All We Know of Heaven

All We Know of Heaven

Disclaimer: The characters and world of this story belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. I'm not making any money off either this site or the story itself.

Written for Kivrin's prompt for the Giles H/C Ficathon: Giles gets the Killed-by-Death flu. Thanks to Kivrin for the beta.

Feedback, while never required, does help feed the Muse. As always, it's sahiyaATgmailDOTcom or simply follow the link at the end of the story to leave a comment at my LJ.

"Well, this is . . . um."

"Weird?"

Willow nodded vigorously. "Yeah. I mean, Giles isn't so much with the locking of the door, is he? Or with the playing hooky."

Buffy shook her head. She tried the knob again without success, not that she'd really thought it'd work the second time when it hadn't the first. She glanced at Willow, who bit her lip, and then went back to frowning at the door. She didn't like this. She didn't like this at all. On the list of things she didn't like, and she had a long list, this was number one.

She hadn't liked finding the library locked up, dark, and empty, either, especially on her first day back after a week out with the flu from hell (not literally, and Buffy's life being what it was, you really did have to specify). She'd sat through three classes before giving up and faking a relapse. Xander had a chem test he couldn't skip out on, but Willow, who'd looked just as wigged as Buffy felt about the lack of Giles, had volunteered to make sure she got home okay. And so here they were. On Giles's step. Staring at Giles's locked front door.

"I'm sure he's fine," Willow said, fidgeting. "I mean, maybe there was research that couldn't wait. Something to do with Angel or, or . . . I'm sure he's fine, Buff."

"Research happens at the library. And he'd have called me, anyway. Something’s wrong here, Will."

Willow sighed. "Yeah. I know. Okay. Key time."

"Yeah." Buffy dug her keys out of her pocket and found the one Giles had given her last year. She'd rolled her eyes at the time, 'cause yeah, right, like she was ever gonna need to get into his apartment when he wasn't there, but now she was glad he was so anal about her having access to his weapons 24/7. She fit the key into the lock and jiggered it around, finally figuring out that it went clockwise, the opposite of her own house's door. It opened with a faint click, and Buffy realized she'd been half-hoping it wouldn't, because that was how freaked out she was about what she might find on the other side. Giles had seemed - well, not okay, not even better, really, when he'd visited her in the hospital, but she didn't think he was about to go after Angel with a flaming sword again. Which wasn't that comforting, since it didn't rule out a whole lot of other unpleasant stuff that could’ve happened to him. Or that he could’ve done to himself. "Giles?" she called tentatively.

No answer. Buffy glanced over her shoulder at Willow, whose brow furrowed in worry. She stepped inside, Will close behind her, and slipped the keys back in her pocket. "Giles?" she said again, "you here?"

The apartment smelled wrong. Giles's apartment usually smelled good - he cooked a lot, even better than her mom did, and he burned incense sometimes for spells or just because. And Buffy knew that even though Giles was old, he also smelled good himself, 'cause he'd obviously figured out the whole deodorant thing, which frankly most of the boys at Sunnydale High hadn't yet. Today, though, something about it wasn't right. It smelled kinda like the hospital had underneath all the disinfectant, like sweat and fever and sickness. "Giles?" she managed a third time, in a small voice.

"Buffy, couch," Willow said, pointing, and Buffy, looking, could just barely see the top of Giles's head poking out, where it rested on the armrest. The two of them exchanged a look and then Buffy hurried over, barely breathing until she saw that he still was - kinda labored and uneven, but still in-and-out. Buffy let out a breath and sat down on the coffee table in relief, letting her bookbag fall to the floor. Sick. He was sick with that awful flu, not - not -

Buffy's mind refused to finish that sentence.

Sick with that awful flu was bad enough anyway, she guessed, finally looking somewhere other than the rise and fall of his chest. He was white, like pasty white, and breathing through his mouth. He was all huddled under a pile of blankets, too, like he'd been trying to get warm.

Willow held her hand to his forehead. Her eyes widened. "Wow, he's burning up. How long do you think he's been like this?"

Buffy shrugged. "I talked to him on Wednesday. He sounded okay then. Was he at school yesterday?"

Willow nodded. "I went in during third period to borrow a book. He seemed all right. Quiet, but ever since Ms. Calendar -" Willow kinda flinched. "Um. He hasn't been much with the talking lately."

Or the eating, Buffy guessed. Or the sleeping. Especially not in his bed, she realized, looking around the living room, which was cluttered in a way it wasn't usually. No wonder he'd gotten sick. This thing had landed her in the hospital - what would it do to Giles? She looked up at Will, who looked back sadly. A month ago, if this had happened, Buffy would've called Ms. Calendar, and she would've taken care of Giles. Now he didn't have anyone. Anyone but them, anyway, and Buffy wasn't at all sure she was up to this.

No choice, though. It was her fault Ms. Calendar had died. Her fault Giles had gotten sick, too, sorta, since she'd been the one to give it to him. So, she'd be the one to take care of him. With Willow's help, it seemed, since she still hadn't taken her hand away, just switched to stroking the hair back from his forehead. Between the two of them, he'd be okay. She hoped.

