New Fic: Through The Twilight part 1 of 11
Title: Through The Twilight
Author: pierson
Date: October 29, 2008
Word Count: 67,194
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Pairing: None; Giles and Xander friendship. Can be read as pre-slash, if you squint. Mentions the Xander/Cordelia relationship.
Rating: FRM, or R
Disclaimer: Do I own them or make money off them? No. Do I have fun with them? Yes.
Spoilers/Setting: Takes place during/after the season two finale, Becoming 2.
Warnings: Profanity. Although there is little violence in the story, it does refer to violence that occurred before the story starts.
Notes: This was written for the gilesxander Octoberfest. I had many alpha readers: wizefics, ppyajunebug, sweet_subbie. I also had many beta readers: rosewildeirish, katekat1010, dine, and sayadinasaoirse, who all helped in various and sundry wonderful ways. They all gave great advice. Thank you everyone, for your help! There are two scenes in which I've lifted dialogue verbatim: if you're familiar with the episode, you'll recognize it.
Summary: If you can get through the twilight, you’ll live through the night.
Through the Twilight
If you can get through the twilight, you'll live through the night.
~~Dorothy Parker
Xander pokes his head into three rooms before he finds the one holding Giles. He can hear Buffy-inspired mayhem coming from the main room, but here, it’s quieter. He’s not sure if that’s actually a good thing or not.
The room is dim and still, and he slips in. Giles sits tied to a straight-backed chair, head tipped back, long throat stretched and exposed, his body utterly still, his skin pale as milk. For a second, Xander’s frozen--Oh God, too late, too late, *Giles*--but then he catches the faint sound of a shallow, ragged breath, and he’s moving again before he’s even aware of it.
Jesus, there’s so much blood. The carpet below is dark with it, and the stink of it is heavy and metallic in his nose, coating the back of his throat. The smell of it is different than demon blood, and how crazy-wrong is it that he knows that?
“Giles!” he says urgently, and kneels behind him, carefully out of the dark stain, and works at the ropes binding him. Blood has run in thick lines down Giles’ hands, down his fingers to the tips, dried dark in the cuticles. The fingers of his left hand are swollen, misshapen, and at the sight, Xander feels burning bile rise in the back of his throat. He fumbles with the knots, and swears under his breath, hampered by his own swollen fingers and the cast to his arm.
“Giles!” he says again, and he’s not sure if it’s his voice or the tugging on his wrists and arms that makes Giles’ breath catch, makes him stir, biting off a moan before it really gets started. Xander hears the crash of furniture breaking, and he knows he has to hurry. Buffy will give him as much time as she can, but her fights go on only so long.
“Xander?” His voice is cracked and weak and hesitant, and not like Giles at all. Up close, the scents are almost overpowering. The rusty iron smell of blood is the strongest, but there's also sour vomit and sweat and the sharp rankness of fear. Xander and fear are best buddies, so he's familiar with that one, has smelled it on himself when things have gone south, as they so frequently do. And there's something else, another scent, familiar, but it's something he doesn’t want to think about, not now, not ever.
“Can you walk?” He can feel fear scrambling around like a wild thing in his stomach, all sharp claws and twisting spiky tail. They need to get the hell out while Buffy’s keeping the vamps occupied; with his broken arm he’s in no shape to fight, and Giles? No, and hell, no.
“You’re not real,” Giles says, his voice slurred and thick, as if it hurts to talk. It probably does.
“Sure I’m real,” Xander answers, and the fingers of Giles’ right hand curl slightly. There’s blood caked in the lines of his palm, and Xander thinks of fortune tellers and lifelines and crossing the palm with silver. Giles’ breath catches again as Xander picks at the last bit of knotted rope.
“It’s a trick,” Giles says slowly and heavily. “They get inside my head,” he has to stop and catch a breath, “make me see things I want.” He sounds broken, defeated, and that makes Xander’s own throat feel curiously thick, like he’s trying to swallow around a big, sharp rock. He’s never heard Giles sound like that, no matter how grim things looked, and Xander’s seen enough grim in the past couple of years to know.
Finally the ropes give way, and he's up and moving to Giles’ side. Giles looks like shit-looks exactly like a guy who’s spent eight hours with Angelus getting the hell beat out of him. But he lifts his head, opens his left eye-the other is swelling, and doesn’t want to open all the way. He looks blearily at Xander, as if he doesn’t really think he’s there.
“Then why would they make you see me?” He leans in close so that Giles can see him with his one good eye, and whether it’s that or the snarky comment doesn’t matter, because Giles blinks, thoughts moving in a slow swirl behind his eyes, and hey, Elvis is back in the building again.
“You’re right,” he says finally. “Let’s go.”
It takes two tries to get him to his feet, and Giles can’t hold back the groan. Xander gets a shoulder under his right arm and slings his other around Giles’ ribs. Something shifts beneath his palm that shouldn’t, Giles' breath catches and Xander snatches his hand away, putting it around Giles’ waist instead, and Giles flinches again. Xander wonders how bad it is when Giles doesn’t make a sound, just goes green-white and suddenly letting Xander take his whole weight. Real bad, probably. They stagger, because Giles is a big guy, taller and heavier than him, but Xander's determined. He braces, holds him steady, gets them moving. He'll worry about how badly Giles is hurt later. Now he has to do his part of the job and get Giles to safety.
They make their way through the main hall as quickly as they can, which is not very, weaving like they're drunk. Xander tries to keep them from continually careening into the wall, and he's mostly successful. Giles' left arm hangs limply at an odd angle, the shoulder all wrong, and Xander figures it's dislocated. Focus, Xander, you can play doctor later. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Buffy stake a vamp, hears its echoing cry as it goes to dust, sees her already moving through the cloud, taking on another, her face grim and set, beautiful and terrible like pictures of those avenging angels he's seen in some of Giles' books. Over in another corner, Spike and Drusilla fight: freakshow, and he'd probably watch it happily at any other time and cheer, but not now. For a second he can't see Angelus. Knowing a vamp is around but not seeing it is bad beyond words, because that usually means you're about to be invited to dinner, and as the main course. But then he sees Angelus step up to Acathla and get ready to put his hand on the hilt of the sword, which is actually a hundred thousand times worse. But there's nothing he can do, so he ducks his head, grips Giles by the waistband of his pants, and soldiers on.
Out, out, out. One foot in front of the other, slow but sure, yeah, the tortoise had it right. But Xander wishes like hell he was the hare, because they need to put as much distance between them and the vampires as they can. In the shadows of the house, hidden from the sun, they're sitting ducks. It's not easy, though; his back screams at him from half-carrying Giles, his broken wrist throbs like a live thing, and Giles is one breath away from unconsciousness, still upright only because he's the most stubborn bastard Xander's ever known. For once Xander's grateful for that stubbornness; he knows he can't carry him. Buffy, Willow, even Oz, sure, but not Giles.
At last through the door and sunshine spills over them, warm and golden. The vamps can't follow them now, and Xander would breathe a sigh of relief if he actually had the breath to do it. They're safe--unless Angelus opens the portal. But he'll gladly take safe-for-now and not think about the other. Buffy will stop him--preventing apocalypse is her thing, after all. That, and killing with extreme prejudice. He hopes like hell that she guts Angelus like a fish with that big-ass sword of hers. Nothing ever needed it more.
He keeps talking to Giles, coaxing, goading, insulting, saying anything that comes to mind to keep him on his feet and moving toward the road. Giles' bare feet make it slow going over gravel and brush, but Xander thinks he hurts so much everywhere else that the feet are pretty much a big nothing in the Giles marathon-o'-pain. They need to get him to the hospital, ASAP, STAT and all those other medical words he learned from TV doctor shows that mean in a hurry. He finally gets Giles to the road, and the fourth car he flags down actually stops to help. It's not smart to stop for anyone on the highway--that's been drilled into his head since well, forever--but he's grateful for the helpful stupidity of some strangers. Xander gives the man a wild and rambling story about how he and his dad were attacked, mugged, their car stolen, and wonder of wonders, the guy buys it. It's Sunnydale, after all, Weird Crime Capital of the World, so a mugging seems pretty much like small potatoes. The guy's also big enough to help Xander get Giles into the back seat, and the pained noise that escapes Giles before he finally passes out makes Xander's eyes burn like someone poured pepper into them. Xander blinks fiercely--no time, not now, maybe later--and climbs in the back seat with Giles, wedging himself into the floor boards and trying to arrange Giles in some way that looks less painful. He doesn't think he succeeds, because Giles is really long-legged and the back seat isn't that big, but it's the effort that counts. And besides, Giles is finally out and probably doesn't care anyway.
Giles' shirt is mostly unbuttoned, his belt is gone, and his pants unbuttoned and partially unzipped. It suddenly seems very important to put things right, because Giles is like, Neat and Tidy Man, and even hurt like this, wouldn't want to be seen half-undressed. That much he's sure of. Xander bites his lower lip and fumbles the pants zipped and buttoned. He doesn't want to think why they weren't. They're splashed with blood, enough that it makes Xander think of those modern art paintings that make no sense at all, just crazy splotches of color. But there's no color here, just red dried to black against the brown cloth. He wonders what Angelus did to make them bloody. He probably doesn't want to know.
