| Title: Then Came the Dawn
Author: Scarlet Email address: scarletsfiction@yahoo.com Fandom: Buffy/Angel Pairing(s): Andrew/Giles Warnings: Character death, though not the main characters Rating: NC-17 Summary: Still grieving for Buffy, Giles and Andrew find themselves dealing with their pain in a most unusual place. Author's Notes: This is a new take on the whole "stranded on a deserted island" theme. Thanks to Katie and Gracie for the betas. ________________________________________________________________________________ "Mister Giles? Is there anything I can help you with?" Marjorie asks and he shakes his head, though he knows the sign will go unobserved from behind the thick bathroom door and pane of shower glass. "No," he gasps out, barely above a whisper, but somehow she hears and understands. Then he scrubs at his face, cleans away traces of tears and remorse. Scrubs harder, faster, until he's digging his nails into the flesh and leaving red tracks on his skin. The pain feels good, real, welcoming. He wonders if she felt pain. Maybe just a little? Is 'only a little' too much to hope for? He gets out of the shower, skipping the 'drying off' step. He needs to pack his toiletries. Where was that case? Giles finds it under a sink in the bathroom, begins tossing things in. Hairbrush. Comb. She wore blue jeans that night and a t-shirt with a cartoon character that had never graced his own old television. He shouldn’t have let her drink. It was only one glass of wine but it made her weak, made her tired. Impaired her judgement. Maybe. Deodorant. Need that. And sunscreen; it *is* California after all. His English skin is just beginning to acclimate to London weather. Fool on him. He remembers her laughing at his recounting of the Fyarl that had asked to join the Counsel; he remembers her recounting, from her point of view, the day Giles himself walked in those shoes. Hair like gold in the firelight. Razor. Shaving cream. Maybe not. He's not shaving so much these days, letting his beard grow unevenly and welcoming its camouflage. He packs the razor anyway, leaves the shaving cream behind. She'd talked to Xander recently. He'd spoken to Willow. They'd reminisced. Dawn was well, living with an Italian boy that Buffy claimed to approve of while she made plans to have Willow do a background check. Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Swiss Army knife, in case the razor would not do what— Mouthwash. Would he need nail clippers? Yawning and stretching and blue jeans and cartoon characters. Slayer and sister and beloved and a child and a woman and— "The car will be here for you in a little while, sir." "Thank you, Marjorie." The case goes into a bag, along with three pairs of boxers, three pairs of black socks. //"Did you know a Reswor shoots out blue ink as a defense mechanism?"// //"Yes."// //"Did you know the ink is toxic to vampires?"// //"Really? Remarkable…"// Three plain, white t-shirts. Two ties, one dark gray for the funeral and one dark blue for…whatever else there is. She'd told him about Angel and Spike moving to the Rome headquarters of Wolfram & Hart after the Apocalypse That Wasn't. Tells him swiftly, in edited words, about the apartment they share on the company tab. The apartment with one bedroom. She'd learned compromise. They all had. Giles wasn't shocked, which was perhaps the most shocking thing about it. Black shoes, wrapped in tissue and placed in a box. The box goes in the bag. Wear the brown ones. //"When are you going to come to Rome, Giles? It's so beautiful! If you don't like Rome, I could take you to Venice. I know you'll love it there. When the sun sets on the water, you forget the city is one giant sewer."// The car will be here soon, best hurry to finish. Three white dress shirts, his best suit. Smooth the creases in the garment bag. Dress quickly, the coven is waiting. //"When we were little girls, mom said that if you listen very, very carefully, you can hear the sound of the sun when it hits the ocean. It tells everyone something special."// //"That has no basis in fact, you do realize that Buffy?// //"I know. Mom just wanted to shut Dawn and me up for five minutes on trips to the beach, but still…It's a nice thought."// //"Yes it is."// Aftershave or cologne? Dental floss certainly. Subvert the English stereotype. //"Giles?"// //"Yes, Buffy."// //"Let's go outside. Let's listen to the sun."// //"We've no ocean, Buffy."// //"It doesn’t matter. Come on, don't be an old man."// What is he missing? Surely he'll miss something. A belt. Where are his glasses? There's a rap on the door. "The car is here, sir. Shall I tell them that you're coming down?" "Yes. Thank you." //"Listen Giles! Can you hear it?"// //"Hear what?"