Unprecedented 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 Taffimai's prompt in the Giles H/C Ficathon: AU version of Season Three: Faith rescued her watcher from Kakistos' torture chamber, and shows up on Giles's doorstep on the run and with a badly injured Wesley in tow. Thanks to Fuzzyboo 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. Part One The school was dark and quiet this time of night, hours after everyone else had left. Buffy had a bounce in her step and a spark in her eyes as they walked along that Giles hadn't seen there in months, not since long before Angel's death and her subsequent disappearance. He felt battered from their workout, but for once he relished the ache of his muscles. She was home, he told himself, listening to her chatter on about her geometry make-up exam on Monday. She was home. She was safe and she was home. "It's kinda cool not having to lie to Mom anymore about where I've been when we're training," she said as they pushed through the glass doors. Giles turned to lock up with his master key. "No more telling her I'm at Willow's or the Bronze. Just - at the library, training with Giles." "Yes," he said, pocketing his key. "I think that perhaps the Council should rethink their policy of complete secrecy. We could have avoided a great deal of misunderstanding these last two years if your mother had known from the beginning." Perhaps then Buffy might not have felt she had to run away to begin with. He knew it had actually had very little to do with what her mother had said to her, but it had been the proverbial last straw and they might have avoided it if Buffy's mother had known. Joyce had been trying to apologize to him without actually apologizing ever since Buffy's return, but he was well aware that what she had said to him had not been without merit. Buffy had lied to her mother, multiple times, with Giles's full knowledge. They crossed the car park in silence. Not for the first time since she had come home, Giles found himself reaching for something to say to her and coming up empty-handed. She didn't seem uncomfortable with it, though, and so eventually he gave up. They reached the Citroën in its space at the back of the lot; Giles unlocked the doors and slid into the driver's side. She slid in beside him, and he started the engine, twisting around to see out the back - and froze as a car peeled into the car park so fast he was certain it must have left tread marks. "Whoa, Giles, did you see -" "Yes," he said grimly, put the car in reverse and hit the gas recklessly, hoping they might somehow yet evade whoever it was - he could imagine only too well who might want to track down the slayer and her watcher in a deserted car park at night. No such luck. The car, battered and dented, a crumpled piece of its front bumper dangling, jerked and stalled out as though someone had tried to change gears and failed, but still managed to block their exit, sliding slowly into the chainlink fence that separated the car park from the pavement beyond. Giles wondered if he should take incompetence with a clutch as a good sign. Buffy obviously didn't. She swore, going for her stake. "And this was almost a good night." "Buffy, wait -" he said, but she was already out of the car, weapon in hand, marching across the car park with grim determination. He grabbed his own stake and one of her short swords out of the backseat and ran after her, just in time to see the other car's dented door fly open and someone fling themselves out. Giles suddenly realized why the car was so horribly driven, not to mention in such terrible condition. It was a teenage girl. Dark-haired, slim, and wearing very, very tight trousers of a material meant, he assumed, to approximate leather. She moved incredibly fast, as fast as Buffy did when she had good reason. He shoved the stake back in his pocket and slowed to a walk. Buffy didn't seem to be moving in for the kill, which meant she probably was just a girl and not a vampire. He didn't recognize her from the high school, though, and her speed was . . . remarkable. "Can we help you?" he asked, pausing at Buffy's shoulder. She barely spared him a glance, looking to Buffy instead. "You Buffy?" "Um. As far as I know." The girl glared. "Look, I don't have time to fuck around. Are you Buffy Summers?" Giles felt Buffy stiffen. "Yeah, what's it to you?" She looked at Giles then, finally. Her face was hard, her