ONTOGENESIS

Chapter Seven:

"You’re not asleep, are you?"

Buffy’s realisation was vaguely chagrined. He wondered what had given him away; the fact that he’d been lying so still, perhaps. Or maybe – just maybe – it had been the quiet grin he hadn’t quite been able to keep from creeping onto his face.

He opened his eyes and turned his head in her direction; she was looking at him with mild annoyance and a whole lot of amusement. A look which demanded: ‘you couldn’t have told me sooner and stopped me making an idiot of myself?’

"Should I be?" He smiled at her – and she smiled back, betraying her relief with a snort and a quiet chuckle.

"Guess it’s not compulsory. Well," she added, almost without thinking, "it was while Willow … but, that was – " She broke off, obviously deciding against that revelation – which wasn’t one, since he’d figured it out from the discussion he’d overheard earlier. Since it wasn’t possible to place a Morphean embrace on an unwilling subject, it hadn’t particularly bothered him – although he did wish that Willow understood a little more about the power that she called on so readily. "You had us all very worried, you know?" Buffy was saying. "Oh," she realised, "you wouldn’t know. Being out cold and things, but – you did. For a while. Had me worried. Us worried," she corrected hastily.

He gave her a thoughtful look, realising that she’d meant what she’d said the first time round. She’d been worried. Desperately worried, if he read the look in her eyes aright. And that had been his fault – because he’d made a judgement call, and put himself at risk because of it. "I’m sorry," he said softly.

"No," she reacted, leaving the chair and coming to kneel beside him instead. "No sorries. No apologies. Not about this." She put her hand over his, meeting his eyes with determination. "If you won’t let me take the blame for – for what happened, no way are you taking the blame for what came after. You said no ER, and I agreed – and if I’d thought you were wrong, I’d have taken you, no matter what you said. It was as much my choice as yours, and – well," she concluded reluctantly, "it may have got a little – desperate measures stuff for a while, but … Desperate measures kinda worked and – then Riley came to the rescue and Willow helped and – you’re okay. You are, okay, aren’t you?"

He smiled a little wryly at that. It was typical, that she ask that question last, rather than first, but that was Buffy – and he never resented her for being her, even if it occasionally got a little wearing. He did wonder what she meant by ‘desperate measures,’ but decided not to ask. He’d probably not get a straight answer, anyway. "I’m fine," he assured her, then amended the assessment with a sigh. "Well, I will be. Thanks to you," he added warmly.

She grimaced and squeezed his hand before she let it go. "No thanks to me," she corrected with a hint of asperity. "I shot you. Remember? Still," she sat back and grinned at him. "You sorta got your own back, so – I figure, we’re even. And let us never speak of it again."

Giles frowned at her. Puzzledly. Got his own back? How did he … Sudden horror clutched at his heart.

"Buffy," he said warily, "I hadn’t expected to get – quite that drunk, quite that quickly. If I said – or did anything …"

"No, no," she denied happily, smiling brightly at the suggestion. A reaction which immediately convinced him he had done something. "You were the perfect gentleman. Even when I was … Oh." She frowned briefly. "No. You’d passed out by then. But before that – best behaviour. Mostly. I got a little lost in all the Greek and Latin stuff – but I’m sure you were being very profound." Her grin came back, warm, knowing and yet somehow angelically innocent. "The serenade was great."

"Seran… Oh, lord," he breathed, his heart sinking as deep as the pillows which currently cradled him. He had no memory of any of that. She could be teasing him, of course, but still … He tipped his head back and groaned softly, certain now he’d done something utterly embarrassing - and Buffy chuckled, which just made him feel worse.

"Seriously," she insisted. "It was great. Which reminds me – " She leapt back to her feet and walked around the couch to get to the table. "Mom sent fruit," she said, "and Dawn made me bring chocolate milk, because she always drinks that when she’s sick, and Riley gave me a whole list of stuff to pick up from the drugstore – and - I got you this."

She was back beside him, holding out a packet, a little self consciously. He eased himself up a little, carefully placed his book down on the coffee table – next to the huge bowl of fruit which must have been what she’d put there earlier – and took the package, frowning at it in bemusement. Buffy rarely gave him presents – Christmas, of course, but that was sort of expected. This wasn’t.

Nor was what lay beneath the paper wrappings.

"You don’t have a copy," she was saying brightly. "I-I checked. Before I went out. And I had to get the CD because –well, nobody sells vinyl anymore. But that’s okay, because your stack does have a player, doesn’t it? And you can do me a copy – I’ll let you have a tape, or I’ll do it while I’m here … Unless you don’t want me here when you play it. The first time, I mean. Whichever. Giles? You okay?"

He wasn’t listening to her. He was staring at the slim plastic case in his hands – the case and the image it enclosed. There had been a summer – one long, glorious, too short a summer – when the smile that looked back at him now had been meant for him, and him alone. Then the poet and the music had drifted away, drawn by bright lights and promises, heading for the dizzy heights of a world he’d left behind. He might have followed her if he could – but duty and destiny had determined otherwise.

