Fic: Copper and Moonlight (The Mimi and Rodolfo Remix), (BtVS, Giles, Xander, Willow; R)
Title: Copper and Moonlight (The Mimi & Rodolfo Remix)
Author: nwhepcat
Summary: Giles has been rescued from torture at the hands of Angelus, but some kinds of damage takes time to heal. A pair of friends arrive to guide him on that road.
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Characters: Giles, Xander, Willow
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Characters and 'verse created by Joss Whedon, and all rights belong to him and the studios and production companies who claim a piece of that world.
Original story: Substitute by antennapedia. I hope this suits you nearly as much as your remix of my story last year suited me.
Notes: Thank you to my wonderful betas Herself, Huzzlewhat, Mobile ALH and Automatic Badgirl. Set immediately after S2 episodes "Becoming (Pts. 1 and 2)." Spoilers for everything up to that point. Warnings: References events of "Becoming," though more through implication and fleeting images than direct description. Remembered violence, implied noncon.
Jagged. Bright. Unbearably loud.
Coppery taste of blood.
Spicy scent of perfume. All he has left of her.
She was there, wasn't she?
Careful hands slipping off his clothes, torn and stiffened with blood. "Don't --" A spasm from his shoulder makes him cut the plea short with a cry. Tries again. It's important. "Don't bin those. Please."
Perhaps there's still a trace.
***
He welcomes the pain. It distracts him from thinking about Jenny. Roses and "O Suave Fanciulla."
Her dress was the same deep color of those roses, under an overlayer the black of Angelus' heart. Her perfume was intoxicating, her kisses --
Christ, no.
He flexes his hand, just enough to drive everything else from his head.
Pain can be a friend.
***
They chase everyone from around his gurney, pull the curtains all the way around. There are swabs and scrapings and the technician is as gentle as possible, speaking in reassuring tones as she explains her every move.
It only makes him think of Angelus, narrating each torture in a tone of exaggerated friendliness. Saying things about Buffy and Jenny that sliced Giles open more efficiently than any blade could have done.
Wish I could've had her before. He'd lowered his voice, his tone confidential, insinuating. Bet she was a screamer. Gypsy girls are, in my experience.
"Go to hell," he'd snarled, but Angelus had taken him there too.
The WPC tries to take a statement.
"Go to hell."
***
Despite his protests the nurse presses some pain medication on him so they can treat his shoulder and work on his hand.
He resists, trying to hang onto the pain, but it's useless. Soon he's drifting. Back at the door of his flat, finding the rose, hearing the swell of Puccini from inside. Oh sweet face bathed in the soft moonlight.
His heart had soared as he'd ascended the stairs. Candlelight, roses, the chill of the wine bottle against his palm.
Her body, posed artfully on the bed. Her face (bathed in the soft moonlight) turned toward him. Lips parted, dark eyes staring.
I see you in the dream I'd dream forever!
***
Xander waits quietly beside him for the orderly who's to take him to be X-rayed. He's in a wheelchair now. The transfer had left him hissing with pain, but he'd been grateful for the distraction.
The drugs exert their pull once more, and he remembers the taste of Jenny's lips on his. Familiar, yet strange. Her fingers skipped through his hair as he told her the secret that would bring Acathla forth.
He wishes Xander would rabbit on about some idiocy, but he's unusually quiet. Browsing one of the pamphlets scattered about in every waiting area in this hospital.
He slips again into a dream. (Il sogno ch'io vorrei sempre sognar!) Roses. Crimson lips in a face so pale.
Startled when the wheelchair starts to move, he bites back a cry, smothering it in a curse.
Xander keeps pace behind them down the over-bright hallway.
***
More waiting after the X-rays. The basement X-ray room so sodding cold that Giles can't stop shivering. Feels like broken glass in his shoulder and ribs, his hand.
At least it chases off the dreams.
Xander hovers over the exam table where he lies. He pulls the sheet up past Giles's shoulders. "I'm going to find you a blanket."
"No, I don't want it."
"I'll sit right here." He hears a chair scraping across linoleum.
"Pillocks," he mutters as he begins to drift. "No need to dose me up. Nothing much wrong with me."
"Dehydration, dislocated shoulder, broken fingers, that stuff on your wrists and ankles, and bruises all over. Cracked ribs, right? Seems to me you deserve the good painkillers."
No more of that. "No, can't. Must talk to Buffy."
A pause, then Xander admits she's not there. That he's not certain of her whereabouts.
"Why not? Is she angry with me?" He'd given up secrets he'd thought he would die rather than divulge. And worse, he'd heard secrets of Buffy's that he had no right to know. "Oh, Buffy. I'm sorry. I wasn't strong enough to stop it -- any of it. God, I'd give anything to --" Angelus had described it all, Buffy's every tremor and cry. Virgins, Rupert. Nothing like 'em. They'll give up so much just to please you. Sorry I got there before you did, old man. Lies. He prays they were lies. "I'm so sorry, Buffy, forgive me. Jenny. I wasted so much time."
A hand takes his undamaged one, and he turns his head. Another trick, he suspects. Xander is more high strung around him. Nervous chatter and quick, choppy movements. He blinks, tries to clear his vision. "Are you real?"
"Xander Harris here, as large as life and twice as natural. I am your source for stupid cliches!"
Giles releases a breath.
"I got you, big guy. You're going to be okay now."
Right, yes. He'd said the same as he'd half-carried Giles out of the mansion.
"They showed me Jenny." Showed isn't the right word. He felt her fingers caressing his face, smelled her spicy perfume. If he closes his eyes he's sure he can summon these sensations. He wants to.
Xander's hand tightens around his own, and he comes back to himself.
"I thought -- I believed -- I told her. I told Jenny the secret. But it was Drusilla. I should have known." He'd wanted so much to believe, that was where he'd failed. He'd met her more than halfway in her deception. "I failed. I always fail. Never good enough. Buffy deserves a better man."
"Buffy has the best man there is." His tone is so certain, but he's just a boy. He can't know.
"Sorry, so sorry. I should have refused to come, let them send somebody better. Buffy, please."
"Hey, hey." Xander assures him the vortex never came to be, that Buffy is surely fine, because the world's still here.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure." He rises to stroke Giles's good shoulder, as if he is a small child in need of comfort. "Relax, okay? We'll hook up with Willow and Buffy at school." Xander keeps up the soothing touch, lulling him.
He doesn't want to go under. When he wakes, this illusion will evaporate and he'll still be at the mercy of Angelus. "Don't let me--"
"It's all right. You're safe. I'm not going anywhere."
He tries to resist sleep, but slips under.
