Tribulations - Ch. 24

Outside lay only whiteness, a sterile whiteness so intense Moira wondered how such a deep, still snow had come to California, in the summer. It pleased her that she'd no need to go out into that bitter chill, for she lay in a warm place, a lovely place, and she did not want to rise from there again. The air smelled of roses, of a single, dethorned rose laid upon her bosom, more perfect than any rose that had ever been. The sheets around her were silk, the same pale blushing color as the rose-petals, the duvet spread over them as light as a cloud.

"My love," murmured a sweet, proper voice, its owner's warm breath tickling her ear, even as his gentle hand caressed her hair.

She'd undone the plait because he liked it best that way, loving to see the wavy auburn mass of it spread across the pillow. It reminded him of a picture, he'd told her, a painting of a red-haired woman in Classical attire, sleeping. He hadn't know the name, or the artist, but Moira had told him he'd meant Flaming June, by Lord Leighton.

She was his picture, Wesley had told her, his favorite picture. He could look at her forever.

Sometimes she'd thought him mad, until she realized that his words were not flattery, that he did, in fact see her in just such a light, that he worshiped her--not as if he expected her to be entirely flawless, for who could manage that, or live up to such expectations? No, he loved her in such a way that even her many faults were acceptable in his eyes, just as his own small failings were to her. Perhaps, she considered, love was exactly that: the joy one felt in the other's strengths, the ability one possessed not to be taken aback by the appearance of his or her weaknesses.

At first, when Wesley touched her scars, she'd felt angry, and then, later, had experienced something akin to shame--only after the fact did she realize what he'd seen there, becoming aware, at last, that his reaction was not the result of pity or horror or any other demeaning response, but that it meant he loved her exactly as she was, regretting only her pain. She'd never received that sort of acceptance from another in her life: neither from Rupert, who'd always wished to avenge her, nor from her Slayer, Helena, who'd seen each new wound as a catalyst to her own fear--that Moira, on whom she depended so completely, was mortal, that someday she would be gone, and Helena herself unable to live on.

And so it had been, though not in the way either of them expected--and yet out of that loss and that suffering had come this new love.

Moira turned her face to his, touching his brow softly with her lips, then pulling away so that she could see his eyes. Such lovely eyes, they were, such a clear dark blue, not sapphire or topaz, but a color all their own, like the sky in Italy at the close of a summer's day. His face was still nearly unlined--he was, after all, only thirty-two years of age--and yet it was no longer a boy's face, even though much of the innocent look of boyhood remained intact. He'd never been meant for a Watcher, to be part of that labyrinthine plotting that true Watcherhood seemed to entail, that ability to look round corners, to out-think the most evil creatures that walked beneath the sun and the moon. In the heart of his heart, Wesley was good--a bit of a prig, perhaps, she thought, smiling--but good. He was in no way tainted, as she and Rupert were, the ill-fortune that trailed behind them seeming, so often, no more than they deserved.

I have been given a blessing, she thought. I have been given a second chance, and this time I will NOT muff it up.

Moira kissed her love again: on the forehead, on the bridge of his nose--making him smile--finally on the mouth, those lips that young Miss Chase had found so repugnant warming to hers, his tongue softly tracing the line of her lower lip. He reached for her hand, curling it within his larger one, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles--such smooth skin compared to hers, so unmarked by pain and time.

She allowed her own lips to part, feeling the warmth of his breath again within her, the tongue slipping inside, stroking her own. Wesley rose slightly on one elbow, his other arm encircling her, their kiss deepening until it was all she felt, or wanted to feel, and then his hand began to explore her body, first traveling the lines of her bosom, her waist, her hip over the thin softness of her silk nightgown, then slipping up beneath, so that Wesley's warm skin brushed her skin, and her body arched toward his, wanting and needing him. He caressed her inner thighs, and her belly, sliding down just a little on the bed so that his mouth closed over one silk-covered breast, his tongue stroking her nipple through the cloth, slowly, teasingly, until the need for him began to ache within her.