"Poor Giles," Willow said quietly and as though he'd heard his name, he stirred under her hand. She snatched it away and shot a guilty look at Buffy, but it was too late. He blinked awake and looked up, first at Willow and then at Buffy, who suddenly felt kinda far away. She managed to wedge herself in beside him on the edge of the couch.

"Hey," she said and then felt like an idiot. But what was she supposed to say? "Holy cow, you look like crap" was pretty much all that came to mind, and even she knew better than that.

"Buffy?" he said, sounding totally baffled. And then, in a voice so weak and exhausted she hardly recognized it, "Oh God, please tell me there isn't an apocalypse."

"Nope," she said, as Willow perched on the armrest just behind his head and went back to stroking his hair. "Not today, at least. I just got back to school and you weren't there."

"Oh," Giles said faintly. "Yes, I'm afraid I'm a bit - a bit under the weather."

"Seems like more than a bit," Willow remarked.

Giles closed his eyes. "It's really nothing."

"Sure," Buffy said, scowling at him. "Slayers get knocked on their asses all the time by bugs that are totally nothing. Try again, Giles."

"Buffy, please. Just let me sleep."

She softened then. He sounded so miserable, how could she not? "Sleep is of the good. But so are hot liquids and soup and clean sheets and Tylenol. When was the last time you ate or drank anything?"

Giles looked at her blankly, his eyes glassy and sort of unfocused. She and Willow exchanged another look. "I'll go see what's in the fridge," Willow said, and slid off the sofa to head into the kitchen.

Buffy felt Giles's forehead and cheeks for herself with the back of her hand and winced. He coughed weakly, turning away from her to curl in towards the back of the couch, and she rubbed what she could reach of his back. "You don't have to do this," he managed to croak at last.

"Yeah, I do," she said. "I gave you the creeping crud in the first place, didn't I?"

"Not your fault."

She shrugged. "Then consider it my slayerly duty." He opened his mouth to protest and she covered it with her hand. "I need you, Giles," she said softly. "I need you a hundred percent right now." She took her hand away and he just went on looking at her. His face was different without his glasses, she thought. Younger, more open. She liked it. "So, you know, let me do this for you."

He blinked at her once or twice - it occurred to her that he probably couldn't see her very well without his glasses - and finally nodded. Then he sagged into the couch, letting his head fall back against the pillow like he was relieved. Buffy let out a breath of her own - she'd thought he might be, well, Giles about this, all British and stiff-upper-lippy, but apparently he wasn't. Which, actually, wasn't that much of a relief, because it meant that he was feeling really, really bad.

"Good," she said, tucking the blankets around him. "Now, what can I get you? Tea?"

Giles gave her a tiny sort of half-smile. "Tea would be most welcome."

"Right. Tea, coming right up."

In the kitchen, Willow was still opening and closing cabinets. "What've we got?" Buffy asked, inspecting the totally ridiculous selection of tea Will had laid out on the counter. Who needed fifteen kinds of tea? That was a sign of addiction. Or it would be, if Buffy's "Just Say No" class had covered tea. Buffy had no idea which of them he'd want. What was good for fluey British guys, anyway?

Willow shook her head. "There's nothing here. I mean, we've got some frozen dinner type stuff, but no soup or anything. No bread, no milk, no eggs. What's he been eating?"

Buffy leaned against the counter. "I don't think he has been."

"Jeez."

"Yeah." She should have been paying more attention to him, she thought. She'd stayed with him that first night and all of the next day, too, to make sure he didn't do anything stupid that would get him killed, but then she'd had school and patrol and her friends, and then she'd gotten sick. She'd thought he was doing all right, but how would she have known? She hadn't been there to see what was really going on, which was that Giles was doing . . . not good. Way, way not good.

"It's okay, Buff," Willow said, squeezing her arm. "We'll take care of him, he'll get better."

"Yeah," Buffy said, nodding. "Right. Anyway, I guess one of us should go to the store and get some stuff."

"I can do that. You stay here with him."

"Thanks, Will. D'you need -"

"Don't worry about it. Back in a bit."

She grabbed her bookbag off the desk and was out the door with a wave. Buffy was left standing in the kitchen, wondering what she was supposed to do now. Tea. Except, which tea? Eep. She gave up for the moment, put the kettle on to boil, and went into the bathroom to inspect the medicine cabinet.

Whoa. Those were a lot of half-full bottles of prescription painkillers. And that was a bottle of prescription sleeping pills, dated two weeks ago. Completely full as far as Buffy could tell. She felt tears pricking at the backs of her eyes and pushed the bottle back onto the shelf. She wasn't here to snoop, even if she thought she probably should've done a lot more snooping the last few weeks. It wasn't like Giles was the type to come right out and say, "Hey, by the way, I'm not sleeping or eating, think I’m gonna totally fall apart any day now" even when he should. Instead he went and got prescription sleeping pills and then didn't take them.

