TITLE: WARLOCK 3/14
AUTHOR: vatwoman
DISCLAIMER: JOSS WHEDON, MUTANT ENEMY AND FOX/UPN OWN EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE ‘BUFFY.’ NO INFRINGEMENT INTENDED. THE CHARACTER OF KOVACS IS MINE.
FEEDBACK: YES PLEASE, TO VATWOMAN@Y...

The machines to which he was attached bathed him in a soft blue glow. It was like being underwater. Buffy shuddered: wasn't that where they put those sensory deprivation thingies? Or maybe it was under the ground? She shuddered again. <Been there. Done that. Both of them>

"Buffy?"

His voice drew her in and she suddenly found herself at his bedside, briefly laying a soft hand on his arm.

"Hiya there, Giles. Howya doin'?" He found a smile and she found herself blinking rapidly as her eyes filled with tears. Trying to match his smile, she joked, "You look like you've been hit by a truck!"

"Does this generation know nothing about tact?" His voice was a little slurred with the painkillers.

"Have to agree with her, Rupert."

"Traitor!"

As if by some prior arrangement they kept their voices low: anyone walking past the open door would barely have heard a word.

"How did you know I was here?" Giles asked Buffy, glancing between her and Jenny. Buffy shrugged: an 'It'll keep' gesture. "You're alright?" He pressed, not willing to just dismiss her presence here with the acceptance of her casual body language.

"I'm fine, Giles!"

Even that assurance received a long appraising stare.

"And me?" He asked, turning his head again to face Jenny, "Am I fine?"

"They're keeping you in for a couple of days to run some tests."

"What sort of tests?"

Jenny was silent for a moment.

"Maybe I should go?" Buffy offered. Jenny looked around and smiled her thanks. Buffy stepped in close to Giles's bed once more. "I'll see you tomorrow. Ok?" He nodded and with only a faint look of embarrassment Buffy bent down and brushed her lips across his cheek. Looking back at Jenny, she said, "I'll let the gang know what's happened." and then she left.

Jenny waited until Buffy's footsteps were no longer audible before she allowed herself to slump a little.

"Jenny?" She looked up at him. He was holding out a hand to her and she went to him, falling softly onto the bed beside him, pressing her face into his neck. She felt his hand push into her hair, felt the other drop onto her shoulder, to hold her against him. His heart pounded softly under her ear. The rhythm of his breathing soothed her. "Everything's going to be alright."

She pushed herself up so she could look into his eyes. "Promise me."

Memories. He'd promised then but it had already been too late. And now? He was helpless to do anything but give her his promise once more - as he would do everytime she asked this of him.

"I promise."

Her face was solemn, her eyes dark. A frown marred her brow. He stretched out a hand and gently ran his fingers across the tiny lines - and smiled for her. The tears started immediately in her eyes.

"Don't cry, Jenny."

"I'm not!" she answered, angrily brushing away the drops that had fallen onto her cheeks. She stared at her wet fingers and could only shake her head at the betrayal. "Alright, I am!"

"Jenny ... " She looked up. His hand gently pulled her to him. "What tests?"

With her head on his chest she felt as much as heard his question.

"CAT scan. MRI." Her head rose as he inhaled deeply. She tightened her arm around him. "What are they looking for?"

"Brain tumour. Or ... or possibly an aneurysm."

She leaned up again.

"Aneurysm?"

"A swelling in a blood vessel."

"A swelling that could burst ... "

" ... and kill me? Yes."

"But ... "

He covered her mouth with his fingers and then moved them to cup her cheek in his hand.

"No, no 'buts'."

He frowned as she pulled his hand down her face and onto her neck. Guiding his fingers she pressed them against the pulse pounding in her throat. 'Feel it.' her eyes said to him, 'Feel what you won't let me say.'

"Ok, no 'buts'."

"Ms. Calendar?"

Jenny and Giles both jumped as the voice intruded into the hush around them.

"Yes?"

The nurse smiled.

"I'm sorry. Mr. Giles really does need to get some sleep."

Jenny looked down at Giles. He smiled slightly and nodded. "Could you bring me back some clothes, please? And ... and my shaving kit?" He stopped and glanced at the table next to his bed, frowning. "Do you know where my glasses are?"

She laughed. "I'll find them!" Then her voice dropped to a whisper, "I don't want to go."

