Giles snorted softly with amusement. "Well, that's rather the question, isn't it?" He looked chagrinned. "Once I realized Angel's true motives, I gathered what people I could to come help. Once...it was over, Illyria led me to Vail's home. You weren't there, yet she insisted that you'd perished."
Wesley blinked. "I seem to recall...yes," he said weakly.
"The place was a wreck - evidently some of Vail's minions had their own version of an estate sale - the place was virtually stripped. Illyria took me to where you fell...and where Vail fell." He was silent for a long moment.
"We think, that somehow, Vail's blood mixed with yours, there on the floor. You know he was a creature steeped in magic. We do need to run some further tests, but that's our working theory at the moment - that something in Vail's blood mixed with yours and...brought you back to life."
Wesley stared up at the ceiling, stunned. He was too shaken to be grateful at the moment - the blood of the demon he was sent to kill - and who had killed Wes instead - had saved him? There's irony for you.
"Vail was skilled at manipulating memories - reality I suppose. Maybe that's -" Wes shook his head and immediately regretted it.
"You said Illyria helped you? Is anyone else...um...alive? Not that I'm not glad to see you, Giles. But my friends?"
"Angel is in serious condition, even for a vampire. We're doing what we can, but the dragon's venom doesn't respond to any known anitidotes . . . not even Slayer's blood, which we currently have in abundance. Gunn is . . . I'm sorry, but he's dead . . . and dusted. Spike is, annoyingly, fine . . . and annoying. Illyria has been a help, actually. She seems to find the Slayers fascinating and they love the challenge of trying to get the better of her."
Giles paused there, and his tone changed, though Wesley could exactly identify how. The older man switched on the bedside lamp and Wesley finally got a look at him. He looked exhausted, weighed down and older than he should
"You're rather lucky, Wesley. You were very dazed and if it hadn't been for Willow we might not have found you before you wandered into an alley and . . . well, best not to dwell on that, I suppose. Are you hungry?"
Wesley closed his eyes and clamped his jaw against the mingled tears of grief and gratitude that prickled behind his eyelids.
"I'll just get you some tea, shall I? Perhaps a sandwich?" Giles' voice was rich with understanding. Wesley managed to nod, and heard the rustle of Giles' getting out of the chair.
Giles' warm hand rested on his shoulder. "I know. Even when you're prepared, for it - it's almost too much to bear. Do remember you have friends." And with that, he left the room.
And who would have thought Rupert Giles was going to be a friend? Wes marveled. The man was right, though. Giles had known loss - of friends, lovers. His eyes stung again at the thought of Fred's death and Gunn's.
Wait. Gunn had been dusted. Bile rose in Wesley's throat. Gunn's worst nightmare - to be turned, like his sister. He closed his eyes again, this time letting the tears slip out from under his lids.
Fred. Gunn. Angel probably not going to make it. Cordelia. And by what strange luck, was he nearly the only one left? Why?
Wesley had no idea how long he laid there, staring at the ceiling and seeing only the past. Giles' return brought him back to himself however. Sitting up, far more carefully this time, he found that it was his arm and his head that hurt the most. His stomach, strangely, seemed mended.
Scooting up to put his back to the wall, he took the tray Giles offered him with a nod of thanks.
"Where am I? In . . . London?"
"Yes," Giles replied, once again taking his seat. "You're in a safe house, set up for the wounded. Right now there are only two other occupants. Angel and a Slayer named Sarah who isn't mobile just yet, so once you're up and about you'll have pretty much the run of the place. You should take it slow, if you can. You've been feverish and, er, rather. . . well, delirious."
Wesley raised an eyebrow when Giles looked away at that, confused by the half-amused, half-something else entirely tone of voice. "Delirious? Did I think I was on the good ship lollipop?"
"Uh, no," Giles shook his head, but would say little more.
Why was he even here, bye the bedside, and at so late an hour? So far as he knew Giles had only the basics of medical trainings taught to all Watchers and surely they'd hired nurses and such to care for the injured. He truly doubted the new head of the Watcher's Council took a watch by non-mortally wounded patients' bedsides.
Wesley picked up the sandwich Giles had brought and considered it thoughtfully. Turkey. Pumperkickel. Something red and shiny, looked like a sort of a chutney. And watercress. That was a nice touch. How very...British.
He knew he should eat, but wasn't sure he could quite force himself to do it. Ever since Fred had died...his mind tried to skitter away from that thought, and he wrenched it back, forcing himself to deal with it. Ever since she'd died, food had tasted like ashes in his mouth. Everything had been colorless, bleak.
