Tribulations - Ch. 23

Buffy woke up out of another of those naps of the dead to feel Giles shaking her shoulder gently.

"Wake up, love," he was calling to her. "It's soon time to be on your way."

She groaned, even the thought of getting out of bed almost too much for her--but she got up, Giles supporting her carefully all the way to the bathroom. She wanted to tell him that she was fine, she could handle things on her own, but the truth of the matter was, she wasn't fine. It seemed as if the little blast of cleaning she'd done early that morning had taken the last of it out of her. She felt like she was about a hundred years old.

Buffy slumped on the closed toilet seat as Giles started the bathwater, gazing up at him with what she was sure was a glazed expression. Something seemed wrong about the way he did stuff, and at first she couldn't figure out what it was, then she started noticing how uncertain his movements really were, how his hand groped for the taps as if he couldn't quite see them, how he felt for the soap and the washcloth instead of going right to them. Maybe it was her imagination--everything seemed tilted and off-center--but somehow she didn't think so.

"Ready?" he asked her quietly. His hands sought her arms, supporting her again, and she clung to him as she stepped into the tub, the effort leaving her breathless. This wasn't right, it was like nothing she'd ever felt before, not even like the spell the bad Watchers had thrown at her. She didn't feel bad anywhere, nothing really hurt, except in the way that fevers hurt, making her bones feel heavy and the surface of her skin feel far too sensitive.

The water, not too hot and not too cool, countered the heat blissfully. It smelled of the lavender-and-rosemary bath oil that Giles had poured in. She lay still, feeling weightless, her hair streaming around her shoulders.

"Er...did you...?" Giles asked her, but Buffy didn't move, and so he knelt beside the tub and began to wash her, the soft cloth traveling gently over her body, soothing her, making her feel cared for. Normally, she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but it was wonderful to have someone there for her when she couldn't, someone she could trust so completely.

"Love you," she murmured, as the cloth stroked her face, under her chin, down her neck, over her breasts, her stomach, her legs, even down to the tips of her toes, stirring in her little flutterings that were entirely pleasurable, even though in her lethargy--how was that for a Giles word?--they couldn't be pursued. With a great effort, she raised her damp fingers to touch his cheek. "My Giles."

"And I, you," he answered, in the soft, low voice she'd learned to loved so well, a voice that had always meant comfort to her, even back in the days when she'd teased him, and called him stuffy and all those other things.

Buffy let her head slip down beneath the surface of the water, wetting her hair completely. When she emerged again, Giles began to work the shampoo in with a steady, circular motion, her scalp tingling to the touch of his fingers. She groaned with the sheer pleasure of it.

"What is it, love?" he asked her, alarmed.

"Nothing. Feels good. You're too good to me. Always were."

"Not always." Something a little bit dark had come into his voice, and Buffy knew in an instant what he was thinking. Seeing her weak like this brought up memories of her last birthday. Maybe he even wondered if she blamed him for it.

She slipped down beneath the water again, shaking her head to rinse out the shampoo. Poor Giles. He was never going to forget that, was he? Never in a million years. He always blamed himself for every little thing that went wrong, and for the longest time, she'd let him. She looked up into his face. The lines looked deeper that afternoon. He looked worn. Worn out, even.

Buffy raised her head out of the water. "Giles...?"

"Hmn?" He poured conditioner into his palm and began to rub it through her hair, right down to the ends, patiently, the way he did everything patiently. He must be all right. If he could care for her like that, he must be all right.

Buffy forced herself to sit up, Giles's hands slipping down to her upper arms. She wanted to ask, but she was afraid. She always wished for the truth, but sometimes she didn't want to hear it.

"Rinse. I need to rinse my hair."

"Ah. Yes." He pulled the plug, water gurgling down the drain, and reached for the taps again, supporting her as she leaned forward, wet vines of hair hanging down as the fresh stream of water flowed over the crown of her head. In a little while, Giles twisted the taps off again, wrapping Buffy in one of his big, fluffy green towels as he lifted her to her feet. She leaned against him, feeling his muscles tense and his heart beat a little too fast--remembering too late the bruises, and how her weight against them must hurt.

"Sorry," she breathed, really meaning it--wondering how she'd forgotten, or how she could let it slip out of her mind what those bruises meant. Her brain tried to go there, to her dad, to Angel, but she hauled it back again. The whole business with Angel had been long overdue, and her dad...the truth of that lay over her heart like another kind of bruise, one that would take at least as long as Giles's to go away, if not longer. She pressed her face to his chest, fighting back the threatening tears. She knew how much Giles hated to see her cry, not because he wanted Buffy to deny her feelings, but because his own heart ached for her.