But she had written him that song, even if she’d never quite believed what he’d told her. Tansy had never really believed in anything. Other than her music – and she’d thought the tales he’d told her had been no more than a dream, the vision of a world where heroes were real and magic happened …

"I had a copy," he said slowly, tracing the outline of the elfin face with his finger, recalling the contours of the real thing. "I had it on tape. But – the machine ate it. I-I always meant to replace it, but – I never quite got round to it." He finally looked up, meeting eyes that were watching him with quiet sympathy. "Thank you, Buffy," he said, meaning it with all his heart. "This is very – thoughtful of you. But – h-how did you know -?"

"You were a friend, not a fan?" She smiled. "You told me. This morning. And – like I said, I checked the collection and realised there was a gap, so …" She looked vaguely embarrassed. "I like their music. Oz was into them, big time, and – I have a couple of tapes, but I try not to play them when Will’s around. Is – this one any good?"

Giles smiled, turning the CD case over to read the list of tracks. ‘Pride of a Man,’ and ‘Holding on’ numbered among them. As did ‘Taken by Prophecy’ – and ‘Beggars and Vagabonds’, which he’d first heard while sitting outside an Oxford pub, late one summer’s night. She’d written that one for him, too – as a joke, a teasing reference to the Saint with whom he shared a name.

"It’s - good," he assessed quietly, wondering what he had said to her that morning – and what else he might have let slip in those unguarded, misplaced moments. "You know – you really didn’t have to – "

"It’s the guilt thing," she grinned, plucking the CD out of his hands. "Makes me do un-Buffy stuff. Like forgetting the jelly doughnuts," she suddenly realised with eye rolling mortification. "And I so had those at the top of the list …"

He had to laugh at her expression – at that look, so familiar, so utterly Buffy, in a way it would be hard to define. He’d tried so hard to keep his distance in those early days, to treat her the way he’d been taught was the only way – and yet somehow she’d slipped past his armour, crept into his heart and made herself at home there.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

"I can see we shall have to work on your memory skills," he said thoughtfully. "Those kind of omissions are totally unforgivable. Did you say something about chocolate milk?"

"Yes, I – oh. Right," she acknowledged. "Be right back."

He settled back into the pillows as she hastened away, trying to ignore the persistent thrum of pain which occupied most of his right leg. It wasn’t that bad; he’d certainly suffered worse in his time - and some of that deliberately inflicted. Besides, if it meant he got to spend a few days with his feet up and the Scooby gang leaping to attend to his every whim, well – that was probably worth putting up with a little misery and sufferance.

"So," Buffy was asking, over the chink of glasses and the sound of the fridge door opening, "whatd’ya want to do? Watch a little TV?" She reappeared with a glass in either hand, taking a sip from one and leaving a chocolatey moustache on her upper lip. "Listen to some music? Have me bring over some more books?"

She handed over the second glass and he took it carefully, studying the thick brown liquid it contained with a thoughtful frown. It hadn’t been that long ago that he’d nearly drowned in something with a very similar colour and consistency …

"Actually," he said, lowering the glass and looking at her instead, "I thought we might take the opportunity to conduct a training session. If you’re really serious about pursing a mastery of your gifts then we have a lot of work to do."

"Work?" she echoed warily, glancing round the room with bemused eyes. "Giles – I can’t train in the middle of your living room. There’s no space. I’ll break things. And you’re flat on your back and should be resting."

"I will be," he countered, taking a cautious sip and savouring the result. The concoction was more chocolate than milk; thick, creamy and sinfully delicious. "You’re the one who’ll be working. I shall simply observe."

"Observe what?" Buffy’s question was suspicious and he fought to keep a smile from his face. This was serious. This was what she’d asked him to do, and he needed to be professional about it.

"You," he said simply. "Breathing. Buffy – we need to work on your focus. Last night was a perfect example of how important it is for you to maintain situational vigilance. You were so intent on the primary target that you failed to recognise any of the secondary information. A Slayer should be aware of her surroundings at all times. Centrally focused, peripherally alert. You need to react instinctively to any change, no matter how small or insignificant. You need to know where your allies and your enemies are, and what they’re doing. You have to become one with the world, read it and recognise it almost without thinking about it. And to do that, you have to spend time listening to it.

"We’ve spent a lot of time working on combat and confrontational skills. I think we should start looking at the wider picture. At control and balance and perception. At mastering your gifts, rather than merely using them."

She blinked at him. "We can do all that?"

Now he could smile, and he did, slipping back into familiar territory, donning his Watcher’s mantle with customary ease.

"We certainly can. Provided you address it with the required effort, and pay attention and actually listen to me, from time to time."

"I listen," she protested, sounding a little hurt. Giles didn’t believe it for a moment. Her eyes were dancing with laughter, acknowledging that subtle resumption of their old relationship. They’d missed this; missed the challenge and the interplay, the complex dance they’d learnt to pursue. Who taught and who learnt? Who led and who followed? It had become harder and harder to tell.

