The Wrong Fic -- Part II
Again, spoilers through the end of Season 5; mostly canon ships, etc., but everyone's pretty much not themselves (heh, which is not to say out of character, or so I hope . . .)
Thanks again to headrush100 for beta, britpicking, and encouragment. Any remaining whoopsies, particularly messing-up of this present-tense thing? All mine.
Day 8
A very soft voice is calling him to wake, stroking his forehead. He feels immediately ashamed, caught out - and tries to turn the anger onto the interloper.
His plan is thwarted by jaw-dropping surprise. It’s Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. God in heaven. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce is sitting on his bedside, one hand resting lightly on Giles’s chest. Having misinterpreted his shame and rage as fear, Wes seems to be trying to calm him, comfort him.
“Could you sit up? I’ve brought you some water, and tea, if you can manage it.”
Wordlessly, Giles props himself on an elbow and reaches out for the bottle of spring water being urged on him. He is so parched, he’d accept water from Quentin bloody Travers himself. When the first taste hits his tongue, it’s all he can do not to inhale it. He gulps it as quickly as he can, and has nearly half the bottle down before he realizes he’s made a terrible mistake. His abused system won’t forgive him this easily, and he jackknifes up, just sensible enough to turn away from Wesley before he vomits the water spectacularly onto the right half of the bed. It seems a tremendous amount, given the size of the bottle, and the retching continues interminably beyond the point that he has anything left to bring up.
When he can finally relax, gentle hands guide him onto a pile of pillows, and Wes is regarding him with a knitted brow.
“My word, Rupert, you are in a bad way. Forgive me, I had no idea it had been so long since you’d had anything. If you’ll be all right for a moment, I’ll just pop down and get some towels?”
He gestures vaguely over his shoulder, and Giles nods once to assure him that he’s cogent. He feels himself graying out ever so slightly while Wesley is gone, but rallies himself to take deep, steadying breaths, one of which turns into a coughing spell. The next thing he knows, a mountain of towels is falling onto the bed next to him, and he is supported to a sitting position to ease the coughing and gasping.
Somehow, leaning against the strength of another is simultaneously comforting and humiliating. He allows himself a few more moments tucked up against Wesley’s shoulder than he strictly needs, before nodding slightly and moving back toward the pillows.
“Hang on, Rupert, could you manage to take some weak tea?”
It’s warm and milky and almost sickly sweet, and after a half of a half of a cup, Giles is ready to propose marriage to Wesley, though he contains himself.
“There you are, that’s better. What do you s’pose Americans do, under such circumstances? Oh, perhaps ginger ale - flat ginger ale, I believe, is what Cordelia once tried to feed me when I had stomach ‘flu.”
As he gently prattles, he coaxes more tea into Giles. “There we are. I apologize for barging in this way. I shan’t ask what you’ve been up to, but I’m afraid that Dawn and Willow were adamant that someone come to see you, and I thought you might prefer . . . that is, they’re still quite upset. Yesterday no one could reach you at all, and no amount of pounding on your door would rouse you. They said.”
There’s something Wesley’s trying not to say, and Giles hasn’t been so lost in his own misery that he can’t surmise the point. He tries to speak without quite as much self-loathing as he feels.
“Yes, thank you Wesley. I’m sure they’re quite furious with me, by now.”
“I wouldn’t say furious, quite -- well, they’re confused. They don’t understand, you see. But, it’s not the same for them, is it? They were her friends, her family. But you were. . . well . . . . I’m sorry. If you think you might make it downstairs, with my help, I can change these sheets. Shall we?”
Wyndam-Pryce is gamely covering his own disgust at Giles’s behavior by being relentlessly practical; or at least, that’s Giles’s conclusion, but he doesn’t care enough to fight it. Wesley’s otherwise very matter-of-fact about doing what needs doing; he’s settled Giles on the sofa with another cup of the sweet, milky tea and has the bed changed and bedroom detritus (three empty bottles, at least) cleared before Giles can even think to thank him. Orange juice is next; no questions asked, it simply appears - and Giles is certain he hadn’t any left, so that means Wesley’s thought to bring him groceries, and he finds the whole thing at once surreal and comfortingly familiar. English families of “their sort” no doubt have a rather uniform code for getting through the aftershocks of illness and death, and for the moment Giles is content to be borne along on a wave of fellow-feeling.
Before Giles can sort himself out enough to ask Wesley any questions or even ponder overmuch the mystery of his being here, Wesley is coaxing him back to bed, supporting him up the stairs and gently tucking him in.
“Better?”
“No doubt - but, as much as I appreciate your efforts, you know that the only sure remedy for this terminal hangover is, well. Could you trouble yourself to get me a drink?”
Wesley looks down, but says nothing.
“For God’s sake, Wes, I’m a grown man and this is my own house. I’m entitled to a drink if I want one.”
For the moment, Wesley appears prepared to call on his inner prig. “Quite so, Rupert. However, I’m afraid that there’s nothing left in the house.”
“Excuse me? I haven’t been that far gone. There’s a bottle of very fine scotch downstairs, not to mention brandy on the bookcase, and even Mexican beer in the fridge. Stop trying to . . .” His train of thought jumps the track at the look on Wesley’s face. “Dear God, tell me you haven’t poured it all out?”
It’s Wesley’s turn to be outraged. “Certainly not, Rupert. I’ve merely put it away, for safe keeping. Pickling your liver, however pleasing in the short term, is not going to help you recover from this.”
Giles can feel the rage roaring up within him. “Recover? Fuck’s sake, Wesley, I’m not set to recover from this. I’ve no interest at all in recovering from this! At best, I may survive it, but I’m most concerned at present with thinking as little as I can, which means sleeping a great deal, which requires more than a moderate amount of alcohol. Now, are you going to bring back my scotch, or are we going to have a problem?”
Wesley crosses his arms on his chest. “Your threat would be more convincing if you could stand without falling over.” His voice gentles, somewhat. “Rupert, you’ve known that this day would come for the last five years. You’ve been trained for this. I’m not about to say that it isn’t heartbreaking, but you know as well I as do - better, no doubt - that it is an inevitable part of a watcher’s life - isn’t it?”
“No doubt, in the textbooks, it is,” Giles manages to say carefully, if testily. “But this - this isn’t just a matter of a slayer doing her duty. This was down to my failure, Wes. Read my diaries - for the last three months I’ve been racking my brain for different and interesting ways to record that I’ve had no bloody idea what’s going on, or what to do about it. Buffy’s dead not because some creature got the better of her, but because I and the rest of the learned Council had insufficient information and ingenuity to cope with this so-called god. If anything, Buffy had to work harder to overcome the Council’s interference, and my clumsiness, in order to save the world. All I did was put obstacles in her way. How can I possibly recover from that? Now give me my bloody whisky!”
Standing up, Wesley manages to convey sympathy, despite the crossed arms and looming posture.
“No. No whisky. I appreciate that you’re feeling responsible for Buffy’s death, Giles, but I won’t let you choose to destroy yourself over it, especially when you are still drunk, not to mention ill. For your information, I’ve spoken with Buffy’s sister, and her friends, and apart from their terrible grief over Buffy, they’re tremendously worried about you. No one, not one of them, blames you for anything - not even Spike, believe it or not. They seem to understand that Buffy chose to do what she did to save the world, and to protect all of you, and they are heartbroken and grateful. What worries them is you, and how you are coping. I’ve told them you are doing as well as could be expected, although I have no idea whether that is true. In any case, it’s clear that you are no fit company for them, and so, here I am. Trying to remind you that Buffy was an extraordinary young woman, and that you were a very great part of her becoming so. Now, if you don’t mind waiting a moment, I have some tea that I think might help with the hangover, and with getting you to sleep.”
With that, Wyndam-Pryce turns on his heel and leaves the loft. In his absence, Giles lacks the distraction of the other man’s anger, and simply lies still, noting just how miserable and weak he is. He’d like a drink desperately, but he’s cognizant enough that, although he hates Wesley for not bringing him one, he can see the other man’s point. Even if he’s completely ignorant of just what a useless sod Giles has been this past month, Wesley has good reason to try to keep him above water - for the sake of the children, and the archives of the Council, if nothing else.
The man in question comes up the stairs with a large mug in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He looks, Giles notes with some interest, rather sheepish. Setting the beverages down on the bedside table, his eyes don’t quite meet Giles’s as he sits himself down tentatively on the edge of the bed, and hands Giles the mug. “Sorry about this - it’s chamomile, peppermint, and a few other things I’m sure you’ll recognize. My grandmother swore by it.”
Giles takes a sip; it’s a not-unfamiliar blend of herbs, made palatable by milk and a hint of sugar, and if it isn’t what he would’ve chosen, it’s not awful. Wesley continues.
