Alternity
By Blair Provence

TITLE: Alternity  (2/3)
AUTHOR:  Blair Provence
E-MAIL ADDRESS:  aggiemo@msn.com
SPOILER WARNING:  To third season, I suppose, up to the finale. An alternate future.
RATING:  PG-13 - (Buffy/Giles)
ARCHIVE:  If you want it, let me know.
DISCLAIMER:  Everything Buffy belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and Warner Brothers.  And they probably wouldn't like what I do to their property, but oh, well...
SUMMARY:  The Ascension has passed, but not the danger.  Buffy and Giles face a dire threat from an unexpected quarter, and the choices they must make are heartrending.  Angst-alert!

FEEDBACK IS WELCOME AND APPRECIATED!

Alternity (2/3)

     They stopped off on the way to their temporary lodgings and ordered a banquet of Chinese food, splurging with a bit of their newfound largesse.  The scent emanating from the containers filled the interior of the beat up old car Giles had boosted in Jackson, and they held hands as he drove, content, for the moment, just to be together.

     "Maybe we should try to sublet an apartment in Phoenix," Giles suggested, reminding her of the location they had selected for their next move.  "We've not seen any members of the Order for almost a month - it might be that they've lost our trail and we can afford to stay in one place for a while."

     "That sounds nice," Buffy replied wistfully, gazing out the window.

     He squeezed her hand.  "Buffy?  Are you all right?"

     "Fine," she said, nodding slightly, "just a little tired."

     The neon sign signalling the location of their motel swam into view.  It was an old track motel, barely hanging on by the edge of a highway that saw much less traffic since the interstate had opened.  They'd selected it for ease of entry and egress, which it possessed, and not ambience, which it did not.  Their single room with kitchenette was located at the end of the long building, and Giles parked just to the side of it, behind a row of scraggly bushes that would shield the car out of easy view from the highway. 

     The 'Do Not Disturb' sign still hung from the knob of the motel room door, and Giles and Buffy shared a satisfied glance. They both had been worried about the maid stumbling upon their cache of weapons and spellbooks hidden under the bed.  As a hiding place, it wasn't the best location, but leaving them in the car entailed certain risks as well, from both lawful authorities and sticky-fingered auto thieves.  So they'd finally settled upon cleaning the room themselves and delivering their sheets and towels to the laundry personally.  The maid hadn't put up much of an argument, and they'd spent an entire lazy afternoon in bed the previous week debating what she probably believed they were hiding in there - finally settling on either illegal drugs or stolen stereo equipment.

     Once inside their room Giles set the cartons of food on the tiny card table, shed his jacket and flipped on the rickety window unit.  Stale air wafted into the room, only marginally cooler than what was already there.  Sighing, he shook his head and picked up the ice bucket.  "I'll be right back," he told Buffy.  She nodded, disappearing into the tiny, semi-sanitary bathroom, and he opened the front door to step outside.

     The night was warm and clear, unseasonably balmy for December - not that Giles hadn't become accustomed to year-round warmth in California, but at least in Sunnydale the heat had been a dry heat.  Houston was more like the world's largest sauna - two minutes outside and his clothing became bonded uncomfortably close to his skin.  Thus they hadn't really needed the leather jackets they'd worn that evening, but coats were very handy garments in which to conceal weapons.  Unfortunately, sweating almost continuously always left him feeling grimy all over by the end of the day.

     Giles filled the ice bucket, purchased two cans of coke from the soda machine, and headed back to the room.  Buffy was still in the bathroom when he returned, so he unearthed a bottle of rum from under the bed and mixed two rum-and-cokes in a pair of blue plastic cups.  He felt vaguely guilty about allowing her to drink spirits, but couldn't quite justify permitting himself the comfort of alcohol while denying it to her.  They never overindulged - he'd yet to see her drunk - but the day's tensions melted away much easier with the help of a few libations.  And he'd long ago realized that he would do anything to ease the pain in her eyes, even if only for a while.

     As in regard to many of his actions these days, he instructed his conscience to remain quiet.