Two shelves down she finally found what she was looking for - a digital thermometer and a great big bottle of Extra-Strength Tylenol. She set those on the counter, filled a plastic cup with water, and found a clean washcloth in the cabinet over the toilet. She ran it under the tap, wrung it out, and folded it over, before carrying everything out to the living room.

His eyes were closed, but he opened them when she took up her perch beside him on the couch. They fluttered shut again when she ran the cloth across his face and neck before laying it across his forehead. He sighed softly. “You should know I’m a terrible patient,” he murmured, “but I’m very glad you’re here.”

Gah. There were the tears from the bathroom again. Buffy forced herself to swallow twice, painfully, before answering. “Call me next time, okay? I didn’t like finding the library all dark and locked up. I thought –” She stopped, swallowing again. “I thought something had happened to you.”

He opened his eyes and Buffy knew he was looking right through her. Her voice had gone all funny even with the swallowing, and she wasn’t good at the stiff upper lip thing like he was. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know when you were planning to come back to school, and letting Principal Snyder’s office know I wouldn’t be in was all I could manage this morning.”

She nodded, ducking her head. “It’s okay. I mean, it’s not, ‘cause you’re, you know, still sick, but – but –” Okay, time to jump this ship before she made either of them even more uncomfortable. “I, uh, guess we should find out how high your fever is, and I grabbed some Tylenol. Did you take anything earlier?” He shook his head, wincing. “Then you should have a couple of these. And drink all the water, too, okay?”

She had to help him sit up against the armrest and he still only got about halfway there. He wouldn’t let her hold the water for him, even though his hands were shaking, but he took the pills without giving her any lip about it and drained the cup in three swallows. The kettle in the kitchen whistled, and she stuck the paper slip over the pointy end of the thermometer before handing it to him. “Stick that under your tongue. Except not yet,” she added hastily. “First you gotta tell me what kind of tea you want, ‘cause there are like a billion different kinds and it’s not like I just walked off the set of Masterpiece Theater.”

“Oh, I suppose . . . there’s some ginger and lemon tea,” he said with a sigh, letting his head fall back against the armrest like holding it up on his own was too much work. “In a yellow box?”

She found the tea he wanted and dropped the teabag into the mug before pouring the hot water, just like he’d taught her. It definitely smelled lemony. Gingery, too, she supposed, but the only ginger she’d ever had, not counting the bread, was the stuff that came with her California roll. By the time she was done, the thermometer had beeped, and she set the tea on the coffee table to cool and finish brewing while she inspected it. Giles had slipped back down again on the couch and now he watched her listlessly from beneath the washcloth, his eyes all glittery with – whoa. With his 102.9 degree fever.

“Yowza,” she said, frowning. “You know, maybe we should get you to a doctor.”

“Don’t be silly. I have the flu.”

“Uh huh. Did you just happen to forget the part where I spent like three days in the hospital because of this flu? Seriously, Giles, that fever is –”

“Nothing worth fretting over.”

“Too late, ‘cause I’m fretting. See? This is me, fretting.”

Giles sighed. “My fever will go down once the paracetamol kicks in. May I have my tea?”

Dubious didn’t even begin to cover what Buffy was – two Tylenol were not gonna bring down a fever that high – but Giles’s tone was cranky enough that she decided not to push it. Getting him to sit up was harder this time, since he had to sit all the way up to drink the tea without spilling. Buffy didn’t think it was possible for him to get any whiter, but he did. Once she finally had him sitting up against the back of the couch, nest of blankets tucked in around him, he stayed leaning against her with his eyes squeezed shut. She frowned worriedly, wondering if he’d actually passed out, and poked at him gently. “Hey, Giles, talk to me. You all right?”

“Buffy.” His voice was as faint as it had been when they’d woken him up. “Oh. This is – I feel absolutely dreadful.”

Buffy’s heart broke, just a little. She rubbed a hand up and down his back. “I know. Believe me, I totally remember the dreadfulness. But you’ll feel better once you have your tea. ‘Cause tea makes everything better, right? Aren’t you like required by British law to believe that?”

He didn’t answer, but at least his eyes slitted open so she knew he hadn’t fainted. She stretched to reach the tea on the coffee table without letting go of him, and helped him wrap his fingers around it. He rested his head in the crook of her neck and didn’t fight her as she did most of the work in getting the mug to his lips and holding it steady between sips. Being a Starbucks girl herself, Buffy wasn’t sure she bought the whole tea thing, but it seemed to help Giles. The last few sips he mostly managed on his own, even though the mug trembled and he still wasn’t sitting up under his own steam.

“More?” she said when he was done.

“In a bit.” He closed his eyes. “I think I might be re-evaluating my just the flu self-diagnosis. Specifically the just part.”

She wiped down his face and neck with the washcloth again. “There’s nothing just about this crap,” she agreed. “Does that mean you’re willing to talk about going to the doctor?”

