The Smell of Roses

The Smell of Roses

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 Antennapedia's prompt in the Giles H/C Ficathon: Giles/Joyce; post-S2; they comfort each other while worrying about the missing Buffy; Joyce cares for Giles's injuries. Thanks to Antenna for the beta. Sequel to Compassion.

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Joyce's guest room smelled of roses.

Giles froze. It wasn't until Joyce tried to squeeze past him with his bag, which she had insisted on carrying over his admittedly rather feeble protests, that he was able to move again. It wasn't overwhelming - he suspected potpourri on the desk or perhaps the dresser - but it was distinct. Roses, dried roses.

He forced himself to go sit on the edge of the bed and tried to distract himself with the complaints of his body, which were considerable. Giles hurt. He tried not to let on most of the time, and the pills took the edge off (his mind as well, and how he hated that), but it had been several hours since his last one and he couldn't hide it any longer. His head was spinning. He felt sick from the pain. It rather weakened his resolve not to take the damn Vicodin. But at least it was something to think about that wasn't roses.

"Rupert."

He looked up. Mrs. Summers - Joyce, he must remember to call her Joyce, silly to be staying in the woman's guest room and not call her by her first name - held out a glass of water and the bottle of Vicodin, opened. He accepted the glass first, set it aside on the nightstand, and then the pills. He took one, swallowed it with the water, and then let her take the rest from him. He had greeted her suggestion that he stay here for the duration of his recovery with a mixture of embarrassment and profound relief. Willow and Xander had done their best and he'd not have got through the first forty-eight hours without doing himself a harm if they'd not been there, but he'd been conscious all the while of the need to protect them, to shield them from how bad it truly was. He suspected he'd failed spectacularly.

He felt rather ashamed to be so weak in front of a woman he barely knew - his slayer's mother, no less - but at least she was an adult. She had been very matter-of-fact thus far, efficient but kind in getting him in the car and later in the house and up the stairs. It was hardly her fault that her guest room smelled of roses - well, he supposed it was, in fact, her fault, but she had no way of knowing how it would affect him. He would simply have to get a handle on himself.

"Rupert." She sat beside him on the bed and handed him the cordless phone. "It's Willow."

The Vicodin had kicked in. It almost didn't hurt to take the phone and hold it up to his ear - or it did, in the general way that everything hurt, but he didn't care as much. The pain was receding, blurring, along with everything else, thank goodness. "Willow," he said, "is everything all right?"

"Yeah, Giles, I just called the apartment and you weren't there, so I thought - never mind. Are you okay?"

"Yes," he said, "I think so."

"She didn't yell at you?"

Giles blinked. "No, no. Don't worry, Willow, please."

"Okay." She hesitated. "Can we still visit you?"

He smiled. "Yes, of course. Tomorrow afternoon, perhaps?"

"Yeah, okay. Sleep tight, Giles."

"Thank you, Willow. Good night." He put the phone down. "She wanted to know if you had yelled at me," he told Joyce as she took it from his unresisting fingers.

"Yes, she was worried about that earlier, too." Joyce gave him half a smile. "I must confess, it was in my original plan."

"Oh." He squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm glad you didn't." He'd been groggy and incoherent when she'd shown up. He'd probably have burst into tears or something equally humiliating - he couldn't seem to control himself as well with the pills, every emotion ran just under the surface, threatening to break free at any moment. It was terrible. He'd had no idea how important his reserve was to him until it was suddenly stripped away, leaving him naked. Vulnerable. Horrible things, those pills, but he couldn't seem to manage without them.

"Me too."

"Wouldn't blame you if you had. I'm sorry about Buffy. So sorry."

She didn't answer. What could she say, after all? It's all right was a lie. Her daughter was gone. Left. That wasn't entirely his fault and she'd been willing to shoulder her part of the blame, but still. And someday - someday -

He shuddered. Joyce must have noticed and mistaken it for shivering, because she reached for the afghan at the foot of the bed. "Lie down, Rupert. There." She spread the blanket over him. He expected it to be scratchy, but it wasn't. It was soft and warm, if rather garish. That was all right, he'd be closing his eyes soon.