***
Sleep is a black and dreamless refuge, and Giles snarls curses at the nurse who pulls him out of it. The orthopedist has finally appeared to set his fingers, insisting on showing him the X-rays first.
"You're lucky. We won't have to do surgery."
He couldn't give sweet fuck-all about his luck. "Just get it done."
Xander offers the doctor an apologetic smile. "He's worried about a friend of ours."
"How's that hand? You should be taking it easy yourself," the orthopedist says.
"It's good," Xander says abruptly.
That hand? Giles takes a closer look, sees what Xander's been attempting to camouflage by positioning himself or hiding it beneath Giles's clothes. The bright white of a fresh cast. "Your hand."
"Nothing to worry about."
"Willow?"
"She's good. Everyone's fine. Let's get you taken care of."
They get him splinted and pile on the instructions, all of which march through one ear and out the other. Xander takes charge of a sheaf of papers, as well as the prescriptions, and after Giles signs the required forms, Xander goes off to transform slips of paper into brown pill bottles.
The counselor who'd been with the policewoman and the tech returns as he waits to be sure he has pamphlets and phone numbers. She offers a card. "We strongly recommend getting tested in two weeks for any --"
Giles snatches the card from her fingers. "Yes, thank you."
She hesitates, then nods, aware she's been dismissed.
Some minutes after her departure, Xander returns with a white pharmacy bag. "You're probably aching to get out of the hospital gown. Drafty is the word." He reaches toward Giles a little too quickly, and Giles can't help flinching. The boy hesitates, nods, then holds up Giles' bloody shirt, gazing off at a domestic violence poster as Giles struggles into the shirt. It takes some time, but he manages the rest in the same fashion.
An orderly insists on wheeling him to the main door. "Stupid," he mutters to Xander. "They'll just tip the sodding chair at the threshold. 'Goodbye and good luck.'"
The orderly only chuckles, which irritates Giles further.
"I've got us covered," Xander says. "Your car's right outside."
"You brought me here in this?"
Xander nods. "You were a little out of it."
He doesn't remember much of anything between the mansion and the emergency room. Just fragments, jagged and too-bright. A great weight pressing him down. A hand wound around a fistful of hair, lips just behind his ear, spewing poison. Another hand, slender and pale, smoothing his hair from his brow, crimson lips promising things he'd thought were lost to him.
Xander smoothly downshifts as they approach a stoplight.
"Your hand."
"Hand's okay. It's the wrist." Xander waggles his fingers as they wait out the red light, offering proof that he's fine.
"You shouldn't be using it."
"It's two miles. It's a clean break, got it set right away. Doesn't even hurt."
Giles suspects he lies, but there's no sense in arguing. It's not as if he could take the wheel. Another moment and they're outside Giles's flat.
Xander has the keys, so Giles can stand back, gazing around the forecourt as Xander works the lock. He can't face remembering his anticipation, Mimi and Rodolfo's duet greeting him as he swung the door open.
Ah, tu sol commandi, amor.
You alone rule, O Love.
He sways on his feet, putting a hand on rough stone to steady himself.
How can he bear this?
Bet she was a screamer, Rupert. Gypsy girls are, in my experience. His voice took on a hint of the Irish. Exceptin' the dead ones, of course.
Angelus lied. There'd been no sign of -- of --
"Hey," Xander says softly. "Everything checks out okay in there." He stands close enough for Giles to take his arm. "You probably want to clean up first, right?"
"That would be good, yes." Xander makes a move to help him with his clothes, and again he recoils. "Christ, leave it, I'm fine."
"Sure," Xander says soothingly. "You've got plastic bags in the kitchen, right? Rubber bands? You want to keep the tape on that hand dry." He disappears long enough for Giles to undress himself, then fusses with the water temperature and at last offers a steadying arm as Giles steps into the tub.
"I'll be right outside."
He closes his eyes, letting the hot water sluice over his battered body for several moments before he even reaches for the soap. There are cuts and bruises in places he doesn't remember being struck, dried blood in his hair and elsewhere.
Where is Buffy? She surely can't be dead, not if the world hasn't been sucked into a hell dimension. Had Angelus told her the secrets Giles learned and those he revealed? Has she turned her back on Giles? He can't bring himself to blame her.
Or perhaps she defeated Angelus but is too wounded to find her way home. Dead, perhaps.
Shutting off the shower, he steels himself to totter out of the clawfoot tub without breaking his own neck. He plants a hand on the tile, but the condensation has made it slippery. Before he can decide on a better plan, the curtain rustles aside and a towel appears within his reach. Giles dries off as best he can, then finds his bathrobe delivered in the same manner. He pulls aside the shower curtain and Xander is there, a steadying arm within easy reach. No words pass between them, but he offers his support as Giles makes his way upstairs to dress. Xander retreats, allowing him to dress himself and come downstairs on his own, supported by the stair rail, now on his good side.
The exertion makes him feel as though he could use another shower. Xander attempts to tie the necktie Giles has given up on. "Sit." He accomplishes a respectable half-Windsor, a feat that surprises Giles. "Not bad for Clip-on Guy, huh?"
"It's splendid, thank you."
Xander gives him a look which betrays his opinion that this is the weakest "splendid" ever uttered, then asks for a moment to take his own shower. He takes his duffel with him, the emergency stash of clean clothes for nights when it's unwise to stay at home.
Giles finds it unbearable to sit still. He struggles out of the chair and ghosts around the flat. Finding La Boheme still on the turntable, he seizes it and strikes the vinyl on the edge of his desk until it snaps, then he drops it into the wastepaper bin. He touches things on his desk, randomly, without purpose. At last he senses a presence and sees Xander watching from a distance. Giles wonders how long he's stood there.
"Did you eat anything? No? Need some tea, English man?"
Attempting a smile, Giles shakes his head.
"Look," Xander says. "there are a few things I have to tell you. I need to get you caught up. Sit down, okay?"
"Buffy?"
"Buffy's okay. She came into the mansion with me." But he never saw her leave. "Listen. I need to tell you. Kendra's dead." Giles's breath gusts out of him, as if he's been kicked in the ribs again. Xander touches his hand again. "I know. It was Drusilla, but the cops think it was Buffy. I'm sure she's laying low, that's why we haven't seen her. They were all over the hospital. The other thing."
Giles lifts his head to look Xander in the eyes. "Tell me."
"It's all right now, but we had a scare. Willow was hurt. I guess she had a whole bookcase land on her. She's been sprung from the hospital already, though. I looked for her while you were sleeping, and her room had been made up again."
"Thank God." He has to look away. He reaches up for his glasses, but they aren't there. No wonder everything is so damned fuzzy.
