Flinch - Part 4

Comments: Time may not heal all wounds, but it helps us find the means with which to cope with them.

He knocked on the door, knowing it was useless but hoping anyway. Silence answered him. Giles entered the room and slowly walked to the bed, laying the tray on the side table. This had become a ritual, almost, in the last two days. Such a short time to fall into such a destructive habit.

Buffy lay on the bed, her knees curled up to her chest, her head listing to the side, refusing to see him, refusing to acknowledge him. She lay still now, though sometimes, when she was alone, the sound of her sobbing mixed with the rhythmic rocking back and forth could be heard through the wall.

This time would be different, he wouldn’t leave the tray and disappear again. He wasn’t sure what would happen, at this point he didn’t really care, he just knew that something had to change. Giles knelt down beside the bed.

His frustrations boiled up within him. Everything she’d known, everything she’d trusted and relied upon, had been ripped from underneath her feet. How much more would the world take from her? How much more would she have to lose before the fates were happy?

He brought his face level with hers and looked into her eyes. They were open, but they were lifeless and dull, shallow brown pools. Buffy blinked. As he watched, pain began to ooze into her eyes, infiltrating the lifelessness with an awareness that was starkly brutal.

She hadn’t moved, but her whole expression of body had changed. Suddenly she was awash with emotion and her body all but hummed with everything that it had tried to keep buried. He didn’t know how, but Giles could hear her screaming for help, for something, in the still silence.

When his hand touched her cheek it was as if it had unleashed the flood. The tears came hot, falling in large, slow drops onto the pillow. Her eyes still held his, begging him, calling him, making him want to sob for her.

"Come back to us, Buffy."

Her lip trembled.

* * * *

For a week Giles nursed her back to health. He fed her tea or soup with a spoon, blowing gently to cool each spoonful, washed her wounds and bound them gently in bandages, sat with her when she would see no one else, soothed her when she trembled so violently her teeth snapped together, quieted her when the dreams got so bad that she woke up slick with sweat and screaming.

He slept in a chair beside her bed. He ate, bathed and rested only when she slept, when she didn’t need him there with her. Once, when he hadn’t been able to go to her, Willow had tried. Buffy had whimpered so loudly that Giles had made sure there hadn’t been another time.

One night, he had woken in his chair to find that Buffy, in her sleep, had crawled onto his lap and slept peacefully curled under the blanket, her chin digging into the hollow of his neck and her hand clutching at his shoulder. He hadn’t wanted to wake her, so he’d sat there, watching her sleep until he drowsed off.

When he’d woken up again, it was to find Buffy curled up in the corner of the bed furthest from him. This happened twice and he knew enough not to bring it up, but from then on, whenever her dreams began to get too much, Giles crept onto the bed and drew her into his arms.

It was if it was okay to ask anything from him, alright to find comfort in his arms, as long as it wasn’t talked about. As if putting the actions to words made them real, gave them a permanency that wasn’t allowable.

* * * *

It was never supposed to be this way. Faith stepped over the grave without looking at the name on the headstone. There was no room to be sentimental about those who were already gone. Her mind was swimming with the past week, with the months that had preceded it, and further back, to the days and years before she’d even made it to this godforsaken town.

Cursed, that’s what these people were, cursed and helpless. There was nothing she could do to help them, nothing anyone could do. Herself, all the mistakes she’d made, all the things she’d done, this Faith could understand.

Good things weren’t supposed to happen to bad people like her, and she was as bad as they came, she knew this deep down. Everything that had happened to her, had happened because she’d made them happen. No argument there.

But people like Buffy, they were supposed to be happy, they were supposed to lead perfect lives and live happily ever after. Buffy was good, she was innocent in the truest sense of the word. Even when she had been bad, Faith had never really hated Buffy. Envied, blamed, cursed her, but never really hated.

Not once when she was seething in her seedy hotel room, when she had been shaking so hard with her jealousies and resentments, had Faith ever wished something this bad on Buffy. Even when they had stood face to face, ready to kill each other, Faith had not felt the need to inflict pain and suffering.

What she had wanted, what she could taste in her mouth as Buffy had taunted her with the knife, as Willow had thrown those words at her, more hurtful than fists, was the life that Buffy had. The friends, the respect, the love and the assurance that she was fighting for good.

But Faith had never wanted this.

What good was fighting for the world, sacrificing everything you love, if it was all thrown back in your face? If the world laughed and taunted you in your face? Why should they put themselves on the line every night, if they got nothing in return?