Wesley sensed her desire, and his fingers slipped between her thighs, barely touching her, their presence alone enough to make her arch again, her body pressing to his, her own hand moving to touch him as he touched her, running over his bare chest with its soft hair and small, hard nipples, down the flat surface of his belly, further down to rub him softly, rhythmically, through the cotton pajama trousers he wore. Such a lovely feeling, the heat of him beneath the cool, soft cotton. Smiling, she nudged him over so that he lay on his back, then rested her head on his stomach, her fingers continuing to rub and explore, his heat increasing, the hardness growing under her hand. He in turn caressed her buttocks, then moved his hand further inward until he touched her center again, one fingertip circling lightly over the bud of her clitoris. Pleasure rippled through her muscles, and her breathing quickened.

"Oh, my love, my love," Wesley gasped, and Moira slipped her fingers beneath the elasticized waistband of the trousers, her touch gliding over his hip , down his thigh and up again, between his legs. Her fingers closed around his testicles, cupping him as her thumb stroked over their upper surface in small, gentle circles. "Ah...please," he panted, but Moira only smiled, merciless in her pleasure-giving. Her fingertips traced the underside of his cock, following the path of the large vein to its head, tracing the rim with a feather touch, the organ wonderfully hot against her skin.

Only when Wesley's hips pushed toward her did she relent, freeing him from his pajamas, then rising to straddle him. The head of his penis barely touched the opening to her passage. His body lay below, taut with his need for her. Moira raised a little more, gazing into his trusting, delighted, impassioned face. She poised above him, running her hand up and down the hardness until he shivered uncontrollably, his eyes pleading with hers. Only then did she guide him inside, into her secret depths, stilling herself above him.

Moira continued to watch, not moving, until Wesley's hands moved to her thighs, stroking the scarred and the unscarred skin, slipping round her hips to her bum, holding her firmly as he urged her into motion. She pushed down hard against his body, rose slowly again, then fell, moving over him, her rhythm ever-increasing as Wesley bit his lip, and gripped her tighter, finally arching upright to meet her, so that they spent the last moments encircled tightly in one another's arms, their climaxes coming in one single, seemingly eternal, explosion of heat and fire.

"Em," Wesley breathed against her, still panting, still filling her. Moira embraced him fiercely, stroking his hair, his back, as if she could never let him go.

And she never could. Never. She buried her face between his neck and his shoulder, tasting the salt of his skin. She knew there was a reason why she ought to feel as she did, so desperate, so lost, but she could not fathom it--such reasons had no part of this moment. This moment was everything.

"Promise me," Wesley whispered, his breath once more warm against her ear. "Promise me you'll stay here forever. Promise that you shall never leave."

"Never," Moira promised. "Never, my love."

But she wondered at the whiteness outside their small circle of comfort, and why the air was filled, suddenly, with the hiss of machines.

Buffy had been dreaming that someone made her tea--very bad and bitter tea. She was just about to say she wouldn't drink it, no way, no how, when a small, soft knock sounded on the door, and a voice called, "Buffy? Giles?" in the kind of tone only Willow would use, when she didn't really want to call attention to herself.

She was lying on the couch, Buffy realized, with one of the bed pillows under her head and a comforter tucked around her. She felt a little hot, but not too bad--not in terms of feeling bad. She just felt all floppy and weak. "Sweetie?" she called. "Giles, can you get that?"

No answer. That was strange. He wouldn't have left her. Not when he'd worked so hard persuading Joyce that they'd be all right on their own. Joyce had been in full mom-mode, wanting to take care of both of them, or maybe just not wanting to go back to the dusty house on Revello Drive on her own. She'd tried to persuade them to come with her, but on that one Buffy had come to Giles's defense. She knew that, bruised and hurting as he was, the effort of being a pleasant guest would push him straight on over the edge.

That was probably it, she thought--he was upstairs napping, and hadn't heard Willow's not-very-noticeable call.

A minute later, Buffy heard a key scrape in the lock, and Willow and Xander burst into the room.

"Over here, guys," she said, doing her best not to sound all weak and wimpy, but she didn't think it came out too well. The two of them hurried toward her, switching on lamps as they went.

"Buffster?" Xander reached the couch first, and stood scowling down at her. "You okay?"

"Sick," she told him. Which was true, only she'd gotten sick in the weirdest way ever. She had quite the temperature, and the results of all her tests weren't back yet to be sure, but Dr. Freas hadn't been able to find anything really wrong with her. Buffy was smart enough, or at least had lived on the Hellmouth long enough, to have those kind of symptoms say "MAGIC" to her in a big, loud voice.