"They were gone when I found you. Do you have a spare pair somewhere around here?"
"Yes. My desk." He nods his permission and Xander rummages until he finds them. They're an old pair, but they make things somewhat less blurry.
"Willow was getting set to try the spell again in the hospital. I don't know if it worked; Angel and Buffy were making with the sword action when I got you out."
"Mansion. We must check the mansion. Buffy might..."
"Yeah."
When they reach Crawford Street, Giles becomes aware that he's clutching a banana that he has no memory of taking. He sets it on the dashboard as the car rolls to a halt. As they approach the mansion, he refuses Xander's offer of his arm. Tension quivers in his muscles, and he doesn't want to give himself away.
Still, he allows Xander to precede him. When they make their way inside, it's very clear that a battle has taken place here. Piles of ashes, smears of blood, weapons scattered about --
"Judas Priest," he whispers, and staggers to a corner to retch.
Xander hurries to him, keeps him on his feet. After a moment Giles fumbles a handkerchief from his pocket. "The sword --"
Xander retrieves it, brings it to him.
"This was in Acathla. The portal --"
"Yeah. Let me take a look around. You wait right here."
Buffy. Dear god, let her be safe. Giles catches sight of a velvet curtain, and in a flash he feels Angelus's fist wound in his hair, hears his jovial tone as he grinds Giles's face into the floor. His glasses cut his cheek. She was tight, Rupert. And eager. Not very good, but two out of three ain't bad. For all his talk of torture with a chainsaw, Angelus knew this was the worst he could do.
"I hope you're burning in hell, you malignant fuck," he whispers.
A few moments later Xander bounds back into the room. "No sign of Buffy or Angel either one."
"School," Giles manages to squeeze past the tightness in his chest. He can scarcely breathe. Xander bundles him back in the car. As they come within sight of the school, Giles manages to allow himself a small measure of hope. "Xander. My boy." Xander flicks him a glance; Giles has never spoken this way to him. "Thank you."
"Hey, no big. You'd do the same. You have done the same, come to think of it."
His heart leaps when he sees Willow. She's in a wheelchair, pale, with a bit of gauze bandaging on her forehead, but she brightens when she sees him as well.
"Are you sure you should be out of bed?" he asks her.
"Look who's talking."
Glad as he is to see her and Cordy and Oz, all safe, his spirits gradually sink at the news that no one's heard from Buffy. They stand in the schoolyard, speculating on Buffy's whereabouts, and whether there's any likelihood that Willow's spell could have taken effect in time to preserve Angel's life.
I hope to hell he's dead -- truly dead -- and gone forever. He doesn't allow himself to say it. Something prickles at the back of his neck, and he looks around but sees nothing. A sense memory, that's all, prompted by the thought of that venomous voice aimed at the back of his head.
"Let's get you an ice pack for your shoulder," Xander suggests. "You have some in the library, right?"
Mercifully, classes are in session when they enter the school. He makes it to the library without being jostled, enduring only a few stares from students clutching hall passes. Xander hands him an ice pack, produces the damn banana again. He's careful not to touch Giles. "You doing okay?"
"Yes. Thank you, Xander. For everything."
He leaves Giles in his office; Giles pushes the door shut behind him.
***
Giles loses track of time, even misses the sound of the final bell, and so Xander finds him hunched over his desk, weeping like a disconsolate child.
He kneels by Giles's chair and places a hand on his arm before Giles even realizes he's there. "What's up, big guy?" he says gently.
Giles turns his face away, drawing his handkerchief from his pocket. He lets himself have the comfort of Xander's hand on his arm as he stammers his way through the latest piece of rotten news. Buffy has run away. She's alive, that's one small consolation, but everything he'd feared has come to pass. She knows how badly he's let her down, that he's betrayed her and nearly caused the end of the world. He's certain she knows what Angelus told him, that Angelus has managed to taint everything between them. The things he said still echo in Giles's head until he can't imagine ever being free of them.
He says none of these things to Xander. Instead he relays what Joyce told him. That she blames herself, although she's also angry with Giles. "It's not Mrs. Summers' fault at all. It's mine. For failing. For telling the secret." For letting hers be told.
"You were tortured," Xander says, his voice low. "Not only what shows. We all know mental cruelty is Angel's favorite hobby."
"You don't think I was trained to withstand torture?"
Xander blinks, rendered speechless for a moment, before he says, "It's not your fault. Buffy should have come to you. Didn't matter if her mom threw her out. Buffy should have run straight to you. You need her. She needs you."
"My dear boy," Giles says. He gazes at his hands for a moment, bruised and battered, the broken fingers the size of sausages. "She doesn't see it that way."
Xander cannot provide an answer for that, so he removes the now-warm icepack from Giles's shoulder, exchanging it for a fresh one from the fridge. His cool fingers linger for a moment on Giles's undamaged shoulder, a wordless expression of comfort. "Don't forget the drill. Fifteen minutes on, fifteen off. I'll be out there, if you need anything."
Where had he learned such kindness and gentleness? Surely not in his own home, not from the hints Giles has had. He speaks very little of what goes on there, even with Willow and Buffy. Perhaps that's the source of his discretion now -- the knowledge that some things can only be worsened by speaking of them.
As the light fades in his office, he watches through the blinds as Xander and Willow talk at the library table. Their faces so solemn as they speak, their hands touching as they sit in silence. His own eyes fill as Willow begins to cry. The office walls silence the sound of her tears, but he can hear it in his head, a keening, heartbroken noise that always stabs him through. Perhaps he should go to her, but he feels as though he has nothing to offer.
Xander leans close to her, talking, brushing the tears away with his fingers. Giles is glad he's there for her. They keep talking, and then it's Xander who begins to weep. They cling to one another, both in tears. He should look away, he thinks, but he can't. He's grateful they have this, that they can take comfort in each other, and give comfort. Both these things are gifts, he knows, and he knows too that they are lost to him now.
After a while the children separate. Xander mops his face with the tail of his shirt, then tucks a lock of hair behind Willow's ear. Giles sees the brief flash of a smile, then Xander holds up one finger and leaves the library. When he returns after a moment, he's erased the most obvious signs of his distress. Giles hastily uses his own handkerchief.
"Watch your eyes," Xander says as he opens the door. Giles shields his eyes as Xander flicks on the overhead light. "How does home sound to you?"
Giles lies. "It sounds like just the thing."
***
Giles has traded one desk for another, sitting with Jenny's book in his hands. The last thing she'd ever given him, though perhaps she merely meant it as a loan. Why had it taken him so long to ask her for it, to take the threat seriously?