// //"You're not listening hard enough."// //"I'm trying."// //"Don't concentrate, just hear."// It rained. She left. //"Surely they can stay in a hotel one night without you. I've a spare room all made up."// //"I told you, Giles. I promised I'd go back to the hotel tonight. I'll see you tomorrow. You can show me that Stonehedge or something."// //"Stonehenge."// //"Yeah, that thing."// He drags the two bags out of the bedroom door, down the stairs. Averts his eyes when he passes the wine glasses still sitting near the fire. Marjorie has been forbidden to clean them. The room remains untouched. The luggage goes into the car, as does the broken man that carries it. She's died three times now, each time crushing him a bit more. He's powder. Dust on the wind. He likes that song, can play it on the guitar. Maybe he'll play it at her funeral, if her lovers don't mind. Then he rethinks that decision; it's too maudlin. She is—was—a bright girl. Happy, even after everything she'd been through. The car weaves through traffic. It's no longer raining; the sun is out bright and glorious for a few minutes. So unusual for this time of the year. It was raining the other night, a storm that swept up while they stood on the balcony and watched the sun set long after it had spoken its secrets. //"There it is, Giles! Can you hear it?"// //"I don’t hear it, Buffy."// Bright red fingernails clutching at his arm. //"When the sun hits the horizon, it says goodnight."// It's well after noon when he reaches the home of the coven. It must be nearly five o'clock in the morning in California. He has to hurry. Giles is grateful that coven travel is faster than the airlines; he doesn’t much trust himself in an enclosed space over an ocean for seven hours. When he enters the estate, Giles can't help noticing how many flowers there are this year. The beds look lovely. In truth, he had wanted to bring Buffy here, not some tourist spot of dubious repute. He wanted to show her where Willow had come to terms with her power, where Giles himself had healed as a young man. No more. Their respite has ended; it begins pouring hard as Giles walks down the hall, the staccato on the roof echoing forlornly in the ancient building. Andrew is waiting in the library, sprawled out in an ornate wooden chair centuries older than the young man himself. He scrambles to his feet as Giles approaches and takes his own luggage in hand. Next to Andrew's bags, Giles' seem small. What does the boy pack? The thought occupies his mind for a few moments and he's grateful for the brief reprieve. "Are you ready, Andrew?" It's the longest sentence he's said in two days. "Yeah. The Counsel is locked up and I had all of our calls forwarded to the Rio office. Kennedy is going to man the fort there." "Good. Good…" "Are you okay, Giles?" He knows that Andrew realizes the absurdity of his question even as it leaves his lips. Giles doesn’t answer and Andrew doesn’t expect him to. In the drawing room, Elaine has already set up the transit circle and the two men place their luggage inside. The rain is louder here as trees scratch roof and glass. The windows cover an entire wall and there are skylights here made up of broken bits of red and yellow glass. It's lovely. Giles doesn’t notice. "You stand," she commands in broken English and the two Watchers comply. Giles can stall no longer. The memorial service will begin in a few hours and then his soul will be buried next to her mother, in the cemetery just a mile outside of the crater that used to be her home. Then he'll face their sad expressions and acknowledge the truth. It's his fault. It's always his fault. His slayer. His friend. His almost-daughter. Four women join Elaine and the ceremony begins. It is a long ceremony, but requires nothing of Giles, for which he is grateful. He lets his mind wander. He hopes the circle Willow arranged in Sunnydale is prepared, though he doubts that Willow would have forgotten. She's called every hour and every hour she's been met with the same responses, single words and fragments of sentences. Giles is drowning and Willow is no lifeboat. //"Can you hear it?"// //"I don’t hear it, Buffy."// //"When the sun hits the horizon, it says goodnight."// It's funny, after all he's seen, after all he's been through, after all he's *caused*, that it's simply the weather that changes his world. Weather that took Buffy. //"Would you like wine, Buffy?"// //"Yes, please."