Reverberations

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Timeline: Up to 'The Witch'

His hands were trembling as they fumbled to get the key in the lock. Not just his hands, either. All of him was trembling, his body shivering with memory and the aftershocks of summoned power. He stumbled into his flat – apartment, old man, remember you’re in the bloody colonies now – and just about made it to the couch, his keys landing with a jangle on the table and the books he’d had tucked under his arm tumbling unheeded to the floor.

He’d regret that in the morning, he knew he would. At least one of those volumes was valuable, and he knew better than to treat a book like that. But right now, the need to sit and shake was far more overwhelming than any sense of proprietary and proper behaviour.

He hated this.

He always had. Hitting the high, riding the magic, catching the moment and surfing the power: that had been unbelievable, better than he remembered … or better than he wanted to remember, that was. But coming down afterwards …

He groaned and tipped his head back, trying to find the centre of the storm, somewhere inside his sense of self. It was hard. Harder than he expected it to be, a reflection of his long years lack of practice and the inevitable discord that resulted from having to counter someone else’s handiwork. He took deep breaths and he counted backwards from twenty in Latin and the trembling stubbornly refused to go away

He didn’t really expect it to.

This, he realised, was the inevitable result of having one’s Slayer collapse into your arms, the unsuspecting victim of a Bloodstone vengeance spell. He hadn’t quite expected the strength of feeling with which he’d reacted to that situation. Nor had he been prepared for the furious anger that had seized hold of his heart as soon as he’d recognised the magic that had ensnared her. He’d given no thought to what he’d have to do to counter it; he’d just done it, consequences be damned, and his soul too, if that’s what it cost to save her.

It hadn’t, which was something of a relief – but he’d come pretty close to making a fool of himself, practically giggling with delight as the old sensations had spiralled up through his body and wreathed their way out of his hands. Hands which should – by all account and the laws of physics – be blistered and scalded by unbearable heat. Thank the gods Buffy hadn’t questioned that, or he’d have been there all night trying to explain the processes behind the transmutations of energy, most of which he didn’t really understand himself. The magic just worked that way.

My first casting, he’d claimed, giddily reaching for some explanation of his hyped up state. Stupid really. Mind you, he could hardly have said: my first casting for nearly twenty years, because the last time I played with this sort of stuff someone ended up dead, which was almost certainly my fault and good lord I’d forgotten just how much of a trip this can be …

No. Not a sensible approach to take at all.

He had forgotten though. Forgotten how it felt to weave the power, to shape it and unleash it with determined intent. It had felt damned good – although not as good as seeing that intent be answered, seeing it rip away the vengeance spell and reconnect Buffy with her Slayer heritage just in time for her to spring to his and Amy’s defence. It had been close though. Close enough for some of his current trembling to be reaction to what might have been. To have lost her, so soon, so pointlessly …

He took another deep breath and let the thought go, focusing on the here and now, on letting his body shake out the remnants of the magic, on giving in to the demands he’d held off for long enough.

Magic cost.

It always did.

He’d be light headed for days, dizzy and probably nauseous with it, which was bloody ridiculous. There’d been a time when he’d have been able to cast such a simple reversal spell without even breaking a sweat. But he was well out of practice and long since out of synch with his own energies; deliberately so, for all sorts of reasons.

This was probably one of them …

He hauled himself to his feet and managed to get to the bathroom just in time. Dry heaves mostly, which were as much psychological as they were true reaction. Events were beginning to catch up with him. He’d been Watching the Slayer for only a few weeks and here he was, breaking solemn oaths and disregarding post hypnotic compulsions without a moments thought and with barely a hesitation. What had he been thinking of?

Rhetorical queston.

He knew exactly what he’d been thinking, and it had had nothing to do with fear of failure, or of having to go back to England and admit to a completion of his duty in so short a time. He hadn’t even stopped to think about things like that.

All he’d ever considered was the fever raging through Buffy’s skin, and the way she’d looked at him so trustingly, expressing her confidence – her faith - that he could and would save her.

There is a moment only a true Watcher knows, his Grandmother had told him once. A moment when they realize that serving the chosen one is truly their destiny, and not just a duty demanded by the council. If that happens – when that happens, guard your heart. Because if you don’t, she will take it, and you will never, ever take it back …

His father had dismissed the idea as sheer nonsense. His Council training had insisted that the Slayer was simply an instrument and should be treated as such. But his father had always been a bad liar, and he’d never known his Grandmother to be wrong – about anything.

Including the fact that the Council didn’t know what it was talking about.

His mind recalled the way Buffy had felt, curled into his arms; so trusting, so confident in his ability to save her. And later: you are a god, she’d declared, and it might have been flattery but it was certainly affectionate, and that had been the moment when his heart – unguarded – had been taken captive, seized and secured, and given up without a moment’s regret.

Rupert Giles gingerly lifted himself to his feet and shakily made his way back to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. When he’d been ten years old, he’d been told he had a destiny awaiting him. He’d tried to escape it once, seeking refuge in magic and mysteries that he’d been far too young to truly comprehend. Now, here he was, living right next door to a hellmouth, with the truth of that destiny staring him in the face – and discovering that the focus of it, the slayer he was fated to serve, was going to need him to do more than simply know about magic. She was going to need him to use it.

Sensibly, of course.

But that still meant trying to get back into practice and carefully re-aligning those energies. Not to mention dredging up some of those should be forgotten experiences, so that he’d be able to cope with the side effects and the temptations and all those other things the book learning never actually mentioned when it came to practising the mystical arts.

Take him years, probably …

He tipped his still pounding head back against a handy cupboard door while the kettle boiled and he grinned, knowing he was a fool and knowing why and not giving a damn about either.

Individually, neither he, nor Buffy would have been a match for Catherine Madison and her unquestionable power. But together? Together, they’d been a force to be reckoned with.

She was the Slayer, gifted with speed and strength, and the determination to face down the powers of darkness – and if, to complement that, he’d have to deal with the occasional headache or nosebleed, or endure days of fasting because the sheer scent of food turned his stomach, well … so be it. Just a couple more inconveniences to add to the long sleepless nights of research and the hours of anxiety waiting for her to return from patrol.

He went on grinning as he poured out the tea and carried the cup back into his living room. A sip or two of the scalding beverage helped settle his stomach a little, and he sank back into the support of the couch, giving in to the weariness that was eating into his bones. Tomorrow he’d have to root out his magical primers and start reacquainting himself with some of the exercises he’d long since forced himself to forgo and forget.

Back to bloody basics for the sake of my Slayer …

He chuckled softly at the thought.

He’d paid dearly for today, but she didn’t need to know that. He had the feeling that he’d gladly pay the same price again, and again - and probably with only the occasional complaint. His Grandmother had been right. Serving the Slayer wasn’t a matter of duty, but one of destiny – and because of that, he would do whatever was needed, no matter what it cost.

She was worth it.

Of course she was.

She was … Buffy.

Impulsive, infuriating, ingenious, headstrong, stubborn, courageous, beautiful Buffy.

His Slayer.

The remnants of the grin followed him into sleep. Tomorrow he would continue her training as if nothing noteworthy had occurred. But for tonight – tonight he would sleep out the demands of the magic, dream of times long past and finally, finally be content to accept his destiny.

Never more shall I escape, never more the reverberations,
Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me,
Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what
there in the night,
By the sea under the yellow and sagging moon,
The messenger there aroused, the fire, the sweet hell within,
The unknown want, the destiny of me.

Walt Whitman (1819–1892)