mouth a grim, thin line. "You her watcher?" "Yes, er -" "Thank fucking Christ. You have to help him." She bolted for the passenger door and yanked it open, crouching down. "Hey," Giles heard her say, in a tone so different from the hostile force she'd used on Buffy and himself that Giles blinked in bemusement. "Wes, you with me? We're here. We made it." Whoever was inside - Wes? - made no reply except a groan of such extraordinary pain that Giles immediately unfroze, coming around to peer over the girl's shoulder. "My God," he breathed. "Giles?" Buffy said from behind him. "What's - oh." Her oh was very faint, not that Giles blamed her. He could hardly believe the man in the passenger seat was conscious, there was so much blood soaking the front of his shirt. Giles didn't want to think about the amount that must have soaked into the upholstery or how many pints he must have lost altogether. He couldn't see where the blood was coming from; the man's face, turned towards him, was ashen but unmarred. And familiar. "Pryce?" Giles said, raising his eyebrows. "Good lord, man. What the hell happened to you?" Wesley Wyndam-Pryce didn't answer, though the corners of his mouth twisted up in a very, very weak smile. The girl - the slayer, of course, she must be the slayer called when Kendra died - twisted around to glare at Giles. "Are you gonna do something or are you just gonna fucking stand there and stare while he bleeds to death?" she demanded. "Faith," Pryce breathed, bringing them all up short. He narrowed his eyes at her. Astonishingly, she softened, even as she put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes straight back. "Whatever, Wes, I'm not gonna stand here and wait for them get their shit together." Giles had to admit that she was right - and also frightened out of her mind, he was sure. He wondered how far they'd driven like this. "Er, all right then. Hospital first, I suppose -" "No," the slayer - Faith - and Pryce said at once. Giles stared. "Pryce, you need a doctor. This is not the sort of thing I can fix with the council first aid kit." Faith shook her head. "No, you don't understand. I didn't kill him." Giles blinked, confused, but Buffy seemed to understand almost instantly. "Faith, you mean the thing that did this is still mobile?" Faith nodded, raking her hands through her hair and looking suddenly close to tears. "I tried - but I couldn't, not without - I had to get Wes out, and it was that or - but now he's after us. You can't take him to a hospital, it's a public building, he'll just walk right in." "Hey, Faith, it's okay," Buffy said, reaching out to touch Faith's arm. "You did the right thing. You got him out and you didn't die." Faith nodded mutely, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. Buffy's mouth twisted briefly - in sympathy, perhaps. "But you're right, if - is it a vamp?" Faith nodded. "Kakistos." Giles had to refrain from swearing. "Oh dear." Faith gave a brief laugh, without humor. "Guess you've heard of him." "Who?" Buffy said blankly. "I'll explain later." Giles rubbed the bridge of his nose. "This is not a safe place for us to be. Pryce, you're coming home with me. Buffy, do you think your mother would mind Faith staying in your guest room for a few days?" "'Course not," she said, eyeing Faith warily despite her burst of understanding. "No way," Faith said, shaking her head. "I'm not leaving Wes. I didn't drive this hunk of scrap metal all the way from Los fucking Angeles to lose him now!" "You aren't going to lose him," Giles said, with less patience than he would normally have had. The longer they stood there the more the back of his neck itched. Kakistos. Oh dear, indeed. "There simply isn't room at my flat for three people." "I'll sleep on the floor then, I don't care -" "Faith," Pryce said, and reached out to touch her on the hand. "Mr. Giles will -" he gasped, painfully, then coughed, and Giles's level of alarm shot up. If he was coughing blood, he would have to insist on taking him to hospital, and they would just have to take turns standing guard. "He'll take good care of me, I promise," he managed to finish at last. Faith didn't answer. She looked from her watcher to Giles and back again - and that was when Giles saw headlights come up the deserted street. He stiffened in alarm, especially when it slowed. Long, black car with heavily tinted windows - in Sunnydale that meant one thing. Buffy