// Weather and his own stupidity. Sweet sister irony has always had her eye on him. Thus, after all that has come before, it's weather that changes his life again. The estate sits on the edge of an orchard, the walls of the building stand flush against a grove of tall trees. And on this afternoon, when lightening strikes, the boughs of the oldest apple tree are their target. They fall. When they crash through the ornate ceiling, raining glass and water over the circle and crushing two members of the coven, Giles hardly acknowledges it. In his head he's already lost. His world has already been shattered three times over so the sound outside his head only now matches the sound inside. Later, he'll think that there should have been a blinding light, not a moment of infinite darkness. He'll wish he thought to bring an ax, fresh water, dried toadstools. But at the moment the bough broke, he thought of none of those things, only dying sunlight on an endless ocean. //"There it is, Giles! Can you hear it?"// //"I don’t hear it, Buffy."// ***** When he wakes, it's to a firm slap. Andrew's face is large and frightened and he wonders why Willow drew the accession circle in the ocean. "Giles? Mr. Giles? You need to wake up." "I'm awake, stop bloody slapping me." There is relief on Andrew's face but Giles hardly notices. He's confused. This isn't Sunnydale. It's nothing of the sort, really. The beach is unfamiliar; the sand is black, not brown. Volcanic perhaps. Hawaii? A Polynesian island he once studied in school? "There was an accident. Did you see the accident?" He didn't, but Giles nods anyway. "What are we going to do? Is Willow going to find us?" "I don't know." She's dead. Buffy's dead. His purpose. There is nothing else. "Is the coven going to find us? Maybe we should wait for them to find us?" //"There it is, Giles! Can you hear it?"// //"I don’t hear it, Buffy."// "Could we call Willow? Do you have your cell phone?" "I DON’T BLOODY WELL WANT TO ANSWER YOUR QUESTIONS, ANDREW!" He's quiet after that, scalded. Giles is unashamed. Giles wades out of the shallow water. In more coherent times, he'd be grateful that the spell landed them on land, such as it is, instead of in the ocean. They'd be dead in minutes if that was the case, but Giles is already dead so he leaves gratitude to Andrew. The older man finds a log. It's a good log. He sits. His suit is waterlogged, his shoes heavy like iron, but he doesn't remove them. He sits on the log and waits. For what, he doesn’t know or care. As the hours pass, he notes with little interest that Andrew is dragging their belongings up the beach. Giles garment bag is the last piece, floating like a great waterproof buoy. He should tell Andrew not to bother—his suits and shirts are likely ruined—but that requires speaking and speaking is not what he's capable of right now. There is no rain here. Giles mourns that. As long as it kept raining off and on, she was there. Just barely dead. Recently gone. Just this side of alive. But no rain means time has passed. Or perhaps distance. Regardless, she's dead again. For real. Still. Forever. "We need to build a fire, Mr. Giles. Help me find some wood." The only wood he knows of is the log he sits on and he's not going to give that up, so he does nothing. The light is slowly fading from the sky when Andrew returns with arms full. He leaves again and Giles closes his eyes, feels the sun on his face. Andrew returns again and says something about his luggage. Did Giles bring a lighter? Buffy never smoked. Giles smoked in his youth, but it would have been a hypocrisy, a sacrilege, to set an example for his slayer that he himself would not follow. No, he does not have a lighter. Andrew is rummaging through his own luggage, asking for an accounting of Giles' belongings, but Giles cannot remember what he packed. Did he remember a toothbrush? He's not sure. The log is hard under his bottom and he feels like there's something he should do. Should he help Andrew? What was the boy doing again? Looking for a lighter? But there's already a fire roaring now. How did that get there? Perhaps the boy had a lighter of his own. Giles imagines him sputtering through long black cigarettes as he eats zitti at a café in Rome, waiting for Buffy to arrive. Buffy, who will not arrive. Buffy, who is dead. Some time later, the burn on his cheeks tells him that the sun is low. Now he turns, because she's asked him a question. //"Can you hear it?"// //"I don’t hear it, Buffy."// //"When the sun hits the horizon, it says goodnight."// Andrew is talking to him but he hardly notices. He likes the sound, though. High and musical. Strained, though Giles isn't sure why. Has he given Andrew another assignment that proves too difficult? It's the same tone he had the time he asked Buffy and Andrew to meet with the delegates from Quortoth. No matter. Buffy is dead. The sky grows dark and something is placed in his hands. Giles realizes it's food, though he isn't hungry. Andrew is insistent, placing bars of English chocolate and crisps between his lips. Andrew sits directly across the fire from him. //"You're in America now, Giles. They're called 'chips'."