Chapter Five:
It was just after seven by the time Riley Finn pulled his vehicle to a halt outside the quiet apartment block. He leapt out in haste, grabbing the canvas bag off the passenger seat and heading for his destination at a run. Some fifteen minutes previously he’d been listening to Buffy’s anxious message – and he’d been fretting about her ever since, grateful for the lack of traffic at that time in the morning, powering his way through the streets and praying that he was over reacting to her words. Emergency. He never did like the word.
The weight of a standard issue field medkit banged against his leg as he loped into the courtyard. He was assuming that was what Buffy had meant, and he thanked providence for making sure he’d hung on to a couple of the things, just in case. You never knew when you might need something like that …
Willow and Tara were a few steps ahead of him, carrying bundles in their arms and looking as worried as he felt; they paused and turned as he caught up with a ‘hey’ in greeting.
"Riley," Willow acknowledged, sounding relieved to see him. "Buffy call you too?"
"Yeah," he nodded. "That is – she left a message. Didn’t make much sense. Is she okay?"
The two witches exchanged a glance. "She said she was okay," Tara announced, not sounding entirely convinced about it.
"She wanted a change of clothes. " Willow nodded towards the bag she carried. "She said she’d got soaked – down in the sewers. Last night. Chasing Sifur demons," she added, catching his frown. "No biggie. Giles turned rune scribe. Put some really neat spells on a couple of things." She grinned, thinking about it. "Silver bolts with bind runes and banishing and everything. Only – " She paused to share another of those concerned looks with her girlfriend. "That can be bad stuff if it goes wrong. Hard to undo. You know?"
Riley didn’t know, but he didn’t like the sound of it. "She went down into the sewers, last night? Demon hunting? On her own?" He knew she was confident about her abilities, and he’d have no qualms about her chasing a few vampires on a solo run. But demons? Demons were tricky things – and he’d been in last night; he’d have been more than happy to have come if she’d called.
"Not on her own," Tara smiled, amused at the suggestion. "Will j-just said. Mr Giles was with her."
"Oh great." Riley couldn’t help the grimace that chased across his face. What was it with these people? He was aware that Buffy had a great deal of respect for her mentor, and he was sure that the man was both an experienced scholar and a reasonably competent mage, but – taking him demon hunting? The man belonged in a library, not out in the field. "I’m sure he was a lot of help."
The comment earned him a puzzled look from Tara – and a frown from Willow, one of those ‘pursed lips’ looks that conveyed both hurt affront and unhappy disapproval.
"I’m sure he was," she said, a little archly. "Before – before he got hurt." The admission was reluctant; Riley pounced on it with a barely repressed aha!
"Giles got hurt. I see. Well, that would explain a few things, I suppose. Such as – why we’re here, rather than anywhere else." The moment of smug triumph – spurred by the obvious evidence that he’d been right – was overtaken by a sense of concern. He liked Rupert Giles, although he couldn’t have put his finger on the why, exactly – something to do with his English manners perhaps, or his well meaning efforts to be part of the Slayer’s little gang. More importantly, he knew that Buffy liked him. Which meant that she’d be devastated if anything happened to him. "Do we know how? What happened?"
"No," Willow denied, shaking her head. "Not yet."
"We just got here." Tara nodded towards the door. "I- I think it’s open …"
Riley strode down the steps, reaching to push at the decorated wood. Sure enough, the door swung back at his touch – which was when he noticed that the keys were still sitting in the lock. "That’s odd," he murmured, reaching down to retrieve the bunch. His sense of concern became one of deeper unease. What exactly had Buffy meant by an ‘emergency?’
He took a circumspect step into the building, his nose wrinkling as it was hit by a familiar – and somewhat unexpected scent. Last time he’d caught a whiff like that, it had been on a pig farm, back in Iowa – hardly the aroma of choice for a respectable man’s apartment, especially one that usually smelt of pine and polish and patchouli. "Buffy?" he called cautiously. There was no immediate reply, so he moved a little deeper into the room, sweeping the environs with a trained observer’s eye. There was the usual mix of neat living and scholarly occupation; a couple of books open on the table, several more piled up on one chair. The empty whiskey bottle seemed a little out of place, but not entirely unexpected … which certainly wasn’t true of the muddy, stained patches that patterned the wall by the kitchen door. He took a few more steps in that direction, aware that Willow and Tara had followed him in and were taking their own wary look around – and came to a disconcerted halt, caught by an impossible sight, by something he’d glimpsed from the corner of his eye.