Not that it would have made any difference. From the state of her classroom, Angelus had caught her at the school, which was a public place.
"You can't drink that stuff and take your pain pills." Xander removes a bottle and glass from in front of him, moves them somewhere he'll have difficulty reaching for a good while.
Giles doesn't even remember getting the bottle out.
"Don't need the pills," he insists. The pain is dulling enough already; there's too much else getting in as it is. The wine chilling in a pail on his desk. The rose, the one-word invitation. The soaring duet. Love trembles in our kiss.
The pail has left a ring on the desk blotter.
"I've had broken bones before," Xander says, flashing the cast. "And I say you do. You gotta take 'em with food, though. When did you eat last?"
It takes him a long time to work it out. Some two days ago, apparently.
Willow leaves her wheelchair and begins rattling about in the kitchen, brooking no argument. Xander gently takes the book from him and sets it aside, then helps settle him into his armchair. He then sits at Giles's feet and interrogates him about weaponry, extracting a promise for some training sessions. Giles answers his questions grudgingly at first, but after a time he is caught up in imparting his knowledge.
Willow brings three plates of pasta and Giles manages to eat a bit. Xander stands over him like Nurse bloody Ratched, refusing to move until Giles has downed every single pill Xander has counted out for him.
He hasn't the energy to fight, nor can he dissuade Willow and Xander both from staying the night. "You should be home being coddled yourself," he tells Willow.
"My parents aren't even home. They got stuck on their way back from Phoenix, because they had a transfer in Chicago -- go figure the closest route from Phoenix to California is through Chicago -- and that plane had a mechanical thing. I told them I'd stay at a friend's house. For once that's not even a lie."
He scrapes up a smile. "You do sound more like yourself."
Her smile deepens that impression. "Seriously. If I need coddling, I have Xander. And we both need to be here for you."
Giles remembers what he'd thought earlier, that giving comfort is just as much a gift as receiving it. It would be a sin to deny them this, after all they've suffered.
He gives in.
Xander thumps about in the kitchen, singing off-key as he does dishes. Willow sits with him, saying how grateful she is that he's safe, how he's been a guide not just to Buffy but to her and Xander as well.
Not much of a guide, he thinks. His slayer's off somewhere without a word of goodbye to any of them. How deep her anger and hurt must be if she feels she must cut herself off entirely.
"Hey," Willow says. "None of that. We're going to get through this, and Buffy will be back. She's just burrowing in somewhere, licking her wounds. She'll be back."
This, he realizes, is what he most wishes to do himself. Xander makes up the sofa for Willow, and drags Giles's sleeping bag out of the closet. Giles waves off Xander's offer of help and climbs the stairs, leaving the children to settle in.
No, he can't call them that anymore. The roles have been reversed; they've fed him, dressed him, comforted him, snatched away things with which he might harm himself. Not children, not anymore.
He's sorry for this, though this is how the world works. But he's sorry he's the one who's forced them to mature so quickly.
He fumbles his buttons open with his good hand as he shambles into the bedroom. The drugs are making him muzzy, and he almost wishes he'd accepted Xander's help. He stumbles to a halt as he sees the moonlight slanting across the bed. Oh, sweet face bathed in the soft moonlight.
He summons up his father's stern voice. Don't be ridiculous. It's been weeks, and you've slept here just fine.
That was before Angelus had planted those perverse images in his mind. They're not true, he's certain of that, but his imagination seizes on those mental pictures. He wishes he had the strength to grab the mattress and drag it out of the room, fling it over the railing. His arms jerk with the impulse to do it, and dull fire races through his injured shoulder, nearly bringing him to his knees.
He sits on the edge of the bed, outside the trapezoid of moonlight.
How can he bear this?
At last the drugs pull him down into sleep.
***
Bright flashes of pain. Coppery taste of his own blood.
The sharp snap of breaking bone.
Fear that no training from the Council could help him master.
Angelus holding a knife blade in flame, considering his options, casually as discussing dinner plans. Branding? Castration? Evisceration? What d'you think, Dru?
Angelus doesn't wait for an answer. We've got a man here with an appreciation for the subtle. Be a shame to waste that.
He thrashes and cries out. A grreat weight pressing him down, then jagged, bright pain, forced like bitter medicine wrapped in a sugar coating. That smooth, cheerfully insinuating tone, discussing the comparative merits of simpering virgins and loud Gypsy girls.
He struggles not to cry out, but Angelus knows what he's about, wresting another shout from him.
A different voice supplants Angelus'. "Giles. Giles. Giles, it's me."
The mattress dips beneath someone's weight, and Giles cringes away from it.
"You're safe, Giles, you're home. I'm here. I'm here."
When he comes to himself at last, he's scrambled up against the headboard, knees drawn up, hands crossed before his face. His breath heaves in and out, sending fire racing along his cracked ribs.
Xander is there, perched at the edge of the bed, his hand frozen in mid air. As his eyes gradually focus on Xander's, Xander reaches out slowly, carefully, maintaining the eye contact.
"Xander?"
"Yeah, big guy."
"Is that really you?"
A twitch of a smile. "Yeah, I'm afraid it is." A self-deprecating joke: Xander indeed. His hand makes its steady approach and begins stroking Giles's arm. "You're safe here. Just a dream."
"Yes," he rasps.
Xander's touch gentles him as if Giles were a wild creature, nostrils flaring, eyes rolling in terror. Xander murmurs phrases of comfort again and again, until the words mean nothing, but the sense still comes through. "I'm here, I'm not going anywhere."
Giles at last relaxes his arms, and a fierce ache spreads through his shoulders. Sleepy-eyed Willow makes her silent entrance in her trademark socks with silly designs. She climbs into bed on Giles's other side and slips her arms around him. Flying pink pigs on white ankle socks.
"Breathe slowly," she instructs him. "Deep, slow breaths." She demonstrates, and he feels the warmth of her against his aching back. "Yeah, like that."
They need this, to give comfort.
"You're not alone," Xander says. "We're with you."
He inhales and exhales, timing his breaths with Willow's. "Yes," he says again.
"I've got your back," Willow says, with a little giggle into his shoulder.
Xander stretches out on the other side of him. "And I've got your front."
They help him get sorted again, stretched out on the bed, covers over him. Willow settles back down against his back, helping him breathe.
Xander bookends himself on the other side, synchronizing his breathing as well.
The thing about allowing someone the gift of offering comfort is this: One has to be willing to receive it. He's not certain he deserves it, but perhaps comfort is sometimes like forgiveness. As he'd told Buffy, we may not deserve it, but we need it.
He lets himself have this. For Xander and Willow's sakes. For his own.