// //"But chips are fried potatoes, Buffy."// //"Those are French fries."// //"But this is America. Surely they'd be called American Fries."// He eats slowly, chewing each bite and swallowing only when coaxed. As he eats Andrew's hands stroke his hair, his rough stubble, trail over the red scratches on his cheeks. Can anyone see the scratches? He's not sure. The fire warms him and he's soon manhandled onto a patch of sand next to the flickering circle. A coat is thrown over him but he shoves it off. The coat is wet, as are his clothes. Andrew lies directly across the fire from him. The have assigned seats now. He feels like he's back in school. When he closes his eyes, Giles worries that nightmares will invade his sleep, but he is delighted to find that that is not the case. He dreams the most glorious dreams! Oh heaven, she's alive! Buffy's live and it's Thanksgiving and even Spike has chosen to grace them with good will. Jenny is there, smile wider than anything, and he's blissful. Morning brings scalding sun. He wakes, rises, sits on his log until midday. Andrew is talking to him. Will he help him find food? Not just now. Perhaps later. Buffy wants to ask him something. He always gets this one wrong. //"There it is, Giles! Can you hear it?"// //"I don’t hear it, Buffy."// They said goodbye at the door. She'd brought no coat, foolish girl, but he'd leant her a slicker to keep the worst of the rain off. As she'd danced from foot to foot on the front steps, he'd claimed a handshake, which she'd deepened into a hug, whispering in his ear. //"I'm so happy, Giles."// He'd foolishly let her leave. Knowing the countryside. Knowing that it was raining. And her in a small rental car. One glass of wine. So foolish. Food is pressed into his arms. They couldn’t be bananas, could they? These odd, green things in his hands? But Andrew eats them and encourages Giles to do the same. He supposes he should be hungry, but he's not. Andrew must be ravenous; he's a growing boy. The young man eats a dozen. Later, Giles hears his heaving, but pays it no mind. The sun is setting now. //"When the sun hits the horizon, it says goodnight."// He rolls off his log, onto the patch of sand. Looks for a blanket and only then realizes that Andrew has spread all of their belongings over the beach. They're held down with rocks. What foolish notion has crossed the boy's mind this time? Only when he reaches for his discarded coat does he realize that the thick fabric is now dry. It's all dry. Thank you, Andrew, he says. But the words don't quite leave his lips. The next morning, Giles wakes, eats exactly two bananas because two bananas are what he's been given. The second one is pushed between his lips because he has not the strength, nor the will, to peel it himself. He wants to fight off the hands that strip off his tie, his shoes, his coat. Andrew says he's hot but Giles doesn't quiet believe it. If he were hot he'd burn right up. The sun could burn him and he'd hiss as he said goodbye. //"When the sun hits the horizon, it says goodnight."// Something white, wet, unpleasant. Andrew's pale hands rub his face and a few words finally breach his walls. "You're gonna burn." He wonders when this boy, this Watcher, shed his clothes. Andrew is wearing boxers and his skin is pink. No, not pink. Red. Andrew has learned from experience. How long has Buffy been dead? How long since the first time? Or was that the second? Which time was it that he killed her? The last time, that's right. A few days? Weeks? He comes alert long enough to watch the sun sink against the water, then pushes away the food Andrew has offered and rolls off his log. //"See Giles? E-mail is as easy as falling off a log!"// He pulls the coat around his body. He doesn't feel as restricted now. Why is that? That's right, Andrew has taken off his tie and jacket. It's nice. When he dreams, it's his birthday. Buffy bakes a cake. It's terrible but he eats it anyway. They play Parcheesi and she tells him the Bay City Rollers aren't *that* bad. He loves her a little more. Some time passes. Giles likes to sleep. When he sleeps, he dreams. When he dreams, she's still alive. He's a smart man, even in his lamenting. He recognizes the need for escape but embraces it instead of trying to overcome it. He wakes each morning and takes to walking by himself. Exactly one hundred steps into the forest; one hundred steps will take him back. He counts each step because when he counts he doesn’t have to think about how Buffy was bad at history but good at defense tactics. Her lipstick smelled like cherries. She loved him. She alone. Andrew