Tribulations - Chapter 59

Buffy stopped outside the bathroom door with her fist raised and ready to knock. When he didn't have her to distract him, Giles was a notoriously quick shower-taker, and the water had now been running for nearly half an hour--which, to her, said something was wrong. If she didn't get a response to her knock, she fully intended to barge on in and damn the torpedoes.

Only, a second before she did anything, it hit her what was really happening here. She'd offered comfort, which was all well and good, but it didn't take into account that the habits of a lifetime weren't easy to break. Giles was quiet, Giles was controlled, Giles was grieving so deeply that she couldn't even begin to understand the depths of it. They lived in a small apartment and he'd gone to the only place he could think of to let some of that grief out in private, without embarrassing himself.

If it made her a little sad to think that he still balked at showing emotion in front of her--well, that was her problem, wasn't it? "Oh, sweetie," she breathed, knowing he wouldn't hear her over the sound of the water. Which had to be ice-cold by now: the hot water heater chez Giles being notoriously small.

If anything, it made Buffy sadder to think that in a few minutes he'd emerge, fully clothed, and with his normal calm, reserved expression on his face, thinking that she hadn't even guessed, that she'd been too wrapped up in her own...whatevers to even give a thought to him.

Maybe the polite thing would have been to leave him in peace, but if Giles wanted polite he could marry Willow. Actually, over her dead body he could, but that was beside the point. He loved her, and if that didn't include her bluntness and her tendency to charge in where she maybe wasn't wanted, then they were in for a rocky ride. What had he told her, though, way back in the day when they were still so cautiously exploring each other? That he loved pushy, opinionated, strong women? Time to put that to the test.

Quietly, she opened the door, slipping into the upstairs bathroom, which was a lot tinier than the one downstairs, and quite a bit darker, too. The shower curtain didn't fit as well either, and the thin streamers of spray that escaped into the bathroom itself were, in fact, just about as cold as water ever got in Sunnydale. Neither were the sounds from behind the curtain exactly encouraging.

Shaking, but not letting herself chicken out, Buffy reached behind the curtain to shut off the taps, first the shower, then hot, then cold, working quickly to postpone the inevitable. Just as she might have predicted, a large, strong hand caught hold of hers, while the curtain shrieked back on its rings.

"Can't I have a bit of privacy?" Giles asked, aiming, she knew, for the withering, reasonable tone that had always worked so well in the past for putting her firmly in her place. This time it failed miserably--partly because he totally couldn't manage the Buffy-shrinking stare that needed to go with The Voice in order for it to be one hundred per cent effective, but mostly because he sounded so hoarse, and congested, and miserable, the way anyone would who'd been crying alone in an icy shower. He looked awful too, all messy-haired, red-eyed and blue with cold.

Buffy gazed up at his angry face, feeling her own eyes fill. "Nope. Uh-unh. Don't think so," she answered, as Giles stepped out of the shower. She fought the urge to take a step backward, reaching instead for the big green towel on its hook behind her. Quickly, not thinking about what she was doing, she wrapped it around his waist, tucking in the corner so that it would--hopefully--stay where she put it. She found a second towel in the little cupboard behind the door and stretched up, standing tip-toe to drape it around his shoulders, staying close to him after that was done, rubbing his back through the thick terrycloth.

Giles sank to his knees, taking Buffy with him, and she held him even more fiercely then, rubbing his shoulders, then his hair, gently stroking the back of his neck as she whispered to him, not even knowing what she said, only that she was desperate to bring him some sort of comfort. At last, tentatively, his arms circled her body, holding her there against his own chilly dampness.

"I thought," he said, in a soft, choked voice, "that I didn't want you to see me. And yet, you knew all along."

"Hah, didn't expect that, did you?" Buffy answered, her own voice sounding shaky. "Score one for the Slayer."

Giles sighed, then lifted her to her feet. "And what a pinnacle of strength I've been through this," he murmured. "I must be extremely trying to you, Buffy." He climbed up on his own, obviously trying not to shiver, his lips blue.