"Have you eaten?"

Giles didn't answer. He was too busy negotiating the pillows, which were many. Who needed this many pillows? He had two on his bed - one for him and one for - his mind skittered away. It was getting good at that, though it was having to work rather harder at the moment. Roses, God. Still, give him the summer and he might manage to bury this altogether. Repression was a wonderful thing. Though it tended to break down at the most inopportune moments. The past always came back. Like Eyghon. Like Ethan.

Giles had a sudden, sharp longing for Ethan. For anyone from his past, anyone who had known him longer than two years, anyone who really knew him at all. Loneliness. He considered it pointless, usually, but the last few days it had come calling. Bloody pills.

Joyce helped him arrange the pillows more sensibly, until he was propped up, more or less, and a number of the smaller, more decorative ones lay scattered on the floor beside the bed. Doubtless he'd trip on them at some point. "Have you eaten?" Joyce asked again, patiently.

"Lunch, I think," he said, groggily. He could not think about food. "Willow made soup." Or perhaps that had been yesterday. No, today. Soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. He'd even managed most of it. "I'm not very hungry. I think I might just sleep."

"If you're sure. I can leave some leftovers in the fridge if you like."

He nodded. "Thank you," he mumbled. He felt her hand stroke his hair briefly, an oddly intimate gesture he thought he should have minded, and then she was gone. He was left with her blanket and her pillows and her bed. He wondered if this had been a mistake after all. With the pain receding and no one to distract him, the smell of the potpourri was heavy in the air, coating the back of his throat. He shuddered again and turned over to bury his face in the pillow, which smelled of clean pillowcase and nothing else.

Cold. Dark. The sound of a knife's edge on a whetstone, a long slow scrape. Angelus's voice, indistinct and mocking, Drusilla's hands sliding over his body, cold, cold as the air in the mansion. He was shivering from the cold and shaking from pain and shock. "Hold still," Angelus said lightly. "Don't want to slice off something I don't mean to."

"Rupert."

Jenny. Jenny stroking his face, his hair, soothing him, her hands cool against flushed, inflamed skin.

No. She was a lie. A trick. He jerked away.

"Rupert!"

He woke, gasping. He looked about frantically. Where was he? This was not his bedroom, not his flat, the smell - roses -

His stomach turned over. He swallowed against the nausea, grabbing the bedclothes in his good hand and twisting them. It was over, it was over, it was over. Willow had crooned that to him the first night as she'd held him after he woke screaming. He'd wept in her arms like a child and all the while he'd wished she were Buffy.

"Breathe, Rupert, it's all right."

Breathing. He remembered that. He managed one breath, then the next, and then Buffy's mother - Joyce - swam into focus. She was bending over him in her bathrobe, her hair pinned back. No make-up. He'd kicked off the blanket, and she drew it back up, smoothed it over. He huddled down, still shivering. God, was this ever going to end? Was he ever going to be able to sleep without dreaming? He'd tried not to sleep at first, but the pills made it impossible.

Joyce sat on the edge of the bed, a hand on his knee over the afghan. "All right?"

He nodded. Then he shook his head. "Sorry," he managed. Another breath. Then another.

"Please, don't be. I was just in the bathroom, getting ready for bed." The hand on his knee rubbed briefly. "Is there anything I can do for you? Water? Another pill?"

He shook his head. "No pills. I . . . roses."

"I'm sorry?"

"The - the potpourri - it has roses in it."

Joyce frowned. "Well, I'm not sure, actually, it's just something I buy because I like the scent, but I suppose - yes, it must. Is it bothering you?"

He couldn't look at her. "Jenny, the, the teacher who - he killed her. Angel. And he put her in my bed for me to - to find. There were roses, everywhere. I can't -"

She stood. He covered his face with his bandaged hand, ashamed. He heard her at the desk and then she left the room, returning perhaps thirty seconds later to open the window and then sit on the edge of the bed, closer this time. She put her hand on his shoulder. "It's gone," she said quietly. "I'm sorry, I didn't know."