saw it, too, and was already moving by the time Giles opened his mouth. "Let's fight about it later, I think we got company," she said, and shoved Faith into the back seat. Giles threw himself into the driver's side and locked all the doors. Faith had left the keys in the ignition, thank God. The car had backed up and was turning, obviously set on plowing straight into them. Giles turned sharply, barely missed taking off the Citroën's front bumper, and floored it across the car park. The other car followed them, just as he'd hoped; he made a sharp U-turn and hit the gas. "Hang on," he said, rather belatedly. Pryce moaned, probably at the pressure the seatbelt exerted on his wounds when Giles accelerated, but there was nothing to be done. Giles gritted his teeth and mentally thanked all gods that this car had quite a bit more power behind it than the Citroën. He peeled around the first corner onto a deserted backstreet with no stoplights, hoping he could baby a bit more speed out of it even with the front bumper hanging off and scraping along every time they hit the smallest bump in the road. The noise almost hid the sounds Pryce made, though not the swearing under his breath between bumps. A few especially choice phrases made Giles eye him sideways. This was a very different Wesley Wyndam-Pryce than the one he remembered, albeit vaguely, from his last stint at the Council home office. "How are we?" he asked tersely, glancing into the rearview mirror. "We're not shaking the Batmobile," Buffy said, twisting around in her seat to see out. Faith, Giles saw with some alarm, was sitting stock still, staring straight ahead. "Damn, I wish we had that bag of weapons out of your trunk, Giles. Bet I could take out a tire with a crossbow." "There's - bag," Pryce groaned. "Weapons - Faith -" Faith didn't move. Buffy took the hint, though, and dove into the back of the car, coming up with two crossbows. "Take this," she told Faith. Giles glanced into the mirror just in time to see Faith look down and unfreeze, sitting up straight and twisting around to look back. "Bastard," she muttered. "Not yet, Buffy," Giles said. "Let me get us further away from downtown." He kept his eyes trained firmly on the road, running a red light and taking the next two turns as fast as he dared until they found themselves in a part of Sunnydale deserted after dark by everyone who knew better. Unfortunately for Pryce it was less well-paved than the more populated parts of town. He hit a particularly bad pothole and Pryce cried out, causing Faith to whip around. "Crossbow!" Giles yelped. "Shit, sorry." "Slow down a bit, Giles," Buffy said. "Yeah, perfect. Ready?" "Yeah," Faith said, and if she didn't sound certain then at least she didn't hesitate. Giles heard the crossbow mechanisms cocking, almost in unison, and then felt a suddenly draft down the back of his neck as they lowered the windows to lean out. He tried to keep the car as steady as possible, holding his breath until he heard, just barely, twin thwaps. Then both girls threw themselves back inside and Buffy yelled, "Drive, drive, drive!" Tires squealing, they shot out of there. A few more twists and turns around the old part of town, which wasn't quite so grid-like as the more recent additions, and Buffy reported they were clear. "I got them," she added, sliding back down in her seat. "Faith?" "Yeah," Faith said, "think so. I mean, nothing to it right, no big, right, hitting a -" She broke off. She was white as milk, Giles saw in the mirror. "Faith?" No answer. "Faith, put your head down on your knees. Buffy -" "Yeah, got it," she said, and shoved Faith over. "Don't puke," Giles heard her tell Faith helpfully. "M'fine," Faith said indistinctly. "Sure," Buffy said, and then raised her head. "Okay, someone want to tell me what's the up with this Kissing Toast guy?" "Kakistos," Giles corrected, rolling his eyes. "It's Greek. It means the worst of the worst." "Huh. And he's a vamp?" "A very old vampire, so old his hands and feet are cloven." "What, like a pig's?" Giles nodded. "Yuck." Giles turned onto Revello Drive and pulled into the driveway, cutting the engine and pulling the emergency brake. He pried his hands from their death grip on the steering wheel and twisted around in time to see Faith sit up slowly. She was pale but alert, brow furrowing in instant suspicion as she peered out at the house. "Where are we?" "Home sweet