pushes something into his hands each day when the sun is directly overhead. Fish today. Where did he find fish? Andrew couldn’t find the Counsel without keeping a map on his belonging and the offices were only two blocks from his flat. It doesn’t taste very good, but Giles eats it regardless, because it's there. In the afternoons he remains on his log. His pants grow threadbare from constant sitting on the rough object. He's always too warm but he's not sure it's appropriate to skim down to his boxers as Andrew has done. Propriety at all times, Rupert. Andrew's boxers grow loose as he loses weight. When waterlogged, they hang from his hips in a way that torments Giles with forbidden too-good dreams. One day he takes ninety steps down the beach and he sits to wait for the sun to set. He strains hard, but despite his best intentions, he cannot hear it. The sun is halfway below the horizon when something makes Giles sit up, hold his breath. There are two suns. He stares for long minutes, confused. One sun sinks and another hangs in the sky, just beyond the first. This one doesn't look anything like the other, though. It's a sun in its most crude rendering. Orange circle, ten sticks jutting out from it. Giles half wonders why it doesn't have a smiling face and, as if almost reading his mind, two dots appear and a thin half circle, eerie in its exuberance. Giles hold his breath. Surely he's insane. He is. He's been close to it for... How long? How long has he been here? And now he knows. He's utterly cracked beyond repair. He blinks once, blinks hard, and when he opens his eyes, the sun is gone, if it had ever been there all. He stands up, does not brush away the sand, and slinks back to camp. As time passes, he becomes aware of new emotions, almost as painful as guilt and loss. He's envious of Andrew. Of the way that he moves on. His lack of inhibitions. His resourcefulness. It mocks him. It mocks the way Giles isn't. He killed Ben and that left him sleepless for weeks. He killed Buffy, and that has left him lifeless forever. Andrew has killed too, but each morning Andrew rises, pushes at Giles' hand with his toe, and tells him to wake up. Makes breakfast, simple as it is, and eats. Talks, though no one is listening. Gathers wood, Giles supposes. Food. Materials for something that might be shelter if he had help building it which he does not. After breakfast, Andrew excuses himself and goes into the forest for a few minutes. Giles tells himself he's taught Andrew well. He's nothing if not polite. Respectful. Giles hates it. When Andrew returns, his teeth are brushed, his hair combed. Each morning he takes the peels from Giles hands. Where they go, Giles does not know. Andrew has a plastic cup. Upon further investigation, Giles finds that it's the lid to a can of shaving cream. Andrew remembered shaving cream. Giles remembers that he left his behind on purpose. Would he have done it? Would he have used his razor without the shaving cream? Not to clean his face but to… "Spit!" After brushing his teeth, Andrew makes him swish the tepid water and spit it onto a tree. Giles' mouth is minty fresh. His heart and soul are black. He should be with Buffy. Three human lives he's taken. Perhaps not directly, but the Powers keep the tally and he knows the score. Those soft hands rub his face. No sunburn for him today. They will run out of sunscreen before too long and then what will they do? Live in a cave perhaps. Giles is mildly interested. There's a species of demon that exist entirely in caves, emerging only to meet kin or mate. It's fascinating. It's knowledge from his old life. His life…before. He tells Andrew about these cave dwellers and the boy looks interested, ecstatic. Giles is unsure as to what about these beings excite the boy so much until he realizes that in those few sentences he's spoken more than he has the entire time they've been…wherever it is they are. Andrew talks and talks and talks then, and Giles wishes he'd said nothing. The next morning he takes his walk. One hundred steps in, one hundred steps out. The forest is beautiful; Giles does not notice this, either. He'd been getting into bed, his feet were half in and half out of the covers, when the phone rang. At precisely the same moment there was a knock at the door and he knew, he *knew*, his world was about to end. Vampires on the phone and an officer at the door and did a Rupert Giles live here? He goes back to not speaking. Andrew brushes Giles' teeth, combs his hair. He smoothes on sunscreen and after a little encouragement, Giles lets him remove his shirts. It feels good, better. Giles hates it. He deserves to be punished but he's too weak to do anything more than go along with it. One morning Andrew