"Buffy?" he breathed, turning to stare, his mouth dropping open and his heart skipping a startled beat.
She was asleep; lying – no, make that half lying – at one end of the couch, with one elegant and very naked leg draped over the side so that her foot rested on the floor. Her head was turned to one side, resting lightly on a propped pillow – and she appeared to be wearing nothing more than a rumpled shirt, one several sizes too big for her.
All of which would have made her an irresistibly cute sight – if she hadn’t been cradling Rupert Giles in her lap. He was also asleep, his head nestled comfortably against her breasts, and his body sprawled intimately over hers; it was hard to be certain, given the drape of covering blankets, but Riley had the distinct impression that he was wearing even less than she was …
He heard Tara’s gasp of astonishment, followed by a decidedly bemused oh, from Willow as the two of them stepped round to see what he was looking at. For a brief and bewildering moment the three of them were staring at what looked like the aftermath of intimacy – at lovers, caught entangled in each other’s arms; sated, satiated and lost in self abandonment
Then the rest of it began to register; the exhausted lines on Buffy’s face, the pale, unhealthy pallor of the man she so fiercely embraced, the contents of the first aid kit scattered across the floor – and the bundle of blood stained gauze and wadding tossed aside on the coffee table.
"God," Riley realised, perception shifting with horrified comprehension. This wasn’t a lover’s tryst – it was a field hospital, with the duty medic using every resource at her command to support and save her patient. Two short strides took him to her side and he hunkered down, considering both her and her company with concern.
"Buffy?" he called softly, hoping to wake her without undue alarm. He knew better than to try shaking the Slayer awake. "Buffy?"
She stirred, blinking blearily, fighting her way out of her dreams. "Will?" she frowned, focusing on the figure at the foot of the couch. Her head turned. "Riley …? Oh god!" Memory slapped her wide wake, her arms instinctively tightening around the man within them. "Giles …"
Riley had already been reaching to check for a pulse, concerned about how pale and still the Englishman was; he relaxed as little as he found one, even if it was a little faint and erratic under his fingertips. "He’s still with us," he reported, correctly interpreting the fear that had blossomed in his girlfriend’s eyes. "But pretty well out of it, I’m afraid."
"I didn’t mean to fall asleep," she said, sounding anxiously contrite. "He was so cold … I was just trying to keep him warm."
"You did exactly the right thing," Riley assured her, relieved to hear her explanation. He’d known there was no reason to panic, just because he’d found them quite so intimately – and nakedly – entangled. Well – he ought to have known. A piece of him was still extremely disconcerted by the entire thing.
"B-body warmth," Tara was noting approvingly. "G-good idea."
Willow nodded anxiously, moving round to stare down at the scattered bandages and the blood caked gauze. "Buffy – what happened? You said – you said the demons didn’t hurt anyone."
"They didn’t," she answered bleakly. "It was me. I - I shot him."
"What?" Riley chorused the reaction, echoing Tara’s astonishment and Willow’s bemused exclamation.
"I shot him," Buffy repeated slowly. "I didn’t mean too. The demon jumped me, and the crossbow went off … but I should have heard it coming, should have been ready for it. I didn’t even realise he was hurt until – well, I dealt with the Sifur and then looked for the second and – I thought it had got him. Only he’d got it first, and it had pinned him under the water so … " She realised she was babbling and she grimaced guiltily, trying to get herself back on track. "The bolt … got him in the leg. Went deep. He said it was just a flesh wound, but – when I pulled it out? There was heaps of blood. And I think it might be – infected, or something."
Riley shifted sideways to carefully peel back blankets and examine the problem. Willow pulled in a worried breath as he exposed a swathe of blood soaked bandages; her reaction made Buffy wince. "It’s bad, isn’t it," she said, her face creasing in anxious distress.