Sometimes, she thought, she'd had just about enough of magic, especially the wiggy kind.

Willow perched on the edge of the coffee table, one soft, cool hand touching Buffy's forehead. "Buffy, you're really warm. Where's Giles?"

"Not here," Buffy answered--which, the more she thought about it, was scary and strange. Giles really wouldn't leave her, not without saying something. Not without at least leaving a note. "Note?" she asked. "Is there one?"

Her two friends looked around the room, and came back shaking their heads.

"I'll check the bedroom," Xander said, and as he rushed up the stairs, Willow sat back down on the coffeetable.

She gazed at Buffy with one of those sad-frowny-sympathetic Willow-looks, glanced down at her shoes, then picked up one edge of the comforter and started playing with it, tugging at a random thread-end that stuck out from the hem.

"I'm sorry you don't feel good," she said at last. "And I'm sorry 'bout your dad." Willow paused for a minute. "Your mom called," she explained.

Buffy nodded, waiting for the flood of tears she half expected to follow the minute she let her mind go there, but no tears came. Her heart hurt, and she could feel all those kid memories pushing at some barrier in her brain, waiting to break free, waiting for the sadness to overwhelm her. Maybe it was just all too new. Maybe she couldn't accept it yet.

"And," Willow went on. "She said--about Angel. Too."

Buffy nodded again.

Willow's mouth took on a funny shape. "So. I mean. Is--?"

Buffy thought about that for a minute, but she knew what Willow meant before she even figured out the unsaid words. Willow was really asking if Giles had gone because she'd given him the fatal blow, chosen Angel over him for the final time. It hurt Buffy that her friend could even think that--all the more so because she knew she'd more than earned that kind of distrust. For three years, she'd given anyone who even halfway knew her no reason to doubt that she really would be exactly that dumb.

"No, Will," Buffy answered quietly, hoping her eyes told Willow that she understood why the question had to be asked, and that her friend had every right to doubt her.

"I swear, Will, we didn't even talk, Angel and I. Not one word."

"Oh." Willow's mouth twisted into another funny shape, and she bit her lower lip--but then a couple minutes passed, and the expression Buffy called the "happy chipmunk" took over. "Oh! Good! I mean, bad. Old boyfriend. Big sadness. But, good! 'Cause, you know, of Giles."

"I wouldn't hurt Giles like that," Buffy said. "Not anymore. That was the old-style Buffy. I'm the new and improved Buffy, and I swear cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die that I wouldn't do that to him."

Willow nodded.

"Angel came here when Giles was away, uh, doing that thing...with my d...uh, the vampire." Now the tears threatened, but Buffy blinked them back savagely. "And he was standing over me. I guess I knew that, kinda. So then Giles came up the stairs and saw him, and he thought, maybe..."

"Of Jenny." Willow bit her lip again, and her eyes brightened too. "Poor Giles."

"He kinda lost it. They went flying right over the rail." Buffy gestured to the loft. "And crash! The desk broke."

"Over the rail? Ouch!" Willow leaned forward. "But you don't blame him, do you?" Will had started to clutch the comforter in both hands, like she was strangling something underneath it. "For losing it, I mean. 'Cause normally, I know, losing it's bad. But for Giles..." She glanced down at her hands, and the twisted cover. "I don't say this to make you feel bad, Buff--but you didn't see. You didn't see."

"See what?" Buffy asked, even though she knew.

"How much Giles hated Angel." The words hung between them for a minute, and then Will went on. "After...you know...after you left..." Willow jumped to her feet and went over to the corner bookshelf by the recliner, hunting until she found what she was looking for and fumbling through the pages as she returned. "Here. I--I, uh, found this diary. On his desk. That morning. After the-- You know?"

Buffy nodded, then blinked.. Her eyes felt hot and a little blurry, but she could see okay. The page Willow held in front of her was all smudged and crossed-out and there were words spelled wrong. Something clicked inside her brain and she finally understood the rest of the story, everything that lay behind Giles's quiet voice, his silence, the scars--even those stiff, three-piece suits he'd worn like armor through the fall and winter of her senior year.. She loved him, and she ached for him, and she understood how Angelus hadn't been able to break Giles, no matter how much the vampire hurt and shamed him, but that she herself, without meaning to, had done the job for him. She knew that during that summer Giles had lost a piece of himself, maybe even gone a little crazy. Now, although he'd pushed that craziness back and gotten himself under control--and Buffy shuddered to think what that might have cost him--if it had been Angelus standing over her the night before, Giles would have fought him until one or both of them died, because he just couldn't stand being violated by the vampire again.

