Enough, Giles/Wesley, PG
All right, this is the last of the Watcherpompt fics I've written, for now. ::laughs:: This one is in response to gothicautumn03's Watcherlove prompts for this week.
Prompts: One of the boys gets trapped.
Giles paced the edge of the confined area. Eight paces, turn right. Four paces, turn right. Eight paces, turn right. It was going to drive him mad. Sighing, he reached up with his good hand to pull off glasses he wasn't wearing any longer. His hand stopped halfway to his face and then dropped as he realized.
He didn't know how much time had passed. His watch had been broken at the same time his arm had been injured. It felt like days, but hours was more likely. He was hungry, exhausted, and his arm ached from the gash in his shoulder. He should sit down, he knew, calm down, think. Still, the restlessness and fear were beginning to get out of hand.
A trickle of rock dust pattered to the floor not far away and Giles' fear spiked. The structure wasn't stable. He'd seen some of the shifting for himself. An aftershock and it could all come tumbling in on him.
Wesley will find me, he told himself again, forcing himself to sit on a large bit of debris. The crypt he'd gone to, in order to take rubbings of its inscriptions, had collapsed under the strain of an earthquake, leaving him trapped in the lower level with the entire crypt above him. He'd told Wesley he'd be gone a few hours, normally there would have been any reason for Wesley to worry yet, but Giles had hoped that, with the earthquake, Wesley might come looking for him early.
Maybe he's been hurt, too Giles thought and immediately pushed it aside. He couldn't think that way, not with him stuck here. Those thoughts would drive him mad faster than the pacing.
The quiet, a thing for which Giles usually had to look, was unbearable. It weighed against him, pressing in with possibilities. What if they couldn't get the debris above him out of the way? What if he had a limited supply of air? What if--
Giles cut himself off, throwing himself to his feet and pacing again. He counted each step, over and over, as he circled the room. Fighting not to think at all, he checked his arm again, searched the area for his broken glasses, paced again. It wasn't working. He still had to keep shoving away thoughts, had to stop himself from--
"Rupert?" The voice was soft, muffled, but clearly Wesley. Giles looked around, trying to discern where it had come from.
"I'm here!" He called back, hoping to hear Wesley again, but there was no reply. Giles waited, tense, straining his hearing to its human limits, but there was no sound. Fearing he'd imagined it, Giles groaned, slumping back onto his makeshift seat.
"--out. Hold on!" Wesley's voice again, less soft. Giles straightened, eyes flying around the collapsed, and collapsing, ceiling.
"Wesley?" No reply. Giles growled softly to himself, standing and pacing again. He was afraid to speak too often, too loudly, though he knew his voice alone was unlikely to trigger a collapse, or at least he hoped that to be the case.
Something brushed through him. Giles stiffened, recognizing a spell had been cast, but unable to tell anything more. The magic hummed around him and Giles prayed it was a good sign. A location spell, something to stabilize the structure, either of which would be well within Willow and Tara's range with them working together.
Another shifting sound. Giles' head snapped in the direction of it, his breath catching in his throat before he realized it wasn't instability. Someone was moving aside the stones.
Light poured in, blindingly bright, and Giles squinted against it. A hole had opened up in structure and he saw Buffy, or rather Buffy's silhouette. "Hey, dead guys," she said, apparently addressing the crypt's residents. "Any of you seen a Watcher? I'm one short."
"Buffy," Wesley snapped and a wave of relief washed through Giles at the sound of his lover's voice.
"Relax, Wes, I can see him. He looks . . . Oh."
"It's nothing," Giles called up, ignoring the twinge of pain in his shoulder as he gripped the rope that was dropped down to him. He tied it around his waist and attempted to climb up. As soon as he tried to pull his weight on his injured arm, pain flared, dragging a sharp groan from his throat.
"Rupert?" Suddenly Wesley's silhouette was above him, edging Buffy's from view. "Are you all right?" The worry in Wesley's voice made Giles want to lie, to say that he was fine, but since he wasn't going to be able to climb out . . . "No. My arm's gashed."
