ONTOGENESIS

Chapter Two:

"This is turning into one weird day," Buffy decided, pausing to glance at herself in the mirror and shuddering at what she glimpsed there. Giles was right. She really had to clean herself up before she started digging into wounded flesh – and he might well be right about the whiskey too, although she knew she shouldn’t be encouraging him; he’d been doing a little too much of that just lately. Experience told her he could be a moody drunk and, if that turned out to be the case, this was not going to be a wild fun time for anyone.

But he’d giggled.

And said she’d got a pretty backside and where exactly was Mister embarrassed guy Giles, who ought to have been lying there totally mortified because he was completely buck naked and that was something she’d never thought she’d see, not in a gazillion years. Maybe it was because he was in more pain than he wanted to admit. Or just maybe it was because of the shock and the loss of blood, and the Scotch had gone straight to his head.

He ought to be mad at her. She’d gotten sloppy, and he’d paid the price for her inattentiveness. She should have heard that second Sifur coming, should have been ready when it charged out of the dark. Instead it had taken her completely by surprise – and while the consequences could have been a lot worse, it was going to be a long time before she forgave herself for making such an elementary mistake. When had she lost her edge? She’d been training with Riley almost everyday …

"Oh God," she breathed, rolling her eyes as she began to hurriedly peel herself out of her damp and disgusting clothing. Could she be anymore of an idiot? ‘I need you to be my Watcher again,’ she’d told him, worrying about the book stuff, about learning from the past and knowing how to deal with off the wall things like Sifur demons. But, now she thought about it, that was only part of what Giles had brought to their partnership, and could bring again. Sarcastic words, stirred by Spike, and unleashed by the perfidy of drink, echoed in her head; ‘you don’t train with me anymore. He’ll kick your bloody ass …’ He’d been right. He’d never just been teacher, or trainer, or Mr Book Guy, no matter how good he’d been at all three. He was her Watcher. He’d watched her. Analysed her. Criticised her. Challenged her. Kept her on her toes and kept her alive.

The first Slayer might think she could do this on her own - and maybe she could. But with Giles Watching her, doing what he’d been trained to do, Buffy knew she could do it a whole lot better.

Provided she didn’t kill him first, of course …

She sighed, throwing the last piece of underwear at the laundry basket as she stepped into the bathtub. Giles had kept insisting that it wasn’t her fault. But it was. Not just her mistake in the sewers, the wild shot and the resultant damage from friendly fire. No. It was all her fault The way she’d lost sight of her destiny and his role in supporting it. The way she’d turned away from him, without a moment’s thought, without any consideration at all.

Spike’s little digs would never have torn open those painful wounds if they hadn’t been lurking there in the first place. She’d never meant to hurt him. Anymore than she’d meant to sink a six inch long crossbow bolt into him today. But she had. She'd spent months peppering his heart with missiles just as merciless as the silver tipped bolt. And the worst of it was that he’d taken every shot and endured every wound with patient, if pained indulgence. Had she always been such a selfish bitch, tied up in her own affairs and focused on her emotional needs at the expense of those around her? Was that why he’d put up with her behaviour – put up with her - the way he had? Had he expected her to treat him like that? She hoped not. She really, really hoped not. Because, looking back, she couldn’t forgive herself for what she’d put him through. She’d neglected him. Ignored him. And – what was worse – abandoned him at times he’d probably needed her most.

He was Giles, wasn’t he? Loyal supporter, staunch defender, father confessor, trusted friend - tried and true. Her Watcher. He’d dedicated his life to her long before she’d even been born; she was his Slayer, and it was time she started acting like it. Time she remembered that – not only did she need him – he also needed her.

She grimaced, scrubbing the soap across her skin with determined vigour. He needed her now – and she needed to be quick, not linger in the heat, however pleasant it might be to sluice away the clinging muck. What must he have thought though, this past year? He’d watched her all right; watched her waltz off to college with barely a backwards glance. Watched her get all tied up in her eagerness to be with Riley, seen her dazzled and distracted by Professor Walsh, and seduced by the newness of the Initiative. She’d let Adam manipulate her, let Spike drive a wedge between her and her friends … and all the while she’d just expected Giles to be there, like an old and treasured piece of furniture, stored away in the box room of her life, waiting for the days when she’d stumble over it, finding comfort in its battered familiarity.