     The bathroom door opened and Buffy emerged, clad only in an oversized white t-shirt - which he recognized as one of his own, purchased in a pack of twelve from a discount store.  They'd washed most of their clothing before heading out that afternoon, but the dryers at the laundromat had all been nonfunctional, and their meager wardrobes were now dripping dry from the shower rail.  Therefore she'd had a limited selection to choose from for her sleepwear - not that he really minded that she'd appropriated his shirt.  In fact, he rather liked it.

     She'd scrubbed all the makeup from her face and stripped the polish from her nails, and her hair hung damply down her back. The contrast from her earlier appearance was almost startling in degree, and he realized that the sexual come-ons from strangers must have bothered her more than he'd realized for her to transform herself so hastily and completely.  <Damn,> he thought.

     Buffy just smiled at him and snatched up her rum-and-coke, downing half of it in one gulp.  He frowned as he opened a container of Sesame Chicken.  "Slow down, Buffy."

     She stuck her tongue out at him.  "Chill, Giles.  I was just
thirsty.  Where's the General Tso's?"

     "Here."  He handed her a carton.

     "Thanks," she said as she flopped down into one of the folding metal chairs next to the table.  She drew her knees up,exposing a long length of shapely thigh, and gave him a saucy wink as she attacked her chicken with chopsticks.  He rolled his eyes at her and sat down in the other chair.

     "So," Buffy began through a mouthful of chicken, "did the spell-thing work the way you thought it would on the big-haired bimbo?"  She had been afforded a brief glimpse his client's wife while acting as backup for Giles' initial reconnaissance, and had pronounced the loud-mouthed highly-teased blonde as a perfect example of an unflattering Southern stereotype.  He'd been forced to agree with her assessment.

     "Mmm," he affirmed through his own mouthful.  "Our hatted client's wife has completely forgotten about her lover.  I forbore to explain to him, however, that the spell wouldn't make *him* any more appealing to her."

     She grinned.  "He'll figure it out."

     "I suppose."

     She took another drink from her cup, crunching a stray ice cube thoughtfully.  "Why would anybody want to live like that, Giles?"

     "Like what?"  He doused his chicken with a packet of soy sauce and poked through the depths in search of snow peas.

     "Why would anyone want to stay with someone who didn't want them back?" she wondered.  "I mean, redneck-guy spent a *lot* of money to hold onto a woman who wants someone else more than him. And she stays married to him even though she wants another man. And it's not like they had any kids or anything to keep them together - why not just go their separate ways?"

     "I suppose they have their reasons," he replied after a moment's consideration.  He stabbed at a stray chunk of chicken. "I won't pretend to fathom them, however."

     "Yeah, I guess."  She stared down into her container, then sighed and plunked it back down onto the table.  "It seems like such a waste, you know?"  She rose from her chair and began to pace restlessly back and forth across the natty carpet, her slim legs flashing underneath the cotton hem of the shirt.

     "You need to eat more, Buffy," Giles told her, concerned by the increasingly obvious thinness of her frame.

     "I'm not hungry," she tossed over her shoulder as she snatched up the tv-guide.  A moment later she threw it down in disgust.  "Why don't they ever offer anything but the same three X-rated movies?"

     "Buffy-" he began wearily.

     She whirled around, her hands fisted at her sides.  "I'm *not* *HUNGRY*, Giles!"

     "You haven't been eating enough," he replied, calmly meeting her furious gaze.  "It's important for you to keep up your strength."

     She scowled fiercely at him, but he refused to flinch or look away, and slowly the ire drained from her features, until she appeared to be on the brink of tears.  He watched as she blinked them back and squared her shoulders, schooling her features into an amiable mask. 

     "What will you give me if I do?" she asked, cocking her head to one side.

     "What do you want?" he asked cautiously.  Her mercurial mood changes were becoming more and more disconcerting, to say the very least.

     She came toward him, smiling, and wound her arms around his neck.  "What do you think?" she breathed, sliding into his lap. He barely managed to keep the container of Sesame Chicken from spilling.
    
     "Buffy-"

     "Feed me, Giles," she whispered, kissing his nose.

     He sighed, determined not to allow her to get to him. "Fine.  Hand me your chicken."  She leaned across the table for the carton, and as she shifted on his lap his body automatically began to react to her presence.  She grinned smugly at him as she handed him the container.  "Yes, yes, very amusing," he told her. She opened her mouth to reply and he shoved a mouthful of chicken into it.