“I might be, if it did not entail leaving the sofa.”

She hesitated. That was probably the best opening she’d get, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to take it. There were other good reasons for him to stay down here while he was sick, like not having to drag himself down the stairs every time he had to pee, but the couch was weird and lumpy, and also about six inches too short for a guy Giles’s height. “Speaking of that, um . . . don’t you think that maybe you might be more comfortable in your bed?”

He went absolutely still in her arms. For a few seconds, it didn’t even seem like he was breathing. Then he gave the faintest of shudders and said, in a strange, quiet voice, “No. I don’t.”

She knew she didn’t always clue in real well to her friends’ moods, but even she knew better than to push this one. She tightened her hold on him and brushed her lips across his hot forehead. He let out the breath he’d been holding and made a really weird sound, somewhere between a sigh and a sob, turning his face into her neck.

Buffy thought she was usually pretty brave, but she wasn’t brave enough to check and see if he was crying. Instead she held on until she felt all the tension go out of him, and the puff of his breath across her neck evened out. Then she eased him down gently and covered him over with the blankets. His face smoothed out in sleep and she was relieved to see there weren’t any tear tracks, but there was still something in his expression, in the way the corners of his mouth turned down, maybe, that made her wonder how she could’ve missed the fact that Giles was seriously losing it.

She’d gone into the bathroom to wet the washcloth again, because she didn’t care what Giles said, a fever of almost a hundred and three was serious, when she heard the front door open. She darted out and made shushing gestures at Willow, who nodded and set the grocery bags she had hanging from both hands very gently on the kitchen counter. Buffy did her thing with the washcloth – Giles didn’t move – and then tip-toed into the kitchen to help put the food away.

“How’s he doing?” Willow whispered, looking up from stashing a giant thing of orange juice in the fridge.

“Not good,” Buffy whispered back, casting an anxious look over her shoulder. “He’s really sick, Will, and he won’t go to the doctor. I’m gonna have to stay here for a few days, I think – at least tonight and maybe tomorrow night. Could you cover for me with my mom if I tell her I’m at your house?”

Willow nodded. “I can be helping you with make-up work. Which, um, we should do at some point. I did a bunch of your assignments, but I couldn’t so much take your English test for you.”

Buffy sighed. “Yeah, I know. We’ll just have to do it here and be quiet about it.”

They finished putting the groceries away – Giles would be in canned chicken soup and orange juice for about the next six months, Buffy guessed – and then Willow made sandwiches while Buffy spread her school stuff out on the desk. Their English class had finished reading Hamlet while she’d been out, and now Buffy had the weekend to get up to snuff on all the rotten stuff that’d gone down in the state of Denmark before she had to take the test on Monday. Luckily Mr. Anderson was way too lazy to make up a separate test just for her, which meant she had the inside scoop on all the essay questions from Will, who’d taken it on Tuesday and probably gotten her usual A++.

It was hard to concentrate. She kept looking up to check on Giles, who was asleep but coughing and moving around restlessly on the couch. Fever dreams, probably – she’d had some trippy ones in the hospital, not counting the ones featuring crazy, beaky, kid-killing demons in hats. She suspected that Giles’s dreams weren’t much fun these days, anyway, and now . . .

“Buff?”

Buffy blinked and looked back at Will. “Huh?”

"Did you hear my question?"

"I, uh -" Buffy wracked her brain but she'd been totally zoned out. "No, sorry."

Willow gave her half a smile. “S'okay. I asked you about Ophelia, 'cause we were talking about madness in the play . . .”

Buffy couldn't help it - she tuned out again. She felt bad, ‘cause she knew Will was doing this to help her, but her heart just wasn’t in it. Hamlet’s life might make her own feel a little less like the biggest freak-show ever, that much was true, but she had other things on her mind.

Eventually it got dark. Willow suggested they quit for now – Buffy thought she was probably tired of having to pull her attention back to the book every two minutes – and Buffy stood and stretched. Then she called her mom to tell her she was spending the night at Willow’s for some quality time with Hamlet and the gang. It took some convincing - her mom thought she was trying to do too much, too soon, and if Buffy hadn't had slayer healing going for her she probably would've been right. She promised not to stay up too late about eighty times and sighed with relief when she finally managed to hang up.

"Everything okay?" Willow asked when Buffy joined her in hovering uselessly over Giles, who was still sleeping the sleep of the very, very sick.

"Think so," she said, "but she might actually call later to make sure I'm not overdoing it. I said we were going to go get Chinese food, though, so we're okay for now."

Willow nodded. “What do you think we should do about Giles? He’s been asleep for awhile.”

Buffy frowned. “Dunno. But I’m worried he’s not drinking enough. They had that IV in my arm the whole time I was in the hospital, and after I went home my mom was always shoving orange juice and stuff at me. All he’s had today is that one cup of tea.”

“Maybe we should wake him up to give him something?” Willow suggested.

“Yeah, okay. More Tylenol, too.” Buffy glanced outside. “And then I should probably patrol.”