"I don't want you to go." he whispered back.

She stared at him. He stared right back.

"If you wake, call me. I'll be at your place."

"My place?" he sounded puzzled.

Her smile almost took his breath away: her words did. "My bed smells of me. Yours smells of you."

He turned his head into the pillow and swallowed heavily. She stroked her hand into his hair and pressed her lips against temple and then his ear. "Rupert, I lo ... "

"No!" There was an urgent emphasis to the word breathed out in the still whispered tones. "Not here. Not now." <Please> his eyes said once more, <Tell me when I can say it in return and know for certain that it's not the memory of pain talking ... when I don't need you with the desperation that I need you now ... >

She kissed him then, lips to lips, the merest pressure. "I have to go." And, carefully disentangling herself from him, she walked out without a backward glance.

****************************

Angel drew Buffy inside and closed the door. She walked into his arms. He held her close. Neither spoke. Then she stepped away. Her face was marred with tears. Her eyes looked haunted.

"What's happened?" He touched her shoulder, gentle with her, not wanting to frighten her away.

"Giles is in hospital." The flatness in her voice worried him.

"What happened, Buffy?" She pulled away from him and wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. "Buffy?"

"He's been sick over the past couple of days, really sick and now he's in hospital ... and they're doing all these tests ... and Ms. Calendar said he was screaming in pain ..." She looked up at him. " ... and ... and ... and I can't fight this ... how can I fight this? ... what if he dies? Watchers aren't supposed to die ... right?" The tears fell again onto her cheeks. "Oh God, Angel, what if he dies?"

Angel pulled her back into his arms and pressed her face against his chest. Her sobbing cut him to the bone. He'd never before heard her sound so lost.

"Come on, sit down." He pulled her down onto his lap and tightened his grip on her, trying by sheer force of will to somehow wrap himself around her and give her his strength. "What tests?"

She shook her head as if unwilling to go any further than she already had: as if not speaking about it anymore would make it go away. He felt hot breaths on his body; tears in the dampness of them.

"Stuff! Tests! Just tests! I don't know!" She took a deep breath. "CAT scan. MRI." She sat up and dragged her hair from her face. "What are they looking for.”? He hesitated. "No bullshit!"

"I'm not sure, a tumour, possibly ... probably."

Buffy lay back down against his chest, relishing his coolness against her overheated body.

"I was in bed earlier and I had this terrible dream. It felt like someone was dying and I woke up screaming his name. And then my pager went off ... Angel, they've connected him up to so many machines ..."

"They're there to help them monitor him."

"I know."

"The doctors will do their jobs. Trust them."

Buffy shook her head. "No! I trust you, the Gang, Ms. Calendar, my mom and me. And I absolutely trust Giles. Anyone else is a luxury I can't afford."

He let a small silence develop before he asked, "How's Jenny doing?"

"Toughing it out." Buffy felt his chin brush against the crown of her head as he nodded.

"When do they do the tests?"

"Today.Tomorrow."

"Then all we can do is wait."

"Yeah."

"I'd like to come with you to the hospital when you go and see him. Is that ok?"

"I was hoping you'd ask."

Another silence: this one longer and deeper.

"Stay. Sleep. I'll hold you. I'll keep you safe."

"I know."

************************

Dead hours. These were the dead hours of the night: hours when human beings are at their lowest ebb. Hours when both hopes and denials lie mocked and dashed on barren wastelands.

Jenny sat in the middle of his bed, arms locked around her legs. His robe enveloped her and she could smell him on her.

Pools of light flickered at the edge of her too tired gaze. Light illuminating pictures and objects and books. Perhaps one day she'd tell him how beautiful she found his home - and how sad: for this place spoke to her of a life put aside. On the surface it was so beguiling, an assault on the senses: wind chimes at the door; the scents of spices, teas and spell-herbs; the eclectic collection of paintings; objects, rough and smooth. Even the weaponry had a terrible beauty about it.

And yet ... there were other things, things reflecting another life.

... a shell collection in an handmade wooden display case too old to have been made by him and beside it framed drawings of those same shells, all initialled 'RG' in a tiny, self-conscious, hand ...

... the writings ... some, academic papers ... some, unfinished lines of poems or songs ...