"No need to apologize," he answered, bending a little to lift her in his arms. Buffy rested her head against his shoulder, luxuriating again in that feeling of being cared for, in the strength of his arms around her shoulders, beneath her legs--but just as she began to relax into that feeling, Giles stumbled, twisting as he did so, so that his back and not her head hit the bathroom doorjamb. He gave a grunt, and started to go down, but caught himself. For almost full minute he stood there, breathing hard, his back propped against the molding.

"What was that?" she asked him, alarmed.

Still gasping, Giles shook his head. "Nothing. Bit of water. Slipped."

"Really?"

Giles smiled at her, but Buffy didn't lose the cold feeling deep down in her stomach. "Let's get you dressed," he said briskly, depositing her carefully on the bed. "What will it be, then? Something comfortable, I should think."

In the end, Buffy hardly noticed the underwear, the light skirt and soft cotton top he picked out for her, and dressed her in. She was too busy watching him, trying to figure out, as he smiled, and talked to her gently, what he wasn't saying.

Joyce felt as if she was having an out of body experience, and wasn't exactly sure how to handle it. Some part of her still insisted she should have been the one walking Buffy up to Dr. Freas's office, sitting beside her in the little exam room as Nancy Chang, the doctor's tiny, efficient nurse took Buffy's pulse, blood pressure and temperature. That her daughter had gone with Rupert instead seemed like the death of something, and she wasn't sure she knew how to handle that, any more than she knew how to handle Buffy's weakness, her completely uncharacteristic lack of energy. Knowing Hank was gone, knowing Buffy had Rupert--it all made her feel more alone that she'd ever felt before, made her feel ridiculously as if she didn't have a friend left in the world.

She should call someone. Joyce knew that. She should call someone and just talk, unburden herself as much as she could. Loneliness was a killer--but what could she tell, really? Who would possibly understand? If she could just DO something...

"God," she breathed, as if seeking divine guidance, pausing with her hand on the door of the Red Jeep Cherokee the rental agency had issued to her as a temporary replacement for what Buffy called the mom-mobile. Maybe what she needed was something to occupy her time, something to take her out of herself. She glanced up at the gleaming white front of Sunnydale General across the street, and felt as if a cartoon lightbulb had gone off over her head.

That was it. Just the thing. Buffy and Rupert promised to be awhile--Dr. Freas was nothing if not thorough. She'd have plenty of time for her little errand of mercy--though half of her brain reminded Joyce that it might not be so much an act of mercy at all, as it was curiosity, or self-distraction. Even as she rode upstairs, having winkled the room number out of the woman behind the reception desk, she still second-guessed her own motives.

But I can't stand it, Joyce thought. I have to do something And she did. She had to do something, or she'd go nuts, the images of the past night replaying themselves over and over: Hank in his tuxedo, the feel of his bite in her throat, the unnatural glow of the demonic yellow eyes so close to hers--and later, what had seemed hours later instead of mere minutes, the slow, slow explosion of his body into dust.

No one would even know he was dead. No one except her, and Buffy. And Rupert, of course. She was a widow, of sorts, but no one would ever know. The grief tore into her with a pain much like that of Hank's--no, the demon's--teeth in her throat. It made her feel desperate, and unhinged, as if she wanted to run around and around the cubicle of the elevator, screaming at the top of her lungs.

Was that what that other woman had felt, the one who'd fallen onto her car? That loss? That same desperation? The sense that she somehow had to run, to flee--and finally, just escape?

Why had the woman done it? What would make a person jump off an overpass, into traffic--making another, innocent person responsible for ending her life? And by what weird fate did it have to be her car? Hadn't she been given enough to deal with, dammit, in terms of bad, dumb luck?

The more Joyce thought about it, the madder it made her. Why did her daughter have to be the Slayer? Why should some poor, suicidal woman fall on HER car? Why did her husband have to be the one who...?

Joyce felt tears push at the backs of her eyes, and blinked them away fiercely. The universe made no sense, or too much sense, she could never figure out which. She only knew that sometimes things hurt too unbearably for her to be able to stand them.

When she'd been a young girl, Joyce had gone to church every Sunday, and had firmly believed that prayers got answered, one way or another. That belief seemed to have ended the day her parents told her to leave them, that if she made the only choice her heart would let her make, they never wanted to see her again.