"We'll pull you up," came Buffy's voice. "Can you hold on?"
"Yes. I'll be fine," he assured her as he moved the rope to make things easier. After enough grunting to make Giles consider going on a diet, Wesley and Xander finally helped him crawl out of the rubble. Giles groaned, leaning against Wesley and getting dust all over Wesley's clothes.
The others gathered around, asking too many questions at once. Was he all right? Did he need to go to the hospital? Had he hit his head? Giles opened his mouth to answer one question only to have another asked before he could.
"Stop." Wesley's voice was firm, cutting through all the other voices. Giles relaxed a bit, smiling as Wesley took charge of the situation. In no time, Giles was bundled into the car and heading home. Wesley was quiet and Giles leaned back against the headrest, letting his eyes close.
"You shouldn't sleep if you hit your head," Wesley said, voice soft and filled with worry.
"I know," Giles said without opening his eyes. He reached out his good hand and laid it on Wesley's thigh, squeezing gently to reassure his lover. "My arm's the only thing hurt."
"You could have died," Wesley's voice shook. He was concentrating hard on driving, his eyes never moving to Giles at all, or at least never seeming to. Giles got the feeling Wesley might be aware of every little move he made just then.
"I didn't." It was all there was to say. Giles wouldn't lie and say that there was no way he could have. There was, almost every night, something that could kill one or both of them. This was just the most mundane of examples.
"That's all we get, isn't it?" Wesley said softly, after a protracted silence. And Giles knew just what he meant. That was all the comfort there was. Giles hadn't died. Not this time. Not yet. He hadn't. And that was all they had.
"Yes." Giles squeezed Wesley's thigh again. "It's enough," he said softly, making a statement and asking a question at the same time.
Wesley parked the car outside their flat, but neither of them moved. Wesley's hand came down to cover Giles', holding tight for a long moment before Wesley lifted Giles' dust covered hand to his lips and kissed Giles' palm.
"It's enough," Wesley finally said, giving Giles a small, only slightly weak, smile.
Prompts: One of the boys gets trapped.
Giles paced the edge of the confined area. Eight paces, turn right. Four paces, turn right. Eight paces, turn right. It was going to drive him mad. Sighing, he reached up with his good hand to pull off glasses he wasn't wearing any longer. His hand stopped halfway to his face and then dropped as he realized.
He didn't know how much time had passed. His watch had been broken at the same time his arm had been injured. It felt like days, but hours was more likely. He was hungry, exhausted, and his arm ached from the gash in his shoulder. He should sit down, he knew, calm down, think. Still, the restlessness and fear were beginning to get out of hand.
A trickle of rock dust pattered to the floor not far away and Giles' fear spiked. The structure wasn't stable. He'd seen some of the shifting for himself. An aftershock and it could all come tumbling in on him.
Wesley will find me, he told himself again, forcing himself to sit on a large bit of debris. The crypt he'd gone to, in order to take rubbings of its inscriptions, had collapsed under the strain of an earthquake, leaving him trapped in the lower level with the entire crypt above him. He'd told Wesley he'd be gone a few hours, normally there would have been any reason for Wesley to worry yet, but Giles had hoped that, with the earthquake, Wesley might come looking for him early.
Maybe he's been hurt, too Giles thought and immediately pushed it aside. He couldn't think that way, not with him stuck here. Those thoughts would drive him mad faster than the pacing.
The quiet, a thing for which Giles usually had to look, was unbearable. It weighed against him, pressing in with possibilities. What if they couldn't get the debris above him out of the way? What if he had a limited supply of air? What if--
Giles cut himself off, throwing himself to his feet and pacing again. He counted each step, over and over, as he circled the room. Fighting not to think at all, he checked his arm again, searched the area for his broken glasses, paced again. It wasn't working. He still had to keep shoving away thoughts, had to stop himself from--
"Rupert?" The voice was soft, muffled, but clearly Wesley. Giles looked around, trying to discern where it had come from.