home," Buffy said with a sigh. "Come on. My mom was talking homemade mac 'n' cheese when I left this morning." Faith stiffened. "Nuh uh. I'm not leaving Wes." Giles found himself suddenly avoiding Buffy's eyes. He was tired and not looking forward to the first aid he'd have to give Pryce once he got him home - and how was he going to get the man out of the car to begin with? - even without Faith around to make matters more difficult, but he had to admit that her dogged devotion to her watcher was . . . touching. He could not help wishing that Buffy had shown just a bit of it three months ago. Foolish. He understood that she'd felt she'd had to leave. He did. Except for moments like these when he remembered how it had felt at the time, as though she had abandoned him without a second thought, and found he did not understand quite so well after all. "It - it's only for one night, Faith," he managed at last, removing his glasses to polish them. "Pry - Wesley will be fine with me, and you and Buffy can come by in the morning, as early as you like." "Bet my mom'll even drive us," Buffy said. "She works Saturday mornings and Giles's place is on her way." Giles nodded. "Agreed, Faith?" She didn't answer, but Giles could see her wavering. "Wes?" she finally said, touching him on the shoulder. "Go with Buffy," he said roughly. "I'll see you tomorrow, all right? Get some sleep. Eat something." She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. You're not my fucking mother." Giles heard Pryce mutter something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like thank God. Faith started to slide out after Buffy, then turned, sticking her head and shoulders back in. "Hey, you," she said to Giles, glaring, "you hurt him and I'll kick your ass." "Why would I -" Giles began in confused indignation, just as Pryce said, with surprising force for one so injured, "Faith. Go." She went with one last glower in Giles's direction. Giles waved to Buffy, and then, as soon as the door shut behind them, slumped forward to rest his forehead on the steering wheel. It was astonishing, really, how fast the evening had slid downhill. He sighed and straightened. "How are you feeling?" he asked Pryce. "You seem a bit better." "I had to recover from Faith's driving," Pryce replied with a groan. "God, she's terrible at the best of times, but when she's in a panic and I'm in pain . . ." "I don't let Buffy anywhere near the wheel of a moving vehicle," Giles said, wincing in sympathy. "Slayers and technology have never really mixed, I suppose. Are you all right for the drive home? I'll feel better once we're in my flat. It's only about ten minutes." Pryce nodded. "Slowly, if you please. If we're not being followed." "I believe we're in the clear," Giles said, and backed carefully out of the Summers' driveway. He chose the more well-tended surface streets through town, since they had fewer random bumps, and kept one eye on the rearview mirror at all times. But it remained empty, and he thought it unlikely that Kakistos could find out so soon where the slayer's watcher lived. He eyed Wesley sideways and decided it might be best to keep the man talking. "Have you been with Faith long, then? Or only since she was called?" Pryce shook his head. "She was identified as a potential fairly early - thirteen, I believe it was. Went through three watchers in two years, simply wouldn't work with any of them. They sent me about a year ago, as punishment for my sins, I think." Giles refrained from snorting - the Wesley Wyndam-Pryce he'd known hadn't had any sins to be punished for. He'd been the very picture of everything the council wished a watcher to be, among them a complete and utter prig. "A last ditch effort," Pryce continued, closing his eyes. "I think I would have gone the way of the others except her mother died a month after I arrived." "Good lord," Giles said, stopping much too abruptly at a red light in his shock. Pryce gasped. "Sorry, sorry. What a thing to - good lord." "Quite," Pryce said, very faintly. "I think the rest of the story may have to wait. I feel I might -" His head tilted forward as he passed out. Giles swore and shot through the intersection. At least he didn't need to worry about hurting him, just getting him home and - damn, he was never going to get him up the stairs to bed. The sofa would have to do. Perhaps he should have let Faith come along after all, he thought, then