But he does, god help him. It's probably sick, but he wants to know what Angelus did, so he can hate him even more, be extra glad that Buffy killed him. Giles isn't a friend exactly, but he's someone Xander's known for a couple of years, someone he respects, probably the smartest person Xander knows. And the bravest, because while Giles has all sorts of Watcher training in how to fight, he's not like Buffy, practically indestructible. Instead, he's like Xander, just a regular human being. Able to be hurt, so much, so easily. His broad wrists peek out from beneath the loose, open cuffs of his sleeves, bloody and abraded from the rope, from his struggles against it. A quick glance at his bare ankles shows more of the same.
There's only a couple of buttons still done up, and before he loses his nerve or changes his mind, Xander unfastens them and spreads open the shirt.
He sucks in a deep breath, and hopes Buffy made Angelus hurt before she killed him.
Giles has a black eye, a cut on his forehead, another that slides down over his jaw and onto his neck, bruises across his left cheekbone. In a circle around his throat are the clear imprints of fingers, leaving vicious purple marks. That's bad enough. But the real damage is under his clothes. Angelus had used his fists, because there's ugly red-purple bruising everywhere Xander can see, over his chest, around his ribs, down his belly, probably on his back. More bruises that go lower, creeping beneath the waistband of his pants. In addition to his fists, Angelus had used a knife, used it freely. Used it everywhere.
"Jesus H. Christ," the guy driving says, and Xander looks up to see his horrified eyes reflected in the rear-view mirror. Shocked, Xander had forgotten he was there. He twitches the shirt closed, because it's private, somehow. Giles wouldn't want a stranger to see him like this. Hell, he wouldn't want Xander to see him.
"Yeah, just get us to the hospital," Xander says, and buttons up the shirt clumsily. His vision seems wavery, and he blinks, trying to clear it. Doesn't help much, but he keeps trying.
At the hospital emergency room, it's all a crazy whirl of people and words that Xander doesn't understand, and papers that he can't think to fill out. They whisk Giles to an exam room, and Xander follows, a kite on a string. The person with the papers trails him, protesting, but he ignores her, standing outside the cubicle, watching as staff mills around like ants and start working their medical mojo on Giles, until someone notices him and then pulls the curtain around the bed, blocking Giles from sight. He stands there listening to them talk and work, because that's all he can do now for Giles, just stand and wait so he's not alone in all this. When Giles suddenly makes a sound that Xander has never, ever wanted to hear from someone he knows, he lets the lady with the papers lead him down the hall, lets her sit him down in a chair, lets her talk to him about Giles and insurance and stuff he'll never remember later. After she leaves, he still sits there and rubs his swollen, aching fingers. He remembers the heavy, wet pop sound his arm made as the vamp broke it. He wonders how many times Giles heard the same sound as he sat tied to the chair. Four? Five? More? In spite of his sweater, a shiver sweeps over him, though his belly is hot, so hot, his stomach like a volcano filled to the top with red-hot lava. Ready to explode, but the one, the focus of all the rage he feels building and building inside him is already dead, because they're all still here, alive. Or maybe Willow's spell worked, and Buffy didn't have to kill him. He's honest enough with himself to wish more the first and less the second.
Eventually they take Giles off to get a bunch of xrays, to have someone look at his hand, and they won't let him follow. Xander catches a glimpse of Giles in passing; he looks pale and somehow smaller than he really is, hooked up to an IV and a bag of blood, an ice bag propped onto his left shoulder, his eyes closed. Hopefully he's passed out again, or they gave him the good stuff. One of the nurses stops, pats his arm comfortingly and says Giles will be gone for a little while. He thinks about going to visit Willow while he waits, but her room is all the way across the hospital, and he's afraid he won't be back by the time they return with Giles. It's important that he is, because otherwise, who'll be here for him? Giles has no one else, and that's just sad. And it's not like Willow's alone; she has Oz and Cordy with her. So he sits and waits in his uncomfortable chair, in this brightly-lit, busy, noisy place that stinks of antiseptics, and tries hard not to think about anything. It's impossible, because there's so much to think about, and his mind is a Tilt-A-Whirl, spinning without ever stopping. Kendra, dead. Miss Calendar, dead. Willow, hurt. Giles, tortured. Buffy, trying to stop the end of the world, again. And at the center of it all, Angel. Angelus. Somehow, knowing that he'd been right about Angel all along doesn't feel as good as it should. He'd give anything to have been wrong. But he wasn't.
Eventually, a different woman brings him a cup of coffee. It's black and bitter, and it makes his stomach hurt worse, but he drinks it anyway. He wishes he could take a pain pill, because without anything else to distract him, nothing to do but wait, his arm hurts with every beat of his heart. But no matter how much it hurts he won't; they make him fuzzy, goofy, and he has to be clear-headed for a while yet. When everything settles, he'll take one. Or maybe ten.
He wonders where Buffy is. She should be here--Giles is her Watcher. He'd want her here, want to know she was safe, because it's never been any secret at all that she's the most important person to him in the whole world. No one else comes close, not even Willow, and certainly not him. Why isn't she here? Xander rubs his good hand over the back of his neck, where the hair has suddenly stood straight up, and tries not to think that maybe, just maybe, Buffy didn't make it. That maybe, even though she obviously closed the portal, she herself didn't survive. His belly feels like a roller-coaster suddenly plunging down a high, steep drop, and he wonders if he's going to hurl all over the nice clean tile floors.
Hand over his mouth, he swallows convulsively a couple of times, and thank god everything stays where it should. No. Buffy made it. He's sure of it. She's smart and fast and just that good, and he's certain she's still alive. Somehow he thinks he'd know if she wasn't. He thinks of her lying in a pool of water in the Master's cavern far below the earth, her water-dark hair floating and curling like seaweed around her, white dress like sea-foam, and he viciously pushes that memory aside. Instead he thinks of her as he always sees her: strong and powerful, bright and shining as the sword she carried that morning, just as sharp and deadly. She's the Slayer. She's Buffy. She made it.
But where the hell is she?
He's so tired, and doesn't remember the last time he slept. In spite of the stress, in spite of the pain, in spite of the godawful coffee, in spite of the noise, he must've drifted off to sleep, because he wakes with a jerk when they're wheeling Giles past him and back into the exam room. Feeling as though his bones have been hollowed out and filled with lead, he heaves himself to his feet and goes into the exam room right behind the cart, and stays when no one tries to throw him out.
When one of the doctors asks if Xander is Giles' next-of-kin, Xander nods, because really? He might as well be. There's no one else. She talks about several bruised and cracked ribs, and how there's nothing that can be done with those; they have to heal on their own. Six weeks, minimum. Broken fingers, but luckily, the orthopedic surgeon on staff was able to reset them and splint them without surgery. Again, six weeks for those. He'd gotten that lecture himself earlier, when they'd set and casted his arm. Extensive contusions, and Xander's been in the emergency room himself often enough to know what contusions are, and how long it takes them to fade. Luckily, there was no major organ damage, though his father--Xander doesn't bother to correct her--will urinate red for a while from bruised kidneys. Many, many, many lacerations, none of them deep enough to be dangerous, but several requiring stitches, and they'll give Xander supplies to change the dressings. Fortunately or un-, Xander knows all about how to change dressings; he learned it from Giles, in fact. So he just nods. Blood loss, dehydration, but those, they're fixing with IVs and transfusions.
And then her voice drops lower, goes softer and infinitely, painfully more sympathetic as she talks about assault. About filing police reports. About evidence and testing and about how his father will need to see a counselor, will need to come back in three months and then again in six months for more lab work. Xander stares fixedly at the tiles between his feet as she talks, rubbing the abraded knuckles at the edge of his cast, his aching fingers. He just now remembers hitting a vamp as he first went into the mansion, of scraping his knuckles along fangs. It had hurt like hell, the shock of fist meeting teeth rocketing up his broken arm, but he'd been too pumped full of adrenaline to care, then. The doctor asks if he understands, touching his hand with light cool fingers, and Xander nods, because he can't trust himself to say anything. Fucking hell. He'd suspected, but he hadn't wanted to think about it happening. Now he has to, and god. Giles, of all people, so stiff and proper and dignified and English. It'll rip him up. The doctor wants to keep him a couple of days for observation, to give him a chance to talk with a psychiatrist, but Xander already knows the chances of that happening are pretty much equal to Sunnydale ever being a normal town. Zip, zilch, nada. Never going to happen. Giles won't stay, and Giles sure as hell won't talk to anyone about this. Not ever.
The doctor says more things, and Xander just nods to get her to finish and go away. He feels crunchy and brittle, like chalk. He suddenly remembers how he and Willow always drew on the sidewalk with colored chalk, airplanes and spaceships and horses and dogs and houses, remembers eating a piece of blue chalk on a dare, and how bad it had tasted. It's an oddly comforting thought, and he hangs on to it until the doctor goes away.
When she does, Xander draws a deep breath and lets it out. He glances at the curtain half-drawn around the edge of the bed, working up his nerve and then steps around it. They've turned off the bright overhead lights for a moment, and it's dimmer, easier on the eyes. Giles lies quietly, eyes closed, breathing a lot easier than he had earlier. He doesn't have that stretched-too-thin look, the green-white and sweaty paleness of before. Whatever they gave him must be good stuff. They'd popped his shoulder back into place and so his left arm is in a sling, one of those funky disposable ice packs laying on his shoulder. His splinted fingers are propped up on a rolled towel, and another ice bag on them. The gold and black signet ring he wears on his left little finger is gone, and Xander worries because he thinks it's a family heirloom until he sees someone has put it on Giles' right hand. There's gauze around his wrists, and probably around his ankles as well. Though he can't see beneath the hospital gown, he can tell there's a lot of dressings under it. Two IVs are in his right arm, one clear, and one blood, and he watches them drip for a moment.