“What I mean to say - perhaps - look, I know we were rather horrible to one another when I came to Sunnydale. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, thanks to my father and the rest of the Council, and while you weren’t what I would call helpful,” he pauses to look down his nose at Giles, “well, at least you only hurt my feelings, whereas my mistakes bollocksed up a great deal. Faith got her own back, and more, when she came to Los Angeles last year, but I feel still that I owe you an apology. And, even if I don’t, this is the very least I can do. I hope that this makes sense.”
Giles finds himself moved, rather against his will. And somewhat confused. “Faith? I know that Angel took her to jail - the Council informed us - but, I’m sorry Wesley, I don’t know what you’re referring to: she, she hurt you in some way?”
“In many ways, Giles, but that’s a story best left for another time.”
Giles can’t help but feel that Wesley is right, as, against all expectations, his eyelids begin to droop. “Another time, then. I am sorry that you were hurt. I may not have liked you, Wesley, but I didn’t wish you ill. Also, what exactly did you put in this tea?”
Wes seems grateful for this last bit of misdirection. “I’m sorry Giles, I’m afraid that falls under ‘trade secret’. Sleep now. I’ll be here when you wake.”
***
He must have slept through most of the day; Wesley wakes him at tea-time with juice and plain digestive biscuits; promises him real tea if he can keep down the juice. Giles is still bewildered to have this entirely new but strangely unobtrusive presence in his home, and he complies.
Wesley, apparently pleased with Giles's juice consumption, goes downstairs to retrieve the teapot. He replenishes his own cup and pours one for Giles, and places two more biscuits on Giles’s little plate. In the blink of an eye, there are two capsules there as well and, as Giles is coming to expect, Wesley begins gently to explain even before Giles can question him.
“I noticed that your prescriptions hadn’t been filled; when I saw them on the kitchen counter -- well, I understand it’s a very bad idea not to complete the entire course of antibiotics. I called a friend of mine in Los Angeles, and he said that, so long as your temperature hadn’t spiked, you could probably go ahead and do the course now - so we’ll start with two, and two more in the morning, and go on from there. Oh, and,” Wes retrieves a small brown bottle from his trouser pocket, “your Percodan. This is really, really lovely stuff. If you can get a good night’s sleep tonight, I’m sure - well, things may look a bit brighter in the morning -“
It’s the first false note Wyndam-Pryce has struck since Giles woke to him this morning, and it’s easy enough to see that he’s realized his mistake just a moment too late to stop himself saying it.
To Giles, it’s proof positive that there is no longer a trace of alcohol in his system when he fails to fling the tea tray off of the bed or, even better, whump the young fool over the head with it. In the next second, he puts his teacup down very carefully and deliberately in its saucer, and Wesley closes his hand gently around Giles’s wrist to get his attention, and then looks the other man directly in the eye.
“I wish very much that I could take that back, Rupert; I’m sorry. I don’t pretend to know how you feel, but I do know that - well, it was wrong of me to say - about it being brighter. I’m really, dreadfully sorry.” Wesley drops his eyes, then, and without another word proffers the painkiller to Giles, who takes it and swallows it down without a word.
***
In the night, Rupert wakes from a nightmare of falling birds; he stumbles downstairs to use the loo, and Wesley is sitting up in dim lamplight, apparently going through some files. They nod silently to each other; on his way back up the stairs Wesley hands him another pain pill and another glass of water.
“All right, then, Rupert?”
Giles nods his thanks.
Day 9
It shouldn’t surprise him quite so much that his body is happier with him this morning; nothing like a bit of food and water to put mind and body on friendly terms. Mind, however, hasn't got much to look forward to, and he nearly pulls the bedclothes over his head, again. He has heard Wesley moving about downstairs, however, and he’d rather not be served in bed again, if he can help it.
Wesley is on the sofa now, reading a book. He looks up as Giles comes down the stairs and a solicitous look replaces the studious one. “Ah, good. I was just going to make myself some more toast; I’ve made coffee for myself, but I presume you’ll prefer tea this morning . . .”
By the time Giles has settled himself on the couch, there’s a cup of tea and two antibiotic capsules in a saucer on the table, and Wesley’s back in the kitchen, rooting about in the refrigerator. Careful of his stitches, Giles leans over to see what he’s been reading. It’s his own book, Sayers’s translation of Dante’s Inferno. He flips through it while Wesley makes several trips back and forth; when he finally settles down, there’s a stack of toast, two plates of scrambled eggs, and two tumblers of orange juice on Giles’s coffee table.
“Rupert, why don’t I take the book back, and you can try eating something?”
Giles hands the book over and delicately picks up a slice of toast as he sips at his tea, but cannot help grumbling. “’S my sodding book. And it’s an execrable translation, Wes. I do have the original around here, somewhere.”
Wyndam-Pryce carefully lays the book on the shelf behind the couch with a tiny smile. “I, er, prefer this, actually. Sentimental reasons.”
Giles catches his eye and lifts a curious brow, but refrains from saying that he didn’t know that watchers, especially of the Wyndam-Pryce variety, could have sentiments. Wesley blushes slightly. “A girl - young woman - I knew at college. She was terribly fond of Wimsey; we discovered the Dante translation together. Naturally, I’d been introduced to the original text at quite a tender age, but, well, I didn’t really appreciate its charms until I could read it through Julia’s eyes - and Ms. Sayers’s, of course.”
“Of course,” Giles agrees. The admission that he’d read Dante in Italian at a young age would’ve been pompous, if Wesley had made it in the Sunnydale High School library - now, his tone is wry, and somewhat self-deprecatory. Someone has taught Wesley the joy of not taking himself too seriously; Giles can only regret that it likely wasn’t he.
***
Wesley has been fussing about in the tiny kitchen for an inexplicably long time; as Giles has been sitting on the sofa and staring into an empty fireplace without registering a single fact about his surroundings, he cannot say precisely how long it’s been - but it’s a good while. Slumping himself down so that the back of his head fits nicely against the back of the sofa, he wonders aloud what has been so fascinating about the morning washing up.
The clattering is replaced by silence, and then Wesley is there, right in front of him, with a half-smile that fails to brighten his dour expression much.
“What is it, Wesley?”
As Wes sits himself upon the coffee table opposite Giles, he sighs. “I wonder if you might allow me to check your - er - the sutures?”
This part of looking after a convalescent isn’t covered in the Polite English Society pamphlet, Giles suspects, but he’s also certain that Wyndam-Price’s discomfort is down to more than a fear of breaching his privacy. Regardless, he merely nods, and unties the belt of his robe and pulls the edges apart, slouching back against the sofa in stoic silence.
Cold fingers peel away the dressing, then poke and prod as Wesley utters little non-committal “hmm”s and “ahhh”s and a little hissing sound that echoes Giles’s own when the prodding gets a bit over enthusiastic at one edge of the wound, where the stitches have been strained a bit during one or another of Giles’s episodes of drunken foolishness.
“Well, I’m no doctor, but I’d say it’s not a disaster. I feared you might have opened the wound at some point before - well. It seems as if you’ll be more or less on track to get the sutures out - in a few days, I suppose, yes?”
Giles suspects that Wesley knows precisely when his follow-up appointment is scheduled; in fact, his tone is more than a bit paternal, but it’s nice of him to pretend that he trusts Giles to make his own way back to the doctor. “Not that I’ve lost track of time, or anything, but yes, a few days sounds about right. Thanks for that, Wesley. Now, clearly I’m not at my best, but I’m certain that there’s something else on your mind?”
The blue eyes widen almost comically, and then the other man looks away. “In point of fact, Rupert, I need to get back to L.A. With Angel . . . gone, it’s rather a burden on Cordelia and Gunn to handle all of our -“
Giles cuts him off with a wave of hand. “But you’re worried that, once you go, I’ll sink back into wretchedness?” He tries to say it with irony, but it only comes out slightly pathetic. Still, the other man seems to understand.
“Honestly? I feel you’ve only just got to wretchedness. Which is to be expected,” another gentle smile graces his lips, “but, I do rather need to return to L.A. in any case. I was hoping I could convince you to - well, to be in touch. To, er, call me, when you’re feeling particularly wretched, or even just to answer my calls, now and then. We both know that watchers - good watchers - have a record of, shall I say, ‘failing to thrive’? following the deaths of their slayers. I’d like to help you with this, if I can.”
Giles appreciates Wesley’s matter-of-factness about the issue, and lets out a silent huff of breath, the ghost of a laugh. “And you think I was a good watcher, do you?” It’s a naked enough plea for reassurance, but he allows himself the extravagance, for once.