kneels between his legs while he sits on the log. He slathers Giles' face in foam and tries to shave him, but Giles knocks the razor from his hand in his fury. He's too weak to do himself in, but too scared to let someone else do it. Andrew's protests fall on deaf ears. Giles knows that he's misunderstood something but he's not exactly sure what. It's windy and the wind carries Andrew's cries from his mouth and across the island without Giles hearing them. The blond boy shivers and presses his face into Giles stomach and sobs brokenly while Giles holds the back of his head. A young, blond head between his legs and Giles grows hard, then stands in perverse horror and sets out for his daily walk. Two hundred steps in, two hundred steps out. He sleeps in the middle of the day and dreams of Dawn and Buffy eating cherries in his kitchen, their fingers stained purple. Andrew teases him sometimes. Not with words—though he realizes that Andrew does that as well—but in other ways. He stands between Giles' legs to smooth on sunscreen, rubs it on his shoulders and back. He runs his fingers over Giles' lips after he's brushed them, making sure to remove the last traces of foam. Brushes his hair slowly, combs his beard. Giles is disturbed by tender touches from soft hands, but worse still are the unconscious torments. The torment of youth and vitality, of things Giles has lost, things he has never had. Things he has killed. He doesn’t know how long he's been on the island. Long enough for Andrew's hair to bleach almost white in the sun. Long enough for it to grow past his ears and be tied back with something. Is it twine? A rubber band? Giles is mildly intrigued but the interest quickly leaves him. His own hair feels shorter. A paranoid person would say Andrew cuts it while he sleeps. He feels it again. It *does* feel shorter. Giles begins to watch him, to envy him, more. So young. Once useless, now strong. Giles has made him that way; Giles has *made* him. He was nothing before. A killer, like Giles himself, and he gave Andrew purpose. Gave him a job, and an expense account, and a destiny. Each day Andrew struts his youth, his beauty, his power. Touching and rubbing and talking to him like Giles is a *person* and not a killer. How dare he? How bloody dare he! Giving Giles respect where he's earned none, only killed the person that was his heart. Yes, Giles envies him. And he hates that he envies him. And he hates that he hates. One morning he wakes Giles with his toe. "Rise and shine!" They eat breakfast. Andrew doesn’t try to shave him anymore, but today he clips his fingernails. Where did he get nail clippers? The Swiss Army knife? Something Andrew brought? Giles watches with interest. He watches Andrew's hands, rough now, but still small. One nail is especially persistent and Andrew takes Giles' finger into his mouth, bites hard at the nail and tries to soften it with his own spit before ripping it with his teeth. Ten fingernails and Giles is rigid with desire and grateful that he still wears pants while Andrew remains uninhibited in boxers. On another morning, Andrew tries to convince him to remove his pants. They're wool, he explains patiently, and they're starting to smell. They're hot and heavy and of no use. Could he please take them off? Take them off, indeed, Giles thinks to himself. He will not. He does not. On the morning that things change, Giles is awoken from dreams of donuts and golden hair and a research party that feels like old times. He wants to roll over and reclaim the dream. If he's lucky, he can sleep until lunch and then take his walk. He'll wait until the sun goes down and dream and maybe this time he won't wake up at all. "Rise and shine, Mr. Stinky Pants." Three bananas today. Giles can only eat one. He knows he's grown thin, that his age and weight make him unhealthy, undesirable, but he doesn’t much care. Andrew takes away the peel, tsking him for not finishing his other two and then brings out the toothbrush. Giles sees through glazed eyes as Andrew sparingly squirts the paste on the brush and begins to clean his teeth. He's very gentle. Giles' eyes watch Andrew, who is watching the brush, and he grows hard. This time, however, shame turns bitter. It's not fair that Andrew is young. It's not fair that he's spent however many days and weeks on this island and not had the guts to put Giles out of his misery, despite the older man's fears and protests. His anger is irrational. Giles has become an irrational man. He virtually storms into the forest. One hundred in, one hundred out, bemoaning his fate, the Powers, youth, and Andrew most of all. He returns early to camp but Andrew is not there. Giles drags his log away from the fire circle so that he can