Xander leans against the bed rail. It's cold. Everything in the hospital is always cold. Must be some sort of hospital rule, or something. You can't just be hurt, or sick; you have to be that and miserable. After a moment, he reaches down and curls his fingers around Giles' right hand; it's limp and so cold. He'd never dare to do something like this if Giles were actually awake. Giles has never been a touchy-feely sort of guy, always reserved and somehow separate from the rest of them. Like there's this invisible force field around him that no one can ever get through. Maybe Buffy sometimes, but then she's special, different. Xander would almost say Giles is paternal toward her, but no father would ever send his child out to fight, knowing that every time he did, that fight could be her last. But then neither of them exactly have a choice, do they? Destiny's a real fucking bitch, sometimes.
Giles' fingers move in his, and he stirs. "Buffy?" His voice is hoarse and cracked around the edges.
"No," Xander replies quietly. "Just me, Xander."
Giles licks his dry lips, and Xander wonders if he could give him some water. "I'm not sure," Giles says hesitantly.
Xander leans a little closer. "Not sure about what, Giles?"
"If you're, you're. If you're real."
Wow. That's the second time he's said something like that. Whatever Angelus did, it had really messed with Giles' head big time. Xander clears his throat. "Oh, you can trust me on this. I'm a real boy, all right." Pinocchio had always been one of Willow's favorite movies when they were kids. Xander must've watched it with her a thousand times.
Giles opens his eyes, and slowly turns his head on the pillow so he can see out of his better eye, the left. He looks at Xander a long time. "So you are," he says finally. His fingers slide away from Xander's, and Xander feels a flash of hurt, quick and sudden, but it's gone almost as quickly. He understands why Giles doesn't want to be touched. He's not sure he'd want to be, either. "Buffy? Is she here?"
"No. No, she's not." He hates to say it, but there's no way around it, what with the distinct lack of Buffy anywhere.
"Where is she, then? Oh god, she's not, not--" Oh man, there's no hiding the stark fear, the raw anguish in Giles' voice as his hand reaches out, clutches Xander's sweater sleeve in a white-knuckled grip.
"No, no she's not," Xander says hurriedly. "Not, really not." He has to believe it, has to make Giles believe it. "Last time I saw her, she was kicking vamp ass and taking names. Well, not really with the whole taking names thing, but you know what I mean. And there's no portal chowing down on all human-y goodness, so we know she closed it. Saved the world again. Apocalypse, version two, averted."
"Why isn't she here? Where is she?" Giles' voice is very quiet, and normally, he'd never let Xander hear the hurt threading through every word, so thick he can almost touch it. Normally Giles is all British stiff upper lip, say nothing, show nothing, but drugs strip all that self-protective armor away from him. Xander understands why he's always been so reluctant to take anything in spite of how often he's been hurt. Xander feels like a Peeping Tom, seeing and hearing stuff that Giles would've kept secret. He can't unsee or unhear them, but Xander can keep them secret for Giles--he'll never say a word about anything that's gone on here. It's the least he can do.
"I don't know, Giles. I wish I did."
Slowly Giles' fingers unwind from his sleeve, his hand dropping back to the bed. He turns his face away, and it's obvious he's struggling to get a grip on everything, to stuff it back into some box deep inside his head and nail it shut. It's a struggle to watch, but after a moment, Giles gets it done, and looks back toward Xander. He's calmer, mostly Giles again.
"You're all right? Willow? Cordelia? Kendra?"
"I'm fine." He lifts his casted arm. "Just a little souvenir. Willow's going to be fine. Cordy's the smart one. She ran like hell and got away scott free." He pauses, but there's no easy way to say it. So he just does. "Kendra's gone. Drusilla--"
"Yes," Giles says shortly. "Drusilla." Somehow Giles manages to fill that one name up to the brim with fear and loathing. Strangely, Xander gets the feeling that not all the loathing is for Drusilla, that some of it is for Giles himself. But why? What had happened? "Poor Kendra. So brave. So, so young. They're all so damn young. I'll. I'll have to talk with her Watcher. Tell him. He'll be. He'll be--"
"Yeah," Xander says, when Giles just stops, evidently unable to say any more. Maybe he's thinking of just a minute ago, when he thought Buffy might be gone. "But later, after we've sprung you. They want you to stay a couple of days. Just to keep an eye on you. Make sure you're one hundred percent Giles again by the time you leave."
"They can wish all they like," Giles replies, "But it's bloody well not happening." And yeah, there's the pigheaded Giles they all know and love. Although that stubbornness has driven Xander crazy in the past, right now it's welcome, and way better than the stumbling, stuttering hesitation.
A guy in scrubs comes in to wheel Giles to his assigned hospital room, and hell no, that's not happening. Scrub guy, a little worse for wear after Giles gets finished with him--he'd tried to just take Giles regardless of what Giles wanted, and Xander could've told him that was a really, really bad idea--goes off to get a nurse. One comes in and talks with Giles, who's completely pissed off now and having nothing of it. He won't stay overnight, wants to go, and right this moment. Xander thinks that Giles could use some serious hospital time, complete with cold scrambled eggs and wobbly red jello and the really good drugs, but Giles says no. The nurse talks him into staying at least until the transfusion's finished, until he's had an IV of antibiotics, but it's a close thing, and maybe Xander's soft, "Giles, listen to her please," helped, and maybe it didn't. He's not counting on having much influence, because Giles doesn't particularly like anyone telling him what he can or can't do. Xander's seen that for himself first-hand over the past couple of years. When Giles first showed up in Sunnydale, Xander thought that he was all polite and unwilling to ruffle feathers. Didn't take him long to get over that idea.
So they wait. Xander pulls up a chair and sits down at Giles' bedside, because wow, with the tired. He feels like a helium balloon with the air half gone, sorta sad and saggy. Giles closes his eyes and turns his face away. Just talking with the nurse had left him breathless and worn out because he can't draw a deep breath on account of his ribs, but Xander thinks that even if it hadn't, Giles wouldn't want to talk now. The quiet feels unnatural and strange, makes even the air feel heavy and thick, and when Giles finally says, softly, "Tell me what happened," Xander does, because Giles has both a need and a right to know.
He starts with the attack at the library: Willow's head injury, his broken arm, Kendra's death at Drusilla's hands, Buffy's arrival and the accusations of the police. He moves on to the hospital: meeting Buffy there, realizing that Giles was missing, Willow finally waking up, Buffy's alliance with Spike to rescue Giles and stop Angel from awakening Acathla, Willow's plan to try the spell again. And finally, at the mansion itself: Buffy's attack, and his rescue of Giles. That part doesn't take long.
"And. And Buffy?" Giles' voice has that cracked-edge sound again. His right hand curls around the bed rail, skin smudged with dried-rust blood, cuticles and under his nails dark with it, the skin over his knuckles stretched thin and pale from gripping so tightly.
"She was fighting like I've never seen her fight before," Xander answers honestly. "Impressed the hell outta me. Don't know if Willow's spell worked, and honestly, I don't care. I just hope she killed Angelus. He so deserves it for everything he's done. To everybody. To you." Although Angelus has messed with everyone, Giles got the extra-special treatment--finding someone he'd loved dead in his bed, hours and hours of pain and suffering at Angelus' hands. Xander wonders if it was partly because Giles is a Watcher, someone who's dedicated his life to wiping out vampires. Or, more personally, because he's Buffy's Watcher, and important to her. Probably both, but he'd lay big money on the latter.
Because he can't help but offer some kind of comfort, Xander reaches out and puts his hand gently on top of Giles'. He feels the tension of the muscles, feels how cold Giles' hand is under his own. Giles tolerates his touch a moment and then pulls away, but not before Xander feels his quick tremor. This time Xander's prepared, and isn't hurt by the withdrawal. He sorta wishes Willow was here; maybe Giles would let her comfort him more. She's almost as close to him as Buffy, soft and easy and sweet, completely nonthreatening, and has been able to get through a lot of Giles' defenses.
The doctor comes in then, the same one who'd talked to Xander before. She's nice and pleasant and firm. Giles begins that way, but doesn't stay that way long. Xander remembers when his mom watched Upstairs, Downstairs on PBS, years ago. He doubts they ever said anything like what Giles is saying now. Xander figures the only reason Giles doesn't yell is that he can't draw a deep enough breath to do it. The doctor keeps her cool, which is way more than Xander would've done in her place. Finally she lets Giles go, against her medical advice. Giles doesn't care; he wants away from the hospital, wants to find out what's happened to Buffy.
It takes a little while longer to actually spring Giles. Nurses give him the IV antibiotics, because Giles had promised to wait for that, then take out his IV, give him papers to sign, and more papers to take home and read. Xander doubts Giles will, particularly if they have anything to do with assault. They'd cut off his clothes when he first arrived--probably another of those weird hospital rules, like everything being cold--so they find him a pair of scrub pants to wear under the hospital gown and for his bare feet, a pair of those paper bootie things they wear over their shoes. It's not much, but at least Giles won't be leaving naked. They bring in a whole big brown grocery bag of dressings and gauze and medications. Xander listens to them give instructions, because Giles can't or won't. It's clear by his expression that he's not paying attention, too caught up in other things. No wonder that Giles and all his other teachers yell at him all the time, if it's that obvious. He promises to follow the doctor's advice, to take care of Giles once they get home.