Well, this sandwich will be a far sight better than the alternative he mused as he cast a disapproving eye at the IV set up nearby. He supposed it had been necessary with his loss of fluids, fever and all. And it really does smell rather nice. Is that cranberry chutney?
Bowing to the inevitable, he sighed and bit into it, and then not-quite bit back a moan as the flavors exploded in his mouth. He instantly identified the red, shiny substance positively as cranberry chutnety - delightful. The whole thing had most exquisite tastes and textures - he felt his eyes rolling in delight. A few glorious bites and half the sandwich was done. Swallowing, Wesley looked at Giles with wide, surprised eyes. He smiled sheepishly, "Er...nice sandwich?"
"I must say," Giles said with dry amusement, "I've never had quite that enthusiastic a response to one of my creations as yours It could be the fact that it's been nearly two days since you, for apparently no reason, refused solid food, or it could be something that you've gained...on your return. You did complain at one point, during your delirium, about the rough sheets and clothing - and wouldn't lie quiet until you had at least 400-thread count sheets."
That sounds embarassing, Wesley thought, noting that his hosipital gown was on inside out. He ran his finger over a seam - it felt like sandpaper against his hand.
"Sharper senses?" Wesley frowned, willing himself not to fall upon the second half of the sandwich that lay right before him. He was sure he'd not be able to carry on a conversation and eat at the same time. "I still need my glasses."
"Well, there is that." Giles moved to sit in the chair beside Wesley's bed. "We'll just have to see."
"Giles, if you don't mind my asking, and not that I'm ungrateful, why are you here, seeing after me? Surely you have a great deal to do right now. As much as I'd like to find out why I'm still -" He winced as the next words proved unexpectedly difficult, and pushed on despite the sudden huskiness of his voice. " - Why I'm still here. I don't want to be a bother."
Giles just stared at him, then began to laugh. If it wasn't so embarassingly at his expense, Wes thought it would be a rather pleasant thing to hear. Made the man look ten years younger.
"I'm sorry," Giles said, obviously struggling to regain his composure. "It's, uh, just that you-you wouldn't let anyone else near you for weeks. If anyone else touched you screamed and . . . well, I suppose that's yet another thing it might be best not to dwell on."
"Wonderful," Wesley sighed, rubbing at his forehead in an attempt to ease the ache. "Did I do anything else terribly embarrassing of which I should be aware?"
Giles opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, giving him a sympathetic look that made Wesley want to groan. Lovely. Apparently he'd spent the last . . . god, how long?
"How long have I been here?" Staring at the sandwich, because it was a lot easier to look at then the sympathy on the other man's face, he sighed and picked it up. His stomach was insisting on food, or rather the other half of this sandwich in particular, and it gave him something to do as he listened.
"Two weeks. We were very worried about the fever, but nothing we could do would break it and . . . we tried everything. Still, it seems to be gone now." Giles reached out to lay a hand against his forehead as if it were the most natural gesture in the world.
Wesley blinked. "I seem to recall...yes," he said weakly.
"The place was a wreck - evidently some of Vail's minions had their own version of an estate sale - the place was virtually stripped. Illyria took me to where you fell...and where Vail fell." He was silent for a long moment.
"We think, that somehow, Vail's blood mixed with yours, there on the floor. You know he was a creature steeped in magic. We do need to run some further tests, but that's our working theory at the moment - that something in Vail's blood mixed with yours and...brought you back to life."
Wesley stared up at the ceiling, stunned. He was too shaken to be grateful at the moment - the blood of the demon he was sent to kill - and who had killed Wes instead - had saved him? There's irony for you.
"Vail was skilled at manipulating memories - reality I suppose. Maybe that's -" Wes shook his head and immediately regretted it.
"You said Illyria helped you? Is anyone else...um...alive? Not that I'm not glad to see you, Giles. But my friends?"
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Giles paused there, and his tone changed, though Wesley could exactly identify how. The older man switched on the bedside lamp and Wesley finally got a look at him. He looked exhausted, weighed down and older than he should
"You're rather lucky, Wesley. You were very dazed and if it hadn't been for Willow we might not have found you before you wandered into an alley and . . . well, best not to dwell on that, I suppose. Are you hungry?"
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"I'll just get you some tea, shall I? Perhaps a sandwich?" Giles' voice was rich with understanding. Wesley managed to nod, and heard the rustle of Giles' getting out of the chair.
Giles' warm hand rested on his shoulder. "I know. Even when you're prepared, for it - it's almost too much to bear. Do remember you have friends." And with that, he left the room.