A vampire jumped out from nowhere and Faith growled deep within her throat as she spun around and began to whale on it. Her anger released in a fury of punches and kicks and elbows. Blood clouded her vision, in a haze she beat the vamp into a bloody pulp and only when it lay writhing in pain on the ground, did she pull out her stake and dust it.

They fought, Faith knew, because they could, because there was no one else to do it, and because it was right. And also, it was a great way of relieving pent up aggression without actually causing damage provable in the court system.

* * * *

Buffy woke shivering, she reached out tentatively and found nothing but space next to her. Her heart began to swell painfully as she stretched her hand further and further, reaching for the warm body that should have been there. It wasn’t.

Panic set in. She fought back the urge to cry out, to scream. The room seemed too large, too open, without Giles in there with her, as if he set the boundaries, not the solid walls and bricks. Her stomach automatically expanded and forced her to breathe in hard and deep.

Her fingers clutched the sheets and she tried to burrow deeper, to throw the blankets around herself like a shield in the hope that they would offer the comfort. The last thing she wanted to do was cry out for him, to show her weakness. But there was no warmth in them, they didn’t pulsate and rise and fall, they didn’t echo underneath her ears with the shifting of organs and life.

The sheets were, after all, only sheets.

She was breathing so fast now, taking the air in so deeply, that her whole head swam with dizziness and she knew she was close to passing out. The walls began to blur and spots floated before her eyes. And then she heard it.

His voice, just outside the door, it was low and soft, but she could hear how tense it was. She could hear the subdued anger that strained to get out. Immediately her muscles relaxed and she felt herself melt back into an easy, rhythmic breathing. Her mind barely registered the second, softer, angrier, female voice.

"You can’t keep going on like this Giles!"

"I can, Willow, and I believe that’s exactly what I’m doing."

"You’re going to grind yourself into the ground. At least go and have a proper sleep in your own room."

"She needs me."

"She’ll always need you, but you’re no good to her unconscious, or worse."

"Don’t be silly."

"Giles, look at yourself. You haven’t slept or eaten properly in over a week. Something’s gotta give and if you keep this up, it will be you."

"I can’t leave her alone. Not when she’s like this."

"She won’t be alone, I’m here, Xander’s here. We’re all here."

"You know what happen…"

"Yes, I know what happened last time, I know what will happen the next time. And the time after that. But Giles, she has to come back sooner or later, The longer she stays in that room, the harder it will be later on. You know that, don’t you?"

"You’re right, it’s just… Willow… let’s give her some more time. She deserves that, doesn’t she?"

"Yes. But Giles, do you have that time?"

Buffy didn’t hear what came after that, but as the door began to open she closed her eyes and lay still. She heard him close the door and walk over to the bed. His sigh was deep and weary as she felt him sit down next to the bed. His hand came to clasp hers and his fingers wound themselves among her own.

Her eye opened slightly, she saw him sitting there, his head bowed, his chin resting on his chest. His whole posture screamed at her, Willow was right, he was wearing himself down for her. Buffy closed her eyes again, her mind made up.

* * * *

He must have fallen asleep. Giles sat up with a start, his eyes snapping open as the noise invaded his head. It had a steady beat, as if it had been going on for quite some time. The first thing he noticed was that the bed was empty. She was gone.

The air had grown gray and blanketing and he knew that it was late in the evening. Willow and Xander would have gone by now, leaving a fully cooked meal laid out for him. The house would be empty and quiet, at least, that was how it would have been.

"Buffy?"

It was a futile gesture, calling out to her like that, it was obvious where she was. He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved that she was up by herself, or scared. He walked nervously down the stairs, the beat of the music getting louder and louder.

It was loud and angry, whatever she was listening to, the voice sounding hurt and in pain. He realized, as he reached the bottom of the stairs, that she was screaming the lyrics too. Her whole body jumped with the beat as she kicked out at a punching bag.

The furniture of his living room had been pushed aside and the carpet rolled up, as they’d done so many times in the past, she’d rigged the room for training. She hadn’t noticed that he was there, so focused and intent was she, her body glowing with the sheen of sweat that covered her.

Giles had never seen her so full of anger and hatred as she punched and kicked, it made his heart ache. He wanted to walk over there and calm her down, to bring her out of this trance of spite, but he knew she needed to get it out. He also knew that if she didn’t realize it was him, he might regret it.

Her voice was raw as she hissed out the words.

"I bit my tongue and stood in line with not much to believe in, I bought into what I was sold and ended up with nothing. This is not my idea of a good time."

He had to wince every time she hit the bag, it was a violence that ran deep, it took over her whole body. Starting in her feet, perfectly planted on the floor, trembling up her legs and swirling around her torso as it followed through her arms, to rush out and crash into the heavy bag. Every word was bitten off and punctuated with her fists.

