Tribulations - Chapter 48

"Lost? What's lost?" Buffy demanded, but Giles wasn't answering. She tried shaking him, but that didn't work--besides which, she didn't know what had happened here, and any new bumps or bruises would have been pretty hard to distinguish from the ones left behind by their little underworld adventure of the night before. All of which would be pretty hard to explain at, say, Sunnydale General, especially since she wouldn't have Wes to fib for her.

For lack of any better ideas, she decided to be practical Buffy. She found a nice, clean sheet in the linen closet, tucked it around the sofa cushions, and set about the task of moving Giles from the floor. It was a Task with a capital T, too, because although Slayer strength worked fine for moving heavy objects, lifting a person nearly a foot taller than herself was no joke, especially when he was a person she didn't want to just toss aside, the way she would have done with a demon. With Giles not exactly up to helping her, and her own state of complete wipedness from the previous night's adventures, Buffy found herself getting sweaty and breathless in no time at all.

"C'mon, Giles--uhn!--give me a hand here!" she panted as she finally hauled him past the coffee table and up onto the couch. But all he did was mutter a few words in a language she could barely recognize as a language. The feeling of him being present but really not there had begun to give her the creeps, which led her into the even more wig-worthy notion that maybe he'd picked something up down there. Something that had come along for the ride.

Which usually ended up meaning pretty much the opposite of hugs and puppies.

"God, Giles," Buffy perched on the edge of the coffee table and pushed the damp hair back from her eyes. "Come back, why don't you? I could use some imput, here." He was really pale, with bruise-like circles under his eyes and a twenty-four hour growth of beard, which made him look totally un-Gileslike along with everything else. Despite anything she'd said, Buffy just wanted him back for himself. For his warm, solid, comforting presence. For his kindness and his ultry-dry sense of humor and his courage.

"Did you know this would happen, when we went down there?" she asked. "'Cause maybe I missed that part, but I don't seem to remember you saying anything to me. Haven't we had this discussion before, Mr. Martyr-guy?"

She felt for Giles's pulse again, and found it still weird. His breathing was so slow and shallow, she wondered if she'd done the right thing, trying to take care of him herself.. Maybe she should have called 911, and let some actual trained people make him better again. If they could. She somehow had the feeling that there wouldn't have been anything much the doctors and nurses could do, that it was really in Giles's best interest to stay her with her, whyever that might be.

"You're gonna be in so much trouble if I discover that you've held out on me. I hope you know that." Buffy stroked Giles's cheek with the backs of her fingers, his stubble rasping her skin, the heat and dryness still frightening. If nothing else, she ought to at least try to get some water down him. Or Gatorade. Something so he didn't get any more dehydrated.

Creakily, Buffy got to her feet, trying to stretch out enough aches and pains that she didn't have to shuffle along like an old lady. Way to the back in the bottom of the fridge she found a couple sports bottles of Gatorade--the weird greeny-yellow kind that Giles always said looked like demon blood. Well, he didn't have to look at it now, but he was going to drink some, whether he liked it or not. For good measure, she pulled one of the ever-present ice packs out of the freezer, located a bottle of aspirin in an upper cupboard and felt like she was just about in business.

When she got back to the couch, Giles had started muttering again, just a word here or there. Buffy hoped that meant he'd be awake enough to actually swallow what she gave him to drink, and not suck it straight into his lungs.

"Giles!" Buffy hauled him upright, taking it as a good sign that he stayed that way, more or less. She even managed to get him to take two or three sips of the Gatorade and swallow two aspirin before he went out again.

"That's okay," she told him, trying to sound encouraging instead of scared stiff, as she settled him back down again. "Get some rest. When all this is over, you're gonna tell me what happened, right?"

Of course Giles didn't answer. Buffy sat beside him for a while, but found herself completely unable to settle. Instead, she wandered around the apartment, straightening up things that Giles probably didn't want her to touch. Well, that was just too bad. If he wanted her to be all hands-offy, he should just wake up and...

He should just wake up. Buffy needed that desperately. To hear his voice. To feel the warm, comforting touch of his hands on her skin, the sense of connectedness that touch brought to her. She wanted him to be there. With her. The two of them together.

Buffy found herself pacing. Now that was a good sign.

"Send me away, will you?" she snarked at Giles's unconscious form. "Send me home to mom's, huh? Just what do you think was up with that? When are you going to learn that we face stuff together?" She stopped by the window. Outside, something had happened to the summer sunshine. The air felt heavy, and black, swollen clouds filled up the sky. The air had that weird, ozoney smell, or taste--whatever it was--a pretty clear omen of the mammoth thunderstorm to come. It had been quite the summer for thunderstorms--by her count, there'd been more in the past two months than in the whole rest of her time in Sunnydale.

Which was probably yet another sign of something icky on its way.

Sure enough, as she watched, the sky lit up with a big, bright flash, followed by a kettledrum rumble. Behind her, Giles moaned.