"Could be worse." He’d spent innumerable hours learning the rigours of field first aide; how to deal with bullet wounds and shrapnel damage, the dangers of barbed wire, phosphorus grenades and landmines … This was a fairly simple injury compared to most of those. The bolt would have gone in clean and – if he knew Buffy – come out again the same way. There’d be no shockwave or potentially necrotic damage around the wound, since the impact velocity would have been much lower than that associated with a bullet – and there didn’t seem to be any bones broken either. The two worst dangers were the hypovolemic shock associated with loss of blood – and the possibility of infection, which would be fairly high, given the circumstances surrounding the injury. Buffy’s inventive – if slightly unorthodox – treatment appeared to have reduced some of the first risk, but the second was still a concern. He reached down to tug out his own first aid kit, automatically going into officer mode as he did so. This was an emergency and he’d been trained to deal. "Where did you pull the bolt? Down there, or back here?"
"Back here." Buffy nodded towards the coffee table. "We were both – kinda gunked, you know? The sewers were no place to deal with the problem. I showered first." She paused and glanced at Willow with sudden self consciousness. "Cleaned him up, too …"
"Good girl," Riley registered, sorting out fresh bandages and frowning over the packets of powder and ampoules of drugs that had been underneath them. She’d got that right at least. "That’ll have cut down the risk of secondary infection. Now," he went on briskly, looking up at her with expectation, "did he take anything? For the pain? Uh – " He glanced round, wondering what might have been to hand. "Ibuprofen? Paracetamol?"
She blinked at him. Willow – who’d turned to murmur something to Tara – turned back and did much the same.
"O-kay," Buffy said warily. "I have to carry him in here, because he’s being ‘nearly passing out from the agony guy’ – and you ask me if I gave him headache tablets?" She paused, thinking about it. "Should I have done?"
"W-willow bark and feverfew tea w-would have been good," Tara suggested helpfully. "With some Valarian in it, perhaps."
"That would have mellowed him out," Willow agreed, then frowned. "But not very quickly …"
Buffy gave them both an arch look. "Well, yes. Giles – tea – might have been an option, but – no. Needed something stronger …"
"Like what?" Riley demanded suspiciously. "Buffy - I’ve got stims and anti-inflammatories and some other neat stuff, but – I can’t just pump them into him without some idea of the effect they’re going to have. What did he take?"
There was a discomforted pause; one in which a vaguely pained look twisted across the Slayer’s face. "A - bottle of Scotch," she admitted reluctantly. "He asked for it." Her defence was swift, driven by the look of horror which had crossed Riley’s face. "He needed it. And – and it made – everything – a lot easier," she concluded, tailing off under the impact of his frown.
Riley shook his head in utter disbelief. "My god," he breathed. "Where do you people think you are? In some – hokey dime novel? That kind of field medicine went out with the Civil War. You don’t give a … Look," he said. "It may look good in the movies, Buffy, but that was – well, stupid. Way too great a risk. And what in hell was he thinking of?"
"Probably how much he hurt," she retorted, stung by his criticism. Her arms tightened on her charge, gathering him in defensively. "He was in agony, Riley. Being all – macho and brave and ‘not your fault, Buffy’ … He knew the bolt had to come out, he knew it was going to be bad, and he just – needed something to numb the pain. I didn’t have anything else. What was I supposed to do?"
"Take him to the ER," Riley declared, wondering why she hadn’t, why she’d even considered trying to deal with the situation by herself. "You may go around armed like a medieval outlaw, but this is the 21st Century. We have these people? Called doctors? Trained professionals. With local anaesthetics and whole blood and – I cannot believe you took that kind of risk. He should have insisted -"
"He insisted no ER," Buffy shot back angrily. "That was the risk. He wouldn’t let me take him. He refused to go."
"Buffy," he reacted, rolling his eyes. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. "Are you telling me – "
"Uh? Guys? Guys!" Willow’s demand drew both their attentions. She was glaring at them with agitated disquiet. "Wounded Giles. Needs help now. Argue later, okay?"
Riley opened his mouth to make a retort – then shut it with an annoyed snap. She was right. The injured man needed attention, and that was the priority; the fact that he was in the condition he was because he – and his Slayer – had taken stupid, idiotic risks with his life, instead of seeking sensible help … well, he could talk that out with Buffy later. He’d have thought a man like Giles would know better – but obviously not.