Letting his breath deepen and his eyes close, he drifts into dreamless sleep.
Author: nwhepcat
Summary: Giles has been rescued from torture at the hands of Angelus, but some kinds of damage takes time to heal. A pair of friends arrive to guide him on that road.
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Characters: Giles, Xander, Willow
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Characters and 'verse created by Joss Whedon, and all rights belong to him and the studios and production companies who claim a piece of that world.
Original story: Substitute by antennapedia. I hope this suits you nearly as much as your remix of my story last year suited me.
Notes: Thank you to my wonderful betas Herself, Huzzlewhat, Mobile ALH and Automatic Badgirl. Set immediately after S2 episodes "Becoming (Pts. 1 and 2)." Spoilers for everything up to that point. Warnings: References events of "Becoming," though more through implication and fleeting images than direct description. Remembered violence, implied noncon.
Jagged. Bright. Unbearably loud.
Coppery taste of blood.
Spicy scent of perfume. All he has left of her.
She was there, wasn't she?
Careful hands slipping off his clothes, torn and stiffened with blood. "Don't --" A spasm from his shoulder makes him cut the plea short with a cry. Tries again. It's important. "Don't bin those. Please."
Perhaps there's still a trace.
***
He welcomes the pain. It distracts him from thinking about Jenny. Roses and "O Suave Fanciulla."
Her dress was the same deep color of those roses, under an overlayer the black of Angelus' heart. Her perfume was intoxicating, her kisses --
Christ, no.
He flexes his hand, just enough to drive everything else from his head.
Pain can be a friend.
***
They chase everyone from around his gurney, pull the curtains all the way around. There are swabs and scrapings and the technician is as gentle as possible, speaking in reassuring tones as she explains her every move.
It only makes him think of Angelus, narrating each torture in a tone of exaggerated friendliness. Saying things about Buffy and Jenny that sliced Giles open more efficiently than any blade could have done.
Wish I could've had her before. He'd lowered his voice, his tone confidential, insinuating. Bet she was a screamer. Gypsy girls are, in my experience.
"Go to hell," he'd snarled, but Angelus had taken him there too.
The WPC tries to take a statement.
"Go to hell."
***
Despite his protests the nurse presses some pain medication on him so they can treat his shoulder and work on his hand.
He resists, trying to hang onto the pain, but it's useless. Soon he's drifting. Back at the door of his flat, finding the rose, hearing the swell of Puccini from inside. Oh sweet face bathed in the soft moonlight.
His heart had soared as he'd ascended the stairs. Candlelight, roses, the chill of the wine bottle against his palm.
Her body, posed artfully on the bed. Her face (bathed in the soft moonlight) turned toward him. Lips parted, dark eyes staring.
I see you in the dream I'd dream forever!
***
Xander waits quietly beside him for the orderly who's to take him to be X-rayed. He's in a wheelchair now. The transfer had left him hissing with pain, but he'd been grateful for the distraction.
The drugs exert their pull once more, and he remembers the taste of Jenny's lips on his. Familiar, yet strange. Her fingers skipped through his hair as he told her the secret that would bring Acathla forth.
He wishes Xander would rabbit on about some idiocy, but he's unusually quiet. Browsing one of the pamphlets scattered about in every waiting area in this hospital.
He slips again into a dream. (Il sogno ch'io vorrei sempre sognar!) Roses. Crimson lips in a face so pale.
Startled when the wheelchair starts to move, he bites back a cry, smothering it in a curse.
Xander keeps pace behind them down the over-bright hallway.
***
More waiting after the X-rays. The basement X-ray room so sodding cold that Giles can't stop shivering. Feels like broken glass in his shoulder and ribs, his hand.
At least it chases off the dreams.
Xander hovers over the exam table where he lies. He pulls the sheet up past Giles's shoulders. "I'm going to find you a blanket."
"No, I don't want it."
"I'll sit right here." He hears a chair scraping across linoleum.
"Pillocks," he mutters as he begins to drift. "No need to dose me up. Nothing much wrong with me."
"Dehydration, dislocated shoulder, broken fingers, that stuff on your wrists and ankles, and bruises all over. Cracked ribs, right? Seems to me you deserve the good painkillers."
No more of that. "No, can't. Must talk to Buffy."
A pause, then Xander admits she's not there. That he's not certain of her whereabouts.
"Why not? Is she angry with me?" He'd given up secrets he'd thought he would die rather than divulge. And worse, he'd heard secrets of Buffy's that he had no right to know. "Oh, Buffy. I'm sorry. I wasn't strong enough to stop it -- any of it. God, I'd give anything to --" Angelus had described it all, Buffy's every tremor and cry. Virgins, Rupert. Nothing like 'em. They'll give up so much just to please you. Sorry I got there before you did, old man. Lies. He prays they were lies. "I'm so sorry, Buffy, forgive me. Jenny. I wasted so much time."
A hand takes his undamaged one, and he turns his head. Another trick, he suspects. Xander is more high strung around him. Nervous chatter and quick, choppy movements. He blinks, tries to clear his vision. "Are you real?"
"Xander Harris here, as large as life and twice as natural. I am your source for stupid cliches!"
Giles releases a breath.
"I got you, big guy. You're going to be okay now."
Right, yes. He'd said the same as he'd half-carried Giles out of the mansion.
"They showed me Jenny." Showed isn't the right word. He felt her fingers caressing his face, smelled her spicy perfume. If he closes his eyes he's sure he can summon these sensations. He wants to.
Xander's hand tightens around his own, and he comes back to himself.
"I thought -- I believed -- I told her. I told Jenny the secret. But it was Drusilla. I should have known." He'd wanted so much to believe, that was where he'd failed. He'd met her more than halfway in her deception. "I failed. I always fail. Never good enough. Buffy deserves a better man."
"Buffy has the best man there is." His tone is so certain, but he's just a boy. He can't know.
"Sorry, so sorry. I should have refused to come, let them send somebody better. Buffy, please."
"Hey, hey." Xander assures him the vortex never came to be, that Buffy is surely fine, because the world's still here.
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure." He rises to stroke Giles's good shoulder, as if he is a small child in need of comfort. "Relax, okay? We'll hook up with Willow and Buffy at school." Xander keeps up the soothing touch, lulling him.
He doesn't want to go under. When he wakes, this illusion will evaporate and he'll still be at the mercy of Angelus. "Don't let me--"
"It's all right. You're safe. I'm not going anywhere."
He tries to resist sleep, but slips under.
***
Sleep is a black and dreamless refuge, and Giles snarls curses at the nurse who pulls him out of it. The orthopedist has finally appeared to set his fingers, insisting on showing him the X-rays first.