She'd gone, and all the faith, all the belief had just flown out of her, as if it had never been.

"Oh, God," Joyce breathed, pressing her hands to her face. "Oh, God, help me." She didn't think she meant it as a prayer. She no longer knew WHAT she meant, only that she needed so badly for somebody to be there for her...that continuing on her mission of mercy could only be a pointless act of hypocrisy. She had nothing to give. Nothing to give anyone.

The doors opened, and people got on, but Joyce didn't see them--not, at least, until a hand touched her arm, and a half-familiar voice said, "Hey, Joyce."

She blinked again, trying to make her vision clear, but instead the tears started rolling down her face and although she tried to fight back a sob, she didn't succeed very well. She felt a tissue press into her hand, and a hand touch her shoulder--it was a fairly big hand, but the voice had been young, and feminine, with the slightest touch of a Southern accent. She wiped her eyes with the tissue, bringing it away smeared black with mascara, but by then she was crying too hard for a single Kleenex to do much good, or really to be able to see anything beyond that fact.

"You look like you could do with some sweet tea," the voice said to her, and the next time the doors opened, she felt herself being ushered off, still hiccuping and sobbing, soaking through tissues faster than her savior could hand them to her. It wasn't until she'd been installed at small table in a nearly-deserted corner of the cafeteria that she was halfway able to get herself under control, finally drying her eyes, and blowing her nose on a paper napkin in a way her late, unmourned mother would have described as completely unladylike.

A minute or so later, two tall paper cups hit the top of the table, and Joyce watched a pair of hands open packet after packet of sugar, dividing their contents between the two teas. "It has to be REALLY sweet, you see."

"I never use sugar." Joyce said. Her voice sounded--what would Buffy say?--wussy. Trembly and wussy and congested with all her tears.

"Sugar makes everything sweet, Joyce. Remember?"

Joyce glanced up. A pair of bright green eyes looked back into hers, the look in them so kind and concerned she nearly started crying again. "Hi," she managed to say at last, her voice sounding a little stronger. "Melissa?"

Her rescuer nodded, smiling. "You did remember!"

"How could I forget?" Joyce dredged up a tiny smile of her own. The woman was an acquaintance, not precisely a friend, but Joyce had liked her from the moment they'd met. Melissa had put together La Tienda's webpage, and they'd once spent a long night once trying to figure out which of an exhibit of fertility statues wouldn't violate the viewing public's standards of decency. The answer being: none of them, they'd finally decided, descending into helpless fits of giggles fueled by sleep deprivation and far too much iced tea. Melissa was young and red-haired and enthusiastic--and for one long, disloyal moment, Joyce had wished she could have her for a daughter instead of moody, secretive Buffy. "Are...are you here to visit someone?"

"Oh, my goofball brother broke his ankle skateboarding. Boys are SO dumb. But I stopped by to bring him his Walkman and some stuff to listen to." She shrugged. "He's all whiny, even if he will be out of here in a day."

"That's nice of you." Joyce sipped her iced tea. Crying always made her thirsty. The tea tasted alarmingly sweet, but the truth was she secretly liked it that way--she always had. It took her back to long summer afternoons on the porch at her parents' house, sitting on the glider with Avery, or John, or Will, the boys she'd gone with before Hank came into the picture. After Hank there hadn't been anyone, no one else she'd really liked in her whole life, unless you counted that brief, drugged interlude with Rupert.

No, she reminded herself, Not with Rupert. With Ripper.

And that was the problem really, wasn't it? There'd been Ted, Ted the robot, who'd put on such an impersonation of the perfect man, with his drugged treats and his lies--but he hadn't been perfect. She hadn't found him attractive, really, or interesting. She'd been lonely and desperate, and the truth was, at the time, she'd have gone out with any semi-respectable man who asked her, much as it pained her to admit it.

There'd been Rupert, with his lovely green eyes and his soft voice, the accent that she found so attractive she could hardly stand it. Everything about him seemed quiet, settled, refined--but that had all been a lie too--he was a man who'd known darkness, who knew more about the terrible things in the night than anyone should ever know, probably. He was the man who'd taught her daughter to fight. She'd hated him and she'd wanted him, knowing all the time he wasn't a person she could ever have. He'd always been Buffy's. Even as Ripper he'd turned away from her to fight monsters, to follow Buffy.

She hadn't been able to hold him. Hardly moments after he'd given her the most fulfilling sexual experience of her life, on the hood of that police car, he'd walked away, barely looking back.