Nor did it really matter. What mattered was the Slayer; honing the edge she needed to survive, the skills and knowledge that kept her one step ahead of her foes.

"I should hope so," he said archly. He took another sip of milk and then gestured with the glass, indicating that she should sit down. "We need to go back to basics. Review the fundamentals and consider how best to build on them. And we will start with breathing."

"Breathing?" Buffy sat down on the floor, putting her own glass comfortably within reach. "Giles – I know how to breathe. I’ve been doing it all my life."

He shook the thought from his head and concentrated on the matter in hand. Back when he’d started Buffy’s training she’d been a wilful, selfish child, always wanting to get to what she called ‘the good stuff’, rushing past the things that might have saved her effort, might have given her an even greater edge. She was still wilful, of course – and still a little self absorbed. But she was no longer a child – and she wanted to learn. Needed to learn.

There was so much he still had to teach her.

"No," he corrected. "You’ve been striving to do it all your life. Now you’re going to do it right. Lie down."

She gave him a slightly disbelieving look, but did as she was told, stretching out on the rug and relaxing with a little shake. "Okay," she said. "So I get a great view of your ceiling. What next?"

"Well," he considered, placing his half empty glass next to the ‘Edda’ and making himself comfortable. As comfortable as he could, given the circumstances. "All good respiration begins with a - a slow and complete exhalation. Which is a prerequisite of correct and complete inhalation. Unless you first breathe out fully it’s impossible to breathe in – correctly. So the first thing you have to do is – empty your lungs. Slowly," he added, just as she was about to force everything out in a quick gasp. "I don’t want to hear it. If you deafen yourself with own breath, y-you’ll never learn to hear the world around you. If I can hear you breathing, then so can every vampire and demon that you try to creep up on."

"That makes sense," she said. "Okay. I breathe out – and breathe in, right?"

"You breathe out. And you only breathe in when I tell you. Not before."

"Oh come on …"

"Not before," he repeated firmly, glaring down at her with stern intent. She got the message. She also grinned at him, which made him roll his eyes and recall why these sort of training sessions were always such hard work.

But rewarding, all the same.

"Out," he ordered and watched her, watched her gather her focus and concentrate on the breath, on the slow, steady elimination of air from her lungs. Giles waited until she’d pushed out the last of it, waited after that until her expression became pained and her eyes pleaded with amused disbelief. "And in," he allowed magnanimously, reaching for his glass. She nearly gulped in relief, but remembered just in time, slowing the inhalation - and giving him time to savour the velvet pleasure of ice cold, chocolate milk. "And – out," he instructed softly. "There is nothing but the breath, nothing but the act of breathing. A shallow breath leaves stale, stagnant air in your lungs. Let it out. Rid yourself of its taint. Breathe in – fresh, clean air. Feel it; filling you, energising you, cleansing you …"

Buffy smiled as she relaxed into the rhythm of the exercise. She felt empowered. Changed. Not just by the breathing, which was giving her an odd sense of euphoria, but by all the events of the day. She’d always known that growing older would give her a different perspective on things. She was aware that she’d grown closer to her mother, and more distant from her sister; that she’d got more confidence in her gifts, and more wary of what they made her. Her first year in college had been part of that change, an exciting, challenging time in her life But she couldn’t believe how close she’d come to losing something that she now realised was so precious, so vital to her well being.

So essential to who and what she was.

Her perceptions had changed. Somewhere along the way, her stuffy, pompous Watcher had turned into someone she cared about very deeply. He didn’t always have the answers and he wasn’t infinitely wise. He was a man, like any other man in many ways – mortal, fragile, subject to human failings and capable of making mistakes. But then, he didn’t make them often – or more than once, for that matter. He had a strength of heart she envied and a profundity of soul she was only just beginning to recognise; he was a complex, passionate man.

And he loved her.

The past few hours had required her to think about that. Think about it pretty carefully. They’d also given her a whole new set of things to think about. Things she wasn’t really sure she wanted to think about. Like how comfortable she’d felt, attending to his intimate needs – or the feel of his hand on her butt, and the weight of his body cradled in her arms …

She pushed those thoughts away, expelling them with one long outward breath. None of that mattered. The love he offered her was one that had no limits or conditions. It was a bluntly honest, and quietly understated emotion, one that came from the heart. It’d never made him blind to her faults, or entirely patient with her shortcomings – but then that was part of what made it so empowering. He believed.

In her.

Believed that she could be the best, that she could meet the challenges of her destiny.

And knowing that he believed, gave her the strength to believe in herself.

His voice washed over her, filling her perceptions, filling her heart; there was nothing but his voice – his voice and the slow surge of air through her lungs, lifting her out of herself, starting her on her journey. A long hard road of self discovery lay ahead of her. It was a journey she couldn’t take without him, and she knew it. He knew it – but he’d never say so, never place himself ahead of her, never lead.

She understood that now. Understood some of the dynamics of their relationship; what he offered her, and what she gave back to him. It was a sobering revelation – and one she treasured; he was her guide and her Watcher, because she was the Slayer.

The chosen one.

She was his reason to be …

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