"Okay," he muttered, still irked by the situation. "High blood alcohol – I guess the stims are out. I can dust the wound and redress it, try a couple of things here … Rig a drip, maybe. He’ll be dehydrated. We need to get some fluids back into him …"
"Good," Willow acknowledged with more than a hint of relief. "That’s good. Buffy – you look exhausted. Why don’t you slip upstairs and get some rest. I’m – I’m sure Giles won’t mind if you use his bed for a couple of hours and we can take care of everything down here."
Buffy’s didn’t look too happy at the idea. "I don’t know, Will …"
"He’ll be fine," the witch insisted, moving round to hunker down beside her friend and smile at the man sleeping in her arms. "Tara and I’ll keep an eye on things. There’s this – cosy comfort spell we know? You cast it on a blanket, or a coat – and it wraps itself around and keeps whoever’s in it warm as toast. We can do one for you, too. You’ll sleep better," she cajoled gently.
The suggestion – or the sympathy, it was hard to tell which – lifted a reluctant smile to Buffy’s lips. "I am tired," she admitted. "You really think he won’t mind?"
She didn’t mean using the man’s bed – she was asking about abandoning him, about leaving him in her friend’s hands while she attended to her own needs. Riley frowned over his rummaging, a little bothered by what that implied. He knew she cared about the man, but - that much? Or was that her guilt talking, her anxiety over having been the cause of this little problem? Either way it disconcerted him, although he couldn’t put his finger on why; he hardly had reason to be jealous of Giles – and he was well aware of the potential traumas that arose when friendly fire was involved. Willow was giving Buffy one of those warm and supportive looks that she did so well. It was working its usual magic too.
"Of course he won’t, silly." The witch’s smile held hints of amusement. "In fact - if he were awake? He’d be all – ‘off to bed, this instant, Buffy,’ and ‘why are you still sitting there, young lady?’"
That ellicited a tired grin – and a soft chuckle. "He would, wouldn’t he? Okay. Maybe just – an hour. Or two. I mean – he’s not going to wake up for a while, is he? And he is gonna be okay …"
"He’ll be fine," Riley told her, echoing Willow’s earlier assurance. "He’s weak, but he’s stable – certainly not in any immediate danger. You both need to sleep, Buffy. Go. We’ll worry about him from here on in."
The look Buffy threw him wasn’t entirely confident about that – but she sighed, and nodded, and carefully eased herself out from under her charge. Giles protested the disturbance, despite the depth of slumber which had claimed him; he stirred and muttered, settling back into insensibility as Buffy gently lowered him into the cocoon of warmth she’d left behind. Willow reached in to help out with pillows and tucked blankets, efficiently displacing the weary Slayer, who took a step back and stood there, hovering uncertainly.
Riley couldn’t help the glance he threw in her direction. She looked so damn cute like that, with her hair all tousled and her body draped in nothing more than a rumpled shirt. He wondered – briefly – if its owner would notice if she didn’t give it back for a couple of days – then grimaced and hastily returned to the task in hand. If he let his thoughts wander too far in that direction, he was going to start grinning inanely whenever he saw Giles in that particular shirt – which might give everyone the wrong idea entirely …
"Bed," Willow ordered briskly, shooing Buffy in the relevant direction. She went reluctantly, half walking backwards as she made her way to the foot of the stairs. Tara – at an encouraging tilt of her girlfriend’s head – circled round to meet her there; the two of them vanished up the steps and into the sanctuary of the loft above.
"Tara’ll tuck her in – make sure she’s all cosy," Willow smiled, then moved over to peer over Riley’s shoulder. "How bad is it?"
"Bad," he reported tersely. He’d cut through Buffy’s makeshift bandage and was carefully peeling back the blood soaked wadding that lay beneath it. The skin under his hands was swollen and hot to the touch, suggesting deep seated infection; much to his relief, the wadding peeled away cleanly, revealing a dark red, angry bruising, in the middle of which lay the equally angry puncture wound. He’d half expected it to start bleeding again, but what came out was a bubbling of pink tinged fluid and milky pus.
"Ew," the witch at his shoulder reacted, her expression wrinkling with disgust. "Should it be doing that?"