He'd taken her daughter from her, and he'd taken Hank...

Except that Hank was already gone, and Rupert had saved her life.

"Joyce?" Melissa said again, and Joyce found herself pouring out a weird truncated version of the summer's events, one that couldn't possibly make any sense.

"Uh-HUH." The younger woman took a long sip of tea. "You mean your husband got...umn...vamped out, and your daughter's boyfriend had to--" She made a brief, stabbing motion with her straw. "You know--"

Joyce stared at her in amazement and horror. "I--"

"I went to UC-Sunnydale. You see stuff. People disappear. Other people never have tans, or look a little unusual even for the current fashions. And how many cases of neck rupture are you gonna believe in? Or how many gangs on PCP?"

"I always..." Joyce clutched her cup in both hands, not drinking, the condensation trickling down her fingers. "Melissa, I always believed. The stories. I always believed them." The tears began to flow again, stinging as if they were cutting channels down her cheeks. "I was so dumb! God, I am the stupidest woman who ever lived! And Buffy-- And Hank--"

The green eyes looked back into hers, full of sympathy. "I'm so sorry about your husband, Joyce. But you know it wasn't him, really? Right? You know that?"

"It just seemed so real. For a minute...it was like we were at the beginning, when we loved each other so much--" Joyce felt her voice rising, tearing at her throat. "It felt like I was loved, that everything was going to be all right, but it was just another damn monster using me. And I can't stand it! I can't! Then for Rupert--"

"To be the one to save your life, when you want to hate him."

Joyce plunked her elbows down on the table, burying her face dramatically in her hands--Melissa barely rescued the iced tea in time. "He's a nice man. A decent man. But he's..."

"It's about Buffy, right? Him 'n' Buffy?"

"He's stolen my daughter from me."

Melissa didn't say anything for a long time, and then Joyce heard the feet of her chair scrape over the tiles.

She's leaving, Joyce, she told herself. Who could blame her? No one wants to come to your personal pity party. It was nice of her to listen this long to the scary old lady. But then she felt Melissa's arm squeeze her shoulders firmly.

Joyce glanced up, laying her hands flat on the table, and the younger woman covered one of them with her own.

"Buffy hasn't been stolen from you," she said quietly. "She loves you as much as she ever did, right?"

"I--" Joyce wiped of the new tears with another napkin. "As much as she ever did. That's probably true."

"No, don't take it that way." Melissa gave her hand a little squeeze. "You're her mom, and she loves you, and sometimes, here..."

Joyce turned, and she could see sadness in the green eyes, and maybe a little too much awareness of what the world was really like.

"Sometimes here in Sunnydale, we need to live fast, to grab hold of everything we can, because we may not have all the time in the world."

"Why do you stay?" Joyce asked, frankly curious.

"Stubborn, I guess." Melissa smiled. "How 'bout you?"

"For Buffy." Joyce wiped her face again. "Only for Buffy."

"Don't you think she knows that? Don't you think she appreciates you?"

Joyce remembered her daughter sitting beside her on the bed in the wee hours of the morning, Buffy's expression of tenderness and love and concern. The depth of that look had struck to the center of her heart, and maybe that was one of the things she mourned, that the old, thoughtless, child-Buffy who leaned on her had gone, leaving this self-sufficient young woman in her place. This empathetic young woman, who could comfort as well as needing comfort. Was that just a piece of growing up, or was it something Rupert had awakened within her?

Joyce nodded, and all at once some of her own poise returned. The sadness continued, but then sadness always did. She'd survived it before--sadness, and pain, and fear. She had something inside her of ancestors, those women who'd come westward in their covered wagons, not knowing what lay in front of them, only that they had a will to survive. She straightened in her seat.

"There now," Melissa told her, in the same quiet voice. "I know it's hard. I know it's really, really hard. But you can take it--you're tough."

Joyce gave a small, shaky laugh. "Not so much at the moment--but I'll get there."

"Meet you in a week, maybe, for more tea?"

Joyce nodded. "You're an angel, you know that?"

Her friend laughed brightly. "Tell that to MY mom! You gonna be okay now?"

"Not all at once," Joyce answered, "But I will."

Somehow, too, Joyce knew that she would. And that prayers, maybe, still got answered after all, even in Sunnydale.

"Melissa," she said, looking up again, "Be careful out there?"

The young woman slung her purse over her shoulder. "Always, Joyce," she said. "Always!"