Wesley blushes, but does not disappoint. Looking him very steadily in the eye, in a still-hushed but quite confident tone, he offers up reassurance, and more, with no hesitation. “Rupert, this may not mean much to you, but at this moment there is no one associated with the Council for whom I have more respect. More importantly, I’m convinced that, in future, young watchers will note the extreme irony of this time: that when the Council was at its most dissolute there lived one of the strongest, truest watcher/slayer teams in history. You already know what an extraordinary slayer Buffy has been; you probably haven’t noted how unusual you’ve been, as her watcher.”
Giles feels pole-axed by this little speech, and is taken with a sudden chill. Wyndam-Pryce appears to have noticed, as he sets about closing Giles’s robe, and the leans past him to grab the throw and arrange it around his shoulders. Before Giles can thank him, or even object to this ludicrous peroration, Wyndam-Pryce continues.
“I know you feel you’ve been ineffective in the last few months - unable to save Buffy’s mother, then unable to save Buffy herself. However, I hope that, one day, you’ll have the necessary perspective to see that you gave Buffy a life -“ Giles can’t help but snort and wave dismissively; isn’t that exactly what he didn’t do for Buffy? But Wesley pushes on “-no, listen to me, Rupert: you turned the Council’s model on its head, and you know it. The slayer was always the main weapon in the Council’s fight against evil, but still in all just a weapon. You somehow taught Buffy to make the fight against evil her own. You know as well as I do, few of us will ever reach old age in this battle, but you allowed Buffy to meet her fate as the master of it, instead of just your weapon, or the Council’s. I know I’m the last one to convince you of such a thing, but I hope you’ll consider it.”
It sounds like the purest dreck, but he recognizes the kindness in Wesley’s effort, and, when he can face the man again, sees the desperate wish in the other man’s eyes to be believed. He refuses to make further fuss, or to offer obstacles to Wesley’s leaving.
“I shall consider it, Wes, of course. Also, I do thank you. I’m - I’m most grateful to you for saying it. As well as for - well, this. Everything. I hope one day I can return the favour.”
***
Later, after Wyndam-Price has departed - having left behind a fridge full of food and a careful row of pill bottles with precise, hand-written instructions on the counter - Giles sits with tea and toast and considers Buffy’s last, desperate day. He can do this now almost without flinching, and nearly without despising himself. He supposes that it’s just barely possible that, if he wasn’t much direct help to his slayer in the months preceding this latest apocalypse, and if their last words were unhappy ones, there had been better days between them, and Buffy may have understood him, and not hated him, at the last.
It is not, in the main, a very comforting thought, but it is the best one he’s had in many days.
Day 10
In retrospect, sharpening the knives in his rather depleted condition had been a bad idea. Indisputably. Perhaps even the walk to the Magic Box was a bit … over ambitious. While it was no doubt an admirable attempt to return to his real life - not by having to socialize, but just to remind himself that there was still work to be done - it was still a glaringly rotten idea. Nevertheless, having dutifully eaten (a rather late) breakfast and taken his medications per his promises to Wesley, Giles had decided to follow up his string of brilliant victories by getting back to basics. The throwing knives needed sharpening, and no one else was going to do it. Even Buffy had never realized -
But no matter. In point of fact, the maintenance of the weapons was primarily his responsibility, and one he did not resent in the least. Grinding a nicked blade back to smooth, whetting a fine, sharp edge on a sword, these were soothing and infinitely satisfying tasks. And the throwing knives were so slim, so marvelously compact, and so finely made, they rewarded a conscientious caretaker by remaining razor-sharp and well-balanced for years.
The sharpness of the blade, and his own lack of focus - sharpening blades requires a bit more coordination than a recent invalid is likely to possess - surely accounted for the impressive cut traversing the inside of his right forearm, about four inches long, midway between elbow and wrist. It’s begun to drip blood on the floor before the couch, where he’s settled himself for his task. It doesn’t hurt yet - if it hadn’t been for the droplets of blood, he might not have noticed it -- but it will hurt soon. And, yes, it’s bleeding already quite impressively, although the lack of actual pulsating geysers of blood reassures him that he’s somehow missed major vessels.
Still, it’s fascinating. He vaguely remembers that he came in wearing a flannel shirt over his tee shirt and jeans, but had discarded it when the work had begun to warm him. Now, where was it? Oh, of course, there it is on the pommel horse. That would help with the bleeding, he’s sure, if he could just reach it.
He feels somewhat more dizzy than the cut warrants, and the outer layer of his flesh seems suddenly to have cooled suddenly - he’s broken out in a sweat, and finds himself shivering. Thanking every deity that comes to mind that no one is in the shop today, he lurches forward off the couch and takes the few stumbling steps as rapidly as he can to reach the plaid shirt that dangles so casually from the horse. He wraps it, rather sloppily, around his right forearm, and continues his ungainly journey to the door to the shop. He reaches the door and yanks at the knob, but he knows immediately that the door is locked - of course it is, it should always be locked, from both sides, unless it’s open, and he and Buffy are -
He takes the deepest breath of which he is currently capable, and braces his right shoulder against the door. He somehow releases his grip on the doorknob, and finds the keyring in his pocket. His head is swimming maddeningly - he tells himself that the wound is minor, and it is, but perhaps it’s all a bit too much, to be here, reminded of . . . everything, including the last conversation he’d managed to have with Buffy. His eyes cloud with tears, suddenly and rather inconveniently, as his mind’s eye is flooded with images of that last day. He nevertheless manages to find the keyhole, and thrusts the key home. He wrenches the door open, finally, and hits the light switch. Only he realizes, as if from a great distance, that the lights are already on - the shop is obscenely bright, if very quiet. Then, from around the bookcase to his right, something - which later proves to have been a baseball bat -- comes flying at his head, and - as the passage of time again helpfully reveals -- only his rather precipitous ducking, and then briefly passing out, has saved him from a significant and tragic braining.
***
“Giles! What are you doing here? Please, wake up! You’re scaring me, and you’re bleeding all over the shop, and I need to call an ambulance, but not before I’m sure that you’re not going to die. So please, don’t die. Wake up and talk to me! Giles, please!”
He doesn’t know how long the strangely pleasant sound has been ringing in his ears, but he is vaguely surprised to note that it’s Anya’s voice, and it’s got that wheedling tone that he’s never found remotely pleasant before. Still, as pleasant as it may be, the poor girl is obviously beside herself, and it’s up to him to put things right.
“Anya, please. It’s all right. Do stop fussing, everything is fine.”
Which is, of course, not precisely true, but he manages to raise himself to a sitting position and notice that his arm is once again bleeding profusely, so he replaces the now ruined shirt against the wound and presses down firmly.
“What? But you fainted! People who are fine don’t faint. Here, have some water.”
Before he can protest, she raises a plastic water bottle to his lips, and, quite against his expectations, the water slides gently into his mouth. It seems to him a miracle of cooperation: he can maintain the pressure on the cut, and swallow the water with minimal choking or dribbling.
He raises his eyes, and finds himself gazing into Anya’s worried face.
He indicates that he’s done with the water, for now, and she receives the message and takes it away.
“Anya, thank you. But I didn’t faint - I only ducked, and then got a bit dizzy, and had to sit down.”
“Giles, I had time to go to the little refrigerator and get this water, and then bring it to you, and talk to you, before you were actually sitting. I’m pretty sure you fainted. Also, you may recall, there was that whole long career as a vengeance demon. You can believe I’ve seen a man or two faint in my day.”
Her logic was impeccable, damn her. Nevertheless . . .
“Well, in any case, let’s say I merely passed out for a moment. Or, better yet, let’s not say anything about it at all. I’m fine, really. Now, what are you doing here?”
As he says asks, his entire body shudders with cold.
“Oh, god, are you cold? You are! It’s shock, isn’t it? Um, just a minute -“
And with that, she’s bolted up and away, only to return moments later with a pillow and a wool blanket from his office. He likes the idea of a pillow, and so is disappointed when, after encouraging him to lie down, she places it under his feet, then spreads the throw over him.
“There. Head down, feet up, blanket. That’s for shock. Oh! And direct pressure, for the bleeding!”
She flips the blanket off his torso long enough to assess the state of his right arm, and he assures her with a gesture that he’s in control of the bleeding. He feels dreadfully embarrassed: why should he be passing out over a simple cut? Even given that Anya is overreacting, and he’s not in shock, it feels better to be lying down, for the moment, now that he’s there.
“Now, you’re all set, and I can go and call,” she says brightly, and climbs to her feet.
“Who? Xander?”
A shadow crosses her face for a moment, then she’s back to bright.
“No, silly, the ambulance. Xander - Xander isn’t quite ready to be helpful right now.” She thinks about that, somewhat more agilely than he, and adds, “But don’t worry, I’ve been taking very good care of him.”
He considers for a moment just how truant he has been. Not that he had ever thought things were easy for the others; he’s simply been so wrapped up in his own world, he hasn’t given much thought at all to what the children - who really aren’t children any longer, he knows -- might be up to.