see the beach more fully. A splashing spot in the ocean tells him Andrew is getting fish again. He still doesn’t know how the boy does it. It intrigues him, but not enough to ask. Not enough to speak. Giles watches him in the ocean. His hair is loose, streaming white-gold over his neck and dangling onto his shoulders. Andrew wades from the water with something in his hand, something big. It squirms but his grip is true and as he approaches Giles, the older man realizes that it is, in fact, a fish. Andrew is also, in fact, naked. He drops the fish on a bed of leaves by the fire and returns to the ocean without speaking, only smiling. Giles is fascinated and horrified and aroused. He's not sure if he's horrified by being aroused or fascinated by being horrified or if it's some strange combination of the three. Why does Andrew choose now to lose his last token of civility? Giles watches and wonders. His fury is absurd but he doesn't care. It's not what's *done*. One does not parade around like a tart for all of god and man to see! Andrew leaps into the waves, searching the water for another easy target. The boy struggles out of the water, fish in hand, and Giles has seen enough. He's seen enough of his youth and eager energy. He's seen enough of this small creature with blond hair that torments him at every turn, looking like a ghost and smelling like sunlight, making him hard and showing him what *some* killers deserve, just not killers like Giles. He's cracked and doesn't care. Andrew runs to the fire circle, dumps the second fish on the leaves, and turns, ruffling Giles' hair as he passes. The older man is undone. He stands, knees stiff from sitting, and reaches for the boy. Andrew is moving fast, though, and the motion only causes him to stumble and fall. Giles moves swiftly, pinning the body to the sand ruthlessly while one hand closes around a slender neck. "Is this what you want? Is it? Is it?" He gives Andrew no chance to answer, only lifts and slams his head into the sand to punctuate his words. Andrew squirms beneath him and tries to speak, but the words don’t reach Giles' ears. His hands were once well-manicured—a rare indulgence he'd learned from Wesley Wyndam-Pryce—but no more. One of them grasps roughly at the half-hard bit of flesh between Andrew's legs and strokes it quickly. "Is it what you wanted? What you'd intended when you began to parade your flesh about the island? Is this what you wanted?" he croaks. His voice is scratchy with disuse. Hovering over the gasping man, his legs pin Andrew's at the knee, one hand is closed firmly over Andrew's throat and his other hand brutally works the flesh made hard and slick in his palm. Andrew's hips begin lurching up, pumping desperately into the rough tunnel of Giles' hand. A cry finally reaches Giles' ears and Andrew climaxes quickly, gasping hard. Even now, especially now, he is beautiful. Andrew has grown thin, his body firm and ripped with lean muscle. He's tanned golden in some areas, red and peeling in others. His nose and cheeks have freckled. His lips are chapped but here's a smile there. He pants through white, white teeth and smiles. //"I'm so happy, Giles."// Giles is not happy. He's not happy or young or beautiful. He's not strong or resourceful or adored. He's lost and hard and the body trembling beneath him is smooth. Andrew begins to roll slowly from his grasp, leaning up to…what? Hug him? Kill him? //"I’m so happy, Giles."// No more. He seizes the tanned body and flips him over. Thick sand coats him but Giles doesn’t brush it off, only sits across the smooth arch of Andrew's back and pins him down. He unzips and shoves down the thick woolen fabric, slicking himself quickly with Andrew's own spunk still in his hand. Giles slides lower, exposes a soft pink wrinkle of skin. The first finger goes in easier than it should and Giles adds a second as the body wriggles beneath him. Skin so smooth, heart so broken. He enters Andrew in one thrust, hears a sob from beneath him and wonders if it belongs to him or Andrew. He hasn't cried in all the time she's been gone but he cries now because her life is over and his life is over, but he's too much of a coward to join her. He sets up a brutal rhythm, pulling narrow hips up to meet him. Without prompting, Andrew draws up on hands and knees and Giles ruts like the animal he knows he is. Strokes harder, faster, more brutal. The skin is warm. The sun is low. It's sunset. //"Can you hear it?"// //"I don’t hear it, Buffy."// //"When the sun hits the horizon, it says goodnight."