Getting Giles sitting up on the side of the bed takes a lot of effort, and Xander thinks he's going to pass out and fall onto the floor face-first. But stubborn must be Giles' middle name, and although he turns green and pants for breath, he stays upright. The next hurdle is the wheelchair, and Xander almost says, "Jesus Christ, could you seriously be any more pigheaded or what?" but he doesn't, because he figures that would just make Giles dig in his heels even more, to assert himself and his will. Xander thinks maybe after what he's been through, being helpless and hurt and at Angelus' non-existent mercy, Giles needs to feel in control of everything. And people say he can't learn. Ha. He sees and knows a lot more than people think he does.
It's almost eleven in the morning. Xander calls Willow's room, but gets no answer, so he figures her parents have shown up and she's already been sprung. So they call a taxi, and Giles gives in and allows one of the orderlies to wheel him out. Xander follows, carrying the bag of supplies. He'd lagged behind until he noticed Giles looking around once for him, and after that, he walks at Giles' left side, within view. Xander Harris, walking security blanket, reporting for duty, yes-sir! But he honestly doesn't mind. It makes him feel at least a little bit useful and valued. Then it's into the taxi and Xander starts to give the cabbie Giles' address, when Giles grips his arm, hard.
"We. We need to go to the, the mansion." After a while being quiet, his voice is rusty. He doesn't look at Xander, but down at his splinted hand. "To, to see about Acathla. To figure out what's happened." He swallows hard. "To see about Buffy." He lifts his head, looks at Xander and then away. "I keep thinking. What. What if she's lying there...hurt. And no one there to help her? What. What if--"
Xander breaks in firmly. "Giles. She's all right. I know it. She's Buffy. Indestructo-Girl, right? She was fine when I left, I swear."
"But she's not. Not really. Indestructible," Giles says, so softly that Xander almost doesn't hear it. There's not a lot Xander can say in reply, because while Buffy's way tougher than a regular person, she really isn't indestructible. New Slayers get called all the time as proof of that.
Xander knows that's why Giles has been having a fit to get out. Buffy really is his whole world, more important than anything or anyone else, more important than his own health and safety. He wonders if Kendra's Watcher feels the same way. He thinks it would be nice if someone felt that way about him. He's never been the center of anyone's world.
He leans forward and gives the cabbie the address to the mansion. Giles' shoulders relax, as if he hadn't been certain Xander would give in, as if he was gearing up for another fight. No, no fighting from Xander Harris, not any more today. He's all fought out.
At the mansion, Xander makes the cabbie promise to wait, though the guy doesn't want to do that. Xander can't really blame him--the place gives off seriously creepy vibes. There's lots of bad stories about this place and knowing Sunnydale, the Hellmouth, Xander bets they're all true. He doesn't even try to tell Giles to wait because Giles needs to see things for himself. His face set in grim determination, Giles walks on his own power, though just barely; he's weak and wobbly and moves oddly, as if just walking makes him want to stop and curl into himself with every step. He pauses only a few seconds at the door, then ducks his head and goes in behind Xander. Xander has to admire the balls it takes to do that; if he were Giles, he's not certain he could've returned to this place.
Inside, it's dark and cool, quiet. Faintly, there's the funky, dry, snakey smell of vamp dust, and the rusty smell of blood. Giles stops in his tracks, just inside the main room. The statue of Acathla, big and lumpy and ugly, looms before them, mouth closed. No swirly vortexy thing anywhere in sight. To the side of the statue lays a sword. It's not Giles' best broadsword that Buffy had been carrying, so it must be the one that was in Acathla before. Xander touches Giles' arm, very gently, and Giles startles, blinks and looks at him. He's pale and sweaty, his eyes showing way too much white.
"I'll go take a look around," Xander says. "Stay put, willya?"
"Yes," Giles says faintly, and that has to be good enough.
It takes a few minutes to work through the mansion, because Xander checks every room just in case Buffy, for whatever reason is in one, and he's also on the lookout for vamps. But no, and no. Thankfully, they're all dead, or have cleared out somehow. In one of the bedrooms he strips a pillowcase off a pillow, not stopping to think which of them it had belonged to. He doesn't want to know. He returns to the room where Giles had been, and his nose wrinkles; the stink of old blood is still pretty strong. Scattered all over are Giles' belongings--his suit jacket, his tie, his socks and shoes. His belt and keys, his watch and wallet. The wallet still has money in it. Huh. Color him surprised. He finds Giles' glasses on a table, the big round lenses glinting in the lamplight. He tucks the keys, watch and wallet into the pocket of his jeans, stuffs the clothes into the pillowcase, and picks up the glasses. One last look around, and then he leaves. Hopefully never to return to this god-forsaken place.
Out in the walled garden he finds a mess of broken stone birdbath and statues. No Buffy, either alive and hurt, or, or--no Buffy, anyway. He wonders if she's at school, wonders if she's at home. Wonders if the police have her. Nah, she's too good to get caught by them. It's strange, though, that she didn't try to come to the hospital to find Giles. Where the hell is she?
When he gets back to the main room, he has a moment of panic, because Giles isn't there where he left him. What if Giles went to the room where he'd been tortured? What if a vamp who'd been in hiding got him? His heart flips and then pounds hard, and he's way too young to have a heart attack, isn't he? A quick look around and he finds Giles leaning against the wall with the fireplace, his right hand covering his face. Xander lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, then walks up to Giles, making his footsteps loud so Giles won't jump so much.
"She's not here, Giles," he says. "And there's no sign that she was...was hurt." No Buffy-sized pool of blood, which is, yeah, not something he wants to think about. He's seen enough blood for a while.
Giles murmurs something he doesn't catch, and Xander leans closer. "All my fault," Giles says.
"What's all your fault?"
"They. They opened the portal. All my fault. I. I told them." It takes Xander a minute to figure out the words, and then he understands. Understands Giles' grief, his guilt, the drive to get here and see for himself.
"It's not your fault. You were with Angelus eight hours, Giles. He did awful things to you. Anyone would--"
"Not him," Giles says, suddenly fierce. His hand drops from his face, and his expression is this weird mix of grief and something like pride. "He didn't make me break. He. He couldn't. It was. It was her."
Xander blinks. "Drusilla?" She's the only her he knows involved in this.
"Yes." Giles has to take a moment, swallowing hard, his eyes on the floor. His hand curls against the pale marble, nails scraping against the smooth stone. "Drusilla. She got into my head. Made me see. Made me see...Jenny." Giles' voice breaks on her name, and something turns over in Xander's chest at the sound of it. He reaches out and puts his hand on Giles' good shoulder, but Giles flinches away. "God, don't. I don't deserve--"
Xander takes his hand away, feels it curl into a fist. Frustration sweeps over him. Doesn't deserve what, basic human comfort? Jesus. He starts to say something, but Giles takes a shuddery breath and continues.
"She m-made me see Jenny. So beautiful. So alive. Her mouth. Her mouth was so soft, just like always. I. I told her. Everything. How to, to awaken Acathla. To. To open the portal. I told her. Jenny. But it wasn't. It was Drusilla."
And that explains why Giles kept asking if Xander were real. God. He couldn't tell real from hallucination because Drusilla had messed with his mind so much. "Giles, it's not your fault if she put some sort of mind whammy on you--"
"It is. It's m-my fault I told them." Wow, with the guilt and self-loathing. It's almost thick enough to spread, if he wanted to make a self-hate sandwich. "I should have known. Should have. I knew Jenny was dead. I knew. But I, I wanted. Wanted so much to believe. Couldn't think clearly. And. And when she asked, I told her."
Giles raises a hand and covers his eyes, as if trying not to see things again. "They opened the portal. And, and to close it, Angelus had to die. By, by Buffy's hand. She had to kill him, because I was weak. Oh, Buffy. How she must hate me now. S-so much."
Xander scrubs his hand over his face. Giles is a big guy with broad shoulders, but no one's shoulders are broad enough to carry this much grief and guilt. "Giles. She came here ready to kill Angelus anyway. It's not your fault. She doesn't hate you. She can't hate you. Not ever."
"Then why didn't she come to me?"
And for that, Xander has no answer. Although Buffy had been committed to stopping Angelus, had been prepared to kill him in order to save everyone else, it couldn't have been easy. She'd loved Angel for so long and so hard, and even if it wasn't Angel, but Angelus, the face, the body, was the same. And, oh god, what if Willow's spell had actually worked? What if he'd gotten his soul back after he'd opened the portal? What if Buffy'd had to kill Angel to close it? Jesus. Xander has no love at all for either Angelus or Angel because, hey, no matter how you look at it, he's a vampire, a blood-sucking demon and they should all be put down like the rabid dogs they are, but even he could see how that would play out for Buffy. She'd do it, because she was the Slayer and it had to be done, but how it would rip her to pieces. Shit, shit, shit.
"I don't know," Xander says, because he can't say anything else. "Let's go, Giles. Let's get out of here."
Giles wipes at his eyes, and Xander pretends not to notice because well, they're guys, and that's what they do. He holds out Giles' glasses, and Giles takes them, slipping them on. It helps to make him look a little more normal. Xander pulls down a curtain, and wraps the sword in it to keep the cabbie from freaking out. He wishes he could find Giles' broadsword, but it's like it vanished off the face of the earth. Maybe it did, like Angelus. Maybe it did, in Angelus. He can only hope.
At the doorway, Giles pauses again. "This place wants purifying," he says, his voice harsh and rough. "Fire and salt. I wish I could."
Yeah, Xander wishes the same thing. "No arguments from me," he says.