“I’m sorry, Anya, really. I haven’t been myself, I think. Is he, does he need anything?”
“Giles, I appreciate your concern, but just now, you win the pathetic Olympics, hands down. So really, you shouldn’t worry about Xander.”
He can feel his sympathetic expression turn sour, and kicks the pillow to the side. He sits up and checks on the bleeding, which seems to have slowed.
“Be that as it may, Anya, I don’t need an ambulance, I’m sure. If you could just get the first aid kit from the office -“
He’s dizzy again. He still doubts that it’s shock, as Anya suspects, but in any case, his arm is beginning to hurt like a bugger. He remembers to take a deep breath, and rests his forehead on his left forearm, which is propped now on his knees so as to allow for a firm grip on his right forearm.
“What on earth are you doing here?” he inquires, miserably.
“Well, it is, I mean, I do work here. I just wanted to make sure, you know, that things were still orderly, and that the cash was still where it should be, and that the stock was still . . . in stock. There wasn’t very much news, from - here - while I was in the hospital, and I’ve been out for a couple of days now, and I just thought I should, you know, check on things. It’s - Xander said that you - well, that after a while, we might be opening again - but not rushing it, not at all! I just thought, I could get started . . .”
But he had stopped really listening when she mentioned the hospital. And all that time, how many days had it been? Anya had been in hospital, and he never had so much as stopped in. He remembers very vaguely that Willow and Tara’s phone messages had tried to keep him abreast of Anya’s and Xander’s doings over the past - week? 10 days? He’s worn a slow and sorry path between his self-loathing and his self-pity, and not spared a thought for nearly anything outside his blinkered line of sight. Not til tonight, when some madness had propelled him out into the night, and into the training room.
“Anya, I’m so very sorry -“
“No, no, Giles. Everything’s going to be fine. In fact, I expect Willow, Tara, and Dawn any second - they were going to bring pizza, and help me check on the stock, and so on --”
“Anya, please, I mean -- how are you?”
She is staring very intently at his right forearm. Taking a deep breath, she looks him in the eye - just as the door bursts open and three young women enter, calling out to Anya, and burdened by large pizza boxes and beverages.
“Here, we’re here!” Anya calls, rather unnecessarily. “Giles tried to cut his arm off, or something. He’s in shock, but I think we’ve got the bleeding under control.”
He wants to contradict her, but he’s stunned into silence by the ragged, frantic tone in her voice. What has she been going through?
“Giles!”
Three voices on three different, discordant notes have never sounded so lovely. How has he not noticed that he’s missed them? Not that he isn’t embarrassed and rather pathetically anxious not to cause a fuss, even now.
“Please, it’s fine - I’m all right. Just, I’ve cut myself, and if someone could bring me the first aid kit -“
“You’ll be happy to sit alone in the dark and stitch it yourself?”
It’s been entirely too long since he’s heard Tara’s voice at all, and in fact he’s nearly forgotten that she can be so quick-witted. He covers his surprise and confusion with what he hopes is a dry look.
“Yes. In fact, if someone could please turn out the lights, I’d be most grateful.” He and Tara share a "welcome back to the world" smile; Tara, at least, should not hate him, or not for her own sake. For one thing, she is clearly a generous soul, and for another, she does not depend on him as the others do. Have. But now he must turn his attention to a more difficult relationship.
Dawn is kneeling before him, having retrieved the first aid kit from his office. She sets it before him, and looks up with large eyes, made larger by the dark circles beneath. “Are you all right?”
“Dawn, I’m fine. Thanks for this.” He nods at the box, but doesn’t reach for it; instead, he drops his gaze to his shirt-covered forearm and begins fiddling with the makeshift bandage. “I’m - I’m really terribly sorry that I haven’t been, er, in touch, since, well. I’ve been . . . Actually, I don’t know what to say, Dawn, except, I’m sorry.”
In the following silence, she keeps her head bowed, and plays with the latch on the first aid kit, locking and unlocking the box, until, decisively, she unlatches it and flips open the lid. She sniffles, rather volubly. “I - I don’t know what you need from here. Butterflies? Or strips?”
“Dawn, don’t - I can manage, truly. But, how are you?” For another moment, his fate hangs in limbo. Then he hears another sniffle, and she leans forward until her forehead rests against his collarbone, gently.
“I thought you hated me. Because Buffy died, when it should’ve been me.” He can feel her tears dropping against his chest.
“Oh, Dawn, no. I’m so sorry. It wasn’t that. Not at all - if anything, I hated me. Not you.”
She leans back, wiping her eyes. “Are you sure? I mean, Wesley said it was probably something like that. And Willow said - she said you couldn’t hate me, because I was part of Buffy.”
Part of Buffy? Buffy said that, but God help him, Giles does not see it. To his mind, Buffy was -- always -- entirely sui generis. Which fact does not, cannot, excuse his neglect of Dawn. The sniffling continues, and Dawn continues to pick through the bandages in the first aid kit, finally settling on a packet of steri-strips and some alcohol swabs.
“Let me see.” Even if she’s not part of Buffy, Dawn can be as bossy as her older sister . . . was. Helpless to do anything else, he holds out his arm, and begins to unstick the very messy shirt. She hisses with him as it comes away from the cut, which begins bleeding again, but sluggishly. Grabbing up some gauze, Dawn dabs at it, gently but very proficiently, and between the two of them, they close the cut with strips, then cover it with gauze and tape.
“You’re very handy at that, Dawn,” he says, trying to meet her eyes, as she remains bent over the kit, stowing away the unused items.
“Buffy let me help sometimes, when she - after patrol. But she said you were the best at the whole doctoring-up thing.” Suddenly she’s pinned him with her gaze. “She said something else, too. Something she wanted me to tell you - right before she - she jumped.”
He turns away. He can’t bear to hear her last words to him, not after he’d been willing to consider killing the child, and not with that same child now before him, more adult than he, it seems, and determined to do her last duty by the sister who died for her. “Dawn, I don’t -“
“No, Giles, please. She said, she said to tell you that she’d figured it out, it was all right. I’m sorry, I should’ve told you right away, I just kept forgetting, with everything . . ." She makes a strange, fluttering motion with her hands, to indicate -- well, he supposes -- to indicate everything. "Does that make any sense to you? ‘Cuz it’s all she said to tell you.”
He looks at her, at Buffy’s sister, and smiles.
“It does make sense, Dawn. Buffy was just reminding me, reminding us both, perhaps, that she was doing her duty by saving what she loved, just as she was trained to do. She loved you, so much, Dawn.”
He can feel his eyes filling again, and again, Dawn begins to sniffle. Then she smiles.
“OK, let’s not start the waterworks again, please. How’s your arm?”
“I think I’ll live, thank you.”
***
Anya, Willow, and Tara choose that moment to reappear from wherever they’ve disappeared to, and Giles realizes that he’s feeling somewhat steadier, now. They ask him if he’d like to share the pizza, and he’s surprised to find out that he really would. After a slice that he must, after all, eat rather slowly, he suggests to Anya that they re-open the shop - not tomorrow, but the next day. Only he can’t remember what day it is. This admission drains some of the lightness from their gathering, but Dawn only gets up from the table where they’ve gathered and collects his desk calendar from the office. She brings it back to him and points at a day, and they all assure him that it really is today, and it’s Thursday, which is propitious, Anya points out, because Saturday is one of their best days, so if he’s really ready to re-open, then Saturday would be a good day to do that.
No one comments on the fact that he eats only one slice, and Tara brings him a cup of very good tea without comment, so he sips while they eat a bit more and talk. Anya slips away to the office to make a phone call, and without asking Giles, or the others, she makes plans to prepare dinner, for everyone, at the house on Revello. Xander will bring beer, she explains, and then, very quietly, she asks that they all keep an eye on him, to make sure he doesn’t drink too much with dinner. Because he’s getting better about it, lately, but she still worries. They all nod in understanding, and Dawn promises to drag him into a game of “Life” if things get rocky. Giles then volunteers to be the one to go to the cemetery and invite Spike, because otherwise Dawn would do it, and he thinks perhaps it’s time for him to begin to make life easier for Dawn, rather than harder. For her part, Dawn slips her hand into Giles’s and squeezes, and he knows it’s meant to be a silent thank you. He squeezes back, as if to say, “No, no, no, thank you.”
They all help him clean up the floor of the training room, and replace the knives where they belong. Tonight he will eat enchiladas at the Summers house - because they’re a happy food, Anya points out, and because Buffy liked them. Tomorrow, he will write his account of how Buffy, again, saved the world, because that is what he owes her, and what he has been trained to do.
“Dirge Without Music”
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,-but the best is lost.