"It's okay, sweetie. Just a storm," Buffy told him absently, but when she turned, there was thick dark smoke, heavy coils of it, streaming from his mouth, his nose, his eyes. Or not just smoke--first there were little orange flashes sparking out from it, then a green light began to ripple down Giles's chest and arms, flecks of darker green drifting from his fingertips. He moaned again, his spine arching off the sofa cushions, his head thrown back. Buffy flew across the room to him, throwing her arms around him just as his whole body jerked upward. She tried to hold him, even though she was fairly sure that was exactly what all the first aid books said she wasn't supposed to do. Tough. She rode out the convulsions, trying to absorb some of their force with her Slayer strength.

Over by the door, the phone rang.

"Oh, not now!" Buffy snapped. "For God's sake, leave a message."

But the ringing died with a final pathetic rattle. Somewhere in the distance, the sky flashed purple, and the lights went out. Giles's lights went out too, and he went limp in her arms. Buffy blinked in the sudden pitch blackness.

"Giles?" she asked, and would have given anything for an answer. She didn't get one. Fumbling, suddenly awkward in a space she would have sworn she knew every square inch of, she groped her way to the kitchen. At least theirs wasn't a household that ever lacked for candles, even though the ones they had were usually made up of spell-appropriate ingredients, and smelled beyond weird--kind of the opposite of aromatherapy.

Buffy found a lighter, too, in the candle drawer, and lit up three fat, creamy pillars, setting them on saucers rather than searching for the real candleholders. One she left on the bar, but carried the others with her into the living room proper. Besides their light, something flickered at the edges of her vision, reminding Buffy of the elementals that had twice accompanied her and Giles's lovemaking, back in England. A nice thought, a comforting thought, that they'd be here. And maybe American elementals were just a little bit more shy, than their British cousins. Or maybe she was looking at something else entirely.

She should ask Willow. Will would even have a clue as to what might be going on here. After all, last night she'd gone all the way down to the end of the line.

Buffy stood for about half a minute with the receiver in her hand, listening to nothing, before it hit her that the phone was dead. No Willow, then. No Xander, either, not that concussion-guy Xander would be a whole lot of help. No Moira or Sebastian or Celeste or even Wesley, unless she left the apartment and went to search for them, Which wasn't something she'd be willing to do at the moment.

Instead, she hung up the phone and went to perch on the coffee table again. Giles's ice-pack, of course, had fallen off, but its contents had melted to blue goo anyway, so she didn't bother to replace it. The aspirin didn't seem to have done him a bit of good, either, because when she touched Giles's forehead, he felt hotter than ever. His eyes did open at her touch, but they looked glazed, sick and dull.

"There's a storm," Buffy told him, trying to sound cheerful. "The lights went out. Cozy, huh?"

Giles's eyes closed again, his lips moved, shaping out something that looked like, "Water."

"You've got it. Only try this instead. It has electrolytes and stuff." Buffy held the bottle to his lips, but Giles barely managed a swallow. Maybe water would a better bet after all. She hurried to the kitchen for a glass and a straw, then thought again and pulled the ice cube trays out of the freezer. Might as well use up the cubes before they melted, anyway. A couple minutes with the kitchen mallet and voila--instant ice chips. She poured them into a cup and took a spoon from the silverware drawer.

"Look, sweetie. Ice! I made it myself." Buffy put on her pretend-perky voice, but Giles didn't smile, the way he usually would have. "Try some. You're dehydrated."

Giles's shook his head just a little, but Buffy slipped a spoonful into his mouth anyway. "You, Giles," she told him, "Are in no position to argue. And you need it. So there." She set the cup beside her on the table. "Be back in a minute."

It looked as if he might be trying to say her name, but Buffy left anyway, returning sooner than even she would have thought possible--nervousness made her hyper--with a washcloth and a basin of cool water.

Tenderly, taking care not to dribble cold water down the back of Giles's neck, Buffy sponged his face and throat, then squeezed out the cloth with one hand while the other unbuttoned his shirt. Giles shivered a little when she ran the coolness over his chest, but didn't complain.

"You have a really bad fever," Buffy told him. "You must have caught something down below."

"Yes," Giles breathed. His voice sounded all hoarse, like he was about to lose it completely.

"You know what this is, then? It's not something like--like that Bloodstone Vengeance thingie Amy's mom whammied me with, is it?"

"No." Giles had started shivering with a vengeance now, even though his skin still felt burning hot. So much for her Florence Nightingaling abilities. "Cold. So. Cold." He said through chattering teeth, still shivering even after she'd spread the afghan over him, then the comforter from the downstairs linen cupboard. Even the covers from the upstairs bed, doubled up so that they wouldn't trail over the floor, didn't seem to do any good.

"Listen," Giles told her, still shaking violently. "Listen. Buffy."

"I'm listening," Buffy assured him, still trying to arrange the blankets so that he wasn't so obviously suffering.

"Tell Wesley..." Giles's voice trailed off into another round of shivers.

"Tell Wes. Okay." Buffy pushed away the table, kneeling beside him.

"Or Em..."

"Got it." Buffy held him again, the violent tremors of his body vibrating up her arms.

"Der Zite Roybear," Giles told her. Or at least that's what it sounded like to her. Kind of. Buffy guessed the words were German, but beyond that she didn't have a clue.