"What's trying is having to figure out what to do. Sometimes my previous life experiences as a demon hunter, cheerleader and waitress leave me kinda lost. As in, they don't really apply." She tugged Giles behind her into the bedroom, using her free hand to throw back the comforter on their bed. "C'mon, get in. You can at least warm up a little with me." Buffy slid in backwards, giving him what she hoped was an inviting look.

"Buffy, I need to--"

"Nope. Don't wanna hear it. Besides, Celeste called, and she's made all the arrangements any sane person could possibly make."

"But I ought to... The Council..."

"Wanna bet me that's already covered? This is the Perfect Hostess we're talking about here. At the very least, she'll have told Simon Quartermass, and Simon will have let everybody on that end know. Besides, she talked about notifying people back home, and arranging tickets and stuff. So there. Get in." She gave Giles's hand, still trapped in hers, a little tug, nearly making him lose his balance. "There's a wake tomorrow, and the funeral will be the next day, at whatever time after dark Celeste was able to arrange. See? Now are you going to stop worrying?"

"Not bloody likely," Giles groused, but he did slip in beside her and, after about five minutes, even relaxed, his cold body slowly warming against hers, although the look of worry never left his face.

"I ought to be..." he tried again after a little while, but Buffy pressed her finger to his lips, forbidding him to speak, and five minutes after that, he'd slipped, exhausted, back into sleep again. Gently, careful not to wake him, Buffy kissed his cheek then, making sure he was tucked in warmly, left their bed again.

As if by instinct, too--because the moment she hit the last step, the doorbell rang, and Buffy opened up to find Willow on the doorstep, looking cute and perky and about twelve years old in a pink and yellow outfit and one of her goofy hats. This particular one had a crocheted daisy and a teensy butterfly for decoration.

"Hi, Buff--" Will began, but Buffy motioned her to silence, taking a minute to scribble a note and grab her purse before she shut the door behind both of them.

"Giles is sleeping and I don't wanna wake him up," she explained, hustling Willow up the outside stairs.

"Sleeping?" Willow looked alarmed. "Giles never sleeps past..."

"Long story," Buffy said, still whispering--although they'd long since passed the point where anyone not endowed with super-hearing would've been able to catch a sound. "It's been a rough few days. Speaking of which--?" She gave Willow a look.

The one Will gave back to her was blandly innocent. "What? Oh." She giggled. "I've been soooo grounded. Mom came home and found the windows blown out, and some stuff left behind from the soul-restoration thingy. Like, I couldn't find the Orb of Thesselah afterwards, but it had--don't ask me how--rolled into one of my dad's hiking boots. Don't think mom wasn't on that like a shot. So--no walkies, no talkies for Willow. And I've been dying to talk to you guys." Willow gave her chipmunk grin. "Only it just so happens that mom had to fly off to Frankfurt for a conference, and dad's still in Brazil." Willow gave another grin at the unintentional rhyme. "So here I am, free at last. Is everyone okay? Xander? Celeste? You? Giles?"

Somehow, without having actually picked a direction, they'd reached the park. Buffy sat Willow down on one of the swings.

"Okay, now I'm wigging," Will said in a little voice. "I'm wigging big time, and I wish you'd tell me if I shouldn't be."

Buffy stood looking down at her, not exactly sure how to begin. "We--" She took a big breath. "The Scoobies, I mean. We're all okay. Celeste got cut, but she's okay too. But, Will..." Buffy stopped, searching her friends face, wishing she could somehow convey what she needed to tell by mental telepathy and not have to say the worlds. "A really bad thing happened to Moira."

Willow frowned slightly. "Buff, I know that. But she's getting better, right? It's gonna take time, but..."

"Willow, she's dead." Putting it that way sounded just...rude. Harsh and mean and rude, but at the moment Buffy couldn't think of anything better.

Willow's hands went up, covering her mouth as her face went dead white. She looked like was going to lose it right there, maybe even throw up, and Buffy had to fight the urge, again, to take a step backward. "W-w-w-what happened?" Willow asked in a tiny voice.