On to part two
Author: pierson
Date: October 29, 2008
Word Count: 67,194
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Pairing: None; Giles and Xander friendship. Can be read as pre-slash, if you squint. Mentions the Xander/Cordelia relationship.
Rating: FRM, or R
Disclaimer: Do I own them or make money off them? No. Do I have fun with them? Yes.
Spoilers/Setting: Takes place during/after the season two finale, Becoming 2.
Warnings: Profanity. Although there is little violence in the story, it does refer to violence that occurred before the story starts.
Notes: This was written for the gilesxander Octoberfest. I had many alpha readers: wizefics, ppyajunebug, sweet_subbie. I also had many beta readers: rosewildeirish, katekat1010, dine, and sayadinasaoirse, who all helped in various and sundry wonderful ways. They all gave great advice. Thank you everyone, for your help! There are two scenes in which I've lifted dialogue verbatim: if you're familiar with the episode, you'll recognize it.
Summary: If you can get through the twilight, you’ll live through the night.
Through the Twilight
If you can get through the twilight, you'll live through the night.
~~Dorothy Parker
Xander pokes his head into three rooms before he finds the one holding Giles. He can hear Buffy-inspired mayhem coming from the main room, but here, it’s quieter. He’s not sure if that’s actually a good thing or not.
The room is dim and still, and he slips in. Giles sits tied to a straight-backed chair, head tipped back, long throat stretched and exposed, his body utterly still, his skin pale as milk. For a second, Xander’s frozen--Oh God, too late, too late, *Giles*--but then he catches the faint sound of a shallow, ragged breath, and he’s moving again before he’s even aware of it.
Jesus, there’s so much blood. The carpet below is dark with it, and the stink of it is heavy and metallic in his nose, coating the back of his throat. The smell of it is different than demon blood, and how crazy-wrong is it that he knows that?
“Giles!” he says urgently, and kneels behind him, carefully out of the dark stain, and works at the ropes binding him. Blood has run in thick lines down Giles’ hands, down his fingers to the tips, dried dark in the cuticles. The fingers of his left hand are swollen, misshapen, and at the sight, Xander feels burning bile rise in the back of his throat. He fumbles with the knots, and swears under his breath, hampered by his own swollen fingers and the cast to his arm.
“Giles!” he says again, and he’s not sure if it’s his voice or the tugging on his wrists and arms that makes Giles’ breath catch, makes him stir, biting off a moan before it really gets started. Xander hears the crash of furniture breaking, and he knows he has to hurry. Buffy will give him as much time as she can, but her fights go on only so long.
“Xander?” His voice is cracked and weak and hesitant, and not like Giles at all. Up close, the scents are almost overpowering. The rusty iron smell of blood is the strongest, but there's also sour vomit and sweat and the sharp rankness of fear. Xander and fear are best buddies, so he's familiar with that one, has smelled it on himself when things have gone south, as they so frequently do. And there's something else, another scent, familiar, but it's something he doesn’t want to think about, not now, not ever.
“Can you walk?” He can feel fear scrambling around like a wild thing in his stomach, all sharp claws and twisting spiky tail. They need to get the hell out while Buffy’s keeping the vamps occupied; with his broken arm he’s in no shape to fight, and Giles? No, and hell, no.
“You’re not real,” Giles says, his voice slurred and thick, as if it hurts to talk. It probably does.
“Sure I’m real,” Xander answers, and the fingers of Giles’ right hand curl slightly. There’s blood caked in the lines of his palm, and Xander thinks of fortune tellers and lifelines and crossing the palm with silver. Giles’ breath catches again as Xander picks at the last bit of knotted rope.
“It’s a trick,” Giles says slowly and heavily. “They get inside my head,” he has to stop and catch a breath, “make me see things I want.” He sounds broken, defeated, and that makes Xander’s own throat feel curiously thick, like he’s trying to swallow around a big, sharp rock. He’s never heard Giles sound like that, no matter how grim things looked, and Xander’s seen enough grim in the past couple of years to know.
Finally the ropes give way, and he's up and moving to Giles’ side. Giles looks like shit-looks exactly like a guy who’s spent eight hours with Angelus getting the hell beat out of him. But he lifts his head, opens his left eye-the other is swelling, and doesn’t want to open all the way. He looks blearily at Xander, as if he doesn’t really think he’s there.
“Then why would they make you see me?” He leans in close so that Giles can see him with his one good eye, and whether it’s that or the snarky comment doesn’t matter, because Giles blinks, thoughts moving in a slow swirl behind his eyes, and hey, Elvis is back in the building again.
“You’re right,” he says finally. “Let’s go.”
It takes two tries to get him to his feet, and Giles can’t hold back the groan. Xander gets a shoulder under his right arm and slings his other around Giles’ ribs. Something shifts beneath his palm that shouldn’t, Giles' breath catches and Xander snatches his hand away, putting it around Giles’ waist instead, and Giles flinches again. Xander wonders how bad it is when Giles doesn’t make a sound, just goes green-white and suddenly letting Xander take his whole weight. Real bad, probably. They stagger, because Giles is a big guy, taller and heavier than him, but Xander's determined. He braces, holds him steady, gets them moving. He'll worry about how badly Giles is hurt later. Now he has to do his part of the job and get Giles to safety.
They make their way through the main hall as quickly as they can, which is not very, weaving like they're drunk. Xander tries to keep them from continually careening into the wall, and he's mostly successful. Giles' left arm hangs limply at an odd angle, the shoulder all wrong, and Xander figures it's dislocated. Focus, Xander, you can play doctor later. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Buffy stake a vamp, hears its echoing cry as it goes to dust, sees her already moving through the cloud, taking on another, her face grim and set, beautiful and terrible like pictures of those avenging angels he's seen in some of Giles' books. Over in another corner, Spike and Drusilla fight: freakshow, and he'd probably watch it happily at any other time and cheer, but not now. For a second he can't see Angelus. Knowing a vamp is around but not seeing it is bad beyond words, because that usually means you're about to be invited to dinner, and as the main course. But then he sees Angelus step up to Acathla and get ready to put his hand on the hilt of the sword, which is actually a hundred thousand times worse. But there's nothing he can do, so he ducks his head, grips Giles by the waistband of his pants, and soldiers on.
Out, out, out. One foot in front of the other, slow but sure, yeah, the tortoise had it right. But Xander wishes like hell he was the hare, because they need to put as much distance between them and the vampires as they can. In the shadows of the house, hidden from the sun, they're sitting ducks. It's not easy, though; his back screams at him from half-carrying Giles, his broken wrist throbs like a live thing, and Giles is one breath away from unconsciousness, still upright only because he's the most stubborn bastard Xander's ever known. For once Xander's grateful for that stubbornness; he knows he can't carry him. Buffy, Willow, even Oz, sure, but not Giles.
At last through the door and sunshine spills over them, warm and golden. The vamps can't follow them now, and Xander would breathe a sigh of relief if he actually had the breath to do it. They're safe--unless Angelus opens the portal. But he'll gladly take safe-for-now and not think about the other. Buffy will stop him--preventing apocalypse is her thing, after all. That, and killing with extreme prejudice. He hopes like hell that she guts Angelus like a fish with that big-ass sword of hers. Nothing ever needed it more.
He keeps talking to Giles, coaxing, goading, insulting, saying anything that comes to mind to keep him on his feet and moving toward the road. Giles' bare feet make it slow going over gravel and brush, but Xander thinks he hurts so much everywhere else that the feet are pretty much a big nothing in the Giles marathon-o'-pain. They need to get him to the hospital, ASAP, STAT and all those other medical words he learned from TV doctor shows that mean in a hurry. He finally gets Giles to the road, and the fourth car he flags down actually stops to help. It's not smart to stop for anyone on the highway--that's been drilled into his head since well, forever--but he's grateful for the helpful stupidity of some strangers. Xander gives the man a wild and rambling story about how he and his dad were attacked, mugged, their car stolen, and wonder of wonders, the guy buys it. It's Sunnydale, after all, Weird Crime Capital of the World, so a mugging seems pretty much like small potatoes. The guy's also big enough to help Xander get Giles into the back seat, and the pained noise that escapes Giles before he finally passes out makes Xander's eyes burn like someone poured pepper into them. Xander blinks fiercely--no time, not now, maybe later--and climbs in the back seat with Giles, wedging himself into the floor boards and trying to arrange Giles in some way that looks less painful. He doesn't think he succeeds, because Giles is really long-legged and the back seat isn't that big, but it's the effort that counts. And besides, Giles is finally out and probably doesn't care anyway.
Giles' shirt is mostly unbuttoned, his belt is gone, and his pants unbuttoned and partially unzipped. It suddenly seems very important to put things right, because Giles is like, Neat and Tidy Man, and even hurt like this, wouldn't want to be seen half-undressed. That much he's sure of. Xander bites his lower lip and fumbles the pants zipped and buttoned. He doesn't want to think why they weren't. They're splashed with blood, enough that it makes Xander think of those modern art paintings that make no sense at all, just crazy splotches of color. But there's no color here, just red dried to black against the brown cloth. He wonders what Angelus did to make them bloody. He probably doesn't want to know.