The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the
love,-
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not
approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the
world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
-- Edna St. Vincent Millay
Thanks again to headrush100 for beta, britpicking, and encouragment. Any remaining whoopsies, particularly messing-up of this present-tense thing? All mine.
Day 8
A very soft voice is calling him to wake, stroking his forehead. He feels immediately ashamed, caught out - and tries to turn the anger onto the interloper.
His plan is thwarted by jaw-dropping surprise. It’s Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. God in heaven. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce is sitting on his bedside, one hand resting lightly on Giles’s chest. Having misinterpreted his shame and rage as fear, Wes seems to be trying to calm him, comfort him.
“Could you sit up? I’ve brought you some water, and tea, if you can manage it.”
Wordlessly, Giles props himself on an elbow and reaches out for the bottle of spring water being urged on him. He is so parched, he’d accept water from Quentin bloody Travers himself. When the first taste hits his tongue, it’s all he can do not to inhale it. He gulps it as quickly as he can, and has nearly half the bottle down before he realizes he’s made a terrible mistake. His abused system won’t forgive him this easily, and he jackknifes up, just sensible enough to turn away from Wesley before he vomits the water spectacularly onto the right half of the bed. It seems a tremendous amount, given the size of the bottle, and the retching continues interminably beyond the point that he has anything left to bring up.
When he can finally relax, gentle hands guide him onto a pile of pillows, and Wes is regarding him with a knitted brow.
“My word, Rupert, you are in a bad way. Forgive me, I had no idea it had been so long since you’d had anything. If you’ll be all right for a moment, I’ll just pop down and get some towels?”
He gestures vaguely over his shoulder, and Giles nods once to assure him that he’s cogent. He feels himself graying out ever so slightly while Wesley is gone, but rallies himself to take deep, steadying breaths, one of which turns into a coughing spell. The next thing he knows, a mountain of towels is falling onto the bed next to him, and he is supported to a sitting position to ease the coughing and gasping.
Somehow, leaning against the strength of another is simultaneously comforting and humiliating. He allows himself a few more moments tucked up against Wesley’s shoulder than he strictly needs, before nodding slightly and moving back toward the pillows.
“Hang on, Rupert, could you manage to take some weak tea?”
It’s warm and milky and almost sickly sweet, and after a half of a half of a cup, Giles is ready to propose marriage to Wesley, though he contains himself.
“There you are, that’s better. What do you s’pose Americans do, under such circumstances? Oh, perhaps ginger ale - flat ginger ale, I believe, is what Cordelia once tried to feed me when I had stomach ‘flu.”
As he gently prattles, he coaxes more tea into Giles. “There we are. I apologize for barging in this way. I shan’t ask what you’ve been up to, but I’m afraid that Dawn and Willow were adamant that someone come to see you, and I thought you might prefer . . . that is, they’re still quite upset. Yesterday no one could reach you at all, and no amount of pounding on your door would rouse you. They said.”
There’s something Wesley’s trying not to say, and Giles hasn’t been so lost in his own misery that he can’t surmise the point. He tries to speak without quite as much self-loathing as he feels.
“Yes, thank you Wesley. I’m sure they’re quite furious with me, by now.”
“I wouldn’t say furious, quite -- well, they’re confused. They don’t understand, you see. But, it’s not the same for them, is it? They were her friends, her family. But you were. . . well . . . . I’m sorry. If you think you might make it downstairs, with my help, I can change these sheets. Shall we?”
Wyndam-Pryce is gamely covering his own disgust at Giles’s behavior by being relentlessly practical; or at least, that’s Giles’s conclusion, but he doesn’t care enough to fight it. Wesley’s otherwise very matter-of-fact about doing what needs doing; he’s settled Giles on the sofa with another cup of the sweet, milky tea and has the bed changed and bedroom detritus (three empty bottles, at least) cleared before Giles can even think to thank him. Orange juice is next; no questions asked, it simply appears - and Giles is certain he hadn’t any left, so that means Wesley’s thought to bring him groceries, and he finds the whole thing at once surreal and comfortingly familiar. English families of “their sort” no doubt have a rather uniform code for getting through the aftershocks of illness and death, and for the moment Giles is content to be borne along on a wave of fellow-feeling.
Before Giles can sort himself out enough to ask Wesley any questions or even ponder overmuch the mystery of his being here, Wesley is coaxing him back to bed, supporting him up the stairs and gently tucking him in.
“Better?”
“No doubt - but, as much as I appreciate your efforts, you know that the only sure remedy for this terminal hangover is, well. Could you trouble yourself to get me a drink?”
Wesley looks down, but says nothing.
“For God’s sake, Wes, I’m a grown man and this is my own house. I’m entitled to a drink if I want one.”
For the moment, Wesley appears prepared to call on his inner prig. “Quite so, Rupert. However, I’m afraid that there’s nothing left in the house.”
“Excuse me? I haven’t been that far gone. There’s a bottle of very fine scotch downstairs, not to mention brandy on the bookcase, and even Mexican beer in the fridge. Stop trying to . . .” His train of thought jumps the track at the look on Wesley’s face. “Dear God, tell me you haven’t poured it all out?”
It’s Wesley’s turn to be outraged. “Certainly not, Rupert. I’ve merely put it away, for safe keeping. Pickling your liver, however pleasing in the short term, is not going to help you recover from this.”
Giles can feel the rage roaring up within him. “Recover? Fuck’s sake, Wesley, I’m not set to recover from this. I’ve no interest at all in recovering from this! At best, I may survive it, but I’m most concerned at present with thinking as little as I can, which means sleeping a great deal, which requires more than a moderate amount of alcohol. Now, are you going to bring back my scotch, or are we going to have a problem?”
Wesley crosses his arms on his chest. “Your threat would be more convincing if you could stand without falling over.” His voice gentles, somewhat. “Rupert, you’ve known that this day would come for the last five years. You’ve been trained for this. I’m not about to say that it isn’t heartbreaking, but you know as well I as do - better, no doubt - that it is an inevitable part of a watcher’s life - isn’t it?”
“No doubt, in the textbooks, it is,” Giles manages to say carefully, if testily. “But this - this isn’t just a matter of a slayer doing her duty. This was down to my failure, Wes. Read my diaries - for the last three months I’ve been racking my brain for different and interesting ways to record that I’ve had no bloody idea what’s going on, or what to do about it. Buffy’s dead not because some creature got the better of her, but because I and the rest of the learned Council had insufficient information and ingenuity to cope with this so-called god. If anything, Buffy had to work harder to overcome the Council’s interference, and my clumsiness, in order to save the world. All I did was put obstacles in her way. How can I possibly recover from that? Now give me my bloody whisky!”
Standing up, Wesley manages to convey sympathy, despite the crossed arms and looming posture.
“No. No whisky. I appreciate that you’re feeling responsible for Buffy’s death, Giles, but I won’t let you choose to destroy yourself over it, especially when you are still drunk, not to mention ill. For your information, I’ve spoken with Buffy’s sister, and her friends, and apart from their terrible grief over Buffy, they’re tremendously worried about you. No one, not one of them, blames you for anything - not even Spike, believe it or not. They seem to understand that Buffy chose to do what she did to save the world, and to protect all of you, and they are heartbroken and grateful. What worries them is you, and how you are coping. I’ve told them you are doing as well as could be expected, although I have no idea whether that is true. In any case, it’s clear that you are no fit company for them, and so, here I am. Trying to remind you that Buffy was an extraordinary young woman, and that you were a very great part of her becoming so. Now, if you don’t mind waiting a moment, I have some tea that I think might help with the hangover, and with getting you to sleep.”
With that, Wyndam-Pryce turns on his heel and leaves the loft. In his absence, Giles lacks the distraction of the other man’s anger, and simply lies still, noting just how miserable and weak he is. He’d like a drink desperately, but he’s cognizant enough that, although he hates Wesley for not bringing him one, he can see the other man’s point. Even if he’s completely ignorant of just what a useless sod Giles has been this past month, Wesley has good reason to try to keep him above water - for the sake of the children, and the archives of the Council, if nothing else.
The man in question comes up the stairs with a large mug in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He looks, Giles notes with some interest, rather sheepish. Setting the beverages down on the bedside table, his eyes don’t quite meet Giles’s as he sits himself down tentatively on the edge of the bed, and hands Giles the mug. “Sorry about this - it’s chamomile, peppermint, and a few other things I’m sure you’ll recognize. My grandmother swore by it.”
Giles takes a sip; it’s a not-unfamiliar blend of herbs, made palatable by milk and a hint of sugar, and if it isn’t what he would’ve chosen, it’s not awful. Wesley continues.