"You thought that I would never see what was meant for you was meant for me, I was distracted at the time, forget about yours now what about mine? This is not my idea of a good time."

Every burst of breathe that spewed out of her mouth was felt by him as he stood back and watched. He felt guilty, witnessing this torrent of fury and anger as she bounced on her toes and kicked out. And underneath it all, he knew, was a flood of pain that was eating her alive.

"This is not my idea of a good time." Her voice grew louder, obliterating the song itself. He had to wince at the viciousness of the words. "This is. Not. My idea. Of a good time. This. Is. Not. My. Idea."

"Buffy." He nearly shouted her name, but it was still too quiet to break into her consciousness. Her stance became shaky and she nearly tripped when she kicked again, her voice shaking. Giles could hear the tears in her voice. "Buffy!"

She turned to face him, wet lines worn down her cheeks. Without even needing a sign, Giles rushed forward and caught her before she fell to the ground. Her hands grasped onto him tightly, like a frightened little animal, and she choked her sobs into his neck.

"This was not my idea!"

* * * *

Willow looked at the empty line. A tear rolled slowly down her cheek. How had everything gone so wrong? The pen in her hand dropped to the desk and she pushed the whole application away. It was not the plan for her to have to think about her preferred roommate. It was not the plan for her to go to college without Buffy.

It was not the plan for things to have gotten so screwed up. She wanted to erase the fortnight and change things. If only she hadn’t left Buffy alone with Angel. If only she’d been able to come up with a better cure.

If only she could tell Buffy just how sorry she really was.

* * * *

Xander wasn’t surprised at the two, solitary knocks that sounded on his door late at night. He’d come to expect it. Opening the door, he welcomed Faith in with a nod. She looked tired, the bags under her eyes a little bit darker and puffier than yesterday.

She still wasn’t sleeping.

"Patrol?" She didn’t speak, but nodded slowly. "Vamps?" He held out his right arm and Faith nestled her head into the hollow of his neck.

After Giles had brought Buffy back, it had been Xander who’d gone back to find her, Xander who had found her there, lying in the dust barely breathing. Xander who’d taken her back to his house and washed her wounds.

Xander who hadn’t once, since that night, threw her past back in her face.

* * * *

"Look." Xander and Willow met on Giles’ doorstep. Willow held out a plate. "I made Buffy’s favorite cookies. Maybe she’ll eat some today."

He eyed her nervous hope with skepticism. Every day they came and every day they ended up spending downstairs. Giles kept telling them that Buffy was getting better, but it was kind of hard to believe.

It was killing him to watch all the people he loved fall apart like this. Xander reached down and squeezed her elbow softly. The corners of her mouth jerked down slightly before she fought it off. Willow smiled up at him, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

"C’mon," Xander opened the door and they walked in. "Let’s check on Giles and see if Buffy is… woah!"

Xander stopped in his tracks and Willow ploughed into him.

"Sitting right there in front of us." She replied.

Buffy fought down her panic and tried to smile. She was sitting at the dining room table, one foot on the floor and the other resting on the edge of the chair, her knee sat protectively in front of her torso. Her hands played nervously with a fork in front of her as her arms hugged her leg tightly.

All morning she had played with the idea of being here with them again, then tossing it out again when the terror made it impossible to breathe. There was no logical reason for her to be afraid, none at all, these were her friends and she’d put her life in their hands without a second thought.

And yet, seeing them now made her skin shrink. Their faces too excited to see her, their voices too loud, the all over need that they exuded made her tremble. How could they depend on her? She would fail them again.

Willow was the first to step forward, she stepped gently, reaching out softly as she got closer. Her face asked a million questions and Buffy nodded slightly. When she reached out to place a hand on Buffy’s shoulder, she did not miss the flinch that danced across Buffy’s face, but was grateful for the fact that she didn’t pull away.

Buffy forced herself to remain still under Willow’s touch. Her nerves screamed with the effort not to wrench herself out of the grasp and thrash out. It felt too large, too firm, even though it was barely touching her. It felt like Willow’s hand was melting over her skin and oozing to her toes, covering her and smothering her. She felt horrible for feeling this way.

"Does this mean what I think it means?"

Buffy looked over to Xander and nodded gently. Neither he, nor Willow, noticed the fast, accelerated movements of her fingers over the fork. The rest of her body sat still and unmoving, as if she were trying to shrink herself under their glances.