"You're lucky. We won't have to do surgery."
He couldn't give sweet fuck-all about his luck. "Just get it done."
Xander offers the doctor an apologetic smile. "He's worried about a friend of ours."
"How's that hand? You should be taking it easy yourself," the orthopedist says.
"It's good," Xander says abruptly.
That hand? Giles takes a closer look, sees what Xander's been attempting to camouflage by positioning himself or hiding it beneath Giles's clothes. The bright white of a fresh cast. "Your hand."
"Nothing to worry about."
"Willow?"
"She's good. Everyone's fine. Let's get you taken care of."
They get him splinted and pile on the instructions, all of which march through one ear and out the other. Xander takes charge of a sheaf of papers, as well as the prescriptions, and after Giles signs the required forms, Xander goes off to transform slips of paper into brown pill bottles.
The counselor who'd been with the policewoman and the tech returns as he waits to be sure he has pamphlets and phone numbers. She offers a card. "We strongly recommend getting tested in two weeks for any --"
Giles snatches the card from her fingers. "Yes, thank you."
She hesitates, then nods, aware she's been dismissed.
Some minutes after her departure, Xander returns with a white pharmacy bag. "You're probably aching to get out of the hospital gown. Drafty is the word." He reaches toward Giles a little too quickly, and Giles can't help flinching. The boy hesitates, nods, then holds up Giles' bloody shirt, gazing off at a domestic violence poster as Giles struggles into the shirt. It takes some time, but he manages the rest in the same fashion.
An orderly insists on wheeling him to the main door. "Stupid," he mutters to Xander. "They'll just tip the sodding chair at the threshold. 'Goodbye and good luck.'"
The orderly only chuckles, which irritates Giles further.
"I've got us covered," Xander says. "Your car's right outside."
"You brought me here in this?"
Xander nods. "You were a little out of it."
He doesn't remember much of anything between the mansion and the emergency room. Just fragments, jagged and too-bright. A great weight pressing him down. A hand wound around a fistful of hair, lips just behind his ear, spewing poison. Another hand, slender and pale, smoothing his hair from his brow, crimson lips promising things he'd thought were lost to him.
Xander smoothly downshifts as they approach a stoplight.
"Your hand."
"Hand's okay. It's the wrist." Xander waggles his fingers as they wait out the red light, offering proof that he's fine.
"You shouldn't be using it."
"It's two miles. It's a clean break, got it set right away. Doesn't even hurt."
Giles suspects he lies, but there's no sense in arguing. It's not as if he could take the wheel. Another moment and they're outside Giles's flat.
Xander has the keys, so Giles can stand back, gazing around the forecourt as Xander works the lock. He can't face remembering his anticipation, Mimi and Rodolfo's duet greeting him as he swung the door open.
Ah, tu sol commandi, amor.
You alone rule, O Love.
He sways on his feet, putting a hand on rough stone to steady himself.
How can he bear this?
Bet she was a screamer, Rupert. Gypsy girls are, in my experience. His voice took on a hint of the Irish. Exceptin' the dead ones, of course.
Angelus lied. There'd been no sign of -- of --
"Hey," Xander says softly. "Everything checks out okay in there." He stands close enough for Giles to take his arm. "You probably want to clean up first, right?"
"That would be good, yes." Xander makes a move to help him with his clothes, and again he recoils. "Christ, leave it, I'm fine."
"Sure," Xander says soothingly. "You've got plastic bags in the kitchen, right? Rubber bands? You want to keep the tape on that hand dry." He disappears long enough for Giles to undress himself, then fusses with the water temperature and at last offers a steadying arm as Giles steps into the tub.
"I'll be right outside."
He closes his eyes, letting the hot water sluice over his battered body for several moments before he even reaches for the soap. There are cuts and bruises in places he doesn't remember being struck, dried blood in his hair and elsewhere.
Where is Buffy? She surely can't be dead, not if the world hasn't been sucked into a hell dimension. Had Angelus told her the secrets Giles learned and those he revealed? Has she turned her back on Giles? He can't bring himself to blame her.
Or perhaps she defeated Angelus but is too wounded to find her way home. Dead, perhaps.
Shutting off the shower, he steels himself to totter out of the clawfoot tub without breaking his own neck. He plants a hand on the tile, but the condensation has made it slippery. Before he can decide on a better plan, the curtain rustles aside and a towel appears within his reach. Giles dries off as best he can, then finds his bathrobe delivered in the same manner. He pulls aside the shower curtain and Xander is there, a steadying arm within easy reach. No words pass between them, but he offers his support as Giles makes his way upstairs to dress. Xander retreats, allowing him to dress himself and come downstairs on his own, supported by the stair rail, now on his good side.
The exertion makes him feel as though he could use another shower. Xander attempts to tie the necktie Giles has given up on. "Sit." He accomplishes a respectable half-Windsor, a feat that surprises Giles. "Not bad for Clip-on Guy, huh?"
"It's splendid, thank you."
Xander gives him a look which betrays his opinion that this is the weakest "splendid" ever uttered, then asks for a moment to take his own shower. He takes his duffel with him, the emergency stash of clean clothes for nights when it's unwise to stay at home.
Giles finds it unbearable to sit still. He struggles out of the chair and ghosts around the flat. Finding La Boheme still on the turntable, he seizes it and strikes the vinyl on the edge of his desk until it snaps, then he drops it into the wastepaper bin. He touches things on his desk, randomly, without purpose. At last he senses a presence and sees Xander watching from a distance. Giles wonders how long he's stood there.
"Did you eat anything? No? Need some tea, English man?"
Attempting a smile, Giles shakes his head.
"Look," Xander says. "there are a few things I have to tell you. I need to get you caught up. Sit down, okay?"
"Buffy?"
"Buffy's okay. She came into the mansion with me." But he never saw her leave. "Listen. I need to tell you. Kendra's dead." Giles's breath gusts out of him, as if he's been kicked in the ribs again. Xander touches his hand again. "I know. It was Drusilla, but the cops think it was Buffy. I'm sure she's laying low, that's why we haven't seen her. They were all over the hospital. The other thing."
Giles lifts his head to look Xander in the eyes. "Tell me."
"It's all right now, but we had a scare. Willow was hurt. I guess she had a whole bookcase land on her. She's been sprung from the hospital already, though. I looked for her while you were sleeping, and her room had been made up again."
"Thank God." He has to look away. He reaches up for his glasses, but they aren't there. No wonder everything is so damned fuzzy.
"They were gone when I found you. Do you have a spare pair somewhere around here?"