“What I mean to say - perhaps - look, I know we were rather horrible to one another when I came to Sunnydale. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, thanks to my father and the rest of the Council, and while you weren’t what I would call helpful,” he pauses to look down his nose at Giles, “well, at least you only hurt my feelings, whereas my mistakes bollocksed up a great deal. Faith got her own back, and more, when she came to Los Angeles last year, but I feel still that I owe you an apology. And, even if I don’t, this is the very least I can do. I hope that this makes sense.”
Giles finds himself moved, rather against his will. And somewhat confused. “Faith? I know that Angel took her to jail - the Council informed us - but, I’m sorry Wesley, I don’t know what you’re referring to: she, she hurt you in some way?”
“In many ways, Giles, but that’s a story best left for another time.”
Giles can’t help but feel that Wesley is right, as, against all expectations, his eyelids begin to droop. “Another time, then. I am sorry that you were hurt. I may not have liked you, Wesley, but I didn’t wish you ill. Also, what exactly did you put in this tea?”
Wes seems grateful for this last bit of misdirection. “I’m sorry Giles, I’m afraid that falls under ‘trade secret’. Sleep now. I’ll be here when you wake.”
***
He must have slept through most of the day; Wesley wakes him at tea-time with juice and plain digestive biscuits; promises him real tea if he can keep down the juice. Giles is still bewildered to have this entirely new but strangely unobtrusive presence in his home, and he complies.
Wesley, apparently pleased with Giles's juice consumption, goes downstairs to retrieve the teapot. He replenishes his own cup and pours one for Giles, and places two more biscuits on Giles’s little plate. In the blink of an eye, there are two capsules there as well and, as Giles is coming to expect, Wesley begins gently to explain even before Giles can question him.
“I noticed that your prescriptions hadn’t been filled; when I saw them on the kitchen counter -- well, I understand it’s a very bad idea not to complete the entire course of antibiotics. I called a friend of mine in Los Angeles, and he said that, so long as your temperature hadn’t spiked, you could probably go ahead and do the course now - so we’ll start with two, and two more in the morning, and go on from there. Oh, and,” Wes retrieves a small brown bottle from his trouser pocket, “your Percodan. This is really, really lovely stuff. If you can get a good night’s sleep tonight, I’m sure - well, things may look a bit brighter in the morning -“
It’s the first false note Wyndam-Pryce has struck since Giles woke to him this morning, and it’s easy enough to see that he’s realized his mistake just a moment too late to stop himself saying it.
To Giles, it’s proof positive that there is no longer a trace of alcohol in his system when he fails to fling the tea tray off of the bed or, even better, whump the young fool over the head with it. In the next second, he puts his teacup down very carefully and deliberately in its saucer, and Wesley closes his hand gently around Giles’s wrist to get his attention, and then looks the other man directly in the eye.
“I wish very much that I could take that back, Rupert; I’m sorry. I don’t pretend to know how you feel, but I do know that - well, it was wrong of me to say - about it being brighter. I’m really, dreadfully sorry.” Wesley drops his eyes, then, and without another word proffers the painkiller to Giles, who takes it and swallows it down without a word.
***
In the night, Rupert wakes from a nightmare of falling birds; he stumbles downstairs to use the loo, and Wesley is sitting up in dim lamplight, apparently going through some files. They nod silently to each other; on his way back up the stairs Wesley hands him another pain pill and another glass of water.
“All right, then, Rupert?”
Giles nods his thanks.
Day 9
It shouldn’t surprise him quite so much that his body is happier with him this morning; nothing like a bit of food and water to put mind and body on friendly terms. Mind, however, hasn't got much to look forward to, and he nearly pulls the bedclothes over his head, again. He has heard Wesley moving about downstairs, however, and he’d rather not be served in bed again, if he can help it.
Wesley is on the sofa now, reading a book. He looks up as Giles comes down the stairs and a solicitous look replaces the studious one. “Ah, good. I was just going to make myself some more toast; I’ve made coffee for myself, but I presume you’ll prefer tea this morning . . .”
By the time Giles has settled himself on the couch, there’s a cup of tea and two antibiotic capsules in a saucer on the table, and Wesley’s back in the kitchen, rooting about in the refrigerator. Careful of his stitches, Giles leans over to see what he’s been reading. It’s his own book, Sayers’s translation of Dante’s Inferno. He flips through it while Wesley makes several trips back and forth; when he finally settles down, there’s a stack of toast, two plates of scrambled eggs, and two tumblers of orange juice on Giles’s coffee table.
“Rupert, why don’t I take the book back, and you can try eating something?”
Giles hands the book over and delicately picks up a slice of toast as he sips at his tea, but cannot help grumbling. “’S my sodding book. And it’s an execrable translation, Wes. I do have the original around here, somewhere.”
Wyndam-Pryce carefully lays the book on the shelf behind the couch with a tiny smile. “I, er, prefer this, actually. Sentimental reasons.”
Giles catches his eye and lifts a curious brow, but refrains from saying that he didn’t know that watchers, especially of the Wyndam-Pryce variety, could have sentiments. Wesley blushes slightly. “A girl - young woman - I knew at college. She was terribly fond of Wimsey; we discovered the Dante translation together. Naturally, I’d been introduced to the original text at quite a tender age, but, well, I didn’t really appreciate its charms until I could read it through Julia’s eyes - and Ms. Sayers’s, of course.”
“Of course,” Giles agrees. The admission that he’d read Dante in Italian at a young age would’ve been pompous, if Wesley had made it in the Sunnydale High School library - now, his tone is wry, and somewhat self-deprecatory. Someone has taught Wesley the joy of not taking himself too seriously; Giles can only regret that it likely wasn’t he.
***
Wesley has been fussing about in the tiny kitchen for an inexplicably long time; as Giles has been sitting on the sofa and staring into an empty fireplace without registering a single fact about his surroundings, he cannot say precisely how long it’s been - but it’s a good while. Slumping himself down so that the back of his head fits nicely against the back of the sofa, he wonders aloud what has been so fascinating about the morning washing up.
The clattering is replaced by silence, and then Wesley is there, right in front of him, with a half-smile that fails to brighten his dour expression much.
“What is it, Wesley?”
As Wes sits himself upon the coffee table opposite Giles, he sighs. “I wonder if you might allow me to check your - er - the sutures?”
This part of looking after a convalescent isn’t covered in the Polite English Society pamphlet, Giles suspects, but he’s also certain that Wyndam-Price’s discomfort is down to more than a fear of breaching his privacy. Regardless, he merely nods, and unties the belt of his robe and pulls the edges apart, slouching back against the sofa in stoic silence.
Cold fingers peel away the dressing, then poke and prod as Wesley utters little non-committal “hmm”s and “ahhh”s and a little hissing sound that echoes Giles’s own when the prodding gets a bit over enthusiastic at one edge of the wound, where the stitches have been strained a bit during one or another of Giles’s episodes of drunken foolishness.
“Well, I’m no doctor, but I’d say it’s not a disaster. I feared you might have opened the wound at some point before - well. It seems as if you’ll be more or less on track to get the sutures out - in a few days, I suppose, yes?”
Giles suspects that Wesley knows precisely when his follow-up appointment is scheduled; in fact, his tone is more than a bit paternal, but it’s nice of him to pretend that he trusts Giles to make his own way back to the doctor. “Not that I’ve lost track of time, or anything, but yes, a few days sounds about right. Thanks for that, Wesley. Now, clearly I’m not at my best, but I’m certain that there’s something else on your mind?”
The blue eyes widen almost comically, and then the other man looks away. “In point of fact, Rupert, I need to get back to L.A. With Angel . . . gone, it’s rather a burden on Cordelia and Gunn to handle all of our -“
Giles cuts him off with a wave of hand. “But you’re worried that, once you go, I’ll sink back into wretchedness?” He tries to say it with irony, but it only comes out slightly pathetic. Still, the other man seems to understand.
“Honestly? I feel you’ve only just got to wretchedness. Which is to be expected,” another gentle smile graces his lips, “but, I do rather need to return to L.A. in any case. I was hoping I could convince you to - well, to be in touch. To, er, call me, when you’re feeling particularly wretched, or even just to answer my calls, now and then. We both know that watchers - good watchers - have a record of, shall I say, ‘failing to thrive’? following the deaths of their slayers. I’d like to help you with this, if I can.”
Giles appreciates Wesley’s matter-of-factness about the issue, and lets out a silent huff of breath, the ghost of a laugh. “And you think I was a good watcher, do you?” It’s a naked enough plea for reassurance, but he allows himself the extravagance, for once.
Wesley blushes, but does not disappoint. Looking him very steadily in the eye, in a still-hushed but quite confident tone, he offers up reassurance, and more, with no hesitation. “Rupert, this may not mean much to you, but at this moment there is no one associated with the Council for whom I have more respect. More importantly, I’m convinced that, in future, young watchers will note the extreme irony of this time: that when the Council was at its most dissolute there lived one of the strongest, truest watcher/slayer teams in history. You already know what an extraordinary slayer Buffy has been; you probably haven’t noted how unusual you’ve been, as her watcher.”