imagined how she would have panicked when Pryce fainted and decided his original decision had been wise. This was going to be unpleasant enough for the poor man without having to maintain a stiff upper lip for his frightened slayer. Fortunately Pryce came around on his own shortly before Giles pulled into his parking space in front of his flat. "M'all right," he said fuzzily, as Giles unbuckled his seatbelt and eased it across him. It was crusted with dried blood and tugged at the man's wounds. Pryce bit his lip but said nothing. When at last Giles was done he looked down at himself and blinked. "Goodness." "I think perhaps we might want to rethink getting you to hospital," Giles said grimly. He had a very well-stocked first aid kit and quite a bit of experience, but Pryce needed more than that. He needed an IV with saline and painkillers. He needed a blood transfusion. He needed stitches and antibiotics. None of which did Giles have on hand - well, except the painkillers. The painkillers he could do. Pryce shook his head. "Kakistos and his henchmen know how badly injured I am. I'm sure they've staked out the casualty ward already." Giles sighed but had to admit the man had a point. "All right, but tomorrow during the day -" "Yes, yes, very well, let's just do this, shall we?" Pryce pushed himself up and immediately went white. Ribs, Giles thought. He still didn't know where all the blood had come from, but Pryce definitely had badly bruised or cracked ribs. Giles managed to slip in, pulling Pryce's arm over his shoulder. "Steady on, Pryce," he murmured. "Wesley," Pryce gasped. "Sorry?" "Call me Wesley." He leaned heavily on on Giles as they negotiated the steps down to the courtyard. "Pryce sounds like you're - unngh - talking about my father." "Sorry," Giles said. "Wesley, then." He paused at the bottom of the steps. "Do you want to stop and rest here or simply push through?" "If I stop I'll never get going again." It was a long, slow shuffle across the courtyard. Pryce - Wesley was obviously faint from loss of blood and barely on his feet. That had been one very small favor Giles had had going for him that long, horrible night - Angelus hadn't bled him at all. He'd found countless other ways to inflict pain, but Giles suspected he'd wanted to drain him at the end or let Drusilla do it, and so hadn't wanted to waste the blood. Giles suppressed a shiver and focused on getting his key out without letting go of Wesley. He unlocked the door, pulled Wesley over the threshold, and shut it firmly. They were safe. Wesley had gone far too quiet for Giles's liking. Giles installed him in the desk chair and went to fetch a couple of towels from the bathroom to spread on the sofa. Wesley was slumped over half-conscious by the time he returned. Giles got him back on his feet, barely. "How's your back?" he asked quietly. Wesley managed to lift his head from where it lay against Giles's shoulder. "Fine. S' my chest." "Right. Lie down then." He helped him lie back against the towel-covered pillows and lifted his legs up for him. "Better?" "Yes." Wesley did sound a bit better lying down, a little less like he was on the verge of passing out again. "Much, thank you." "All right, let's see the . . ." Damage, Giles managed not to finish. "Er. Let's see it." Wesley's shirt was shredded, which was just as well, since getting it off otherwise would have been an ordeal. As it was, pulling the gore-soaked shreds away from his chest caused a great deal of wincing. "What did he use?" Giles asked quietly, kneeling back and looking up at Wesley. "A knife," Wesley said, looking away. "And his - I don't think hooves is quite the right word. They were surprisingly sharp." Bloody hell. "All right. It's all right. It's over now." Wesley nodded almost imperceptibly. "I'm going to get something to clean you up with. I'll be right back." He touched Wesley's hand briefly and stood. He pulled a large basin out from the cupboard over his sink, filled it with warm water and added some salt for good measure, then fetched the economy sized bottle of rubbing alcohol he kept on hand. It wouldn't replace a week of antibiotics, but all he needed was to tide Wesley over until the morning, when they could go to casualty without worrying about Kakistos coming after them. Between the alcohol and some liberal application of Neosporin, Wesley would be fine until then. Giles hoped. He grabbed some clean