But he does, god help him. It's probably sick, but he wants to know what Angelus did, so he can hate him even more, be extra glad that Buffy killed him. Giles isn't a friend exactly, but he's someone Xander's known for a couple of years, someone he respects, probably the smartest person Xander knows. And the bravest, because while Giles has all sorts of Watcher training in how to fight, he's not like Buffy, practically indestructible. Instead, he's like Xander, just a regular human being. Able to be hurt, so much, so easily. His broad wrists peek out from beneath the loose, open cuffs of his sleeves, bloody and abraded from the rope, from his struggles against it. A quick glance at his bare ankles shows more of the same.
There's only a couple of buttons still done up, and before he loses his nerve or changes his mind, Xander unfastens them and spreads open the shirt.
He sucks in a deep breath, and hopes Buffy made Angelus hurt before she killed him.
Giles has a black eye, a cut on his forehead, another that slides down over his jaw and onto his neck, bruises across his left cheekbone. In a circle around his throat are the clear imprints of fingers, leaving vicious purple marks. That's bad enough. But the real damage is under his clothes. Angelus had used his fists, because there's ugly red-purple bruising everywhere Xander can see, over his chest, around his ribs, down his belly, probably on his back. More bruises that go lower, creeping beneath the waistband of his pants. In addition to his fists, Angelus had used a knife, used it freely. Used it everywhere.
"Jesus H. Christ," the guy driving says, and Xander looks up to see his horrified eyes reflected in the rear-view mirror. Shocked, Xander had forgotten he was there. He twitches the shirt closed, because it's private, somehow. Giles wouldn't want a stranger to see him like this. Hell, he wouldn't want Xander to see him.
"Yeah, just get us to the hospital," Xander says, and buttons up the shirt clumsily. His vision seems wavery, and he blinks, trying to clear it. Doesn't help much, but he keeps trying.
At the hospital emergency room, it's all a crazy whirl of people and words that Xander doesn't understand, and papers that he can't think to fill out. They whisk Giles to an exam room, and Xander follows, a kite on a string. The person with the papers trails him, protesting, but he ignores her, standing outside the cubicle, watching as staff mills around like ants and start working their medical mojo on Giles, until someone notices him and then pulls the curtain around the bed, blocking Giles from sight. He stands there listening to them talk and work, because that's all he can do now for Giles, just stand and wait so he's not alone in all this. When Giles suddenly makes a sound that Xander has never, ever wanted to hear from someone he knows, he lets the lady with the papers lead him down the hall, lets her sit him down in a chair, lets her talk to him about Giles and insurance and stuff he'll never remember later. After she leaves, he still sits there and rubs his swollen, aching fingers. He remembers the heavy, wet pop sound his arm made as the vamp broke it. He wonders how many times Giles heard the same sound as he sat tied to the chair. Four? Five? More? In spite of his sweater, a shiver sweeps over him, though his belly is hot, so hot, his stomach like a volcano filled to the top with red-hot lava. Ready to explode, but the one, the focus of all the rage he feels building and building inside him is already dead, because they're all still here, alive. Or maybe Willow's spell worked, and Buffy didn't have to kill him. He's honest enough with himself to wish more the first and less the second.
Eventually they take Giles off to get a bunch of xrays, to have someone look at his hand, and they won't let him follow. Xander catches a glimpse of Giles in passing; he looks pale and somehow smaller than he really is, hooked up to an IV and a bag of blood, an ice bag propped onto his left shoulder, his eyes closed. Hopefully he's passed out again, or they gave him the good stuff. One of the nurses stops, pats his arm comfortingly and says Giles will be gone for a little while. He thinks about going to visit Willow while he waits, but her room is all the way across the hospital, and he's afraid he won't be back by the time they return with Giles. It's important that he is, because otherwise, who'll be here for him? Giles has no one else, and that's just sad. And it's not like Willow's alone; she has Oz and Cordy with her. So he sits and waits in his uncomfortable chair, in this brightly-lit, busy, noisy place that stinks of antiseptics, and tries hard not to think about anything. It's impossible, because there's so much to think about, and his mind is a Tilt-A-Whirl, spinning without ever stopping. Kendra, dead. Miss Calendar, dead. Willow, hurt. Giles, tortured. Buffy, trying to stop the end of the world, again. And at the center of it all, Angel. Angelus. Somehow, knowing that he'd been right about Angel all along doesn't feel as good as it should. He'd give anything to have been wrong. But he wasn't.
Eventually, a different woman brings him a cup of coffee. It's black and bitter, and it makes his stomach hurt worse, but he drinks it anyway. He wishes he could take a pain pill, because without anything else to distract him, nothing to do but wait, his arm hurts with every beat of his heart. But no matter how much it hurts he won't; they make him fuzzy, goofy, and he has to be clear-headed for a while yet. When everything settles, he'll take one. Or maybe ten.
He wonders where Buffy is. She should be here--Giles is her Watcher. He'd want her here, want to know she was safe, because it's never been any secret at all that she's the most important person to him in the whole world. No one else comes close, not even Willow, and certainly not him. Why isn't she here? Xander rubs his good hand over the back of his neck, where the hair has suddenly stood straight up, and tries not to think that maybe, just maybe, Buffy didn't make it. That maybe, even though she obviously closed the portal, she herself didn't survive. His belly feels like a roller-coaster suddenly plunging down a high, steep drop, and he wonders if he's going to hurl all over the nice clean tile floors.
Hand over his mouth, he swallows convulsively a couple of times, and thank god everything stays where it should. No. Buffy made it. He's sure of it. She's smart and fast and just that good, and he's certain she's still alive. Somehow he thinks he'd know if she wasn't. He thinks of her lying in a pool of water in the Master's cavern far below the earth, her water-dark hair floating and curling like seaweed around her, white dress like sea-foam, and he viciously pushes that memory aside. Instead he thinks of her as he always sees her: strong and powerful, bright and shining as the sword she carried that morning, just as sharp and deadly. She's the Slayer. She's Buffy. She made it.
But where the hell is she?
He's so tired, and doesn't remember the last time he slept. In spite of the stress, in spite of the pain, in spite of the godawful coffee, in spite of the noise, he must've drifted off to sleep, because he wakes with a jerk when they're wheeling Giles past him and back into the exam room. Feeling as though his bones have been hollowed out and filled with lead, he heaves himself to his feet and goes into the exam room right behind the cart, and stays when no one tries to throw him out.
When one of the doctors asks if Xander is Giles' next-of-kin, Xander nods, because really? He might as well be. There's no one else. She talks about several bruised and cracked ribs, and how there's nothing that can be done with those; they have to heal on their own. Six weeks, minimum. Broken fingers, but luckily, the orthopedic surgeon on staff was able to reset them and splint them without surgery. Again, six weeks for those. He'd gotten that lecture himself earlier, when they'd set and casted his arm. Extensive contusions, and Xander's been in the emergency room himself often enough to know what contusions are, and how long it takes them to fade. Luckily, there was no major organ damage, though his father--Xander doesn't bother to correct her--will urinate red for a while from bruised kidneys. Many, many, many lacerations, none of them deep enough to be dangerous, but several requiring stitches, and they'll give Xander supplies to change the dressings. Fortunately or un-, Xander knows all about how to change dressings; he learned it from Giles, in fact. So he just nods. Blood loss, dehydration, but those, they're fixing with IVs and transfusions.
And then her voice drops lower, goes softer and infinitely, painfully more sympathetic as she talks about assault. About filing police reports. About evidence and testing and about how his father will need to see a counselor, will need to come back in three months and then again in six months for more lab work. Xander stares fixedly at the tiles between his feet as she talks, rubbing the abraded knuckles at the edge of his cast, his aching fingers. He just now remembers hitting a vamp as he first went into the mansion, of scraping his knuckles along fangs. It had hurt like hell, the shock of fist meeting teeth rocketing up his broken arm, but he'd been too pumped full of adrenaline to care, then. The doctor asks if he understands, touching his hand with light cool fingers, and Xander nods, because he can't trust himself to say anything. Fucking hell. He'd suspected, but he hadn't wanted to think about it happening. Now he has to, and god. Giles, of all people, so stiff and proper and dignified and English. It'll rip him up. The doctor wants to keep him a couple of days for observation, to give him a chance to talk with a psychiatrist, but Xander already knows the chances of that happening are pretty much equal to Sunnydale ever being a normal town. Zip, zilch, nada. Never going to happen. Giles won't stay, and Giles sure as hell won't talk to anyone about this. Not ever.
The doctor says more things, and Xander just nods to get her to finish and go away. He feels crunchy and brittle, like chalk. He suddenly remembers how he and Willow always drew on the sidewalk with colored chalk, airplanes and spaceships and horses and dogs and houses, remembers eating a piece of blue chalk on a dare, and how bad it had tasted. It's an oddly comforting thought, and he hangs on to it until the doctor goes away.
When she does, Xander draws a deep breath and lets it out. He glances at the curtain half-drawn around the edge of the bed, working up his nerve and then steps around it. They've turned off the bright overhead lights for a moment, and it's dimmer, easier on the eyes. Giles lies quietly, eyes closed, breathing a lot easier than he had earlier. He doesn't have that stretched-too-thin look, the green-white and sweaty paleness of before. Whatever they gave him must be good stuff. They'd popped his shoulder back into place and so his left arm is in a sling, one of those funky disposable ice packs laying on his shoulder. His splinted fingers are propped up on a rolled towel, and another ice bag on them. The gold and black signet ring he wears on his left little finger is gone, and Xander worries because he thinks it's a family heirloom until he sees someone has put it on Giles' right hand. There's gauze around his wrists, and probably around his ankles as well. Though he can't see beneath the hospital gown, he can tell there's a lot of dressings under it. Two IVs are in his right arm, one clear, and one blood, and he watches them drip for a moment.