"Of course not, how could you?" he said, lowering his hand and looking up at her. The room still smelled of roses, but there was a breeze of cool, fresh evening air through the window as well and he was breathing more easily now. "And I'm sorry. The nights are . . . difficult."

"So I gather." She took her hand away; he found himself sorry for it. "Would you like to come downstairs for a bit? I can make you - well, the tea I have is pretty terrible, but hot chocolate, and something to eat."

He nodded. Yes, out of this bed and out of this room sounded like a good idea. "Thank you." She hovered briefly, until he dredged up a smile from someplace and said, "I need a minute or two. I can make it down all right on my own, I think."

She didn't look as though she believed him, but she withdrew anyway, leaving the door open behind her. Giles sagged. God, how he hated this. His mind, his body - they would not heal as fast as he needed them to. He willed the nightmares away, willed the pain away, but still they came back. He knew that most if not all of the reason Joyce had invited him into her home was that he was her key to finding Buffy, but he couldn't even begin the search like this. Not when he was drug-fogged, exhausted, barely able to button his trousers. A day, two days, that was one thing - but it would be a week or two. More, perhaps. Unacceptable.

He struggled down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he found Joyce stirring something in a saucepan on the stove. She gestured for him to sit and he had no choice but to obey. The book he'd lent her lay open on the table, a bookmark sticking out of it. He thought of their conversation earlier and felt a hand squeeze his heart. "I'm sorry," he said again, this time to the tablecloth.

"I wish you would stop apologizing. You have no reason to. Toast?"

He didn't want it, but he nodded anyway. "I do," he said. "If I weren't so damn - if I could just get past this, I could start looking for Buffy. She's out there, somewhere, and I can bring her home, but not - not like this."

Joyce didn't answer. Giles hunched, wondering if it had perhaps been unwise to go so far as to remind her that she had reason to be angry with him. He was dependent on her charity, it seemed, for better or worse. Perhaps she would become impatient with him. Perhaps he wanted her to. God, he was sick of the inside of his head.

"Strawberry or apricot jam?" she asked at last.

The question was so mundane, so far from the angry diatribe he felt he deserved, that all Giles could do was blink up at her. "Er . . . apricot."

Two pieces of toast, smeared with butter and jam appeared in front of him, and then a mug of frothy, steaming hot chocolate. He sat looking at it in faint puzzlement until his brain reminded him of the motions necessary. He picked up the first slice and bit into it. It crunched faintly. Butter. Apricots. It was good jam, better than he normally found in the States. He had a strangely powerful craving for lemon curd, as sudden as his longing for Ethan had been. He closed his eyes and mentally added homesickness to his list of ills.

Joyce sat down across from him with her own mug of cocoa. "Rupert," she said, and he opened his eyes. "Listen to me. Beating yourself up about it isn't the way to get better. This is not all in your head."

"Some of it is," he muttered.

She sighed. "Yes, well . . ." She turned her mug around in her hands. "Have you thought about speaking to someone about that? A professional, I mean?"

"I - no, I haven't," he admitted, setting his toast back down on his plate. "The Council . . . if they found out how - how damaged I really am, they'd pull me out of the field. Immediately. I can't leave, not now."

"I didn't mean the Council. I meant a therapist."

He shook his head. "I couldn't tell them the truth. Besides," he picked up his hot chocolate and gave her a weak smile, "I haven't been in America that long."

She returned his weak smile with one of her own. "I suppose it would be difficult to tell them the truth, but couldn't you - an approximation? Whatever you told the emergency room attendants?"

He shook his head. "I really can't fathom speaking to a stranger about any of this." He sipped at his hot chocolate. It was warm and smooth and rich. He'd not been aware until then how deeply chilled the nightmare had left him.

"I just feel a bit out of my depth."

He looked up. "Oh. I . . . if you're regretting your invitation, well, I certainly wouldn't hold it against you."