"Not really," he said, frowning at the problem, and wishing that Buffy had had the sense to leave well enough alone. Although … His frown deepened as he identified the angle of entry, and the way she’d managed to extract the bolt in a clean reflection of the way it had gone in. They’d have never managed that, even at the ER. Slayer strength had some advantages; a doctor would probably have had to cut the shaft out, exacerbating the damage and leaving a potentially ugly scar. As it was, the muscle had been sharply penetrated, but wasn’t too badly torn. Which was a good thing – or would be, if it weren’t for the evidence of contamination, lurking deep within the wound.
"It’s infected, isn’t it?" Willow’s question was anxious; he wished he could give her better news.
"I’d say so. Wouldn’t take much. A few fibres dragged in by the point of the bolt – anything on the bolt itself …" He shook his head, his face creasing with concern and a sense of helpless frustration. "This wound’s really deep. There’s no way I can get it clean. Not without – cutting into it in some way. Heat might do it, but – " He shook his head a second time, reaching down to scoop up a handful of gauze and wipe the oozing gunk from the surface of the injury. "- no, that really would be dime novel stuff. You don’t treat something like this by driving a red hot poker into it. Well," he corrected pedantically, "it would deal with the infection. But it would probably cripple him for life. Best I can do is try mixing some of the antibiotic powders in saline and injecting them into the muscle. It might work. But I think we’re looking at some serious blood poisoning here. And if the wound goes necrotic …"
"Gangrene," Willow interjected with a shudder. "Right?"
"Right." Riley sighed. This was all so stupid. If Buffy had just taken Giles straight to the ER, he’d be safely tucked up in a hospital bed by now, thoroughly dosed with sensible medicines and probably looking at no more than a few days stay in professional hands. Instead of being half dead from shock, and facing a very real possibility of losing his leg. Maybe if they called the paramedics now …
"Okay." The witch took a deep breath, glancing at their patient with what almost looked like apology. "Move over."
"What?"
"Move over. There’s something I can – I can try. But I need to get at the wound to do it."
"What?" he repeated, looking at her blankly. What on earth was she talking about?
She frowned at him, reaching out to apply a gentle shove; he took the hint and shuffled across, giving her room to crouch in his place. "Can’t be hard," she was saying, the look on her face suggesting otherwise. "It’s just like - removing a splinter. Only deeper. And ickier. And it’s a good job he’s asleep, because I think this is gonna hurt. Sorry, Giles," she apologised, even though he couldn’t hear her. "Be brave."
That sounded like advice to herself, rather the man she addressed. Her right hand fumbled inside her pocket and came back with a small silver ankh, which she pressed into their patient’s palm and held there, her fingers gently lacing into his. Riley frowned as she just as carefully put out her left hand and held it above the injury, palm down and fingers spread wide. Surely she wasn’t going to – oh yes, she was.
"Blessed Isis, Mother of life, gift me with the skill of thy hand, open thy heart and hear my plea. That which was whole and unblemished is now broken and torn. That which was pure is now unclean. The poison is in the blood, the contamination within the flesh. Let it be drawn forth. Let the impure be taken from the pure. Let the corruption be cleansed."
There was a light, flaring from her palm, shimmering around her fingers. It painted angry flesh and somehow penetrated it, sinking into skin, turning it semi-translucent. Willow’s hand was trembling and her face was taut with concentration; the spell was a demanding one and it looked as if she were having difficulty controlling it.
"By Isis, I command it. In the name of the keeper of gates, in the name of the speaker of secrets. By Thoth and by Nuit, and by Horus, I will it. Let it be so. Let the hidden be revealed, let the foulness be rejected. Let it be so!"
The wound suddenly bubbled pus, spilling it out like a milk pan boiling over on a stove. Giles shivered violently. Every muscle in his body tensed. Sweat bloomed across his skin. For a moment, Riley was convinced he was about to wake, but all he did was voice a low, anguished moan of protest before relaxing back into limp unconsciousness. The spellcaster pulled her hand back as if she’d been burned – and the foam of sallow, repugnant pus was suddenly replaced by a welling of rich, deep red blood.
"Ow," Willow complained a little plaintively, staring at her palm in perturbation. "I felt that."
"Just be glad he didn’t," Riley retorted, pulling himself out of his startled state and hastily pressing a fresh bundle of dressing against the now bleeding wound. "Neat trick."