... more books ... on art ... poetry ... science ... histories ... novels, like the first editions whose intrinsic value they'd fought over, or the scrappy paperbacks that he'd read to her in bed, in the bath ...

... and the photographs, black and white, the absence of colour simply adding to their impact ... a young golden-haired boy on a beach spinning like a top, arms outstretched, a shout of joy on his lips, simply happy to be alive ... the boy again, a little older, sitting at a piano, frowning at the music in front of him but trying desperately not to laugh as the smiling woman, his mother, sitting next to him, leaned in to encourage him, or distract him, or kiss him ... the teen-rebel, all black leather and torn denim ... the twenty-something, bearded, bronzed by the sun of an archaeological dig, surrounded by his colleagues, his eyes shadowed by a life that was not his own, even then ... father and son, unmistakably, both standing straight and tall, caught together in front of a mirror ... Rupert now, so like him that it could've been taken in the past few days, caught reading, not aware of the camera, his strength and gentleness captured perfectly in the unposed composition ...

And yet ... and yet he moved through it all with the casual indifference of a man for whom bringing pieces of his life thousands of miles across an ocean only to ignore them was entirely normal. And perhaps for him it was? Reticence bred in the bone. He'd told her about Eyghon, the pressures on him, but little else: she didn't even know if his parents were still alive.

Father and son. The photograph drew her back, constantly. Shared genes, shared destiny: and the photographer oddly invisible, even in the reflection. His mother, perhaps, standing aside from lives in which she could play no part. When had the realisation struck? Had she sat at night and wondered about their absence? Asked herself why they no longer spoke about their lives? Rupert was standing face-on, his hands in his trouser pockets. His father was behind him, to his right, half-turned towards his son, his hands clasped behind his back. They were both looking directly into the mirror. Where was the warmth? The pride of a father in a son's achievements? The mutual respect?

His photographs never failed to make her shiver, no matter how many times she looked at them. Yet out of this past had emerged a man who had found a way of living between his memories; found a balance between fulfilment of duty and compassionate guidance of the young lives in his charge.

Something else about the dead hours of the night - truths come very easily, slipping out gently between one thought and the next. So here was tonight's truth: she was hopelessly ... helplessly ... in love with Rupert Giles.

*************************

He woke slowly, blinking his eyes into focus. The soft beeping of the machines to which he was connected and the remnant of the painkilling drugs in his system battled with his consciousness, told him he needed more sleep; reluctant consciousness won.

"Hi, Giles."

Giles sighed and turned his head to look at the young woman sitting by his bed. "Willow." He smiled sleepily and yawned. "Your shift?"

They'd all been here over the past few days, always someone with him so that he wouldn't be alone. Giles picked up his watch and frowned when he saw the time. He transferred the look to Willow.

"I finish with a free, Fridays ... and permission granted!" He nodded. "I promised Principal Snyder I'd do the 'homework thing' while I was here." She smiled and held up the book that she'd dropped onto her lap while she spoke to him. "Hence, the 'homework thing'!"

Giles smiled and lay back against his pillow, arm under his head to give himself a more comfortable angle to look at her while they talked.

"What is it?"

"Chemistry ..." Willow's face took on a teasing look. "... just a fancy name for potion-brewing."

He pursed his lips and tried not to smile at her none too subtle attempt to draw him into yet another conversation on this subject. He felt that he was being gently manoeuvred into a position where when the question was asked he would have nothing left to say but, 'Yes.' "Are you asking me or telling me? Either way, don't let Mr. Kovacs hear you say that."

Willow's answering look dripped with scorn. Giles was quite impressed until she ruined it by grinning at him. He laughed and motioned with his hand.

"Go on, get on with your work."

"Ok!"

Her happy agreement made him laugh again and he was still chuckling as he turned away to stare at ... nothing. He'd been living inside his head over the past couple of days, despite the company, despite the attempts to draw him out: and there were things he had to do ... no ... to say. To Buffy. To Jenny. To all of them.

"Willow?" She looked up from her book. "The magick?" Her brow furrowed at his question. "If for some reason you can't talk to me about it, promise me you'll talk to Ms. Calendar?"

Willow's frown deepened. "Of course I'll talk to you, Giles. Why wouldn't I?"

"But if you can't ..." he pressed.

"... I'll talk to you."