rags from the bottom shelf of his bathroom cabinet and then a bottle of prescription painkillers. Eventually he would need bandages, but not for a little while yet. Wesley opened his eyes when Giles knelt and handed him a glass of water and a painkiller. Wesley took both, draining the water completely before handing it back. "Before I start swearing and forget to say it," he said, as Giles dipped a cloth in the warm water, "thank you for everything. I realize it wasn't fair of us to show up like this, knowing Kakistos would follow." "Nonsense," Giles said briskly, and began rubbing gently at the dried blood on Wesley's chest. "I'm glad you did, since the alternative - well. There wasn't any, was there?" "No," Wesley said, wincing, "not really. It gave us a place to go - it's pure luck we found you, really, I knew you had a post at Buffy's high school, so I guessed you would be -" He hissed. "Sorry," Giles said. "I know it stings." He worked away steadily, listening to Wesley's breathing, still too quick and shallow despite the pill. "You were telling me about Faith in the car. Her mother died a month after you arrived?" "Yes, it was quite terrible, as you might expect. I only did what any decent person would do, but she didn't have anyone else. She . . . latched on to me, you might say. The council pulled some strings, and now I'm her legal guardian." "Goodness. When was this?" "Her mother died nine months ago. I was granted legal custody of her about six months ago." "And she was called three months ago." Giles dropped the first rag, thoroughly blood-soaked, onto the towel at his side. He dipped the second one in the basin of warm salt water, already faintly tinged with pink despite his best efforts to keep the bloody bits of the rag out of it. "I think I see now why she was so upset tonight." "I imagine Buffy would be equally upset if something like this were to happen to you," Wesley said, eyes closing again. His breathing had evened out at last. Giles wasn't sure if it was talking about his slayer that had calmed him or if the pill had finally begun to work its magic, but either way he was relieved. "Something like this did happen to me," Giles said, taking care to keep his voice steady. "The night Faith was called, actually." Wesley's eyes opened. "I hadn't heard." "I tried to keep it under wraps, not tell the council more than was necessary." The actual cuts were becoming clearer now. There was indeed a great deal of blood, but not as much as Giles had feared. "Vampire by the name of Angelus. I'm sure you've heard of him. He was part of the curriculum when I was at the academy - I can't imagine it's changed radically since then." "Angelus, the Scourge of Europe?" Giles nodded, eyes on Wesley's chest. "And you lived to tell about it?" Giles smiled tightly. "I had something he wanted. Information. How to end the world. He nearly succeeded, but Buffy - Buffy killed him." There was, of course, a great deal he was leaving out. But he didn't know Wesley well enough to trust him with the rest of the story. Buffy's affair with Angel - well, it was in his diaries, but they wouldn't receive those until after Buffy died. The council didn't need to know that the slayer - a slayer - had a penchant for vampires, even souled ones. "There, you see? Nothing extraordinary." Wesley's voice slowed. "The bond between watchers and slayers - some of the greatest acts of heroism in the history of the slayer line have been committed by slayers acting to avenge watchers who were killed or maimed." "Buffy wasn't avenging me." Second rag, done. Giles hoped he'd have enough. "He'd opened a portal to one of the nastier hell dimensions and she had to kill him to close it. She left afterwards, disappeared for two and a half months. I didn't know where she was - she left a note or we wouldn't even have known she was alive. I spent weeks trying to find her, searching everywhere I could think to look. So when you say that what you have with Faith is nothing extraordinary . . ." Giles shook his head. "Giles - I'm sorry. It's Rupert, isn't it?" Giles didn't look up. "Yes." "Rupert, somehow I have the feeling that isn't the whole story." Giles sighed. "No. You're right. I'm being - well, I'm being terribly unfair. And honestly, I was so relieved to have her home that I didn't even know I felt this way until - until tonight." He shook his head. "I shouldn't be burdening you with this. We