ITLE: 'Seeking Sanctuary' 5/8
AUTHOR: Pythia
DISCLAIMER: The Slayer and her Watcher are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Sandollar Productions, Kuzui Enterprises, 20th Century Fox Television and the UPN Television Network. The story is written for the pleasure of the author and readers, and has no lucrative purpose whatsoever. Please do not reproduce this story anywhere without the author's consent.

Posting Note: * * implies emphasis and { } indicates thought.

He'd never given the interior of the croft much thought before; its Spartan furnishings had served his basic needs and he'd fitted its spaces well enough, spending as much of his time outdoors as he did in. When he was home, he didn't need much more than the warmth of the bed, the convenience of a tabletop or two and a space in front of the fire to sit and work once the sun went down. Now, looking round his sanctuary, he realised how small and cluttered it seemed. Books, papers and artefacts loomed out of the semi-gloom, piled higgledy-piggledy on every surface; trays of potsherds, bones and as yet unidentified items jostled for space beside his crockery, his fishing gear and his digging tools; the laundry basket was overflowing and he hadn't bothered to make his bed. Hadn't made it, it fact, for days. Sleep was something he sought when his body refused to function without it. The duvet that lay sprawled across the feather mattress was as rumpled and askew as the rest of his life.

Giles heart sank at the sight; had he fallen so low, that he would endure such conditions without even noticing the fact? The glance he threw towards the young woman beside him held more than a little mortification. What would Buffy think, finding him living in such neglected disarray?

It was hard to tell from her expression. Her face was pinched and pale, partly because of the cold and the crying, although more, he suspected, from her long struggle with despair and dismay. She slipped out from under his arm and went to stand by the fire, reaching cold hands to warm them against the flicker of flame. She was shivering, he realised, shivering with the kind of deep-seated chill that would take more than a few friendly embers to dispel. He cursed himself for his selfish distraction, hastily closed and bolted the door and then reached to drag a blanket out of a nearby chest, bringing it over to drape it around her shoulders with gentle care.

"We need to get you out of those wet things," he said worriedly, concerned that she might already have taken harm from the onslaught of the weather. She didn't respond for a moment; she was staring into the fire as if mesmerised by it, staring with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. "Buffy?"

"Is the fire warm?" she murmured, pushing her hands closer to the blaze. "Is it? Everything I touch seems like ice …"

He caught her fingers before she could sink them into the flames, turning her away from the fire as he wrapped his hands around her own. Her skin was cold and clammy, like a dead thing; for a moment his heart skipped an anxious beat, echoes of a long held nightmare clutching at his soul. Had she been returned to life? Or had she come back as something else, a revenant from the grave, summoned into unlife, like the creatures she had once hunted and slain?

"You're just cold," he told her anxiously, pushing that shiver of fear aside with determination. Whatever she was, she was *Buffy* - and hadn't he felt her heart beating against him when she'd held him, out on the beach? Beating like a wild, frightened thing, pounding itself against her ribcage as the storm of her emotions raged through her soul? "C-come on," he chivvied gently, reaching under the blanket to start undoing buttons and ease sodden cotton off her shoulders. "Let's get you out of these r-ridiculous clothes and into something a little more sensible, shall we? I have … I- I probably have *something* you can wear …"

She didn't resist his attentions, but nor did she move to help him. She simply stood there, watching him as he carefully peeled the rain soaked material away from her clammy skin. It could have been an utterly embarrassing moment for both of them - but somehow it felt right and natural to be attending to her like this. He had spent too many hours, in the long months since her fall, wishing that he had found some way to let her know just how precious she had been to him - and this simple gift of care, this expression of tender concerns, seemed liked a blessed penance; the very least that he could do.

"Are they?" she asked a little worriedly as he encouraged her to step out of the sodden dress and let him take it away. "Ridiculous? My clothes, I mean."

He scooped up the flimsy fabric, letting it hang, dripping and misshapen from his hand. It had been, he realised, a very attractive garment once; one well suited to grace her figure and enhance her elfin beauty. "Well," he allowed reluctantly, "perhaps not in Southern California … but on the Sully? In mid-January? Quite ridiculous. Unless, of course, making a fashion statement is more important than keeping all your fingers and toes."

She nearly smiled at that; a soft, hesitant twist of her lips that turned his heart over. "A person needs toeness," she said. "Fingerness too. Preferably ten. Of each."

"Indeed," he agreed, tossing the damp bundle onto the flagstones beside the fire and turning back to help her with the next layer. She bit her lower lip as unhooked her delicate bra and helped her wriggle free of its confines. Being that naked - with him - was clearly beginning to register; when he turned to add the garment to the growing pile she carefully pulled the blanket in around her and huddled into it as if to say 'enough'. He didn't press the point, but pulled across the padded chair and settled her into it, blanket and all.

"Giles?"

"Mmm?" He'd crouched down to give the fire a poke, stirring up the heat before adding a fresh layer of peat and coal.

"Aren't you - shouldn't you … you were out in the rain too, you know. You're all … soggy. Wet beardness and kinda steamy."

He frowned, glancing down at his wool-clad arm to see what she was talking about. Sure enough, his outer layer was steaming gently, the moisture in it reacting to the heat from the fire. "Bugger," he murmured, hanging the poker back on its hook and reaching - almost without thinking - to investigate the state of his beard. The result was a small shower - and a gulping half-giggle from Buffy, who'd clearly caught the look that had chased across his face. Giles gave her an anxious glance, then grimaced and stood up, silently berating himself for getting distracted again, even for a second or two. She needed him to be focused; he needed to get her warm and dry, for her to be safe and sheltered from the storm.