There was no hesitation in her voice, no sense from her that she'd understood the dark place from which his questions had come. Then he saw her face, her 'resolve face', as Xander called it, saying, 'Oh no, think you can just go off and leave us? Me?'

He was as close to Willow as he was to Buffy, closer in many ways. Willow was actually the first student he'd spoken to on his first day at Sunnydale High. The memory made him smile. She'd been outside the library when he'd arrived, forming a queue of exactly one. She'd followed him in and had stopped, transfixed by the sight of the books. They'd been kindred spirits ever since.

In more ways than just this.

It was like looking at himself. Her passions were his passions, her concerns, his. And seeing her, talking to her, reminded him of a time when learning was still a joy to him, not a duty, not something he came, for a while at least, to hate. A time before ...

Magick.

What self-respecting ten-year-old boy could resist it? But it had been all about practice and waiting, waiting for the power to come into him: and, god, he'd been impatient. The practice had grown unbearable, the waiting intolerable ... and suddenly his life had become impossible for him to live. It had stifled him. Strangled him. He’d walked away from it. Come back. Fought with his father over it - and walked again.

Into his power.

Ethan may have had the dark skills of a true sorcerer but even he couldn't match his friend's utter fearlessness in spell casting and for a year or so it had been about nothing but power; pure - unadulterated - out of your head - permanent high - power. He’d believed he could do anything. Then Randall had died, died at the hands of a group of people drunk on their power, in thrall to the illusion of their control over a demon too strong for all of them.

Her face was hidden from his view by the curtain of her hair. Where he'd gone in sheer anger, so she would go in sheer curiosity. Her affinity with the world of magicks was already strong. He himself had felt it in the spells that they'd worked together, her natural, exuberant power balanced by the more controlled power he now displayed; and yet even he had found himself caught up in her joy as a spell was cast successfully. She truly glowed in those moments.

<God, she's strong> And growing stronger by the day. And it was this that frightened him most for her. There were too many beings who would sell whatever was left of their miserable souls to either take or 'turn' her powers: the reason why he'd forced her out of Ethan's magic shop. If Ethan had turned his gaze on her for just one second he would have seen and Willow would have known no peace for the rest of her life. But he had no illusions about this. Magick calls to magick and she would follow this path no matter what he said - the power makes it irresistible - he could only hope that she would remain as open as she was now to his guidance and Jenny's guidance ... and that he would be there to be stunned by the brilliance of the power and skills he knew she was coming into.

"Giles!" Willow's voice cut into his thoughts. "Giles!"

"Sorry?"

"You ok? You kind of tuned out on me."

He offered an apologetic smile. "Dark thoughts."

"No! No to 'dark thoughts,' Giles. Happy ones!" She urged, concern etched on her face.

This time the smile he gave her was all about his being a grown-up, responsible for emotions other than his own.

"When will you get the results?" She sounded suddenly sombre.

"I'm seeing the doctors again at about 6 o'clock."

"Happy thoughts." Willow said in a small voice, wishing them for him. <Because I can't say 'It'll be ok,' or 'You'll be fine,' or even 'Good luck'. None of us can or will, or would even want to, or would believe it anyway, not just for Giles but for any of us: because we've all seen the inside of this hospital too many times and we've been patched up and the 'bad things' just keep coming. But maybe this is different? No, it is different. Giles hasn't been attacked by a demon or hit over the head by ... by ... a bad person or ... hey! ... even shot by his own girlfriend (and didn't Buffy wig when she found out that juicy bit of Watcher-gossip. Does Giles admit to things like that when he writes up his diary?) ... he's sick. Maybe really sick. What if they've found something, something really, really, bad? ... No, don't go there, he'll go see the doctors and they'll say he's fine ... so why did he collapse? Why was he screaming in pain? ... What if he's really sick ... I mean ... I mean ... dying ... No! Don't go there either ... Buffy ... Oh, God, what if he dies? Buffy will ... I mean she'll ... she'll ... And me? What will I do? ... Oh, God, what if he dies? > "I'm scared, Giles." Against the club 'rules', she knew. So was the hand she placed on his. And as he grasped her hand she remembered that he wasn't one for playing by the rules either. His gaze locked on hers, his fingers tightened on hers, a tight smile pulled at his lips and then was gone. "So am I, Willow."

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