ONTOGENESIS

Chapter Six:

He wakes to warmth. A gentle weight across his shoulders. The smell of incense, of coffee and a hint of something fresh baked, drifting in the air. The soft sound of muffled music – of something inoffensively modern, but suitably soulful.

And pain.

A nagging, throbbing pain, that was busy gnawing into his leg and pulled him to full wakefulness with a unavoidable groan.

"Giles?" That was Willow’s voice, unmistakably bright, chirpy, and wreathed in hopeful anxiety. "You awake?"

"No," he muttered, sardonically. "I always groan in my sleep."

"He’s awake," she reported cheerfully, giving him time re-orient himself, to assess his circumstances before opening his eyes and committing himself to anything else. The dull throb in his leg was actually an improvement on the stabbing, savage agony which he recalled from his last lucid moments – and since he could still feel, and move, the relevant set of toes, he felt it was probably a positive sign. The dry, fusty taste in his mouth, and the weak, shivery feeling that occupied the rest of him wasn’t – but Giles wasn’t about to complain. He’d expected to wake with a pounding headache, and a churning stomach, neither of which appeared to be the case. He’d certainly drunk enough to deserve a hangover – he vaguely recalled that much at least – but since he couldn’t remember much else, he decided to view the fact that he hadn’t as a blessing.

Besides, with the pain in his leg and feeling about as strong as a wet piece of kitchen towel, he had enough to worry about, without wishing himself extra misery. He wasn’t that much of a martyr.

He opened his eyes with caution, just in case – but the curtains had been drawn and the room was filled with dim shadows and the barest hint of sunlight; even if he’d had the threatened hangover, there would have been little to stir it into further protest. He was still lying on his living room couch, but - somewhere in between his watching a bedraggled Buffy head into his bathroom and his waking up a moment ago - he’d obviously been cleaned up, his wound had been dressed, and someone had thoughtfully located him a pair of pyjamas. Blurred memories suggested that most of that had been Buffy’s doing, although he couldn’t be entirely sure. He’d certainly been well taken care of; he was cradled in a bundle of blankets and supported by pillows at either end. His injured leg appeared to be resting on almost as many as his head was.

Willow was crouched beside him, watching him with one of her ‘happy’ smiles, the ones she reserved for moments of great relief or triumph - along with playful kittens, puppy pictures and things her friends did that she considered hopelessly cute. He wasn’t a kitten, even if he did feel as weak as one, and he seriously doubted that he looked anything like cute at that precise moment – so he assumed his return to the waking world signalled an end to anxiety, and returned the smile with what he hoped was a reassuring one of his own. He was very fond of Willow, and it was nice to know that she cared enough to worry about him. Not so nice to realise there’d been reason for her concern, of course; that implied a number of things he suspected he was going to have to worry about, himself. Later, though. Right now, there were some more immediate issues to deal with.

Like the fact that his mouth was as dry as toast, and his leg hurt, and his stomach was rumbling …

"We made you some tea," Willow was saying, turning her smile towards Tara as she appeared around the end of the couch. "Dr Finn advised lots of fluids, as soon as you woke up."

"Doctor Finn," Giles noted with some amusement. Buffy had obviously called Riley for help, and that had been very sensible of her. "I see. Well – " He made a half hearted effort to lift himself up and collapsed back with a disconcerted grimace. "Can’t disobey the doctor’s orders … "

"No, no," Willow reacted – not to the comment, but to his effort to move. "Don’t move. You – you lost a lot of blood, and you’re going to be weak for a while. You want anything, you just let us know." Again she turned her smile in Tara’s direction; her girlfriend smiled back supportively. "We’re on official Giles duty. At least," she shrugged, "until Buffy gets back."

"Buffy’s - not here?" he asked, feeling vaguely disappointed by the news. Of course, he could hardly have expected her to hover over him all day …

"Uh – no. Umm – " Willow reached to help him sit up a little, plumping pillows so that he was well supported, then stepping aside so that Tara could hand him the cup she’d been nursing. "She – ah – took the laundry home. Her Mom said she’d take care of it."

"Ah," Giles acknowledged, thinking about sewer soaked clothing and the inevitable mess the necessary first aid would have created. ‘You lost a lot of blood …’ Some of it in the sewer, perhaps, but the rest after the bolt came out, no doubt. He found himself wondering – for one insane and nonsensical moment – if Buffy had used his best towels and just how ruined they were likely to be, then dismissed the thought with self annoyance and made a mental note to thank Joyce as soon as he got the chance.

Once he’d made sure that Buffy wasn’t still fretting about having shot him in the first place, of course.