barely know each other and you're injured. Please, forget I said anything." If only he could forget it as well. Repress, repress, repress, he thought bitterly. He doubted he and Buffy would ever speak of what had happened, not unless he forced it and he had no intention of doing so. He knew she would not have run away if she'd felt capable of staying, and yet - and yet - he had needed her. He would never think of abandoning her in such circumstances. She was seventeen. Practically a child still. He should not feel so dependent on her, it wasn't right. But then, what was a watcher without a slayer? What was he without her? Giles shook his head, refocusing on Wesley - and then froze, blinking in disbelief. "Oh good lord," he murmured, and looked up. Wesley looked away, avoiding his gaze. There, in Greek letters, scratched - no, carved -  into Wesley's chest - KAKISTOS. "Wesley . . ." "I understand there are things one can do to - to prevent scarring," Wesley said quietly. "Yes, but not until it's healed a bit more. Why did he - was there some, some reason, a ritual perhaps, that he -" "He's Kakistos," Wesley said sharply, frowning. "He didn't need a reason, or at least he never has in the past." Giles shook his head. "Of course not. The - the - this," Giles gestured to Wesley's chest, "it's typical of him, then, I take it?" Wesley nodded, staring up at the ceiling. "He kidnapped me, used me to lure Faith. She was there when he -" He stopped and drew a deep breath. "I'm sorry," Giles said softly, and decided it was time to change the subject for both their sakes. "Is the painkiller I gave you working? I need to put alcohol on these, er -" cuts seemed a bit of an understatement, but Giles wasn't sure he wanted to be more accurate - "these, and it's going to sting." Wesley needed stitches, really, but the bleeding seemed to have mostly stopped. Hopefully the bandages would do the trick. Wesley gave a brief one-shouldered shrug. "I still hurt, but I don't care as much." Giles smiled. "Yes, that's about where you should be. Lie back and close your eyes, all right?" "And think of England," Wesley muttered, but he obeyed. Even with the painkillers he hissed when Giles began bathing the cuts in alcohol. He checked Wesley's ribs as he went as well, pressing and feeling for bumps and contusions. He could only pray there wasn't any internal bleeding; at least Wesley didn't seem to be coughing up blood as he'd initially feared. Two cracked ribs, he decided at last. They would heal - slowly - on their own with plenty of bed rest. He suspected Wesley and Faith wouldn't be going anywhere for some time even after they took care of Kakistos. Giles found himself oddly glad of it - not glad, of course, that Wesley was injured enough to make leaving impossible, but it would be pleasant to have someone around with whom he could reminisce about home. Two watchers, two slayers - to Giles's knowledge that had never happened before. By the time Giles finished bandaging his chest, Wesley had fallen asleep. Giles gathered up the bloody rags, stuffed them in a plastic bag, and set it on top of the washing machine. Then he got an extra pillow and his warm comforter, the one he hardly ever used in Sunnydale, out of the closet. He covered Wesley up, tucking the comforter between him and back of the sofa so Wesley wouldn't kick it off too easily, and gently lifted his head to slip the pillow underneath. Wesley stirred, blinking sleepily up at Giles. "Sorry," Giles said. "I didn't mean to wake you. Would you like to go upstairs? The bed would be better for you." "No, this is fine," Wesley said with a yawn. "I'm quite comfortable here." Quite stoned, he meant. Giles hid a smile. "Do you need anything? A hot water bottle? Tea?" He probably was dehydrated, come to think of it. "Just water, I think," Wesley said, eyes drifting shut again, "if it's not too much trouble." "Of course not." Giles fetched him water and a couple of ibuprofen - he couldn't have the prescription painkillers again so soon, but the Advil might make his night easier. He helped Wesley sit up and drain the glass, and then brought him another when he asked for it. He left the bathroom light on and the door cracked, and went upstairs, where he changed into pajamas. He was wound too tightly to sleep, so he crawled into bed with a book, one of the cheap spy-thrillers he indulged in on occasion. He was nodding off over his novel when