"Yes. My desk." He nods his permission and Xander rummages until he finds them. They're an old pair, but they make things somewhat less blurry.
"Willow was getting set to try the spell again in the hospital. I don't know if it worked; Angel and Buffy were making with the sword action when I got you out."
"Mansion. We must check the mansion. Buffy might..."
"Yeah."
When they reach Crawford Street, Giles becomes aware that he's clutching a banana that he has no memory of taking. He sets it on the dashboard as the car rolls to a halt. As they approach the mansion, he refuses Xander's offer of his arm. Tension quivers in his muscles, and he doesn't want to give himself away.
Still, he allows Xander to precede him. When they make their way inside, it's very clear that a battle has taken place here. Piles of ashes, smears of blood, weapons scattered about --
"Judas Priest," he whispers, and staggers to a corner to retch.
Xander hurries to him, keeps him on his feet. After a moment Giles fumbles a handkerchief from his pocket. "The sword --"
Xander retrieves it, brings it to him.
"This was in Acathla. The portal --"
"Yeah. Let me take a look around. You wait right here."
Buffy. Dear god, let her be safe. Giles catches sight of a velvet curtain, and in a flash he feels Angelus's fist wound in his hair, hears his jovial tone as he grinds Giles's face into the floor. His glasses cut his cheek. She was tight, Rupert. And eager. Not very good, but two out of three ain't bad. For all his talk of torture with a chainsaw, Angelus knew this was the worst he could do.
"I hope you're burning in hell, you malignant fuck," he whispers.
A few moments later Xander bounds back into the room. "No sign of Buffy or Angel either one."
"School," Giles manages to squeeze past the tightness in his chest. He can scarcely breathe. Xander bundles him back in the car. As they come within sight of the school, Giles manages to allow himself a small measure of hope. "Xander. My boy." Xander flicks him a glance; Giles has never spoken this way to him. "Thank you."
"Hey, no big. You'd do the same. You have done the same, come to think of it."
His heart leaps when he sees Willow. She's in a wheelchair, pale, with a bit of gauze bandaging on her forehead, but she brightens when she sees him as well.
"Are you sure you should be out of bed?" he asks her.
"Look who's talking."
Glad as he is to see her and Cordy and Oz, all safe, his spirits gradually sink at the news that no one's heard from Buffy. They stand in the schoolyard, speculating on Buffy's whereabouts, and whether there's any likelihood that Willow's spell could have taken effect in time to preserve Angel's life.
I hope to hell he's dead -- truly dead -- and gone forever. He doesn't allow himself to say it. Something prickles at the back of his neck, and he looks around but sees nothing. A sense memory, that's all, prompted by the thought of that venomous voice aimed at the back of his head.
"Let's get you an ice pack for your shoulder," Xander suggests. "You have some in the library, right?"
Mercifully, classes are in session when they enter the school. He makes it to the library without being jostled, enduring only a few stares from students clutching hall passes. Xander hands him an ice pack, produces the damn banana again. He's careful not to touch Giles. "You doing okay?"
"Yes. Thank you, Xander. For everything."
He leaves Giles in his office; Giles pushes the door shut behind him.
***
Giles loses track of time, even misses the sound of the final bell, and so Xander finds him hunched over his desk, weeping like a disconsolate child.
He kneels by Giles's chair and places a hand on his arm before Giles even realizes he's there. "What's up, big guy?" he says gently.
Giles turns his face away, drawing his handkerchief from his pocket. He lets himself have the comfort of Xander's hand on his arm as he stammers his way through the latest piece of rotten news. Buffy has run away. She's alive, that's one small consolation, but everything he'd feared has come to pass. She knows how badly he's let her down, that he's betrayed her and nearly caused the end of the world. He's certain she knows what Angelus told him, that Angelus has managed to taint everything between them. The things he said still echo in Giles's head until he can't imagine ever being free of them.
He says none of these things to Xander. Instead he relays what Joyce told him. That she blames herself, although she's also angry with Giles. "It's not Mrs. Summers' fault at all. It's mine. For failing. For telling the secret." For letting hers be told.
"You were tortured," Xander says, his voice low. "Not only what shows. We all know mental cruelty is Angel's favorite hobby."
"You don't think I was trained to withstand torture?"
Xander blinks, rendered speechless for a moment, before he says, "It's not your fault. Buffy should have come to you. Didn't matter if her mom threw her out. Buffy should have run straight to you. You need her. She needs you."
"My dear boy," Giles says. He gazes at his hands for a moment, bruised and battered, the broken fingers the size of sausages. "She doesn't see it that way."
Xander cannot provide an answer for that, so he removes the now-warm icepack from Giles's shoulder, exchanging it for a fresh one from the fridge. His cool fingers linger for a moment on Giles's undamaged shoulder, a wordless expression of comfort. "Don't forget the drill. Fifteen minutes on, fifteen off. I'll be out there, if you need anything."
Where had he learned such kindness and gentleness? Surely not in his own home, not from the hints Giles has had. He speaks very little of what goes on there, even with Willow and Buffy. Perhaps that's the source of his discretion now -- the knowledge that some things can only be worsened by speaking of them.
As the light fades in his office, he watches through the blinds as Xander and Willow talk at the library table. Their faces so solemn as they speak, their hands touching as they sit in silence. His own eyes fill as Willow begins to cry. The office walls silence the sound of her tears, but he can hear it in his head, a keening, heartbroken noise that always stabs him through. Perhaps he should go to her, but he feels as though he has nothing to offer.
Xander leans close to her, talking, brushing the tears away with his fingers. Giles is glad he's there for her. They keep talking, and then it's Xander who begins to weep. They cling to one another, both in tears. He should look away, he thinks, but he can't. He's grateful they have this, that they can take comfort in each other, and give comfort. Both these things are gifts, he knows, and he knows too that they are lost to him now.
After a while the children separate. Xander mops his face with the tail of his shirt, then tucks a lock of hair behind Willow's ear. Giles sees the brief flash of a smile, then Xander holds up one finger and leaves the library. When he returns after a moment, he's erased the most obvious signs of his distress. Giles hastily uses his own handkerchief.
"Watch your eyes," Xander says as he opens the door. Giles shields his eyes as Xander flicks on the overhead light. "How does home sound to you?"
Giles lies. "It sounds like just the thing."
***
Giles has traded one desk for another, sitting with Jenny's book in his hands. The last thing she'd ever given him, though perhaps she merely meant it as a loan. Why had it taken him so long to ask her for it, to take the threat seriously?
Not that it would have made any difference. From the state of her classroom, Angelus had caught her at the school, which was a public place.