“You sure you’re up to it?”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “It’s been a week. Can’t start letting things slide, especially now.” She sat down on the edge of the couch again and gently shook Giles’s arm. “Giles. Hey, time to wake up.”

“Wakey wakey, Giles,” Will said, stroking his forehead.

He groaned. “Yeah, I know it sucks,” Buffy said, “but you gotta wake up and take some more Tylenol.” His eyes opened, barely, and he squinted at her. “Did you have a nice nap?”

He squeezed his eyes shut again. “Not . . . really. God, my head is splitting.”

“Yeah, but the Tylenol will help,” Buffy said, rubbing his arm gently before picking up his hand in both of hers. “What’s your drink of choice? We got water, tea, ginger ale, orange juice.”

He sighed listlessly. “Orange juice, I suppose,” he said, rubbing his forehead with his free hand.

“And then maybe some tea after that?” Willow suggested.

He looked up at her, expression softening. “Yes, that sounds . . . almost pleasant.”

Buffy still had to hold him up while he drank it this time, but not quite as much. His hands were a bit steadier, especially once he had the orange juice in him. The mention of food made him go sorta green, so they didn’t bring it up again, but he drank two cups of the lemon-ginger stuff and then let Buffy help him to the bathroom. He shut the door very firmly in her face, but she stayed lurking just outside, exchanging worried glances with Will, who was changing the sheets on the couch. Giles looked pretty shaky by the time he came back out wearing fresh pj's, but he refused her arm as he shuffled back to the couch.

Buffy checked her watch. Seven-thirty – just past dinner hour, which tended to be prime time for vamps. They liked to let their dinners carbo-load before chowing down on them. “I’ve gotta hit the cemeteries for a bit,” she told Giles, who looked like he was about to fall asleep again, “but Will’s gonna stay with you.”

She expected some snippy comment about how he didn’t need a baby-sitter, but all he did was nod, cough, and curl up on his side. “Please be careful,” he mumbled, closing his eyes.

“Always am,” she murmured. She promised Willow she’d hurry back and, with a brief stop at the umbrella stand to secure some stakes, off she went.

She decided on her usual loop – through town, some back alleys, and the central cemeteries. She’d skip the cemeteries on the edge of town for now, though she’d have to patrol there later in the week – the smarter vamps hung out there, since they were far enough away that she didn’t get to them very often, usually only when Giles could drive her. She started out jogging, burning off the energy she had leftover from a day spent cooped up in Giles’s apartment, but she slowed when she reached the center of Sunnydale, not wanting to miss a vamp ‘cause she’d been careless.

She obviously had some catching up to do. It must’ve gotten around that the slayer was out sick, because there was a gaggle of fledglings hanging around the Bronze. She staked three without even having to pay the cover and made a mental note to come back tomorrow night or the night after for a more thorough sweep. She staked one more in the parking lot just as he was about to sink his fangs into some freshman co-ed from UC Sunnydale. She shrugged off the girl’s thanks – she didn’t have time for it and she didn’t want to hear it. She’d stopped wanting anyone to thank her for the slaying a long time ago.

The back alleys were weirdly empty, probably because the they'd all gotten bold and decided the Bronze had better music, but the first cemetery offered up two more fledglings. She toyed with these a bit for the work-out, since she hadn’t done any katas or aerobics or anything for over a week, and Giles wouldn’t be up to any training for a few days at least. The newbies weren’t much in the way of sparring partners, but at least she didn’t have to pull her punches. She played them one against the other until she decided she’d had enough, and then she staked them in two smooth moves. She shook off the vamp dust, pleased with herself and wishing that Giles had been there to see it. He’d have liked how she used the momentum from one staking to carry her straight into the next – he was always after her to be more “efficient” in her fighting, whatever that meant.

Patrols had been like this before Angel went bad, she remembered – not fun really, but not horrible either. By the time she hit the third cemetery, Buffy was almost feeling comfortable, which, in hindsight, was probably her mistake.

He came out of nowhere, as usual. She could normally feel them coming, but Angel had always messed with her vamp sense. He knocked her over a headstone; she turned it into a roll and came up on the balls of her feet. “Back in form, I see,” he said with a grin. “Glad to see it.”

“Not for long,” she said, chafing at the fever-fogged memory of how he’d kicked her ass the night she’d landed in the hospital. Sure, she’d been sick as the proverbial dog, but that didn’t matter. She reached for the stake in her back pocket and aimed her next kick at his head. He grabbed her foot, turning it aside, but she'd expected that. She used his strength as follow through and clipped him on the chin with her other foot. He staggered back, off balance, and she closed in, stake in hand. He just kept grinning, the idiot, like her stake wasn’t getting closer and closer –

He grabbed her wrist, the same one she’d sprained a week ago, and bent it back; she gritted her teeth and kneed him in the stomach to get him off, smacked him across the face with her other hand, and suddenly saw the opening she'd been waiting for.