Giles feels pole-axed by this little speech, and is taken with a sudden chill. Wyndam-Pryce appears to have noticed, as he sets about closing Giles’s robe, and the leans past him to grab the throw and arrange it around his shoulders. Before Giles can thank him, or even object to this ludicrous peroration, Wyndam-Pryce continues.
“I know you feel you’ve been ineffective in the last few months - unable to save Buffy’s mother, then unable to save Buffy herself. However, I hope that, one day, you’ll have the necessary perspective to see that you gave Buffy a life -“ Giles can’t help but snort and wave dismissively; isn’t that exactly what he didn’t do for Buffy? But Wesley pushes on “-no, listen to me, Rupert: you turned the Council’s model on its head, and you know it. The slayer was always the main weapon in the Council’s fight against evil, but still in all just a weapon. You somehow taught Buffy to make the fight against evil her own. You know as well as I do, few of us will ever reach old age in this battle, but you allowed Buffy to meet her fate as the master of it, instead of just your weapon, or the Council’s. I know I’m the last one to convince you of such a thing, but I hope you’ll consider it.”
It sounds like the purest dreck, but he recognizes the kindness in Wesley’s effort, and, when he can face the man again, sees the desperate wish in the other man’s eyes to be believed. He refuses to make further fuss, or to offer obstacles to Wesley’s leaving.
“I shall consider it, Wes, of course. Also, I do thank you. I’m - I’m most grateful to you for saying it. As well as for - well, this. Everything. I hope one day I can return the favour.”
***
Later, after Wyndam-Price has departed - having left behind a fridge full of food and a careful row of pill bottles with precise, hand-written instructions on the counter - Giles sits with tea and toast and considers Buffy’s last, desperate day. He can do this now almost without flinching, and nearly without despising himself. He supposes that it’s just barely possible that, if he wasn’t much direct help to his slayer in the months preceding this latest apocalypse, and if their last words were unhappy ones, there had been better days between them, and Buffy may have understood him, and not hated him, at the last.
It is not, in the main, a very comforting thought, but it is the best one he’s had in many days.
Day 10
In retrospect, sharpening the knives in his rather depleted condition had been a bad idea. Indisputably. Perhaps even the walk to the Magic Box was a bit … over ambitious. While it was no doubt an admirable attempt to return to his real life - not by having to socialize, but just to remind himself that there was still work to be done - it was still a glaringly rotten idea. Nevertheless, having dutifully eaten (a rather late) breakfast and taken his medications per his promises to Wesley, Giles had decided to follow up his string of brilliant victories by getting back to basics. The throwing knives needed sharpening, and no one else was going to do it. Even Buffy had never realized -
But no matter. In point of fact, the maintenance of the weapons was primarily his responsibility, and one he did not resent in the least. Grinding a nicked blade back to smooth, whetting a fine, sharp edge on a sword, these were soothing and infinitely satisfying tasks. And the throwing knives were so slim, so marvelously compact, and so finely made, they rewarded a conscientious caretaker by remaining razor-sharp and well-balanced for years.
The sharpness of the blade, and his own lack of focus - sharpening blades requires a bit more coordination than a recent invalid is likely to possess - surely accounted for the impressive cut traversing the inside of his right forearm, about four inches long, midway between elbow and wrist. It’s begun to drip blood on the floor before the couch, where he’s settled himself for his task. It doesn’t hurt yet - if it hadn’t been for the droplets of blood, he might not have noticed it -- but it will hurt soon. And, yes, it’s bleeding already quite impressively, although the lack of actual pulsating geysers of blood reassures him that he’s somehow missed major vessels.
Still, it’s fascinating. He vaguely remembers that he came in wearing a flannel shirt over his tee shirt and jeans, but had discarded it when the work had begun to warm him. Now, where was it? Oh, of course, there it is on the pommel horse. That would help with the bleeding, he’s sure, if he could just reach it.
He feels somewhat more dizzy than the cut warrants, and the outer layer of his flesh seems suddenly to have cooled suddenly - he’s broken out in a sweat, and finds himself shivering. Thanking every deity that comes to mind that no one is in the shop today, he lurches forward off the couch and takes the few stumbling steps as rapidly as he can to reach the plaid shirt that dangles so casually from the horse. He wraps it, rather sloppily, around his right forearm, and continues his ungainly journey to the door to the shop. He reaches the door and yanks at the knob, but he knows immediately that the door is locked - of course it is, it should always be locked, from both sides, unless it’s open, and he and Buffy are -
He takes the deepest breath of which he is currently capable, and braces his right shoulder against the door. He somehow releases his grip on the doorknob, and finds the keyring in his pocket. His head is swimming maddeningly - he tells himself that the wound is minor, and it is, but perhaps it’s all a bit too much, to be here, reminded of . . . everything, including the last conversation he’d managed to have with Buffy. His eyes cloud with tears, suddenly and rather inconveniently, as his mind’s eye is flooded with images of that last day. He nevertheless manages to find the keyhole, and thrusts the key home. He wrenches the door open, finally, and hits the light switch. Only he realizes, as if from a great distance, that the lights are already on - the shop is obscenely bright, if very quiet. Then, from around the bookcase to his right, something - which later proves to have been a baseball bat -- comes flying at his head, and - as the passage of time again helpfully reveals -- only his rather precipitous ducking, and then briefly passing out, has saved him from a significant and tragic braining.
***
“Giles! What are you doing here? Please, wake up! You’re scaring me, and you’re bleeding all over the shop, and I need to call an ambulance, but not before I’m sure that you’re not going to die. So please, don’t die. Wake up and talk to me! Giles, please!”
He doesn’t know how long the strangely pleasant sound has been ringing in his ears, but he is vaguely surprised to note that it’s Anya’s voice, and it’s got that wheedling tone that he’s never found remotely pleasant before. Still, as pleasant as it may be, the poor girl is obviously beside herself, and it’s up to him to put things right.
“Anya, please. It’s all right. Do stop fussing, everything is fine.”
Which is, of course, not precisely true, but he manages to raise himself to a sitting position and notice that his arm is once again bleeding profusely, so he replaces the now ruined shirt against the wound and presses down firmly.
“What? But you fainted! People who are fine don’t faint. Here, have some water.”
Before he can protest, she raises a plastic water bottle to his lips, and, quite against his expectations, the water slides gently into his mouth. It seems to him a miracle of cooperation: he can maintain the pressure on the cut, and swallow the water with minimal choking or dribbling.
He raises his eyes, and finds himself gazing into Anya’s worried face.
He indicates that he’s done with the water, for now, and she receives the message and takes it away.
“Anya, thank you. But I didn’t faint - I only ducked, and then got a bit dizzy, and had to sit down.”
“Giles, I had time to go to the little refrigerator and get this water, and then bring it to you, and talk to you, before you were actually sitting. I’m pretty sure you fainted. Also, you may recall, there was that whole long career as a vengeance demon. You can believe I’ve seen a man or two faint in my day.”
Her logic was impeccable, damn her. Nevertheless . . .
“Well, in any case, let’s say I merely passed out for a moment. Or, better yet, let’s not say anything about it at all. I’m fine, really. Now, what are you doing here?”
As he says asks, his entire body shudders with cold.
“Oh, god, are you cold? You are! It’s shock, isn’t it? Um, just a minute -“
And with that, she’s bolted up and away, only to return moments later with a pillow and a wool blanket from his office. He likes the idea of a pillow, and so is disappointed when, after encouraging him to lie down, she places it under his feet, then spreads the throw over him.
“There. Head down, feet up, blanket. That’s for shock. Oh! And direct pressure, for the bleeding!”
She flips the blanket off his torso long enough to assess the state of his right arm, and he assures her with a gesture that he’s in control of the bleeding. He feels dreadfully embarrassed: why should he be passing out over a simple cut? Even given that Anya is overreacting, and he’s not in shock, it feels better to be lying down, for the moment, now that he’s there.
“Now, you’re all set, and I can go and call,” she says brightly, and climbs to her feet.
“Who? Xander?”
A shadow crosses her face for a moment, then she’s back to bright.
“No, silly, the ambulance. Xander - Xander isn’t quite ready to be helpful right now.” She thinks about that, somewhat more agilely than he, and adds, “But don’t worry, I’ve been taking very good care of him.”
He considers for a moment just how truant he has been. Not that he had ever thought things were easy for the others; he’s simply been so wrapped up in his own world, he hasn’t given much thought at all to what the children - who really aren’t children any longer, he knows -- might be up to.