That was pretty close to being the first thing on his list …

Right after a good cup of tea, actually – although to drink that, he had to uncurl his fingers from around whatever it was he seemed to be clutching so tightly. It turned out to be a small silver ankh, which had imprinted its shape into the palm of his hand. It was also thrumming softly, with the barest hint of residual power. A spell focus – and one that had been used to cast a fairly powerful spell by the feel of it. He threw a wary glance in Willow’s direction, and she blushed.

"Riley – was worried. About cleaning the wound," she explained, wrestling between embarrassment and pride. "I – uh – helped. A little. You’d better keep it. In case. Just for a while, anyway."

Cleaning the … Giles blinked as he mentally ran through all the things that might imply and the spell she must have used – and then frowned, not sure if he should be impressed, or angry with her for taking risks – with her health as well as his own. He carefully slipped the ankh into his top pyjama pocket and took an equally careful sip of tea. It was sweet, and hot and utter nectar. "Clearing the waters," he noted thoughtfully, leaning back into the pillows. "That’s pretty powerful stuff. Who did you invoke?"

"Isis," she shrugged, trying to sound dismissive about it – then broke into a broad grin. "It was amazing," she declared with enthusiasm. "I could feel the presence and the power … but," she concluded, a little more soberly, "it was kinda scary, too. And it hurt. A-a little."

"Will," Tara said worriedly, "y-you didn’t tell me that. We did an earthing, clearing ritual," she explained, clearly understanding Giles’ look of concern. "Afterwards. To appease the gods …"

"Well, that explains the frankincense." He was a little angry. But he was also very, very impressed. "No after effects? Dizzy spells – blurred vision? Headache?"

"Not really." Willow’s expression suggested that her denial wasn’t entirely true. "Giles, I know it was a risk, but – Riley was talking about gangrene and stuff, and I – I just thought … You’re worth it. You know?"

Put that way, it was hard to criticise – but he felt the need to express his concern, if only so that she realised the seriousness of what she’d done. What she could have done, if she’d lost control. "I understand," he said softly. "And – I’m grateful. Really I am. But – Willow, I – I really wouldn’t want anything to happen to you on my account …"

"You’re worth it," she repeated stubbornly. "And you’re hardly one to talk about taking risks. Otherwise you’d be in hospital right now, and – why didn’t you let Buffy take you to the ER, anyway?"

"Ah. Well …" It was a fair question, and he swallowed another mouthful of tea as he considered how to answer it. "A – lot of reasons, really." They’d all seemed really good reasons at the time. "The difficulty of explaining what had - actually happened. W-why the two of us had been wandering around in - in the sewers in the early hours of the morning. With a - a loaded crossbow. A-and silver tipped bolts … Trying to avoid yet a-another weird entry on my medical records. And – " He drew in a deliberated breath. "Hoping it wasn’t really that bad. Because - Buffy was feeling pretty – guilty about the whole business." He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the pulse of pain in his leg and the desperate weakness that possessed the rest of him. It had been bad – certainly worse than he’d initially thought. The speed with which the Scotch had taken him down should have told him just how bad – but by then, of course, he’d been in no state to notice. "You’re right," Giles admitted with a sigh. "I’m not the one to talk about taking risks. It was a judgement call – difficult either way."

"The l-lesser of two evils," Tara suggested sympathetically, and he smiled a wry smile into his next sip of tea.

"Something like that. This is excellent tea … I’m sorry, Willow. I-I didn’t mean … I wasn’t trying to … " He took a deep breath and said what he really meant. "Thank you."

Her expression – which had been vaguely wary and anxious – softened into a quiet smile. "You’re welcome. Now," she went on briskly, "finish your tea, and we’ll get you something to eat – soup, or something …"

"I made bread," Tara interjected with a smile. "You had all the stuff …"

" … and then," Willow insisted, not quite glaring at her girlfriend, but getting close to it, "you can take the painkillers Riley left and you’ll need to rest, so – Tara and I have some college work to do, and we can find you a book, or – you can go back to sleep if you want."

The pain was persistent, a nagging, angry throb; he suspected that getting back to sleep was not going to be easy, even with the help of a few painkillers. But he could lose himself in a book. That was never difficult to do. "Soup will do fine," he decided, not entirely sure he could stomach anything more substantial. "And the bread smells - wonderful."

It was too. It had just the right amount of crust and a slightly doughy centre, perfect for dipping into soup. It was chicken soup, of course. Willow muttered something about it being her grandmother’s recipe, and how she suspected it had magical healing properties – which, Giles assured her, was entirely likely and could he possibly have another helping, please?

With soup devoured, tablets downed and a glass of something cool, sweet and delicately fruity placed within reach, he settled back into the pillows with his dog eared copy of the Icelandic ‘Edda’ (The Bellow’s annotated translation) which – he assured his attentive nursemaids – was light reading and not research work, and quickly immersed himself in heroic tales of gods and heroes.