"Not so good," she decided, looking decidedly shaken. "I forgot he’d been drinking. I think I – I think I just purged all the alcohol, too …"
That would explain a few things. Like the sudden sour scent in the air and why Giles was now drenched in sweat – and shivering. "Oh, great," Riley grumped, one hand applying pressure to stop the bleeding and the other groping for clean wadding to wipe away the ugly residue of the spell. "Willow – if he wakes up before we’re done here, he’ll be screaming. Which will wake Buffy up. Not to mention the neighbours."
She nodded her understanding of that, retrieving her right hand and placing it gently on the wounded man’s forehead. "Shadows of Morpheus, those that enfold this soul. Loose not thy hold until I call." There was another, far briefer, flare of light under her hand – and Riley blinked at her, a little taken aback by the ease with which she’d cast the second spell. Especially after the effort of the first. Willow smiled. At Giles, rather than him. "That’s a little more effective than ‘sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite,’" she explained, reaching down to close the sleeping man’s fingers around the ankh she’d given him. "If the subject trusts you. And if they’re already asleep, of course."
"Of course." Riley suppressed a small shiver; he wasn’t comfortable about magic, or the way the witch seemed to use it so freely. He knew what he knew, and he trusted in facts, not mumbo-jumbo and stuff like that. The spell did seem to have been effective though; the swelling round the wound had been noticeably reduced and – once he’d cleaned the gunk away – the wound itself smelt a lot healthier too. He treated it with some high-tech magic of his own – a dust of antibiotics, some antiseptic dressings, a one-shot syringe full of anti-inflammatory drugs and several layers of fine mesh bandage – and then carefully tucked the blankets back over the injury, conscious that their patient needed to be kept warm and comfortable.
Tara had returned by then, reporting Buffy’s departure into the land of nod with a relieved smile. He set her to work making up some saline, using distilled water and a measured amount of the powders stored in the kit. That didn’t take her long; after she’d come back with the bottle, Willow drew her aside to cast their ‘cosy’ spell on a spare blanket while Riley rigged a feed line and an IV drip. Giles was still worryingly pale, and in an unnaturally deep sleep – although some of that was Willow’s fault, and she knew it.
"I’ll keep him asleep a while longer," she decided, draping the enchanted blanket over him and being careful not to disturb the fluid line as she did so. "He’ll be weak as a kitten when he wakes up. And he’ll hate that. Having to be waited on, hand and foot for a while …" She paused to think about what she’d said, earning herself an amused smile from Tara.
"He-he’ll say he hates it," the blonde witch suggested, "but – he-he’ll love all the attention. Really. All the w-while he needs it."
"And a little longer after that," Willow grinned. "We can do the pampering thing. All – ‘can I get you anything,’ and ‘let me do that for you ‘… should be kinda fun."
"H-he deserves a little TLC," Tara agreed warmly. "Everybody d-does. Now and then."
Willow grimaced knowingly. "Especially when your Slayer shoots you," she pointed out. "Poor Buffy. She’s gonna feel so bad about that."
"Friendly fire happens," Riley said thoughtfully. "Wrong place, wrong time, wrong information ... Bad timing and combinations of bad circumstances. It happens. Nobody likes to admit it, but it does. To be perfectly honest, I’m surprised something like this hasn’t happened before." The two witches exchanged a wary look, one that Riley pounced on with enthusiasm. "It has, hasn’t it," he realised, unable to suppress the smugness that crept into his expression. "Of course it has. This isn’t the first time someone’s got hurt by mistake."
"Well …" Willow was reluctant to confirm his conclusions. "Sort of … Uh – Miss Calendar shot Giles once. That was with a crossbow. But she was aiming at a vampire. And he wasn’t really hurt. Not much, anyway …"
"Right," Riley snorted. "Just a scratch, I suppose." He closed the lid of his emergency kit with an efficient snap. "Didn’t that teach any of you a lesson? I’ve seen you - seen him – taking stupid risks and facing up to things that could simply tear you apart. I don’t understand why Buffy lets you do it. Why she involves any of you in what she does. As for this little stunt – well, I know she’s upset, but she should have seen it coming. Anyone could have done. I know exactly what happened. He got in Buffy’s way. You all go chasing around in the dark, playing with dangerous weapons as if this were all some kind of a game."