     But she was not to be deterred.  "I think-" *gulp* "-that you *like* me, Mr. Giles," she murmured, fluttering her lashes.

     "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," he replied blandly, offering her another chopstick serving.  She wiggled her backside provocatively, and he nearly swallowed his tongue.  "Stop that," he ordered breathlessly.

     "Don't wanna," she replied for the second time that evening. She threaded her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.  "I changed my mind, Giles," she whispered, then leaned in to trace his lips with her tongue.

     "Hmm?"  The Tso sauce was quite tangy, he noted idly.

     "I *am* hungry," she informed him.  "But not for food."  She planted one foot on the floor and swung the other around until she was straddling him.  "And you're hungry, too, I can tell..." She thrust her pelvis against his, hissing in pleasure at his involuntary counter-thrust. 

     She was trying to change the subject - and using her deliciously soft body to do it.  Well, she always had possessed a solid grasp of tactical maneuvers.  "Buffy-"  The carton of chicken landed on the table with a *thunk*.

     "I'll eat every single bite later," she vowed, nibbling at his earlobe.  "I swear I will.  But right now I want you.  Inside me."  She pulled back to blink up at him, her eyes large and luminous in the shadowed evening.  "Please, Giles..."

     He could never resist her when she looked at him like that. "I have your promise, then?"

     She nodded, kissed him softly, then buried her face in his neck.  He braced his hand against the table and stood up, clutching her against his chest with one lean arm.  She responded by wrapping her legs around his waist and holding him tighter.  He carried her over to the bed and gently lowered her down on it, extricating himself from her embrace with difficulty.  He ended up kneeling on the floor next to the mattress, while she sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders rigid, eyes closed, dark eyelashes fanning against her skin.  "Buffy," he whispered, reaching out to cup her pale cheek with his palm.  "Open your eyes."

     She did, and the depth of pain inside them made him catch his breath.  "Oh, Buffy..."

     "Make it go away, Giles," she whispered urgently.  "You're the only one who can."  One tear escaped to roll down her cheek. "Please..."

     "Buffy, I-"

     She cut him off, leaning forward to capture his lips with her own, her tongue plumbing deeply into the warm depths of his mouth.  Her arms came up around his shoulders, trapping him with her greater strength, and one abrupt tug pulled him onto the bed after her.  He landed flush on top of her, the soft curves of her petite body pressing into him through his clothes, and even as a familiar rush of desire threatened to overwhelm him, his mind rebelled at what she was asking him to do.

     "Buffy, *no*!" he managed, yanking his arms away and rolling off of her.  He ended up flat on his back, staring fixedly the ceiling.  "Not like this."  He could hear the harsh reverberation of her breathing, interspersed with hitching sounds that could only be tearful sobs, and he was glad that the darkness of the room hid her face from him.  "Buffy-"

     "It never goes away, Giles," she interrupted, her voice low and raw with pain.  She reached blindly for his hand, entwining her fingers with his until her long nails bit into his skin.  "I know you know that.  Maybe you can hide it better, but I know it never goes away for you, either."

     He pressed his lips together, willing his own tears away as she skillfully dug a knife straight into his heart, striking to his soul as only she could.

     "We left them," she continued hoarsely, emotion clogging her throat.  "We left them behind and we left our duty behind, and if the world ends tomorrow, it'll be our fault."

     "Buffy, no, that's not..."  But he couldn't make the denial sound convincing.

     "Then tell me you don't feel guilty, Giles," she ordered, tightening her grip on his hand.  "Tell me the nightmares you have aren't about us not being there when evil takes our friends away.  Failing them.  Failing the world.  Failing *us*.  Just tell me that, and I'll believe it....Just say it."

     "I-...I can't," he admitted softly.  It had been Joyce's death last night, a technicolor surround-sound demise, capped by her transformation into a vampire by whatever new master had risen at the Hellmouth.  He'd staked her himself, determined to spare Buffy the pain of doing so, only to have Joyce's face transmute into Buffy's a split second before exploding into ash. He'd awakened with a horrified shout, and though Buffy had already been up and showering, she'd obviously heard him anyway. Or maybe she'd merely noticed the previous night's agony, which had starred Willow in various bloody scenarios.