Xander leans against the bed rail. It's cold. Everything in the hospital is always cold. Must be some sort of hospital rule, or something. You can't just be hurt, or sick; you have to be that and miserable. After a moment, he reaches down and curls his fingers around Giles' right hand; it's limp and so cold. He'd never dare to do something like this if Giles were actually awake. Giles has never been a touchy-feely sort of guy, always reserved and somehow separate from the rest of them. Like there's this invisible force field around him that no one can ever get through. Maybe Buffy sometimes, but then she's special, different. Xander would almost say Giles is paternal toward her, but no father would ever send his child out to fight, knowing that every time he did, that fight could be her last. But then neither of them exactly have a choice, do they? Destiny's a real fucking bitch, sometimes.
Giles' fingers move in his, and he stirs. "Buffy?" His voice is hoarse and cracked around the edges.
"No," Xander replies quietly. "Just me, Xander."
Giles licks his dry lips, and Xander wonders if he could give him some water. "I'm not sure," Giles says hesitantly.
Xander leans a little closer. "Not sure about what, Giles?"
"If you're, you're. If you're real."
Wow. That's the second time he's said something like that. Whatever Angelus did, it had really messed with Giles' head big time. Xander clears his throat. "Oh, you can trust me on this. I'm a real boy, all right." Pinocchio had always been one of Willow's favorite movies when they were kids. Xander must've watched it with her a thousand times.
Giles opens his eyes, and slowly turns his head on the pillow so he can see out of his better eye, the left. He looks at Xander a long time. "So you are," he says finally. His fingers slide away from Xander's, and Xander feels a flash of hurt, quick and sudden, but it's gone almost as quickly. He understands why Giles doesn't want to be touched. He's not sure he'd want to be, either. "Buffy? Is she here?"
"No. No, she's not." He hates to say it, but there's no way around it, what with the distinct lack of Buffy anywhere.
"Where is she, then? Oh god, she's not, not--" Oh man, there's no hiding the stark fear, the raw anguish in Giles' voice as his hand reaches out, clutches Xander's sweater sleeve in a white-knuckled grip.
"No, no she's not," Xander says hurriedly. "Not, really not." He has to believe it, has to make Giles believe it. "Last time I saw her, she was kicking vamp ass and taking names. Well, not really with the whole taking names thing, but you know what I mean. And there's no portal chowing down on all human-y goodness, so we know she closed it. Saved the world again. Apocalypse, version two, averted."
"Why isn't she here? Where is she?" Giles' voice is very quiet, and normally, he'd never let Xander hear the hurt threading through every word, so thick he can almost touch it. Normally Giles is all British stiff upper lip, say nothing, show nothing, but drugs strip all that self-protective armor away from him. Xander understands why he's always been so reluctant to take anything in spite of how often he's been hurt. Xander feels like a Peeping Tom, seeing and hearing stuff that Giles would've kept secret. He can't unsee or unhear them, but Xander can keep them secret for Giles--he'll never say a word about anything that's gone on here. It's the least he can do.
"I don't know, Giles. I wish I did."
Slowly Giles' fingers unwind from his sleeve, his hand dropping back to the bed. He turns his face away, and it's obvious he's struggling to get a grip on everything, to stuff it back into some box deep inside his head and nail it shut. It's a struggle to watch, but after a moment, Giles gets it done, and looks back toward Xander. He's calmer, mostly Giles again.
"You're all right? Willow? Cordelia? Kendra?"
"I'm fine." He lifts his casted arm. "Just a little souvenir. Willow's going to be fine. Cordy's the smart one. She ran like hell and got away scott free." He pauses, but there's no easy way to say it. So he just does. "Kendra's gone. Drusilla--"
"Yes," Giles says shortly. "Drusilla." Somehow Giles manages to fill that one name up to the brim with fear and loathing. Strangely, Xander gets the feeling that not all the loathing is for Drusilla, that some of it is for Giles himself. But why? What had happened? "Poor Kendra. So brave. So, so young. They're all so damn young. I'll. I'll have to talk with her Watcher. Tell him. He'll be. He'll be--"
"Yeah," Xander says, when Giles just stops, evidently unable to say any more. Maybe he's thinking of just a minute ago, when he thought Buffy might be gone. "But later, after we've sprung you. They want you to stay a couple of days. Just to keep an eye on you. Make sure you're one hundred percent Giles again by the time you leave."
"They can wish all they like," Giles replies, "But it's bloody well not happening." And yeah, there's the pigheaded Giles they all know and love. Although that stubbornness has driven Xander crazy in the past, right now it's welcome, and way better than the stumbling, stuttering hesitation.
A guy in scrubs comes in to wheel Giles to his assigned hospital room, and hell no, that's not happening. Scrub guy, a little worse for wear after Giles gets finished with him--he'd tried to just take Giles regardless of what Giles wanted, and Xander could've told him that was a really, really bad idea--goes off to get a nurse. One comes in and talks with Giles, who's completely pissed off now and having nothing of it. He won't stay overnight, wants to go, and right this moment. Xander thinks that Giles could use some serious hospital time, complete with cold scrambled eggs and wobbly red jello and the really good drugs, but Giles says no. The nurse talks him into staying at least until the transfusion's finished, until he's had an IV of antibiotics, but it's a close thing, and maybe Xander's soft, "Giles, listen to her please," helped, and maybe it didn't. He's not counting on having much influence, because Giles doesn't particularly like anyone telling him what he can or can't do. Xander's seen that for himself first-hand over the past couple of years. When Giles first showed up in Sunnydale, Xander thought that he was all polite and unwilling to ruffle feathers. Didn't take him long to get over that idea.
So they wait. Xander pulls up a chair and sits down at Giles' bedside, because wow, with the tired. He feels like a helium balloon with the air half gone, sorta sad and saggy. Giles closes his eyes and turns his face away. Just talking with the nurse had left him breathless and worn out because he can't draw a deep breath on account of his ribs, but Xander thinks that even if it hadn't, Giles wouldn't want to talk now. The quiet feels unnatural and strange, makes even the air feel heavy and thick, and when Giles finally says, softly, "Tell me what happened," Xander does, because Giles has both a need and a right to know.
He starts with the attack at the library: Willow's head injury, his broken arm, Kendra's death at Drusilla's hands, Buffy's arrival and the accusations of the police. He moves on to the hospital: meeting Buffy there, realizing that Giles was missing, Willow finally waking up, Buffy's alliance with Spike to rescue Giles and stop Angel from awakening Acathla, Willow's plan to try the spell again. And finally, at the mansion itself: Buffy's attack, and his rescue of Giles. That part doesn't take long.
"And. And Buffy?" Giles' voice has that cracked-edge sound again. His right hand curls around the bed rail, skin smudged with dried-rust blood, cuticles and under his nails dark with it, the skin over his knuckles stretched thin and pale from gripping so tightly.
"She was fighting like I've never seen her fight before," Xander answers honestly. "Impressed the hell outta me. Don't know if Willow's spell worked, and honestly, I don't care. I just hope she killed Angelus. He so deserves it for everything he's done. To everybody. To you." Although Angelus has messed with everyone, Giles got the extra-special treatment--finding someone he'd loved dead in his bed, hours and hours of pain and suffering at Angelus' hands. Xander wonders if it was partly because Giles is a Watcher, someone who's dedicated his life to wiping out vampires. Or, more personally, because he's Buffy's Watcher, and important to her. Probably both, but he'd lay big money on the latter.
Because he can't help but offer some kind of comfort, Xander reaches out and puts his hand gently on top of Giles'. He feels the tension of the muscles, feels how cold Giles' hand is under his own. Giles tolerates his touch a moment and then pulls away, but not before Xander feels his quick tremor. This time Xander's prepared, and isn't hurt by the withdrawal. He sorta wishes Willow was here; maybe Giles would let her comfort him more. She's almost as close to him as Buffy, soft and easy and sweet, completely nonthreatening, and has been able to get through a lot of Giles' defenses.
The doctor comes in then, the same one who'd talked to Xander before. She's nice and pleasant and firm. Giles begins that way, but doesn't stay that way long. Xander remembers when his mom watched Upstairs, Downstairs on PBS, years ago. He doubts they ever said anything like what Giles is saying now. Xander figures the only reason Giles doesn't yell is that he can't draw a deep enough breath to do it. The doctor keeps her cool, which is way more than Xander would've done in her place. Finally she lets Giles go, against her medical advice. Giles doesn't care; he wants away from the hospital, wants to find out what's happened to Buffy.
It takes a little while longer to actually spring Giles. Nurses give him the IV antibiotics, because Giles had promised to wait for that, then take out his IV, give him papers to sign, and more papers to take home and read. Xander doubts Giles will, particularly if they have anything to do with assault. They'd cut off his clothes when he first arrived--probably another of those weird hospital rules, like everything being cold--so they find him a pair of scrub pants to wear under the hospital gown and for his bare feet, a pair of those paper bootie things they wear over their shoes. It's not much, but at least Giles won't be leaving naked. They bring in a whole big brown grocery bag of dressings and gauze and medications. Xander listens to them give instructions, because Giles can't or won't. It's clear by his expression that he's not paying attention, too caught up in other things. No wonder that Giles and all his other teachers yell at him all the time, if it's that obvious. He promises to follow the doctor's advice, to take care of Giles once they get home.