Whether that be the howl of the wind and the rattling impact of the rain on the roof - or the boiling turmoil that sat behind her eyes.

"I won't be a moment," he promised, stepping over to grab a couple of clean towels from the rail by the sink. "Here. Dry your hair. I'll be right back."

He was peeling himself out of the sodden sweater as he spoke, throwing it - and the equally sodden shirt beneath it - onto the already overflowing laundry pile. He kicked out of his boots, leaving them to softly steam by the fire, and strode across the room to find clean dry clothes for the both of them. He was acutely aware of Buffy's eyes on him as he did so. She was watching him with a disturbing intensity, the towel he'd given her still lying in her lap, and her hands clenched convulsively into its softness. It hurt to see her like this, to see her so unsure of herself, so distraught and disconnected - but if what she'd said was true … He shivered, recalling her words with an almost physical stab of pain.

{I was in Heaven, and they tore me out of it.}

He couldn't begin to imagine what that might be like. How it might feel to have achieved a state of bliss, only to be ripped away from it - to be forced back into the demands of life, just when you were finally done with it.

Finally at peace.

Lightning flared through the windows, briefly painting them both with harsh white light before plunging them back into candle-lit cosiness. The shiver became a cold hard hand, clenched in his guts. A surge of anger and disgust spiralled up from it, upping his heart rate and tensing every muscle. He knew who'd done this. Who'd led the well-intentioned and utterly unthinkable deed. How *dare* she? What thoughtless, foolish arrogance had made Willow think that she had the right to make such a choice? Did she give no thought to consequence? Make *any* kind of effort to determine where Buffy was before she called her back?

The low growl that escaped his throat was involuntary; an expression of fury and frustration that counterpointed the rumble of overhead thunder. There was, inevitably, just a little self-recrimination added into the mix. If he'd stayed, would this have happened? Would Willow have come to him, given him a chance to prevent such utter foolishness?

Or - he glanced at the pale figure shivering by his fire - would he, distraught with grief, riven heart and soul, have chosen to help her instead?

The anger dissipated as quickly as it had come. He couldn't be sure of his answer to that and - knowing that he might have been tempted, knowing that the depth of his pain *might* have overruled his judgment - he couldn't truly condemn the young witch for following the wishes of her heart.

But he *would* speak to her about it.

Once he'd assessed the damage she'd caused, and done what ever he could to resolve its consequences.

{One thing at a time,} he told himself firmly, throwing open the chest at the foot of his bed and starting to rummage through it while he briskly towelled his hair and beard dry and kicked out of his damp jeans in order to climb into dry ones. He didn't even give a second thought to what he was doing. He could hardly be self-conscious about stripping off in front of Buffy when he'd just helped *her* undress - especially when the reasons for doing so were exactly the same. Somehow, somewhere, they seemed to have got past the issues that would have added awkwardness to the situation. Maybe her dying had done that; or maybe it was just realising that she was more important than an imposition of cultural proprietary that had no relevance in their relationship anymore. He'd held her dead body in his arms, had helped to wash and dress it ready for burial. In death she'd stripped him to the soul; what was there to worry about in the simple exposure of his skin?

It only took a few moments before he was back at his Slayer's side, his arms outstretched to offer her what he'd found; a clean pair of flannel pyjamas, a pair of long woollen socks and one of the two heavy Aran sweaters that he'd acquired since coming to the Sully. The second was already wrapped comfortably around him, creating a welcome layer of warmth over the soft t-shirt he'd found to slip over his head.

Buffy frowned warily at the pile, reaching a tentative hand to feel the textures of flannel and wool. "Oh," she registered, turning the cautious touch into a scrunching grab. "It's all soft. I thought - it looked … "

"Scratchy?" he supplied unable to help his quiet smile at her expression of surprise. "Far be it for me to disillusion you, Buffy, but … um … while I may be *living* the life of a hermit, hair shirts are strictly optional."

"Really?" She came the closest to offering him a true smile that he'd seen since she arrived. "I mean - you don't - well, I always thought … the authenticity thing, you know? Doing it … right?

Giles didn't know whether to feel affronted, that she thought him to be defined by such pedantry - or amused at the image of himself that her words conjured up. He did have a tendency to insist on attention to detail, didn't he …? He sighed, letting both emotions go, letting them slide away with only a moment of regret. There had been a time when he might have risen to the challenge, might have been spurred into offering up the expected banter and engaging her in vigorous repartee - but his soul was battered, his spirit numb, and he really had no heart for the game.

Not for the moment, at any rate.

"Right?" he questioned softly. "Nothing's been right since …" He left the thought where he found it, seeing the pain stir in her eyes - and feeling it twist in his heart. "But - you're here now." The sheer wonder of saying it choked his voice and sent shivers though his soul. "That's all that matters. That, and getting you warm," he added, dragging himself determinedly back to practical concerns. Buffy stared at him for a moment, her fingers still clenched around the softness of wool and flannel.

"Can you do that?" she asked eventually, the words filled with impossible hope and the terrors of despair. "Can you make me warm again?"

Thunder muttered overhead, a soul shivering, low voiced rumble of sound. The weather outside was wild and dangerous, a howl of ice filled wind and bitter, furious rain. But the roof was sturdy and the croft had weathered far worse weather than this. There were no terrors in the storm that raged around them both; it was the one that tore at his slayer's heart that sent a shiver of fear through the Watcher's soul. Her face was painted with the flicker of firelight; gold shimmered in her hair, reflecting from the soft glow of the lamps. Her eyes were deep pools of sky grey and sea green, echoing sights and experiences he had no way to comprehend. She was a ghost, an impossible creature - and she was *Buffy*; the centre of his world. His duty. His destiny.

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "But, if you'll let me … I'm willing to try."

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