"So, if I tell Wes and Moira, that'll mean something to them?" Buffy asked, but by that time Giles had sunk all the way back into the bad place, burning and freezing at the same time, his face tight with pain. The lights still hadn't come back on; she picked up the phone anyway. She didn't get a flat nothing, but no matter how many times she tried, all she heard was a fast busy signal.

Buffy slammed the receiver down, cracking it in the process. Great. Now she'd really done it. Only... She stopped in mid-fume. Right there, on the telephone table, sat somebody's cell phone. All she could say was that someone had really good timing in forgetting his or her personal possessions.

She snatched up the phone, punching in the well-known number for Sunnydale General with fumble-fingers that still managed to hit the right buttons. Be there, Wesley. Don't be out looking for blood, or sleeping the sleep of the undead.

On the fourth ring, a hospital operator answered, sounding a little frenzied. Buffy could hear herself matching that tone for tone as she asked to be connected to Moira LeFaye's room.

The trying-really-hard-not-to-be-frenzied-woman told her they had no such person registered, and Buffy was building up to really go off on her, when she realized her own mistake. "Uh...my bad. Moira..." Oh, great, now she was being hitting a brick wall with Moira's name. Something to do with stairs, right? "Moira..." she tried again, stalling. But then it came to her in one of those weird little brain flashes. "Moira Bannister-St. Ives." Score one for the mentally challenged Slayer. "I accidentally gave you her title name. Er...title. Sorry."

Shut up now, Buffy, she told herself. Luckily, the phone was already ringing. When she heard the words, "Hello, Wesley Wyndham-Price," on the other end," she was so relieved she could have kissed Wes. If he'd been there.

"Wes, it's Buffy." To her complete humiliation, she realized she was crying, and sounded like it.

"Buffy, where are you? What's wrong?" he answered, sounding so kind and concerned that Buffy felt like even more of an utter bitch for being so nasty to him all spring. Because he'd tried. He'd honestly tried, and even if he'd been kind of off-base about some stuff...well, so had she.

"I'm at Giles's. I need your help. He needs your help. That is, we..."

"What can I do for you?" Wesley asked, showing good timing in the save-Buffy-from-embarrassing-herself-any-further department.

Buffy sucked in a deep breath, knowing she really needed to get herself back under control. Or at least under enough control to make sense when she talked. "He told me to tell you, 'Der Zite Roybear.' Or something like that. I think it's German, and I know I'm saying it wrong."

"One moment, Buffy." It sounded like Wes covered the receiver with his hand, or at least turned away. She could hear him say something to Moira, and Moira answer at length. Then Wesley said some more, and it sounded as if the two of them came to some agreement.

"This pertains to the situation you described to me previously? Your bargain with that unknown demon? Has the creature approached you?"

"No, Wes, this is about...!" Buffy caught herself, knowing that it would be just like Giles to think about her well-being when she was so worried about his. "Okay. Yes. Maybe." Great, so this phone call wasn't doing any good after all. She sank down onto the floor. "I guess. But I thought he was telling me how to fix this."

"And 'this' is?"

Buffy sighed, feeling too tired to talk anymore, but making herself continue the conversation. "Something happened. Down there. Last night. Maybe Giles brought something back with him. Or maybe, instead of making the curse we got from the London Hellmouth go away, like we thought, our spell just switched all the badness onto one person. I don't know."

A pause followed, as if Wesley was thinking, or listening--she could hear Moira's voice in the background.

"Maybe I shouldn't have bothered you," Buffy said, when the silence had stretched out to the point of uncomfortableness.

"What? Oh, no, Buffy. Not at all. I was merely... Look, I've an item or two to pick up at the cottage, but I'll be over shortly. Let's say within half an hour? Would you like me to inform Delacoeur...er, Sebastian?

"Seb? Yes,," Buffy breathed. Sebastian was smart. He'd know what to do. At the very least, he could read through the notes, maybe find out what went wrong. Actually, both Seb and Wes were smart, and Sebastian had actually been there... Buffy stopped her train of thought before it derailed completely, and said, "It...it's really nice of you, Wes. I appreciate..."

"Not at all," Wesley answered, and hung up.

Nice phone manners, Buffy thought. But maybe he was still mad at her. Who could blame him? Maybe he'd be mad at her for a long time, and he'd earned the right. Besides which, it didn't matter, just as long as he was still willing to help.

She crossed back to the couch, gazing down at Giles's ultra-pale, worn-looking face. At least he wasn't shivering anymore, but she wasn't sure if she should be encouraged by that or not. Again, she touched his cheek, and the heat shocked her; she was afraid to take his temperature. Afraid, too, of what might happen if his body had to take much more of this.

"I did what you said," Buffy told him. "Wesley's on his way over. Sebastian too. They'll figure things out." She leaned over the back of the couch, touching her lips to his forehead. "I love you so much, Giles," she said, straightening. "You know that, right?"

He didn't answer, of course. The darkness seemed to press in around her, and the three flickering candles cast enormous shadows up onto the walls, but shed only a little light. Everything around her should have felt familiar. She ought to have been telling herself that help was on the way, and that they'd get through this, the way they always got through everything.

Instead, Buffy felt little and lost and utterly, utterly alone.