He had been there. Of course he had. Part of that wonderful, inexpressible moment when souls had touched and there had been magic. Magic which had saved the world …

But he wasn’t an armchair, or an ottoman. He was a human being, a complex, complicated man. True, he came with a few, inevitable human failings, but with them he’d been gifted with a soul and a passion so deep that it could sometimes take your breath away. He kept that hidden, of course. So well, in fact, that it was easy to forget the raging currents and the lurking depths that lay beneath the calm and quiet surface he presented to the world. No living with his heart on his sleeve for Rupert Giles. He buried it under layers of learning, of musty tradition, of rules and protocols and propriety. It lay nestled behind the armour of his books, behind the walls of his wisdom, warmed by a rebellious spark of fire, that murmur of self that was both his strength and his weakness. Ripper had been an arrogant young thug, brash and confident, willing to try anything, do anything. Rupert had outgrown him. He’d moved on and become much more. But a part of his earlier self remained, giving him an dangerous edge, a smouldering cloak of shadow which he could draw around himself and wield like a weapon of war. Buffy had only seen that side of him a few times, but it was always there, always lurking, somewhere.

Somewhere behind those eloquent, expressive eyes.

She heaved a much deeper sigh than the first, dipping her head into the shower stream. Giles could be his own worst enemy some days. He was so easy to tease, to wind up, to run rings around – and because it was so easy, it was equally easy to go that little bit too far, to slip from gentle ribbing into thoughtless cruelty. When that happened, the barbs sank home with savagery, just like the crossbow bolt earlier that day. And – just like the physical wound – each thoughtless attack threatened infection, the taint of bitterness, the festering of resentment. The only way to treat that kind of damage was to lance it with love.

She hadn’t been doing a lot of that, just lately.

"Yeah, right," she muttered, massaging shampoo into her hair with determined fingers. "Knows it. How does he know it? I haven’t told him. Not recently. Haven’t been acting like it either." Even the hardiest, the most stubborn of things die if they’re neglected. His love for her – and that was something that would take a long time to kill – wouldn’t be enough if she didn’t give something back in return. She should be doing the nurturing thing. She managed Mom and Dawn time. She needed to organise a little Giles time too.

There’d been a moment – down in the sewers, close enough to still be echoing through her soul – when she’d seen him vanish beneath the surface of the muck in a flail of demon limbs; when she’d seen the waters ripple - and then go still. It had been at that moment, right there, right then, that she’d realised that losing him was not an option. That a life without Rupert Giles in it would be barren and cold and eternally empty.

It had been a very scary moment.

One she hoped she’d never have to live though again.

She rinsed the shampoo away quickly, only too aware that every she minute spent was one more that he had to endure. He might be busy drowning his senses in Scotch, but all that was going to do was numb the pain – not deal with the source of it. The damage she’d done was worrying her. He’d been dismissive about it, insisting it was nothing more than a flesh wound. As if. Flesh wounds were minor injuries, barely more than skin deep – not having most of a six inch long shaft buried deep into muscle, angled in towards the bone. And then there was all the muck they’d had to wade through, getting out of the tunnels, and the damage exacerbated by the long walk and the climb at the end of it. It would be a miracle if the wound wasn’t infected – and if it was …

Well, she was never going to forgive herself anyway, so that’d just be an ‘add to the guilt’ thing, and she’d have to live with it. She should have suggested calling Riley on the walk back; Riley had had training for this sort of thing, would still have access to essential supplies, like antibiotics and stuff like that. She still could call him, of course – and maybe she would, once she’d dealt with the immediate problem – but a piece of her baulked at waking him at this early hour, of having to explain why she’d gone hunting without him. It hadn’t been personal. Just – she’d invited Giles on this one – and she hadn’t been about to insult him by bringing along some gung-ho backup when neither of them had needed it. And once she’d explained that, she was still going to have to explain that – no, Giles hadn’t screwed up, she had, and the damage had been the result of friendly fire.

Not a conversation she looked forward to having. With Riley – or the rest of the Scoobies, who’d undoubtedly want to pamper her wounded Watcher and give her ‘bad Buffy’ looks while doing it.

Well, Giles probably deserved some pampering, but she doubted he could face the entire Scooby tribe right now. Especially as he was currently lying stark naked in his living room and well on the way to drinking himself into oblivion. Good reasons for both, of course, but even so … No, she’d created this situation and she’d deal with it. She’d get him cleaned up, tend to his wounds and settle him sensibly into bed before she started calling anyone else in on this.

Gods – she could just imagine what Spike would say if he found out …

Her ablutions complete, she climbed out of the tub, squeezing the excess moisture out of her hair before reaching for the nearest towel. She rubbed both hair and self dry with haste, wishing she had a little more time to appreciate the luxury of Giles’ amber dark towels with their deep pile softness and ‘size of a small country’ hugeness. She could have worn one as a sarong. She was almost tempted to try it – but sense prevailed and she dropped the wet towel into the laundry basket along with her filthy clothes before padding across to raid the airing cupboard again.