"You can't drink that stuff and take your pain pills." Xander removes a bottle and glass from in front of him, moves them somewhere he'll have difficulty reaching for a good while.
Giles doesn't even remember getting the bottle out.
"Don't need the pills," he insists. The pain is dulling enough already; there's too much else getting in as it is. The wine chilling in a pail on his desk. The rose, the one-word invitation. The soaring duet. Love trembles in our kiss.
The pail has left a ring on the desk blotter.
"I've had broken bones before," Xander says, flashing the cast. "And I say you do. You gotta take 'em with food, though. When did you eat last?"
It takes him a long time to work it out. Some two days ago, apparently.
Willow leaves her wheelchair and begins rattling about in the kitchen, brooking no argument. Xander gently takes the book from him and sets it aside, then helps settle him into his armchair. He then sits at Giles's feet and interrogates him about weaponry, extracting a promise for some training sessions. Giles answers his questions grudgingly at first, but after a time he is caught up in imparting his knowledge.
Willow brings three plates of pasta and Giles manages to eat a bit. Xander stands over him like Nurse bloody Ratched, refusing to move until Giles has downed every single pill Xander has counted out for him.
He hasn't the energy to fight, nor can he dissuade Willow and Xander both from staying the night. "You should be home being coddled yourself," he tells Willow.
"My parents aren't even home. They got stuck on their way back from Phoenix, because they had a transfer in Chicago -- go figure the closest route from Phoenix to California is through Chicago -- and that plane had a mechanical thing. I told them I'd stay at a friend's house. For once that's not even a lie."
He scrapes up a smile. "You do sound more like yourself."
Her smile deepens that impression. "Seriously. If I need coddling, I have Xander. And we both need to be here for you."
Giles remembers what he'd thought earlier, that giving comfort is just as much a gift as receiving it. It would be a sin to deny them this, after all they've suffered.
He gives in.
Xander thumps about in the kitchen, singing off-key as he does dishes. Willow sits with him, saying how grateful she is that he's safe, how he's been a guide not just to Buffy but to her and Xander as well.
Not much of a guide, he thinks. His slayer's off somewhere without a word of goodbye to any of them. How deep her anger and hurt must be if she feels she must cut herself off entirely.
"Hey," Willow says. "None of that. We're going to get through this, and Buffy will be back. She's just burrowing in somewhere, licking her wounds. She'll be back."
This, he realizes, is what he most wishes to do himself. Xander makes up the sofa for Willow, and drags Giles's sleeping bag out of the closet. Giles waves off Xander's offer of help and climbs the stairs, leaving the children to settle in.
No, he can't call them that anymore. The roles have been reversed; they've fed him, dressed him, comforted him, snatched away things with which he might harm himself. Not children, not anymore.
He's sorry for this, though this is how the world works. But he's sorry he's the one who's forced them to mature so quickly.
He fumbles his buttons open with his good hand as he shambles into the bedroom. The drugs are making him muzzy, and he almost wishes he'd accepted Xander's help. He stumbles to a halt as he sees the moonlight slanting across the bed. Oh, sweet face bathed in the soft moonlight.
He summons up his father's stern voice. Don't be ridiculous. It's been weeks, and you've slept here just fine.
That was before Angelus had planted those perverse images in his mind. They're not true, he's certain of that, but his imagination seizes on those mental pictures. He wishes he had the strength to grab the mattress and drag it out of the room, fling it over the railing. His arms jerk with the impulse to do it, and dull fire races through his injured shoulder, nearly bringing him to his knees.
He sits on the edge of the bed, outside the trapezoid of moonlight.
How can he bear this?
At last the drugs pull him down into sleep.
***
Bright flashes of pain. Coppery taste of his own blood.
The sharp snap of breaking bone.
Fear that no training from the Council could help him master.
Angelus holding a knife blade in flame, considering his options, casually as discussing dinner plans. Branding? Castration? Evisceration? What d'you think, Dru?
Angelus doesn't wait for an answer. We've got a man here with an appreciation for the subtle. Be a shame to waste that.
He thrashes and cries out. A grreat weight pressing him down, then jagged, bright pain, forced like bitter medicine wrapped in a sugar coating. That smooth, cheerfully insinuating tone, discussing the comparative merits of simpering virgins and loud Gypsy girls.
He struggles not to cry out, but Angelus knows what he's about, wresting another shout from him.
A different voice supplants Angelus'. "Giles. Giles. Giles, it's me."
The mattress dips beneath someone's weight, and Giles cringes away from it.
"You're safe, Giles, you're home. I'm here. I'm here."
When he comes to himself at last, he's scrambled up against the headboard, knees drawn up, hands crossed before his face. His breath heaves in and out, sending fire racing along his cracked ribs.
Xander is there, perched at the edge of the bed, his hand frozen in mid air. As his eyes gradually focus on Xander's, Xander reaches out slowly, carefully, maintaining the eye contact.
"Xander?"
"Yeah, big guy."
"Is that really you?"
A twitch of a smile. "Yeah, I'm afraid it is." A self-deprecating joke: Xander indeed. His hand makes its steady approach and begins stroking Giles's arm. "You're safe here. Just a dream."
"Yes," he rasps.
Xander's touch gentles him as if Giles were a wild creature, nostrils flaring, eyes rolling in terror. Xander murmurs phrases of comfort again and again, until the words mean nothing, but the sense still comes through. "I'm here, I'm not going anywhere."
Giles at last relaxes his arms, and a fierce ache spreads through his shoulders. Sleepy-eyed Willow makes her silent entrance in her trademark socks with silly designs. She climbs into bed on Giles's other side and slips her arms around him. Flying pink pigs on white ankle socks.
"Breathe slowly," she instructs him. "Deep, slow breaths." She demonstrates, and he feels the warmth of her against his aching back. "Yeah, like that."
They need this, to give comfort.
"You're not alone," Xander says. "We're with you."
He inhales and exhales, timing his breaths with Willow's. "Yes," he says again.
"I've got your back," Willow says, with a little giggle into his shoulder.
Xander stretches out on the other side of him. "And I've got your front."
They help him get sorted again, stretched out on the bed, covers over him. Willow settles back down against his back, helping him breathe.
Xander bookends himself on the other side, synchronizing his breathing as well.
The thing about allowing someone the gift of offering comfort is this: One has to be willing to receive it. He's not certain he deserves it, but perhaps comfort is sometimes like forgiveness. As he'd told Buffy, we may not deserve it, but we need it.
He lets himself have this. For Xander and Willow's sakes. For his own.
Letting his breath deepen and his eyes close, he drifts into dreamless sleep.