     "We never should have left them," Buffy whispered, her voice so low it was as though she was speaking only to herself.  "I was selfish.  I didn't want to die.  But we made the wrong choice."

     "The Council didn't *leave* us with a choice," Giles protested faintly.

     "Not a good one," she agreed, sounding almost detached as her breathing evened out.  "We never seem to have a good choice, do we?  I wonder why that is."

     He rolled over onto his side and reached up to trace her cheek with the index finger of his free hand.  "I don't regret it," he vowed fiercely, more disturbed than he could say by the hollow desolation of her tone, "and I'll take whatever nightmares I'm given, as long as I have you to wake up to, as long as you're alive and we're together."

     A tear rolled down her cheek and she gazed up at him with eyes brimming full of emotion.  "Oh, Giles..."
      
     "I hate that I've done this to you," he murmured, bleak regret suffusing his face.  "I hate that I didn't see what the Council was becoming, that I didn't take steps to protect you, that I allowed my injured pride over being fired to get in the way of doing what was best for you.  If I hadn't..."

     "If I'd protected Wesley better," she interjected, shaking her head at him.  "If I hadn't loved a vampire in defiance of *everything* Watchers and Slayers stand for, if I hadn't somehow made Faith *hate* me and turn to evil..."

     "No!" he retorted, bringing his hand up to cover her mouth. "You saved the *world*, Buffy - more than once.  You did everything they ever could have asked, sacrificed more than anyone should ever have to sacrifice.  They had no *right* to do this to you!"

     "Or you," she returned softly, kissing the tips of his fingers.  They stared into one another's eyes for a long, endless moment.  She swallowed and licked her lips nervously.

     "I love you, Giles."

     He felt his heart break, literally, within his chest.  It was the first time she'd ever said the words, making it both the happiest, and saddest, moment of his life. 

     He opened his mouth to reply, but she brought her hand up, covering his lips with her fingers this time.  Slowly, never taking her eyes from his, she raised her mouth to his, trailing her fingers along his cheek.  "Kiss me," she breathed.  "Kiss me like it's the first time...and the last."

     Their lips met, and he could taste the salt of her tears. "Oh, Buffy..." he murmured as her other hand slipped beneath his t-shirt.  She scraped her nails across his belly and eased her knee between his legs, rubbing her core against his thigh.

     "Make love to me, Giles..."

     He wasn't proof against the utter need in her low voice.  He brought his hands up to frame her face, his tongue delving into the honeyed depths of her mouth in a slow, languorous kiss.  She brought her other hand up to frame his waist, pulling him fully atop her and hooking her ankles around his legs.  The fizzing warmth of desire began to course through his veins, and he applied himself to the task of driving all thoughts from her mind in favor of the bliss of mindless need.

     She was right about one thing - the magic that happened between them in their bed had the power to banish all manner of demons, at least temporarily.  And the sad truth of it was, for now, it was all he could think of to give her.

*****

     Giles awoke all alone in the lumpy double bed, and the sensation of loss he'd felt even in his dreams made him bolt upright, his eyes rapidly scanning the room mere seconds after awakening.  "Buffy!  Buffy, where are you?"

     There was no response.  His heart beat triple-time inside his chest as he blinked frantically, trying to accustom his vision to the midnight gloom.  A passing big rig honked its horn and shined its headlights through the dirty white motel curtains, briefly illuminating the interior of their room.  He caught a fleeting glimpse of Buffy curled against the wall underneath the air-conditioner, as naked as she'd been when they'd finally dropped off to sleep hours earlier.

     "Buffy?" he repeated in a softer tone, shucking the bedcovers and planting a foot on the floor.  "Buffy, are you all right?"  He approached her cautiously, but she gave no sign that she had even heard him calling out to her.

     He reached out to touch her bare shoulder, shocked by the damp, clammy feeling of her skin.  She pulled away, curling into a tighter ball and letting out a low, pained moan.  "Buffy, are you sick?  Do you feel ill?"  She gave an infinitesimal shake of her head.  "Please look at me."  No response.  "Buffy, you're scaring me."

