he'd gotten back into shape—which shouldn't take too long, if he really worked at it—maybe Dawn would like to come along and work out with him. Xander grinned. Survival was a good motivator—but the chance to impress Dawn with his new skills was an even better one.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Pack a bag,” Faith ordered. “You're comin' back with us.”

Lorne shook his head 'no'. “I just want to be left alone.”

“Well, too bad. We're not gonna do that. Angel refused to give up on me, even after I tortured Wes nearly to death. Angel understood it wasn't about Wes—I was tryin' to get him to kill me. And, okay, torture and maiming is more my style than yours—you just crawled into a bottle instead, but the result's the same. You don't know how to live with yourself, so you figure dyin' is easier. Well, I'm not gonna let you die. There's no way in hell I'm leavin' you here alone. An' we gotta get back. We got things to do. So that means you're comin' with us. You know me. I don't fuck around. You're goin' back with us—you don't have a choice. Your only choice is if it's under your own power or not. Got that?”

Lorne sketched a salute. “Ja wohl, Herr Commandant!”

“Ya what?” Faith asked.

“Someone's been watching too many Hogan's Heroes reruns,” Connor snickered. He 'remembered' watching Hogan's Heroes on Nick at Night when he was a kid. Connor had loved that show, although his sister had preferred My Three Sons. She'd had a crush on Chip, until she discovered that the shows were reruns and “Chip” was actually in his fifties!

“Oh, yeah. Sergeant Klutz, right?”

A ghost of a smile crossed Lorne's face. “That's Sergeant Shultz.”

“Whatever. Get your stuff. We're leaving.”

Lorne sighed. “If you didn't already have a career as a slayer, Faith, you would have made one heck of a dominatrix.”

Faith turned to Connor. “Connor—” She snapped her fingers twice in front of his eyes. “Connor! Pay attention! Go with Lorne and help him get his stuff together. We need to get goin'. We can grab something to eat on the way. I don't know about you, but I'm starving.”

As Connor followed Lorne, he couldn't help wondering what Faith would look like in long black gloves and thigh-high stiletto-heeled boots. Yep. He still had a thing for take-charge older women.

 

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Continue to  Chapter Fifteen

 

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