“I’m sorry, Anya, really. I haven’t been myself, I think. Is he, does he need anything?”
“Giles, I appreciate your concern, but just now, you win the pathetic Olympics, hands down. So really, you shouldn’t worry about Xander.”
He can feel his sympathetic expression turn sour, and kicks the pillow to the side. He sits up and checks on the bleeding, which seems to have slowed.
“Be that as it may, Anya, I don’t need an ambulance, I’m sure. If you could just get the first aid kit from the office -“
He’s dizzy again. He still doubts that it’s shock, as Anya suspects, but in any case, his arm is beginning to hurt like a bugger. He remembers to take a deep breath, and rests his forehead on his left forearm, which is propped now on his knees so as to allow for a firm grip on his right forearm.
“What on earth are you doing here?” he inquires, miserably.
“Well, it is, I mean, I do work here. I just wanted to make sure, you know, that things were still orderly, and that the cash was still where it should be, and that the stock was still . . . in stock. There wasn’t very much news, from - here - while I was in the hospital, and I’ve been out for a couple of days now, and I just thought I should, you know, check on things. It’s - Xander said that you - well, that after a while, we might be opening again - but not rushing it, not at all! I just thought, I could get started . . .”
But he had stopped really listening when she mentioned the hospital. And all that time, how many days had it been? Anya had been in hospital, and he never had so much as stopped in. He remembers very vaguely that Willow and Tara’s phone messages had tried to keep him abreast of Anya’s and Xander’s doings over the past - week? 10 days? He’s worn a slow and sorry path between his self-loathing and his self-pity, and not spared a thought for nearly anything outside his blinkered line of sight. Not til tonight, when some madness had propelled him out into the night, and into the training room.
“Anya, I’m so very sorry -“
“No, no, Giles. Everything’s going to be fine. In fact, I expect Willow, Tara, and Dawn any second - they were going to bring pizza, and help me check on the stock, and so on --”
“Anya, please, I mean -- how are you?”
She is staring very intently at his right forearm. Taking a deep breath, she looks him in the eye - just as the door bursts open and three young women enter, calling out to Anya, and burdened by large pizza boxes and beverages.
“Here, we’re here!” Anya calls, rather unnecessarily. “Giles tried to cut his arm off, or something. He’s in shock, but I think we’ve got the bleeding under control.”
He wants to contradict her, but he’s stunned into silence by the ragged, frantic tone in her voice. What has she been going through?
“Giles!”
Three voices on three different, discordant notes have never sounded so lovely. How has he not noticed that he’s missed them? Not that he isn’t embarrassed and rather pathetically anxious not to cause a fuss, even now.
“Please, it’s fine - I’m all right. Just, I’ve cut myself, and if someone could bring me the first aid kit -“
“You’ll be happy to sit alone in the dark and stitch it yourself?”
It’s been entirely too long since he’s heard Tara’s voice at all, and in fact he’s nearly forgotten that she can be so quick-witted. He covers his surprise and confusion with what he hopes is a dry look.
“Yes. In fact, if someone could please turn out the lights, I’d be most grateful.” He and Tara share a "welcome back to the world" smile; Tara, at least, should not hate him, or not for her own sake. For one thing, she is clearly a generous soul, and for another, she does not depend on him as the others do. Have. But now he must turn his attention to a more difficult relationship.
Dawn is kneeling before him, having retrieved the first aid kit from his office. She sets it before him, and looks up with large eyes, made larger by the dark circles beneath. “Are you all right?”
“Dawn, I’m fine. Thanks for this.” He nods at the box, but doesn’t reach for it; instead, he drops his gaze to his shirt-covered forearm and begins fiddling with the makeshift bandage. “I’m - I’m really terribly sorry that I haven’t been, er, in touch, since, well. I’ve been . . . Actually, I don’t know what to say, Dawn, except, I’m sorry.”
In the following silence, she keeps her head bowed, and plays with the latch on the first aid kit, locking and unlocking the box, until, decisively, she unlatches it and flips open the lid. She sniffles, rather volubly. “I - I don’t know what you need from here. Butterflies? Or strips?”
“Dawn, don’t - I can manage, truly. But, how are you?” For another moment, his fate hangs in limbo. Then he hears another sniffle, and she leans forward until her forehead rests against his collarbone, gently.
“I thought you hated me. Because Buffy died, when it should’ve been me.” He can feel her tears dropping against his chest.
“Oh, Dawn, no. I’m so sorry. It wasn’t that. Not at all - if anything, I hated me. Not you.”
She leans back, wiping her eyes. “Are you sure? I mean, Wesley said it was probably something like that. And Willow said - she said you couldn’t hate me, because I was part of Buffy.”
Part of Buffy? Buffy said that, but God help him, Giles does not see it. To his mind, Buffy was -- always -- entirely sui generis. Which fact does not, cannot, excuse his neglect of Dawn. The sniffling continues, and Dawn continues to pick through the bandages in the first aid kit, finally settling on a packet of steri-strips and some alcohol swabs.
“Let me see.” Even if she’s not part of Buffy, Dawn can be as bossy as her older sister . . . was. Helpless to do anything else, he holds out his arm, and begins to unstick the very messy shirt. She hisses with him as it comes away from the cut, which begins bleeding again, but sluggishly. Grabbing up some gauze, Dawn dabs at it, gently but very proficiently, and between the two of them, they close the cut with strips, then cover it with gauze and tape.
“You’re very handy at that, Dawn,” he says, trying to meet her eyes, as she remains bent over the kit, stowing away the unused items.
“Buffy let me help sometimes, when she - after patrol. But she said you were the best at the whole doctoring-up thing.” Suddenly she’s pinned him with her gaze. “She said something else, too. Something she wanted me to tell you - right before she - she jumped.”
He turns away. He can’t bear to hear her last words to him, not after he’d been willing to consider killing the child, and not with that same child now before him, more adult than he, it seems, and determined to do her last duty by the sister who died for her. “Dawn, I don’t -“
“No, Giles, please. She said, she said to tell you that she’d figured it out, it was all right. I’m sorry, I should’ve told you right away, I just kept forgetting, with everything . . ." She makes a strange, fluttering motion with her hands, to indicate -- well, he supposes -- to indicate everything. "Does that make any sense to you? ‘Cuz it’s all she said to tell you.”
He looks at her, at Buffy’s sister, and smiles.
“It does make sense, Dawn. Buffy was just reminding me, reminding us both, perhaps, that she was doing her duty by saving what she loved, just as she was trained to do. She loved you, so much, Dawn.”
He can feel his eyes filling again, and again, Dawn begins to sniffle. Then she smiles.
“OK, let’s not start the waterworks again, please. How’s your arm?”
“I think I’ll live, thank you.”
***
Anya, Willow, and Tara choose that moment to reappear from wherever they’ve disappeared to, and Giles realizes that he’s feeling somewhat steadier, now. They ask him if he’d like to share the pizza, and he’s surprised to find out that he really would. After a slice that he must, after all, eat rather slowly, he suggests to Anya that they re-open the shop - not tomorrow, but the next day. Only he can’t remember what day it is. This admission drains some of the lightness from their gathering, but Dawn only gets up from the table where they’ve gathered and collects his desk calendar from the office. She brings it back to him and points at a day, and they all assure him that it really is today, and it’s Thursday, which is propitious, Anya points out, because Saturday is one of their best days, so if he’s really ready to re-open, then Saturday would be a good day to do that.
No one comments on the fact that he eats only one slice, and Tara brings him a cup of very good tea without comment, so he sips while they eat a bit more and talk. Anya slips away to the office to make a phone call, and without asking Giles, or the others, she makes plans to prepare dinner, for everyone, at the house on Revello. Xander will bring beer, she explains, and then, very quietly, she asks that they all keep an eye on him, to make sure he doesn’t drink too much with dinner. Because he’s getting better about it, lately, but she still worries. They all nod in understanding, and Dawn promises to drag him into a game of “Life” if things get rocky. Giles then volunteers to be the one to go to the cemetery and invite Spike, because otherwise Dawn would do it, and he thinks perhaps it’s time for him to begin to make life easier for Dawn, rather than harder. For her part, Dawn slips her hand into Giles’s and squeezes, and he knows it’s meant to be a silent thank you. He squeezes back, as if to say, “No, no, no, thank you.”
They all help him clean up the floor of the training room, and replace the knives where they belong. Tonight he will eat enchiladas at the Summers house - because they’re a happy food, Anya points out, and because Buffy liked them. Tomorrow, he will write his account of how Buffy, again, saved the world, because that is what he owes her, and what he has been trained to do.
“Dirge Without Music”
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.
Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,-but the best is lost.
The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the
love,-
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not
approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the
world.
Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
-- Edna St. Vincent Millay