Willow was frowning at him by now, her face creased with indignation. "It’s not a game," she denied. "It never has been. This is war, Riley. Giles knows that. Buffy knows that. They both know the risks – and they don’t take chances unless … well, unless it’s the only way."
"I know Buffy is good at what she does," he said, picking up the kit and replacing it in his bag. "But - she’s fighting a war backed up by bumbling amateurs. There’s no discipline, there’s no tactical planning and there appears to be a complete lack of common sense." His anger at the situation bubbled up, expressing a frustration he hadn’t really been aware existed until now. "Demon hunting’s a job for trained professionals, not civilians who haven’t got a clue what they’re doing. I know Giles means well, but - Buffy should never have taken him along in the first place."
There. He’d said it. And he was going to have to say it to Buffy, too, even if it did make her feel worse about what she’d done - about what had happened. Tara was frowning at him – and Willow was giving him a very odd look.
A very odd look indeed.
"You really don’t get this, do you," she said. There was a note of sorrowed sympathy in her voice, one that was echoed in her eyes. "I thought you did. I thought, after Adam, after everything … But you just … Riley," she said quietly, "when it comes to this war? Giles is the professional."
He threw her a grimace of disbelief, stalking round the end of the couch to hang his bag on the back of a handy chair. "Right," he drawled. "And I’m a trained librarian. Come on, Willow. I know Buffy is the Slayer. She gets all the superpowers and stuff. I get that. But the rest of you …"
"The rest of us, maybe." Her words were patient, spoken as if she were trying to explain things to a child. "Most Slayers don’t get Scooby gangs. Although maybe they should, because we do a good job here. But that’s not the point. What Slayers do get is Watchers. And if they’re really lucky, they get a Watcher like Giles. This is his world, and even Buffy needs his guidance in it. Especially Buffy. He’s trained her, and he’s supported her, and she wouldn’t have survived without him. None of us would." She paused, taking a careful breath; this was clearly something she felt strongly about, something she wanted him to understand. "You’ve been a soldier for a while, haven’t you."
It was a statement, not a question, but he answered it anyway, wondering where she was going with all this. "I enlisted pretty young, I suppose. It felt right to me. Especially after the Initiative gave me some intensive training. They said I had an aptitude for it."
She acknowledged that – and all that lay behind it – with a wry smile. "There’ve been Watchers in Giles’ family for generations. He was born to it. In some ways he’s been fighting this war his entire life."
Riley’s glance towards the couch was involuntary. That did put a different perspective on things – a slightly disconcerting one, if he stopped to think about it. All his life? That was what? Forty plus - nearly fifty years?
"Think about it," Willow advised softly, moving round to join him. "Think about what he knows, what he’s done, what he’s faced – and then tell me he’s nothing more than an amateur and a civilian and has no idea what he’s doing. You may be a soldier – and a good one – with a little experience of the things that lurk in the dark. I know you love Buffy. Actually, you both love her, probably more than she knows. But he’s her Watcher. With centuries of experience behind him, generations of dedication and sacrifice. He knows what being the Slayer means. He understands her destiny. A lot more than she does, I suspect. And for him – she comes first. Or – maybe it’s the cause that comes first - but then she’s the cause, so that works out okay. He’s even defied the Watcher’s council in order to defend her – which is bit like you disobeying the President and the Pentagon and all that stuff, I guess. The thing is," she ploughed on, "he knows more about her, and what she stands for, and what it is she fights, and why she fights it, than you ever will. And as long as he feels she needs him, he’ll be there, backing her up, doing whatever’s necessary. Even if what’s necessary is risking his health or his life or his sanity, or even all three.
"You have to get this, Riley. You have to understand it. You’re her boyfriend. We’re her friends, her sidekicks, her little Scooby gang. We get to tag along, to help her out, to give her a hand - and that’s good and that’s right, and all that sort of stuff – but she is the Slayer. This is her fight, her destiny. She can’t escape it – and neither can Giles. She’s been his life – the *focus* of his life – since he was ten years old. That’s before she was even born. He was trained to help her, trained to guide her, trained to fight her war, and charged with a duty to serve that he takes very seriously.
"That isn’t just what he is. It’s who he is. He’s her Watcher. Sometimes even Buffy forgets that – but he never does. And neither should you."