Buffy sank down on a swing next to her. "The doctors say she had a stroke. From all the damage--" She waved a hand in the direction of her own head. "You know. She flatlined, and Wesley had to decide..." Her voice petered out. What else really needed to be said? Dead pretty much summed it up, and after that 'how' ceased to be that big of deal. "Wes is pretty freaked, of course. And Giles. And Sebastian. Actually, none of us is doing all that well"

"Poor Giles," Willow breathed. "It doesn't seem possible. It just doesn't. Moira was so strong, all that power..."

"I guess that only helps if you can use it," Buffy answered. She swung silently for a few minutes, feeling depressed. "The funeral's the day after tomorrow. The night after tomorrow, actually. Tomorrow's the wake."

"I've never been to a wake," Willow whispered. "We won't have to...you know..."

After everything they'd seen, Buffy wondered how her friend could still get so squeamish. Except that she guessed it was worse, maybe, when the body belonged to someone you'd known. "I don't think so. I think it's just for everyone to get together. Like a party, only with, you know, all the happiness removed."

That made her even more depressed. Buffy scraped her feet on the ground beneath the swing, scratching lines in the gravel that had been put down to break little kids' falls. Kind of harsh, that seemed to her--maybe you wouldn't break a bone, but you'd sure as hell lose some skin.

"You know..." Willow ventured shyly. "I had a thought. About, you know. Your problem."

"My problem?" Buffy asked, not getting it.

"With, you know, your hedgehog man. With the tea. And the promise."

Oh, that, Buffy thought. What with everything else, she'd totally forgotten. "He--it--whatever--is called the Time Robber, Giles says. Only in German. Which I'm not even gonna attempt."

"German? There's been research, then?"

"Wes has really been hitting the books. He even got the pitiful remnants going on the problem. Except for--" Buffy shrugged. "We got interrupted."

"Pitiful what?" Willow looked confused.

"You know. What's left of the Council. Remember that girl Angela? She's, like, power researcher, and between what Wes found and she dug up, there's a bunch of stuff on the table back home." Buffy gave a shaky laugh, "And you're so like, 'bring it on,' over that, aren't you, Will?"

For an answer, Willow bumped the side of her swing up against Buffy's, and reached out to squeeze her hand. "Trust me," she said softly.

Buffy looked into her friend's huge green eyes., reading sympathy there, and worry--as well as big heaping amounts of smartness. Maybe Willow could help, after all. "Will, I really hope you can come up with a plan," she confessed, "'Cause I'm scared about this, and I just don't think I could take one more thing."

Willow grinned at her, the butterfly on her hat doing its own little dance of joy. "Does Velma ever let the Scoobies down?" she asked.

Giles woke feeling out of sorts, as he inevitably did when he'd napped during the day, his body stiff and aching along with all the crossness.. What he really needed was a brisk run, or perhaps a brisker session sparring with Buffy--perhaps with swords, if he hoped the preserve the meagre shreds that remained of his dignity.

Instead, he rose and dressed himself without feeling the least diminution of his bad mood, then headed down the stairs to where a pair of soft voices murmured below. Two bright young faces glanced up at his approach, two pairs of eyes watched him--a bit apprehensively, he thought. Most likely because they'd been mucking about with the notes on the table, and with the book he'd left there, as well. He only hoped he could trust to Willow's judgement in preserving some sort of order within the research. Buffy, he knew, could not be relied upon in that respect.

"Oh, Giles!" Willow flew around the table to bury her face in the front of his shirt, her slender arms closing fast around him, a knitted hat of a violent shade of fuchsia flying off with the speed of her passage. Still clinging like a limpet, she sobbed against his chest, and Giles could not help but hold her in return, stroking her soft coppery hair as Buffy gazed on approvingly. His dream of the night before returned to him, though, and he found himself pulling back slightly.

Startled, Willow released him, her tear-streaked face turning up to his, her soft mouth trembling. When he probed, gently, with his magical senses, he felt no untoward power, nothing borrowed or stolen, only the nascent warmth of Willow's own natural abilities.

A dream, then, was all that had been. A dream inspired by grief, and by the visitations of the past, no dire warning, no accusation. Giles felt unworthy for having believed, if only for a moment, that his young friend might have had a hand in Moira's demise. Perhaps the disturbance he'd felt round her body had been nothing more than the discharge of her considerable strength into the aether from whence it came.