And who would have thought Rupert Giles was going to be a friend? Wes marveled. The man was right, though. Giles had known loss - of friends, lovers. His eyes stung again at the thought of Fred's death and Gunn's.
Wait. Gunn had been dusted. Bile rose in Wesley's throat. Gunn's worst nightmare - to be turned, like his sister. He closed his eyes again, this time letting the tears slip out from under his lids.
Fred. Gunn. Angel probably not going to make it. Cordelia. And by what strange luck, was he nearly the only one left? Why?
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Scooting up to put his back to the wall, he took the tray Giles offered him with a nod of thanks.
"Where am I? In . . . London?"
"Yes," Giles replied, once again taking his seat. "You're in a safe house, set up for the wounded. Right now there are only two other occupants. Angel and a Slayer named Sarah who isn't mobile just yet, so once you're up and about you'll have pretty much the run of the place. You should take it slow, if you can. You've been feverish and, er, rather. . . well, delirious."
Wesley raised an eyebrow when Giles looked away at that, confused by the half-amused, half-something else entirely tone of voice. "Delirious? Did I think I was on the good ship lollipop?"
"Uh, no," Giles shook his head, but would say little more.
Why was he even here, bye the bedside, and at so late an hour? So far as he knew Giles had only the basics of medical trainings taught to all Watchers and surely they'd hired nurses and such to care for the injured. He truly doubted the new head of the Watcher's Council took a watch by non-mortally wounded patients' bedsides.
Curious.
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He knew he should eat, but wasn't sure he could quite force himself to do it. Ever since Fred had died...his mind tried to skitter away from that thought, and he wrenched it back, forcing himself to deal with it. Ever since she'd died, food had tasted like ashes in his mouth. Everything had been colorless, bleak.
Well, this sandwich will be a far sight better than the alternative he mused as he cast a disapproving eye at the IV set up nearby. He supposed it had been necessary with his loss of fluids, fever and all. And it really does smell rather nice. Is that cranberry chutney?
Bowing to the inevitable, he sighed and bit into it, and then not-quite bit back a moan as the flavors exploded in his mouth. He instantly identified the red, shiny substance positively as cranberry chutnety - delightful. The whole thing had most exquisite tastes and textures - he felt his eyes rolling in delight. A few glorious bites and half the sandwich was done. Swallowing, Wesley looked at Giles with wide, surprised eyes. He smiled sheepishly, "Er...nice sandwich?"
"I must say," Giles said with dry amusement, "I've never had quite that enthusiastic a response to one of my creations as yours It could be the fact that it's been nearly two days since you, for apparently no reason, refused solid food, or it could be something that you've gained...on your return. You did complain at one point, during your delirium, about the rough sheets and clothing - and wouldn't lie quiet until you had at least 400-thread count sheets."
That sounds embarassing, Wesley thought, noting that his hosipital gown was on inside out. He ran his finger over a seam - it felt like sandpaper against his hand.
"Sharper senses?" Wesley frowned, willing himself not to fall upon the second half of the sandwich that lay right before him. He was sure he'd not be able to carry on a conversation and eat at the same time. "I still need my glasses."
"Well, there is that." Giles moved to sit in the chair beside Wesley's bed. "We'll just have to see."
"Giles, if you don't mind my asking, and not that I'm ungrateful, why are you here, seeing after me? Surely you have a great deal to do right now. As much as I'd like to find out why I'm still -" He winced as the next words proved unexpectedly difficult, and pushed on despite the sudden huskiness of his voice. " - Why I'm still here. I don't want to be a bother."
Giles just stared at him, then began to laugh. If it wasn't so embarassingly at his expense, Wes thought it would be a rather pleasant thing to hear. Made the man look ten years younger.
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"Wonderful," Wesley sighed, rubbing at his forehead in an attempt to ease the ache. "Did I do anything else terribly embarrassing of which I should be aware?"
Giles opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, giving him a sympathetic look that made Wesley want to groan. Lovely. Apparently he'd spent the last . . . god, how long?
"How long have I been here?" Staring at the sandwich, because it was a lot easier to look at then the sympathy on the other man's face, he sighed and picked it up. His stomach was insisting on food, or rather the other half of this sandwich in particular, and it gave him something to do as he listened.
"Two weeks. We were very worried about the fever, but nothing we could do would break it and . . . we tried everything. Still, it seems to be gone now." Giles reached out to lay a hand against his forehead as if it were the most natural gesture in the world.
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