Getting Giles sitting up on the side of the bed takes a lot of effort, and Xander thinks he's going to pass out and fall onto the floor face-first. But stubborn must be Giles' middle name, and although he turns green and pants for breath, he stays upright. The next hurdle is the wheelchair, and Xander almost says, "Jesus Christ, could you seriously be any more pigheaded or what?" but he doesn't, because he figures that would just make Giles dig in his heels even more, to assert himself and his will. Xander thinks maybe after what he's been through, being helpless and hurt and at Angelus' non-existent mercy, Giles needs to feel in control of everything. And people say he can't learn. Ha. He sees and knows a lot more than people think he does.
It's almost eleven in the morning. Xander calls Willow's room, but gets no answer, so he figures her parents have shown up and she's already been sprung. So they call a taxi, and Giles gives in and allows one of the orderlies to wheel him out. Xander follows, carrying the bag of supplies. He'd lagged behind until he noticed Giles looking around once for him, and after that, he walks at Giles' left side, within view. Xander Harris, walking security blanket, reporting for duty, yes-sir! But he honestly doesn't mind. It makes him feel at least a little bit useful and valued. Then it's into the taxi and Xander starts to give the cabbie Giles' address, when Giles grips his arm, hard.
"We. We need to go to the, the mansion." After a while being quiet, his voice is rusty. He doesn't look at Xander, but down at his splinted hand. "To, to see about Acathla. To figure out what's happened." He swallows hard. "To see about Buffy." He lifts his head, looks at Xander and then away. "I keep thinking. What. What if she's lying there...hurt. And no one there to help her? What. What if--"
Xander breaks in firmly. "Giles. She's all right. I know it. She's Buffy. Indestructo-Girl, right? She was fine when I left, I swear."
"But she's not. Not really. Indestructible," Giles says, so softly that Xander almost doesn't hear it. There's not a lot Xander can say in reply, because while Buffy's way tougher than a regular person, she really isn't indestructible. New Slayers get called all the time as proof of that.
Xander knows that's why Giles has been having a fit to get out. Buffy really is his whole world, more important than anything or anyone else, more important than his own health and safety. He wonders if Kendra's Watcher feels the same way. He thinks it would be nice if someone felt that way about him. He's never been the center of anyone's world.
He leans forward and gives the cabbie the address to the mansion. Giles' shoulders relax, as if he hadn't been certain Xander would give in, as if he was gearing up for another fight. No, no fighting from Xander Harris, not any more today. He's all fought out.
At the mansion, Xander makes the cabbie promise to wait, though the guy doesn't want to do that. Xander can't really blame him--the place gives off seriously creepy vibes. There's lots of bad stories about this place and knowing Sunnydale, the Hellmouth, Xander bets they're all true. He doesn't even try to tell Giles to wait because Giles needs to see things for himself. His face set in grim determination, Giles walks on his own power, though just barely; he's weak and wobbly and moves oddly, as if just walking makes him want to stop and curl into himself with every step. He pauses only a few seconds at the door, then ducks his head and goes in behind Xander. Xander has to admire the balls it takes to do that; if he were Giles, he's not certain he could've returned to this place.
Inside, it's dark and cool, quiet. Faintly, there's the funky, dry, snakey smell of vamp dust, and the rusty smell of blood. Giles stops in his tracks, just inside the main room. The statue of Acathla, big and lumpy and ugly, looms before them, mouth closed. No swirly vortexy thing anywhere in sight. To the side of the statue lays a sword. It's not Giles' best broadsword that Buffy had been carrying, so it must be the one that was in Acathla before. Xander touches Giles' arm, very gently, and Giles startles, blinks and looks at him. He's pale and sweaty, his eyes showing way too much white.
"I'll go take a look around," Xander says. "Stay put, willya?"
"Yes," Giles says faintly, and that has to be good enough.
It takes a few minutes to work through the mansion, because Xander checks every room just in case Buffy, for whatever reason is in one, and he's also on the lookout for vamps. But no, and no. Thankfully, they're all dead, or have cleared out somehow. In one of the bedrooms he strips a pillowcase off a pillow, not stopping to think which of them it had belonged to. He doesn't want to know. He returns to the room where Giles had been, and his nose wrinkles; the stink of old blood is still pretty strong. Scattered all over are Giles' belongings--his suit jacket, his tie, his socks and shoes. His belt and keys, his watch and wallet. The wallet still has money in it. Huh. Color him surprised. He finds Giles' glasses on a table, the big round lenses glinting in the lamplight. He tucks the keys, watch and wallet into the pocket of his jeans, stuffs the clothes into the pillowcase, and picks up the glasses. One last look around, and then he leaves. Hopefully never to return to this god-forsaken place.
Out in the walled garden he finds a mess of broken stone birdbath and statues. No Buffy, either alive and hurt, or, or--no Buffy, anyway. He wonders if she's at school, wonders if she's at home. Wonders if the police have her. Nah, she's too good to get caught by them. It's strange, though, that she didn't try to come to the hospital to find Giles. Where the hell is she?
When he gets back to the main room, he has a moment of panic, because Giles isn't there where he left him. What if Giles went to the room where he'd been tortured? What if a vamp who'd been in hiding got him? His heart flips and then pounds hard, and he's way too young to have a heart attack, isn't he? A quick look around and he finds Giles leaning against the wall with the fireplace, his right hand covering his face. Xander lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, then walks up to Giles, making his footsteps loud so Giles won't jump so much.
"She's not here, Giles," he says. "And there's no sign that she was...was hurt." No Buffy-sized pool of blood, which is, yeah, not something he wants to think about. He's seen enough blood for a while.
Giles murmurs something he doesn't catch, and Xander leans closer. "All my fault," Giles says.
"What's all your fault?"
"They. They opened the portal. All my fault. I. I told them." It takes Xander a minute to figure out the words, and then he understands. Understands Giles' grief, his guilt, the drive to get here and see for himself.
"It's not your fault. You were with Angelus eight hours, Giles. He did awful things to you. Anyone would--"
"Not him," Giles says, suddenly fierce. His hand drops from his face, and his expression is this weird mix of grief and something like pride. "He didn't make me break. He. He couldn't. It was. It was her."
Xander blinks. "Drusilla?" She's the only her he knows involved in this.
"Yes." Giles has to take a moment, swallowing hard, his eyes on the floor. His hand curls against the pale marble, nails scraping against the smooth stone. "Drusilla. She got into my head. Made me see. Made me see...Jenny." Giles' voice breaks on her name, and something turns over in Xander's chest at the sound of it. He reaches out and puts his hand on Giles' good shoulder, but Giles flinches away. "God, don't. I don't deserve--"
Xander takes his hand away, feels it curl into a fist. Frustration sweeps over him. Doesn't deserve what, basic human comfort? Jesus. He starts to say something, but Giles takes a shuddery breath and continues.
"She m-made me see Jenny. So beautiful. So alive. Her mouth. Her mouth was so soft, just like always. I. I told her. Everything. How to, to awaken Acathla. To. To open the portal. I told her. Jenny. But it wasn't. It was Drusilla."
And that explains why Giles kept asking if Xander were real. God. He couldn't tell real from hallucination because Drusilla had messed with his mind so much. "Giles, it's not your fault if she put some sort of mind whammy on you--"
"It is. It's m-my fault I told them." Wow, with the guilt and self-loathing. It's almost thick enough to spread, if he wanted to make a self-hate sandwich. "I should have known. Should have. I knew Jenny was dead. I knew. But I, I wanted. Wanted so much to believe. Couldn't think clearly. And. And when she asked, I told her."
Giles raises a hand and covers his eyes, as if trying not to see things again. "They opened the portal. And, and to close it, Angelus had to die. By, by Buffy's hand. She had to kill him, because I was weak. Oh, Buffy. How she must hate me now. S-so much."
Xander scrubs his hand over his face. Giles is a big guy with broad shoulders, but no one's shoulders are broad enough to carry this much grief and guilt. "Giles. She came here ready to kill Angelus anyway. It's not your fault. She doesn't hate you. She can't hate you. Not ever."
"Then why didn't she come to me?"
And for that, Xander has no answer. Although Buffy had been committed to stopping Angelus, had been prepared to kill him in order to save everyone else, it couldn't have been easy. She'd loved Angel for so long and so hard, and even if it wasn't Angel, but Angelus, the face, the body, was the same. And, oh god, what if Willow's spell had actually worked? What if he'd gotten his soul back after he'd opened the portal? What if Buffy'd had to kill Angel to close it? Jesus. Xander has no love at all for either Angelus or Angel because, hey, no matter how you look at it, he's a vampire, a blood-sucking demon and they should all be put down like the rabid dogs they are, but even he could see how that would play out for Buffy. She'd do it, because she was the Slayer and it had to be done, but how it would rip her to pieces. Shit, shit, shit.
"I don't know," Xander says, because he can't say anything else. "Let's go, Giles. Let's get out of here."
Giles wipes at his eyes, and Xander pretends not to notice because well, they're guys, and that's what they do. He holds out Giles' glasses, and Giles takes them, slipping them on. It helps to make him look a little more normal. Xander pulls down a curtain, and wraps the sword in it to keep the cabbie from freaking out. He wishes he could find Giles' broadsword, but it's like it vanished off the face of the earth. Maybe it did, like Angelus. Maybe it did, in Angelus. He can only hope.
At the doorway, Giles pauses again. "This place wants purifying," he says, his voice harsh and rough. "Fire and salt. I wish I could."
Yeah, Xander wishes the same thing. "No arguments from me," he says.
On to part two