"I'm here!" He called back, hoping to hear Wesley again, but there was no reply. Giles waited, tense, straining his hearing to its human limits, but there was no sound. Fearing he'd imagined it, Giles groaned, slumping back onto his makeshift seat.
"--out. Hold on!" Wesley's voice again, less soft. Giles straightened, eyes flying around the collapsed, and collapsing, ceiling.
"Wesley?" No reply. Giles growled softly to himself, standing and pacing again. He was afraid to speak too often, too loudly, though he knew his voice alone was unlikely to trigger a collapse, or at least he hoped that to be the case.
Something brushed through him. Giles stiffened, recognizing a spell had been cast, but unable to tell anything more. The magic hummed around him and Giles prayed it was a good sign. A location spell, something to stabilize the structure, either of which would be well within Willow and Tara's range with them working together.
Another shifting sound. Giles' head snapped in the direction of it, his breath catching in his throat before he realized it wasn't instability. Someone was moving aside the stones.
Light poured in, blindingly bright, and Giles squinted against it. A hole had opened up in structure and he saw Buffy, or rather Buffy's silhouette. "Hey, dead guys," she said, apparently addressing the crypt's residents. "Any of you seen a Watcher? I'm one short."
"Buffy," Wesley snapped and a wave of relief washed through Giles at the sound of his lover's voice.
"Relax, Wes, I can see him. He looks . . . Oh."
"It's nothing," Giles called up, ignoring the twinge of pain in his shoulder as he gripped the rope that was dropped down to him. He tied it around his waist and attempted to climb up. As soon as he tried to pull his weight on his injured arm, pain flared, dragging a sharp groan from his throat.
"Rupert?" Suddenly Wesley's silhouette was above him, edging Buffy's from view. "Are you all right?" The worry in Wesley's voice made Giles want to lie, to say that he was fine, but since he wasn't going to be able to climb out . . . "No. My arm's gashed."
"We'll pull you up," came Buffy's voice. "Can you hold on?"
"Yes. I'll be fine," he assured her as he moved the rope to make things easier. After enough grunting to make Giles consider going on a diet, Wesley and Xander finally helped him crawl out of the rubble. Giles groaned, leaning against Wesley and getting dust all over Wesley's clothes.
The others gathered around, asking too many questions at once. Was he all right? Did he need to go to the hospital? Had he hit his head? Giles opened his mouth to answer one question only to have another asked before he could.
"Stop." Wesley's voice was firm, cutting through all the other voices. Giles relaxed a bit, smiling as Wesley took charge of the situation. In no time, Giles was bundled into the car and heading home. Wesley was quiet and Giles leaned back against the headrest, letting his eyes close.
"You shouldn't sleep if you hit your head," Wesley said, voice soft and filled with worry.
"I know," Giles said without opening his eyes. He reached out his good hand and laid it on Wesley's thigh, squeezing gently to reassure his lover. "My arm's the only thing hurt."
"You could have died," Wesley's voice shook. He was concentrating hard on driving, his eyes never moving to Giles at all, or at least never seeming to. Giles got the feeling Wesley might be aware of every little move he made just then.
"I didn't." It was all there was to say. Giles wouldn't lie and say that there was no way he could have. There was, almost every night, something that could kill one or both of them. This was just the most mundane of examples.
"That's all we get, isn't it?" Wesley said softly, after a protracted silence. And Giles knew just what he meant. That was all the comfort there was. Giles hadn't died. Not this time. Not yet. He hadn't. And that was all they had.
"Yes." Giles squeezed Wesley's thigh again. "It's enough," he said softly, making a statement and asking a question at the same time.
Wesley parked the car outside their flat, but neither of them moved. Wesley's hand came down to cover Giles', holding tight for a long moment before Wesley lifted Giles' dust covered hand to his lips and kissed Giles' palm.
"It's enough," Wesley finally said, giving Giles a small, only slightly weak, smile.