"Willow, I'm very sorry," he apologized. "The last few days--to say the least--have been extremely tiresome indeed, and I'm quite a long way, yet, from catching my balance. How have you been, after our adventures?"

"Sleepy." Willow yawned widely--yet delicately as a little cat--as if to illustrate her point. "And under house arrest. My mom found a bunch of magic stuff. And I broke the living room windows, which is gonna come out of my allowance." She looked so indignant at that, Giles had to laugh.

"Quite right," he told her. "And no more than you deserve."

Willow laughed as well. "What I don't get is my mom insisting magic doesn't exist, then punishing me for breaking stuff with magic. I mean, nice logic, mom."

"Such are the workings of the maternal mind." Giles followed her to the sofa, taking a seat with Willow curled up to one side of him and Buffy, rather closer, on the other.

"You never made me pay for any of the stuff I damaged," Willow pouted.

"Because I was your teacher and not your mum," Giles answered. "If you made mistakes, I had to count myself at least partially responsible, whereas your mother..."

"Just doesn't understand."

"Perhaps rather misses her front windows," Giles concluded sternly, which made both Willow and Buffy laugh.

"Give it up, sweetie," Buffy told him. "I'm afraid you're outgunned." Her hand closed around his, delivering a brief squeeze. Her head dropped, affectionately, onto his shoulder and yet, charmed as he was by the gesture, Giles could not entirely shake a feeling of being watched, by eyes that were, perhaps, less than friendly.

Still, when he glanced up, he found only Willow's eyes, and Willow's warm and open smile. A dream was only a dream, after all. Why should his young friend be any different, and why should he treat her differently? Hadn't she proved herself, time and again, their staunch ally?

"You look sad, Giles," Willow said, softly and kindly. "Buffy told me about Moira. I'm so sorry." Her green eyes brimmed, the unshed tears darkening their colour. "She was...okay, maybe nice isn't exactly the word I'm looking for here...but she was amazing. Really amazing. She taught me so much, in just a little time."

"I'll be all right, " Giles told her, fighting to keep the emotion out of his voice. He might have broken down, to his shame, in front of Buffy. He would not do so in Willow's presence.

Thankfully, they gave him time, once more, to get himself under control. Neither Buffy nor Willow spoke, only curled their slender bodies more tightly against him until, at last, Giles felt himself steady, and could trust himself to speak again.

"I..." he began, meaning to say something reassuring, but at that moment a knock sounded upon the door, followed by a quite insistent turning of the handle. A moment later, Joyce Summers stepped across his threshold, her high heels clicking on the tiles, her entire form radiating belligerence.

"Come in, Mom," Buffy told her, in a tone guaranteed to add several degrees to the heat of Joyce's maternal ire. "Don't wait for us to answer the door or anything."

Giles, though, had no desire to antagonize Buffy's mother further. He rose from his seat, trying to smile, as he did so, against his own apprehension. "Joyce, I'm terribly sorry not to have returned your call earlier. It's been..."

An instant before it happened, Giles knew he'd made the mistake of coming too close. An instant after, eyes stinging and a noise like cathedral bells in his left ear, Giles found enough sense of self-preservation to catch hold of her wrist before Joyce could deliver a second slap--the first had been quite enough, carrying, as it did, sufficient force to have done Buffy proud. Anger leaped up in him, and Giles found himself looming over her, making no effort to hold Joyce's arm gently, his eyes blazing. He could, at that moment, rather cheerfully have throttled her: not for the slap; that was nothing.

He only wished he could prevent what would, unfailingly follow: a torrent of words bound to hurt Buffy. And, truth be told, hurt him as well, for all that they would be untrue. Joyce had a gift for saying things that struck at all one's doubts, fears and insecurities, leaving myriad little wounds that would not be swift to heal.

Somewhere far away, through the roaring and the ringing in his ears, he could just make out Buffy's voice--not sounding frightened, or apologetic, as one might have expected, but quiet, forceful, strong. Giles released his hold on Joyce's wrist and saw her back away, something like contrition in her eyes, or perhaps that was just confusion.

"Oh," Joyce said, almost inaudibly. "Oh. I didn't know."