he heard it - a sharp cry from downstairs. Giles was up and out of bed before his half-awake brain could catch up, and halfway down the stairs before he remembered who was on his sofa and why. Wesley had kicked the blanket off and was shivering, still asleep, still caught in the nightmare. A sheen of sweat covered his face and the unbandaged parts of his chest. "Wesley," Giles said, shaking him. "Wesley, wake up. Wesley." He came awake all at once, reaching to grasp Giles's wrist in an iron grip. Giles flinched, then managed to hold very still as Wesley's eyes darted about the room, taking everything in before finally coming to rest on Giles's face. He let go then, but Giles captured his hand, squeezing it. "All right?" Wesley nodded mutely. He took a few more gasping breaths and then managed, "I'm sorry. So sorry." That was familiar. Giles remembered apologizing profusely to Willow and Xander every time he'd woken them with his nightmares. He'd been embarrassed, but so grateful for their presence, even while wishing desperately for Buffy, that he'd feared they must eventually lose patience and leave him as well. They hadn't, of course, not until he'd got the first horrible days behind him and was mostly able to sleep without dreaming, or at least wake without screaming. "Please," he said, "there's nothing to apologize for." Wesley lay back, eyes closed, throat working as he swallowed. "I woke you." "I wasn't really asleep." Wesley clearly didn't believe him, but to Giles's relief did not seem inclined to argue. "They don't - the council's training on how to, to resist doesn't - doesn't mention the nightmares." Giles shook his head. "No, it doesn't. They don't mention anything about what comes after something like this." "No wonder you tried not to let on." "Mmm," Giles said in agreement. Wesley was still shivering, though he seemed not to notice. Giles tugged the blanket up from the floor, untangled it, and tucked it around him. "Tea?" "Please." He made them both a cup from his stock of good English tea, sent by his sister like clockwork every six months. They drank it in silence, sitting together on the sofa, Wesley wrapped in the comforter. When Giles asked if he wanted another pill, he nodded silently, eyes trained on the carpet. Giles brought him one, along with another glass of water; he took the pill and drank half the water, setting the rest of it aside on the end table, then asked Giles to help him to the bathroom. The shuffle from the sofa was easier than the shuffle across the courtyard had been. "Perhaps," Giles suggested once more, a bit diffidently this time, as he settled Wesley back on the sofa, "perhaps the bed would be better? I can take the sofa, it's no trouble." Wesley shook his head stubbornly. "I won't displace you from your bed. Really, I'm perfectly comfortable here." Giles sighed to himself, but knew from experience that it would do no good to argue. "Do you need anything?" "No, thank you." Wesley's eyes were drifting shut already, though he fought to keep them open. Giles recognized that as well; he hadn't wanted to sleep, but the pills had made him so groggy that he'd had no choice much of the time. He'd napped a lot during the day, shallow, short bits of sleep that didn't give the nightmares time to take hold, but he'd still been constantly exhausted. Once he was certain Wesley was well and truly asleep, Giles gathered up the tea mugs, took them into the kitchen, and left them in the sink to wash in the morning. He turned the light soff and stood for a moment, watching Wesley in the soft yellow glow from the bathroom. "Post-traumatic stress disorder" Willow had called it while trying to talk him into seeing someone - a therapist - about it. Giles had shrugged it off, made a sarcastic remark about how he was British, he didn't need therapy when he could just make a strong cup of tea with a shot of whisky, and no, he wasn't going to take the Xanax his doctor had prescribed him. Now, looking at it from the other side, he wondered just how wise that had been. It was very late. Giles was certain Faith would be over at the crack of dawn. He would do best to get to bed, he thought. But he didn't. After a moment he moved to the armchair, and there he stayed, watching Wesley sleep, until gray light began to creep into his living room. Wesley hadn't stirred in hours. Giles went up to bed. *** Part Two Buffy the Vampire Slayer Index Home