She understood that Giles's words to Angel, which might have sounded on the harsh side, were really, all things considered, a miracle of restraint and self-control.

"I tried to help him, after," Willow murmured. "But Giles wouldn't let me. Not really. I'm glad he has you now, Buff. You were always the one."

"He loves you too, Will."

"Oh, I know." Willow shut the book, giving a sad little smile. "I'm in his heart, but Buffy, you're half his soul. I'm so glad you did what you did. Last night. That you let him see for sure."

Buffy stared up at her friend, not meaning to intimidate, only wishing she had the strength to make Willow believe. "Last night," she said, "I couldn't have acted any other way."

His bed had become very hard, Giles thought, and rather cold, if one considered it. He couldn't remember the mattress ever being so. And why, in heaven's name, was Xander standing in his bedroom?

At least he believed the blurred shape above to be Xander's form. The person who crouched over him wore a shirt so violently green that Giles couldn't imagine another sentient being willing to wear such a garment publicly.

Was it a shirt? He couldn't see precisely--or, really, at all. Its owner, however, appeared to have a body of human proportions, ergo the electric-pea-soup coloured garment on its upper half was a shirt, and the khaki blur on its lower regions were most likely trousers. Giles put his hand to his eyes and groaned. Someone so close ought to have been clearly visible with or without his glasses. It must be another side effect of the damned headache.

Xander knelt beside him, and was slipping an arm behind his shoulders, raising him from what he now surmised was not his bed, but a floor. "Giles," he said quietly. "Giles, can you hear me?"

"Of course I can hear you, Xander. But why are you in my bedroom?"

"News flash, Giles--you're not in your bedroom. Are you hurt? Can you sit up?"

Giles tried to answer, but another bout of the debilitating dizziness swooped over him, and Xander was forced to do all the work, hauling him upright to a sitting position whilst he clung to the young man's shoulder. He'd been afraid of this, literally afraid the entire time Buffy was being seen by her doctor. She'd been so ill, so unusually dependent upon him, that he'd been terrified of letting her down. Even now, she must have been wondering where he'd got to. What if she'd called out to him? What if she'd needed him?

"Buffy...?" he tried.

"She's okay," Xander answered. "Snug as a Buffy-bug. You wanna go for the standing thing, G-man?"

The effort seemed nearly impossible, but at length Xander managed to raise him to his feet, and again Giles clung to him, trembling, as the young man conveyed him slowly to the bed.

They sat side by side near the end. Giles tried not to be alarmed by the fact that he needed to struggle, after performing an activity that should have required no effort at all, to bring his breathing back under control. He wasn't, really, so terribly weak--not as Buffy was--but his hands seemed to tremble uncontrollably, and his head spun, the pain inside it so shocking it made the past night's aches and bruises seem inconsequential. He pressed the heel of his hand to his brow, trying to will the agony away.

"So what's the big secret?" Xander asked, in a voice simultaneously angry and kind. "Buffy's sick. What's wrong with you?"

"Xander, I--" The room swooped again, and nausea clawed at his stomach. Giles swallowed convulsively.

"C'mon, lie back." With unexpected gentleness, Xander eased Giles down on the mattress, sliding a pillow beneath his head. "Since it's you and Buffy both, I gotta ask--poison, demon or spell?"

"I don't--" Giles swallowed again. He knew the answer, but couldn't seem to frame the words.

He heard Xander's footsteps cross the room, then his voice calling down the stairs. "Will? Up here for a sec?"

Giles felt rather than heard Willow's arrival, and smelled the light floral scent of her perfume, a fragrance he found quite pleasant under normal circumstances, yet now made the nausea nearly unbearable.

"Oh, God, Giles!" Willow cried out, running to his side. Her soft, cool hands ran down along the sides of his face, and even that whisper of a touch pained him. "Oh, Giles!"

"Pages," Giles managed to croak, before he lost control entirely. "The pages...from the Compound...Angela Tremayne."