So did he. He laughed and knocked her hand aside. “You don’t want to kill me, lover. It’s not time. But we are feisty tonight. Like that about you. Too bad your watcher isn’t here to see it. Hey, how’s he doing? He wasn’t looking too good earlier.”

She faltered. He knocked her back into a crypt and she felt all the breath go out of her, leaving her dizzy and disoriented. “It was really very sweet,” he went on, advancing, “watching you hover over him like that. Well, not really sweet so much as sickening from where I stood – which, in case you were wondering, was right outside his window.”

She waited until he was right over her and then kicked up, catching him in the groin. He staggered and she flipped back onto her feet. “Stay –“ kick to the head – “away” – one to the sternum – “from him!”

“That the best you can do?” he returned, stepping out of reach. “‘Stay away from him’? Where’s the witty repartee?”

“I have better things to do, like kicking your ass for coming anywhere near my watcher.”

He shook his head and tsked at her. “I gotta tell you - desperation is so unattractive. Tell me,” and suddenly he was there, right up against her – dammit, she’d let herself get trapped between him and the stupid crypt and now her stake was caught between them where she couldn’t get to it. “What would you do if I turned him? You can’t bring yourself to stake me – could you stake Giles?”

She shoved him off with every ounce of her strength and gritted her teeth in satisfaction when he staggered back. The stake fell to the ground and she didn’t dare bend to pick it up.

Infuriatingly, he grinned at her again. “You couldn’t protect his Jenny. You can’t protect the rest of them. But I’m going to enjoy watching you try. Be seeing you, lover - and your watcher.”

He melted back into the shadows. Buffy picked up her stake, shoved it into her back pocket, and bolted for home, springing over headstones and vaulting over the cemetery wall before stretching into a flat-out sprint through the promenade, dodging surprised pedestrians. She should’ve gone after Angel, but every instinct she had told her to get back to Giles and stay there until he could protect himself again.

She blew through the apartment door, bolted it behind her, and didn’t even bother to answer Willow’s surprised, “Hey, Buff, how did it –” before striding over to the windows. She stared out into the dark – something was moving out there. Three guesses as to what and the first two didn’t count. She yanked the curtains closed and cast about to for something to secure them with. Clothespins - Giles had some laundry hanging in the bathroom and it was held up on the line with clothespins.

The small panes of glass in the front door were more of a problem. She found some cardboard in the recycling container and taped it over them with lots of masking tape from Giles's uber organized junk drawer. Then she stood, staring at the door and breathing hard. He couldn’t come inside without an invitation and all invitations had been long since revoked, but somehow that wasn’t as much of a comfort as it should have been, not when Giles was practically helpless and she knew Angel had been watching them. Him. How long, she wondered suddenly. How long had he been watching? Was it just tonight or had he been lurking out there every night since Ms. Calendar died, watching Giles fall apart? And she hadn’t even noticed.

Someone touched her arm. She jumped, going for her stake. “Whoa, Buffy, it’s just me,” Willow said. “What happened?”

Buffy glanced toward Giles, but it seemed he’d slept through everything. “Angel. He’s been watching us. Or maybe just Giles, I don’t know.”

Willow swallowed. “Oh.”

“I don’t want you walking home. None of you goes anywhere alone after dark from now on.”

“Well, yeah,” Willow said, “that’s sorta been a given since – um. For awhile now. I was gonna call Oz to give me a ride when you got back. But – but are you sure you don’t want me to stay? You seem kinda wigged.”

“Majorly wigged.” Buffy sighed. “But you should be home just in case my mom decides to check up on me at your house.” She nodded toward the sofa. “How is he?”

“His fever’s down to a little less than a hundred and two. He's not gonna be running a marathon or anything, but he's better, I think.” Willow gave a small smile. “He was sorta grouchy after you left. I think it’s a good sign.”

Buffy nodded. “Yeah. Grouchy is good.” Harder to deal with, but good. The sick, docile Giles of that morning, who either hadn't cared or hadn't noticed they were totally cutting class to be here, gave her the heebie-jeebies.

“Hey, you're hurt,” Willow said suddenly, reaching out to touch her arm again.

Buffy looked down. Her wrist was swollen and discolored. The pain flared like it'd just been waiting for her to notice, and she winced. “It’s nothing. I’ll wrap it myself.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Buffy said, cradling it in her other hand. Her neck and shoulders ached, too. Tension. Not like there was a lot of stress in her life or anything. She could use a back rub, but she didn't have anyone to give her one. Maybe in a couple days when Giles was feeling better.

Willow bit her lip, eyes wide and worried. “You want something to eat? I could make you eggs.”

Buffy managed a smile. “Thanks, Will, but I’m really not hungry.”

“You gotta eat something. Breakfast for dinner? French toast? Pancakes?”

Eep. Buffy recognized this - this was Will in full-fledged Jewish mother mode, which she'd always thought was funny since Willow's own mother didn't seem to have that mode programmed into her at all. “It's okay, really. I’ll get some cereal or something in a bit,” she lied. She didn’t think anything would stay down just then. She’d been glad to have Willow around all day, but now she wanted to be alone to wrap her wrist and stand guard over Giles while he slept.