Giles did, however. He saw the way she shifted herself so that there was the least possibility that Willow would brush against her skin, he saw the way that her hands flicked and trembled with the control she was hiding so well. He saw the terror and guilt in her eyes.

He walked into the room as if nothing was wrong and placed the plate on the table in front of her. By doing so, he managed to place himself between Buffy and Willow and he did not miss the desperate, grateful glance she gave him.

With something to distract her, something to focus on, Buffy’s nerves began to settle. Not that, with everybody there, she could actually eat the toast Giles had made, but it gave her something to pick at without arising any more suspicions.

* * * *

"That went well." Although she tried to make her voice sound light with humor, it came out as more of question. Buffy decided to give up and just plead. "Don’t you think?"

Giles sighed as his hands lifted the brush again. He drew it slowly through her hair, watching the strands separate and regroup, feeling the weight of it run through the bristles. Buffy sat on the floor in front of him as he sat on the sofa. Her body was scrunched up as if she wanted to take up the least amount of space possible, something he’d noticed she did a lot.

"What do you consider ‘well’?"

Not that day. Buffy let her shoulders droop. She’d made good and sure that everyone there had felt uncomfortable and awkward. Everything had been stilted and uncomfortable. No one had known what to say and she’d only made things worse.

"I’ll do better, I promise."

"Buffy!" He sounded shocked. "That’s not what I meant and you know it."

She closed her eyes and let her head be dragged back by the brush. The gentle, repeated motions hypnotizing her, comforting in their very repetitiveness. If only things could stay this safe, just the two of them, together, with no one else.

* * * *

"These cookies are great!" Faith broke off another piece and tossed it into her mouth. She smiled widely. "One thing in Will’s favor, she can cook!"

She offered a chunk to Buffy who grimaced and shook her head. Faith shrugged and continued munching as if she couldn’t have cared less. Underneath it was eating at her, gnawing through her organs like acid, watching Buffy like this.

Although, she figured, the last thing Buffy needed right now was another person hovering and mooning over her like she was a china doll. What she needed was at least one person who still treated her as if she were human, as if she were still the same person she was a fortnight ago.

Well, except for the homicidal intent.

"Gotta say, the vamps are laying low after our attack. We musta put the fear of god into them! Not much action out there, so you don’t need to worry."

Her voice was light, but her eyes were devouring each nervous movement Buffy made, each expression and gesture. One thing Faith had come to know well was how to cover a lot of anguish and pain, and she saw it now, floating underneath the surface of Buffy’s skin.

"Look at the time!" Faith didn’t even bother being subtle when she pantomimed looking at her watch and stood up. "It’s way past my bedtime. Be leaving you now."

"Faith?" Buffy looked at her with something resembling an attempt to smile.

"Yeah?" She paused on her way out.

"Thanks." Her eyes tried to convey her meaning. "For everything."

* * * *

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the water sluice its way over her face and hair, washing away whatever pain and tears there had been there. Buffy stepped back and allowed the hard rivulets of hot water to pelt her chest, she drew her hand up and wiped the excess water from her face.

The steam billowed up around her and she welcomed it. Here, in the shower, she was awarded a rare privacy that she got in increasingly smaller doses nowadays. Everywhere she turned she could see it in their eyes. She could see the questions, the greedy need for information.

With just a minute glimpse before the other person turned away, red faced at being caught, Buffy could hear the unspoken questions: how is she doing? Is she holding up? Has she recovered? What really happened in that basement?

Too many questions that she was not prepared to answer. She knew that they all cared, that they only wanted to make sure she was okay. Yet she found them suffocating. It seemed as though every move she made was noted and analyzed and scrutinized. She felt like a gold fish in a cruel glass bowl. And there was no escape.

Turning around and baring her back to the stream, she leant her head backwards so that the water obliterated her hearing, and also blocked out the voice in her head. The voice that would not leave her alone, the voice, which she refused to listen to, refused to acknowledge.

She could not hold back the tears and did not even try. For here in the shower she could cry with immunity, she did not have to play anybody’s games of getting well and being healthy. Here in the shower she could silently scream her helplessness and nobody would know.

Turning the tap, she increased the water’s temperature until she could barely stand the heat, watched as her flesh turned a bright scarlet and welcomed the dizziness as the thick steam rose. She picked up the bar of soap and began to scrub at her skin, pressing hard and insistent, not leaving any inch unmolested. The harder she scrubbed the tighter she clenched her jaw and the redder her skin got.

Try as she might she could not wash him away. For he wasn’t there, lingering like a stain on her skin. She felt as if he had crept inside her soul and was whispering his sickening words to her from inside. And there was nothing she could do about it.

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