"No, Rupert, that isn't what I meant." But she evaded his gaze and he knew she must be regretting it, at least a little. And regardless of what she'd said, he suspected Willow and Xander had been glad to go home, after all. He frightened everyone these days. He didn't mean to.

He didn't realize he'd said it aloud until Joyce leaned over and put a hand on his arm. "You don't frighten me. Look, maybe there's a way for us to start looking for her - would some of your contacts speak to me if I mentioned your name?"

He nodded slowly. "Yes, perhaps. Probably."

"And we could call this Council -"

"No," he said immediately.

"But they must have ways -"

"Oh yes," he said, staring down into his hot chocolate. "But we wouldn't much like them. The Council doesn't take kindly to rogue slayers."

"She isn't rogue," Joyce said indignantly.

"I know that," Giles said, "but they do not. They . . ." He shook his head. "The Council has changed. Even from my father's time. The men in charge are not - not what they used to be. I have no intention of involving them in this, for Buffy's sake." And his own. Ten minutes with someone who knew the right questions to ask and he'd be on a plane back to England. In truth a part of him would like nothing better than to crawl home to lick his wounds in peace, but he could not abandon Buffy, and he had sworn to Joyce that he would keep her daughter safe.

"Oh," she said quietly, and fell silent. He finished the first piece of toast and contemplated the second. Instead he reached for his cocoa. It tasted better than anything had since that night. He wondered if one could live on hot chocolate alone.

"But you're right," he said at last, after quite a long silence. "I can give you the names and numbers tomorrow - friends who will keep a look out, a coven in England who might be able to do some scrying, a few Council members who would be sympathetic and . . . discreet."

"A coven," she repeated with tangible skepticism. "Magic is real, then, as well?"

"Oh yes. Very real. And powerful."

She shook her head. "The world is a much stranger place than I ever imagined."

Giles nodded. Neither of them spoke after that. Giles slowly ate the second piece of toast and finished his cocoa. He felt better, if not quite able to face the prospect of sleep. Joyce was blinking tiredly, he noticed. He politely refused her offer of help and struggled back up the stairs. It was time for another pill, he admitted to himself. He used the bathroom first, then eased open the door to the guest room rather warily - but the cloying smell of roses was gone, chased away by the faintly sea-scented night air. It was chilly, as summer nights in Sunnydale tended to be, but that bothered him far less than the smell had. He shut the window, changed into pajamas, and sat down on the edge of the bed to take his pill.

"Rupert?" Joyce stuck her head in the door. "I'm going to bed. Do you need anything?"

He looked up. "No. But thank you. For, for everything."

She shook her head. "It's rather nice for me to have something else to think about. If you weren't here - well." She paused. "Are you sure? I could . . . sit with you, if you like, until you fall asleep."

He shook his head. "No, I - I'm really all right."

"If you're sure."

He wasn't. He managed a weak smile, though, and she left, cracking the door open about six inches. He would bet she left her own the same way, like she must have when Buffy was small and had nightmares. He considered getting up and shutting it, but decided he lacked both the energy and the indignation. He lay down, pulled the blankets up, and closed his eyes. He thought of the game he'd sometimes heard Willow and Buffy play - Anywhere But Here, they called it. Perhaps this wasn't fair to Joyce; there were, in fact, much worse places he could be than here. And yet, the room still smelled faintly of roses, even if only in his imagination.

Lemon curd, he thought, on fresh-baked scones with cream tea, in the house his mother's family owned on Anglesey, off the coast of Wales. He remembered standing on his grandmother's balcony on a clear day and looking all the way to Ireland across the wide blue-gray expanse of the Irish Sea. He imagined being there with Buffy, her arm looped through his. Perhaps someday he would take her there. She would like it. No vampires for a hundred miles in any direction.

"Rupert?" he heard someone whisper, and then a hand stroked his hair. Dream or reality, he didn't know and was past caring.

He slept. If he dreamt, he did not remember it.

Fin.