Like a lot of wishes, though, Buffy regretted it as soon as she had it. Willow left when Oz came for her, casting worried glances over her shoulder and promising to come back in the morning with Xander. Once she was gone the silence of the apartment closed in around Buffy. She wrapped her wrist in an Ace bandage she found in Giles’s medicine cabinet and took some Advil for the swelling. It’d be better by morning, but right then it ached and throbbed. The rest of her felt the same, like she’d taken a much harder beating than she actually had, not that being tossed into a headstone and a crypt had done her a lot of good. Her stomach wouldn’t settle, her head and her wrist hurt, and her throat ached from tears she refused to shed because she’d cried enough over Angel already. She was tired of crying. It never did her any good – didn’t do Giles any good either. So she wouldn’t.

She turned off the light in the bathroom and stood in the doorway uncertainly. If she turned off all the lights then Angel wouldn't be able to see in, but the thought of sitting in the dark apartment all night was more than she could stand. Finally she turned off everything except the dragonfly lamp. She knew he couldn't come in, but she bolted the front door anyway, just to make herself feel better. The shadows in the living room were long and deep, but at least there was a little light.

Some of the pain lines around Giles’s mouth had finally eased. He looked comfortable, or at least as comfortable as he could be on a too-short couch. Buffy hesitated, and then lifted his head, shoulders, and pillow up as gently as possible to slide in underneath.

She almost managed not to wake him. He twitched just as she was settling him on her lap and murmured drowsily, “Jenny?”

Her breath caught. She sank into the couch and stroked the hair at his temples. “No, Giles. Just me. Just Buffy.”

“Oh,” he said, sounding confused. And then, a few seconds later he stiffened and breathed, small and shaky and so, so sad, “Oh.”

That was it. The lump in her throat dissolved and the first sob broke free before she had time to even try to control it. She swallowed the second one, but the tears came anyway. She turned her face away from the lamplight, sniffling helplessly and swiping at her eyes with the back of her good hand. She wanted to stop crying but couldn’t, wanted to tell Giles she was fine but couldn’t, wanted to tell him how sorry she was for weeping all over him when he was the one who was sick and grieving, but she couldn’t even manage that. The words stuck in her throat.

“Buffy,” he said, staring up at her in shock. “What –”

She shook her head. “Nothing, nothing,” she managed.

He sat up. She tried to stop him, but he ignored her. He caught hold of her injured wrist and she gasped, flinching away. He stared down at it and then looked at her hard. She turned her face away again, sniffling and disgusting, snot and tears everywhere.

“Here,” he said, handing her a box of tissues. She mumbled thank you and blew her nose. He stroked her hair gently and was quiet until she managed to get herself under control. It took a lot longer than she wanted it to, because every time she looked at him the tears started up all over again, but eventually she got there.

She blew her nose again. “Sorry. Sorry. God, I – sorry.”

“Shh, it’s all right.” He stroked her hair again. “What happened? And please don’t lie and say it’s nothing.”

She shook her head. “It can wait. You’re sick, you shouldn’t have to deal with my stupid stuff.”

“I’m feeling rather better." He was holding her injured wrist in both of his hands. For a minute neither of them said anything. Buffy tried to breathe normally and not in big, ugly gulps. “How was your patrol tonight?” he asked at last.

“Fine."

“Somehow I doubt that. You ran into Angel, I take it.”

She nodded. “I don’t really want to talk about it. I will,” she added when he frowned, “but tomorrow. I don’t want you worrying about it tonight. Just . . .” She swallowed. “Giles, promise me you’ll be careful from now on. Really careful. Don’t stay alone at the library at night and don’t leave your door unlocked.”

“Buffy –”

“Promise me,” she insisted. “Please, Giles.”

He watched her face for what felt like a long time. Then he nodded. “I promise.”

She sighed. “Good.”

“We’ll talk about what happened in the morning.”

She nodded, blew her nose again, and dropped the soggy, gross tissue in the wastepaper basket by the couch. “Sorry for waking you up.”

“No, it’s fine.” He sagged back into the sofa, rubbing a hand over his face. “More paracetamol would not go amiss, I think.”

“You want some tea, too?”

“Perhaps, if it isn't too much trouble. But,” he glanced at his watch, “won't your mother be wondering where you are?”

“Mom thinks I’m at Willow’s, studying for my English test. Which I did earlier,” she added hastily. “Don’t worry about it, Giles. I know I suck at the nursemaid thing, but let me bug you with it till tomorrow at least.”

His smile this time was genuine but exhausted. “You’re much better at it than you think. If you want to stay - well, I won’t argue."

“Good. I wouldn't listen if you did."