Well, immersed was probably stretching things a bit – but the familiar verse and the interweaving tales did provide a level of distraction from the inescapable complaints of his body. The painkillers helped a lot more; he dipped through footnoted pages and slowly dozed off, sinking – not back into sleep, but into restful repose.

Which was where Buffy found him when she finally returned, her arms laden with bags and bundles and her expression anxious. Actually, she found Willow and Tara sitting at the table, Willow having been working on her laptop while Tara carefully annotated one of her college texts; the two of them had been working in companionable silence, and they pressed fingers to their lips as their friend eased her way in through the door. She nodded an understanding of the warning and tiptoed in to place her burdens down on the table top.

Giles had to smile at what followed; at the three girls trying hard to converse in whispers, to move with deliberated silences – and barely succeeding at either. Since he wasn’t asleep, he found their determined efforts not to wake him distinctly amusing. They were also decidedly touching. Since the Scooby gang hardly ever afforded him such resolute consideration or respect, their attempt to do so demonstrated a level of affection and concern he wasn’t entirely sure he deserved. It also suggested that Buffy was still feeling uncomfortably guilty over the whole affair – which he felt was something he probably ought to deal with, as soon as he could. He kept his head back and his eyes closed as plans and arrangements were whispered and agreed, feigning sleep and fighting to keep the smile from his face lest it betray his conscious state.

Buffy had begun by asking how he was, and had received a hastily whispered assessment that established a number of things, not all of which Giles had been aware of. ‘He woke up when I told him too,’ was one of them, along with ‘we took down the drip first’ - which at least explained the sore patch just below the inside of his left elbow. The rest he did know, about tea and soup and needing rest and quiet – the last of which was most unlikely with three young women occupying half of his living room. They discussed the organisation for the rest of the day – and who would be doing what, and when – and then Willow and Tara packed up their books and their college work and left for some meeting or other, promising to return as soon as they could.

That left Buffy to bustle – something she tried to do quietly, although it was a quiet punctuated by the click and creak of cupboard doors, the rattle of crockery and the rustle of packing – or unpacking, perhaps. She actually stalked around the flat with admirable stealth, her Slayer skills and training lending her an ease of movement and a lightness of tread that most young women of her age would be hard put to match. For all that, it wasn’t that difficult to track her movements and be aware of where she was most of the time. They’d have to work on that. Something to include in the new training regime perhaps. She had speed and strength and agility; she needed to add focus and control, to develop her self-awareness and to master herself they way she had her powers.

Of course, they’d have to work on those a little more as well …

He knew she’d been serious about asking him to take up her training again, but he wasn’t sure if she understood what that actually meant. There had to be discipline and dedication in that kind of study – a determination to learn that she hadn’t entirely demonstrated while she was still in high school. He knew she’d find it challenging - and that he’d have to challenge himself in order to keep it that way. He’d taught her how to defend herself, how to fight, how to win, how to survive – all good, solid Slayer training, even if he’d quickly learnt to throw away the technicalities and not to worry too much about the language and the formal wrappings that should have gone along with them. Now they had to put some of that back – to add the lessons of history, to develop her mental focus and give her skills that mastered and used her instincts. Which meant, of course, that he was going to have to study her along with every hint of Slayer lore and literature that he could lay his hands on. Not to mention texts on strategy and warrior philosophies, the arts of war and the wisdom of its practitioners.

Then there was demonic lore, and the strengths and weaknesses of her enemies – all the practical stuff that would give her the edge she needed. He’d have to distil endless tomes of theory and history and scholarly study to find that sort of thing – although doing so would undoubtedly add to both his personal knowledge and the data store he and Willow had spent half of the summer organising on her infernal machine.

It would be nice to be a real scholar again. To have a reason for study and a purpose in pursuing it. Other than determining the quickest way to kill the monster of the week, or avert the latest apocalypse, that was …

With her bustling over, Buffy’s footsteps brought her to his side; she carefully lowered something to the coffee table and then she sat down in the nearest armchair and studied him. Thoughtfully. For a long and profound period of silence that slowly made him feel more and more uncomfortable. Because she thought he was asleep – and she was watching him with the kind of intensity you might only expect to find in the most intimate of relationships. The ‘I want to fix you in my mind so I can remember you forever’ kind.

He understood exactly why she might want to do that. Especially as he’d been a little guilty of it himself.

Watching her, that was.

But that was his job. Or had been, and would be again.

Sometimes a frustration, sometimes a thankless task – yet never a chore, and never a burden. Not much of one, anyway. When you train for something for over thirty years, it’s something of a relief to find out that you rather like doing it.

Almost as much as you like the person you’re doing it for.