     Slowly she raised her head and turned to look at him, her eyes dark pools of pain rimmed with puffy red.  Her pale cheeks were blotched from what must have been long hours of crying, and tears continued to stream down her cheeks, a sight all the more heartbreaking for the utter silence of her weeping.

     "Buffy, what is it?"  She just shook her head, her eyes never leaving his.  He touched her shoulder again.  "Sweetheart, you're freezing."  Her lips were faintly blue, and her teeth were chattering as the cold gusts from the air-conditioner continuously buffeted her slim body.  He reached up to switch it off.

     "Don't...wanna feel..." she mumbled, blinking disorientedly. "Hurts..."

     "I know it does," he told her, sliding an arm around her back and gathering her close against his chest.  She was cold all over, and her clammy skin leached the heat from his own.  "You're going to make yourself ill, Buffy."

     "'S'better..." she murmured, closing her eyes.  "...if I die....you'll be safe..."  His breath caught at her words.  He knew exactly to what she was referring - she'd spoken of it before in passing, idle speculation on whether or not the contract against him would be canceled if she died and another Slayer was called.  He thought he'd dissuaded her from that assessment, but apparently not, and her words chilled him more than any amount of cold air could. 

     Desperation made his voice hoarse.  "No, Buffy, you can't believe that.  If you died, I'd lose my reason to-"

     She clutched at him abruptly, her fingers digging into his arms.  "*Don't* say that," she hissed through dry lips, cutting him off.  "*Never* say that..."

     "Then stop trying to die on me!" he retorted before he could stop himself.  <This isn't helping...>  He made a concerted effort to calm down.  "Buffy...please tell me...what is it?"

     Her answer, when it came, was terrifying in its childlike simplicity.  "I feel like I'm killing you," she whispered.  "And *I'm* supposed to die first."

     "No..."  He hugged her more tightly, goaded by pure fear into making promises he knew he'd have great trouble keeping. "Neither one of us is going to die, Buffy.  They won't find us. We won't *let* them find us."

     Buffy shook her head again, then turned her face until her lips touched his bare chest.  She gently kissed his warm skin. "We can't run any more, Giles," she murmured.  "I..."  Her eyes closed and she swallowed  "I'm so *cold*."

     He nodded and hefted her into his arms, gaining his feet with little difficulty.  "Let's get you into a warm tub, then." In a few swift strides he was inside the tiny bathroom, regarding the olive green bathtub with fastidious dismay.  Buffy had attacked the grout with admirable industriousness when they had first arrived, but it still lacked visual appeal.  However, all they required at the moment was for the bathroom to be functional, and the tub held water well enough.  He set her down inside the basin and reached for the tap.

     She wrapped her arms around her knees, rocking back and forth slightly, her unseeing gaze riveted on the tiled wall. Giles tested the water with his finger, waiting until it ran hot before plugging the drain.  He reached for a bottle of Buffy's bubble bath and poured in a few capfuls.  A glimpse of the grinning cartoon character on the bottle's label brought a brief smile to his face - the day she'd purchased it, Buffy had spent half an hour in the discount store explaining the relative merits of one kind of cartoon bubble bath over another, and then had proceeded to make elaborate Kama Sutra bubble sculptures of the two of them later that night as they'd bathed. 

     A happy memory.

     "Better?" he asked over the sound of rushing water filling the tub.  She didn't reply.  He reached for a washcloth, dipped it into the water, and rubbed it across her back.  "Do you feel any warmer, Buffy?"

     Slowly she turned her head to look at him, then reached out with trembling fingers to touch his cheek.  Her thumb brushed his lower lip, only to be quickly replaced by her lips as she leaned forward to kiss him softly.  He pulled her into a hug over the cold porcelain rim of the bathtub, and she buried her face in his neck, stifling a sob against his skin.  They remained that way for several minutes while the tub filled and her trembling subsided.  Eventually Giles reached out with one hand to turn off the tap, then returned his attention to their embrace, cradling Buffy against his body as though his presence alone could keep all the monsters at bay.  In the resulting silence they could hear the slight fizz of bubbles popping interspersed with the harsh sounds of their own breathing.

     Her words, when they came, were almost too low for him to hear.

     "They've got Willow," she said.

*****

END (2/3)

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