"Of that I have no doubt," he murmured, but she thought he sounded more pleased than anything else. He shuffled into the bathroom while she laid out the Tylenol and orange juice, and then went into the kitchen to do the tea thing. And toast, she decided. Two pieces, one for each of them. Her crying jag had been embarrassing and gross, but somehow it'd also settled her stomach. Weird.

She was busy spreading butter on the toast when he came out again. She didn't look up until a few seconds went by and she didn't hear him settle himself on the couch. "Giles, are you -" She stopped.

He'd actually bothered to put his glasses on for the first time all day, and wasn't that just typical of her luck. He was staring at the cardboard she'd taped over the glass in his door. He looked from it to her and back again. "Buffy -"

"Tomorrow," she said stubbornly. He frowned and started to speak, but she beat him to it. "Please, Giles, just - not tonight. Sit down. Take your Tylenol and drink your tea and have a piece of toast."

"Willow?"

"Called Oz to drive her home. Everyone's fine, I promise."

He nodded. She watched until he sat down and reached for the orange juice, and then she went back to the toast. Her hands were shaking a bit as she spread strawberry jam on her piece, and when the kettle whistled she didn't quite manage to pour the water without spilling. She paused and took a deep breath, gripping the edge of the counter. She tried to remember what it was like to not be afraid, what it was like not to live with the gnawing fear in her stomach that had sent her here today to begin with. Giles was pretty safe in the apartment, but in the library - anyone could walk into the school, it was a public building. All they had to do was come late at night after she'd gone home and he'd be -

No. He'd promised her he wouldn't do that anymore. For tonight, that was good enough. It'd have to be. She set the tea and toast on a tray she'd found under the sink and carried it into the living room.

He was lying back with his eyes closed, but somehow she knew he wasn't asleep. She set the tray on the coffee table and sat down beside him, laying the backs of her fingers against his forehead. Still warm, too warm. She could tell now that his line about feeling better was mostly just that - a line. She'd been falling to pieces and only one of them could do that at a time, so he'd pulled it together. Now it was her turn to be the grown-up. "Wanna sit up and eat something?"

"Not particularly."

"I will if you will."

He opened his eyes and looked at her sharply. "You didn't eat before patrol?"

She shrugged. "Wasn't hungry."

"And after?"

"Really wasn't hungry."

He nodded and pushed himself up just enough to take the plate. He eyed it without interest, but when she waited for him to start munching before taking her first bite, he started slowly in on his piece. He didn't finish it, but she knew better than to argue. He'd drunk all the orange juice, he'd taken his Tylenol, and he was working on the tea. Good enough.

It seemed like good enough was a theme for the evening. Buffy guessed that good enough was going to be the most she could hope for for a long time. But she'd managed to get the gnawing fear under wraps at least, and everyone she loved was safe for the night. She was here with her watcher, who, okay, had apparently hit the Snot Monster stage and was sniffly and gross and falling asleep over his tea, but taking care of him was sorta nice, now that she wasn't so worried. It made her feel kinda warm inside in a way she hadn't felt in - ever.

She rescued the tea mug, which was listing dangerously, and sat down on the couch with his pillow over her lap. She tugged him down so his head lay there, and stroked sweaty hair off his forehead. It should've been icky, but it wasn't. She helped him arrange the blankets - he kicked a few of them off, which seemed like a good sign - and he sighed. "How is it possible to sleep all day and still be so tired?"

"I slept away most of last week," she said, leaning her head back against the back of the couch, glad for once that she was short enough to do this comfortably. She was gonna need that back rub even more in the morning, though. "Don't knock it. It's probably the closest either of us is ever gonna come to a vacation."

"Probably." He yawned. "Light off?"

"Light on," she said firmly. "Unless, er, it bothers you."

"Mmm. No, s'fine." His eyes drifted shut and his breathing evened. She stroked his hair and then his face and down until she rested her hand over his heart. It beat away against her palm and she closed her eyes, trying to find her zen or something like it. Giles had tried to teach her how to do this a few times before, but she didn't have much patience for the meditation stuff. Now she wished she'd paid more attention. She kept hearing Angel's voice in her head. Giles's heart against her palm was comforting, but it was also scary, just like this whole day had been. Giles was human. He could be hurt, killed, taken from her.

"Shh," he whispered gently, without opening his eyes.

"I didn't say anything," she whispered back. At least she didn't think she had.

He covered her hand with his own. "You didn't have to. Buffy, whatever happened tonight - you said it yourself, it's for tomorrow."

"I know, it's just -"

"Tomorrow. Go to sleep. God knows I am."

He did. She stayed awake, even though she was so tired she felt sorta sick from it. She very carefully did not look toward the windows, afraid of what she might see. Tomorrow would come too soon. She couldn't put it off any longer - Give me time, she'd said when Angel had told her she'd never be able to kill him, but time was what she didn't have anymore. She'd failed to kill Angel back in January and so Ms. Calendar had died. Giles seemed to be next on his list, and she couldn't let that happen. She needed that heart of his to go on beating for as long as possible.

For tonight at least, she would do the watching.

Fin.