She pulled out a second clean sheet, added two more of those wonderful towels to the pile and then slid the nearest clean shirt off its hanger. A blue-grey one, with a hair thin stripe of burgundy woven into the fabric.

Totally well tailored understatedness.

Totally – well, Giles.

On her it took on a whole new aspect. She paused by the mirror to check it out, making sure all her assets were decently covered – and she remembered barging in that day to find Olivia draped in just such a garment, wearing it like a smug trophy, infinitely comfortable in his trappings.

She’d hated the woman’s guts.

She’d got over that, of course she had. Giles was entitled to a personal life and Olivia had been kind of nice once you got to know her. But she hadn’t been able to cope with the terrors of life in Sunnydale and had vanished back to England, leaving only echoes of herself behind.

Echoes. The fruit scented shampoo had probably been hers; Buffy had found it tucked in behind the sensibly masculine bottle of medicated stuff in the cupboard. She’d briefly wondered why Giles would hang on to such a thing – and then she’d recalled the tube of Riley’s brand of toothpaste she kept in her wash bag, and had grinned quietly to herself. Some things you just kept, because you wanted to.

She tugged the shirt down a little, conscious that she was wearing absolutely nothing underneath it. Her underwear had been as filthy as the rest of her stuff, and no way was she climbing back into it again. Then she scooped up the clean sheet and the towels and headed out into the living room again.

Where she found Giles, lying right where she’d left him – and singing to himself.

He was doing it quietly. Nothing loud or raucous, even if the notes were punctuated by the odd giggle and the occasional slurred word. It was a mellow, ‘not a care in the world’ kind of sound, and Buffy had to smile at it, even if it meant he’d got through a lot more of that whiskey than was probably good for him. Of course, that also meant he’d have to have been hurting a lot more than he’d been admitting too.

Hey - she knew that song …

Take my hand and take my heart, give me your trust, your faith
And I will guide you through the night
To a world where we’ll be safe.
A world where you and I will share
The truth we can’t deny
When all the fear is left behind and the pain is just a lie.
Why must we stray from Fate’s woven path?
Why must we wander so far apart?
I am your anchor in life’s endless sea
And you are my destiny
You are my harmony
You are the reason for me …

Buffy blinked. She knew Giles had surprisingly eclectic tastes in music, but that was – well, being just too trendily obscure for words. The song had been on the last ‘Immortal’s’ album, for god’s sake. The one they’d released after their lead singer had so mysteriously disappeared back in ‘99. It had been a limited edition, strictly ‘die-hard’ fans only production; one of those ‘you need to know someone who knows someone’ CD – and they’d only ever released one single from it.

Which hadn’t been that particular track.

The Immortals had been an Oz thing; a group he’d admired even if they hadn’t played his usual, everyday sort of music. After he’d got hold of a copy of the CD, Willow had made a tape of it and passed it on, insisting that she listen to it. Which she’d done. And liked. In a ‘late at night, staring at the stars’ kind of way. It was the sort of music you could get lost in, drowning yourself and your dreams in the lyrical echoes of the singer’s haunting voice. Will had teased her, once she’d admitted to playing the tape, suggesting that some of the lyrics dropped hints about the Slayer and her world – an insinuation that she’d pooh-poohed with disdain. She didn’t think anyone – least of all a famous rock star – would want to write songs about Slayers. Or Watchers come to that.

But here was Giles – undeniably drunk and singing ‘Reason for me’ with a soulful sincerity that put a whole new spin into its lyrics.

Hear my words and hear my song, let your courage show
And I will guide you through the night
Though the world will never know
No matter how dark the shadows get
How deep the fear may run
Nothing can stand against the truth
When you are I are one.
Why must we stray from Fate’s woven path
Why must we wander so far apart
I am your torch and your sword in the dark
You are my destiny
You are my harmony
You are the reason for me …

There was a pause as Giles tipped back the bottle of Scotch to take another swallow – and then he launched back into the chorus with relish, savouring the melody with earnest expression.

You are my destiny
You are my harmony
You are the reason for me …

The last note died into silence. A reverent, almost sacred silence. One that spoke to her heart and embraced her soul.

"Were – ah – you – ah - intending to stand there all day, or did you have o-other plans?"

"No – ah – yes –um – no." Buffy shook herself out of her reverie with a grimace of irritation. It wasn’t her fault that she liked that song. Or that she liked the way he sang it, even better than the original. She hastened across to the couch, dropped her bundle at the side of it and tugged the now empty bottle out of his hand, putting it safely out of reach. "I didn’t know you were an Immortals fan."

"Not a fan," he denied, sounding a little offended by the idea. "A friend."

"What?" That hadn’t been the comeback Buffy had been expecting. She gave him a startled look, her hand pausing, half extended, as she reached to lift up the sheet so she could check the condition of the wound.

Giles lifted his head a little to return the look with one of his patent, patient stares. The effect was somewhat spoiled by the amused gleam dancing in his eyes. "I knew her. Tansy. Lovely girl. Little – headstrong," he assessed reminiscently. "Very self determined. But a - a true poet. I wasn’t at - at all surprised when she decided to pursue her music rather than continuing with her studies."

"Oh. No. I don’t suppose you were …" Her mind wasn’t entirely focused on the conversation. She’d peeled back the top half of the sheet and was busy examining his injured leg. It wasn’t looking too good. She’d doused the jutting end of the bolt in a liberal dose of the antiseptic stuff before she’d headed for the bathroom, carefully packing a twist of gauze around it to stop the injury from getting any dirtier. The skin and muscle around the shaft was puffed and swollen; it was also turning an angry red in colour. Dark red, and noticeably hot to the touch. The gauze was stained with blood, and the wound stank.

Mind you, so did he.

Buffy bit her lip for a moment, hesitating over what she should do next. The wound clearly needed attention, but then the Scotch seemed to have effectively dealt with the pain issue and it didn’t seem right to leave him lying there reeking like a pigsty. Besides, extracting the bolt was going to demand her full and focused concentration – which she wasn’t sure she’d manage with all those nasty ‘I don’t want to think about it’ smells lingering in the air. It wouldn’t take that long to clean him up, would it?

If she’d made herself think about that, she might have realised she was looking for an excuse not to touch the wound at all. All that angry damage was her fault, and just looking at it made her feel vaguely faint and nauseous. While her head was blithely reassuring her that ‘it’ll keep a little longer’ and ‘he said it wasn’t that bad,’ her heart was busy twisting itself into knots of guilt and denial. She just didn’t want to admit that it might turn out to be as bad as it looked – or face the fact that, as much as it had to hurt going in, it was probably going to hurt even more coming out.

"Okay," she said, reasoning that – whatever she did - keeping him talking was probably a good idea. "I’ll bite. How did you get to know her? I mean, I know – Ripper was in the biz, but - wasn’t that a little before her time?" She hesitated a moment before adding warily: "A lot before her time?"

Normally, a comment like that that would elicit either an arch look, or a hurt frown. She got neither. What she got was a drunken chuckle.

"Actually," he announced, letting his head fall back against the cushions, "she was a student of mine. Placement student. At the museum. Back when – when I had a real life. We had a lot in common – and I think she – she rather liked me. I certainly liked her," he added, the suddenly suggestive note in his voice implying that there’d been rather a lot to like. He chuckled again, and she got the hint – along with the picture, which widened her eyes and earned him an astonished look. This wasn’t passing acquaintance stuff. This was ex-lover talk. Exactly the kind of thing he didn’t talk about when he was sober. Of course, he had had a life before he came to Sunnydale. And in those years post Ripper and pre-being her Watcher he had to have done something to pass the time.

But – Tansy Morgan? She was – mega. A diva of rock. A genuine superstar.

"Liked her music too," he was saying. "Spoke to me …"

"I’m not surprised," Buffy considered briskly, making up her mind and carefully tucking the gauze back into place for the time being. His leg had shifted and shivered under her hands, but he’d given no sign of having felt its distress. "Didn’t they cut one entire album in Ancient Greek?"

"Athalesalonika," he supplied, liking the sound of it so much that he repeated it, shifting emphasis around the word, playing with the syllables and inevitably tripping himself up over them. "Athalesalonika. Athathalesalononika …" She had to smile, laughing with him rather than at him. God, he was so drunk. But oddly happy with it. Of course, alcohol was basically just a mood enhancer. Drink when you’re down and you go down even further; drink when you’re up and .. well, he was definitely in a happy place right now. She wasn’t entirely sure where the mood had come from – but she rather liked him like this.

Although he was probably going to hate himself if he remembered any of it afterwards …

"I have to get you cleaned up," she announced, deciding that it was going to be easier than she’d thought it might be. A piece of her had been dreading the idea, of having to bathe him like a child, because there was no way she could get him back on his feet, let alone into the shower. She wasn’t entirely sure she could have done it, had he stayed sober – but he was way past caring by now. And washing a giggly Giles might actually be kind of fun.

She might even get to find out if he were ticklish …

Chapter Three:

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