// He comes with an earth-shattering sob. It hurts his ears, his throat, with its intensity. He pulls out slowly, cast his eyes down, and feels his world slip the last little bit. Blood. Pink and red and moist and there's blood on his cock that's not his own and he has to run. Giles stands and Andrew cries. He hears Andrew speaking, pleading, begging him to say and touch and *talk* but he doesn’t need to hear the words to know the truth. He knows the monster he's become. The monster he's made himself. So he zips up quickly and runs. Three hundred steps in. Four hundred. Can you outrun your own demons? He stops when he can go no further and collapses against a tree, vomiting. He curls in on himself, wrapping his hands around his body and sobs until the edges of his vision gray out, and then he sleeps. Buffy and Andrew and Dawn. Making cookies, eating popcorn, and convincing him that there are movies of worth made after 1970. When he wakes it's almost sunset again. He's slept an entire day away and that seems fine to him. He stretches and relieves himself, sings God Save the Queen to keep pictures of a sand-crusted back and blood and a brutal climax from entering his mind. He curls up again and cries until he passes out once more. The second time he wakes up, it is just before dawn. He tries to counts his steps back toward the camp but loses track. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t remember how many steps it took to get him where he was. When he gets near the beach, he finds that Andrew is asleep by the fire. He's wearing cargo pants cut off at the knee. Giles can't bear to look at his face. He finds a patch of sand beyond his log where he can still see the fire and tries to sleep. When the sun rises, Andrew does not toe him awake, though Giles has been alert since he lay down. Andrew goes into the forest and returns with his hair brushed, his teeth presumably clean. He passes Giles two bananas and takes the peels when the older man is finished. Andrew rummages in their belongings, which Giles is only now noticing are neatly piled, organized, and weighed down well away from the tide. He leaves and returns with a cup of fresh water and Giles wonders where he found it. He remembers fresh water from other times. Earlier. Why has he not known this until now? Andrew combs his hair and Giles does not speak. Andrew brushes his teeth while Giles lets him. This act of kindness, of absolution, breaks Giles heart further. He didn't realize that there was a level below rock bottom but he's found it. Giles sleeps in the day now, rising only to eat and go to the bathroom. He watches the sunset, then goes into the forest and does not return until he knows Andrew is well asleep. He observes Andrew at a distance and crawls further into his misery. Andrew has saved him. He's fed him, cleaned him, led him. He's created life for him and Giles… The guilt is palpable, a greasy film that he can almost feel on his skin. He could make a memory charm if he had the right herbs or some dried toadstools, but he has nothing that he can use. He's not actually sure whose memory he would erase, either. Sometimes, when his back aches from sleeping too much, he walks in the forest before lunch. One day he walks exactly one hundred fifty-three steps and finds the first gift. It's a piece of volcanic rock worn smooth as an egg. It's black and clear and he rolls it in his palm, luxuriating in its feel. He pockets it quickly and walks one hundred fifty-three steps back as slow as he can. When he arrives, Andrew is catching fish in that mysterious way of his. Giles sets the rock down on Andrew's seat, realizing for the first time that, at some point, Andrew has found a log to call his own. Giles disappears down the beach and watches the sun hiss as it touches the ocean. //"When the sun hits the horizon, it says goodnight."// On his next walk, Giles paces out two hundred fifteen steps until he finds a blossom so pure and purple, he cannot return to camp without it. On hands and knees he digs at its roots, extricating it so that it can be transported in its entirety. He waits at the edge of camp until Andrew is gone, then leaves it on his seat. The black rock is gone. Andrew sleeps more frequently, too. But his sleep is far from dreamless. Giles wakes one night to hear him sobbing, caught in a nightmare. He wants to go to him, to soothe him like he knew Andrew would do for him, but he doesn't. His touch is as unwelcome now as a splinter, so he rolls to his other side and covers his head with his coat to stifle the sounds. Giles evaluates Andrew's progress on a shelter the following day. It's rudimentary, but could be effective. This time his walk takes him three hundred seven steps down the beach and he returns with long strips of weak driftwood that might be worthy if they are reinforced. He also returns with a conch of pale pink. When Andrew goes into the ocean to catch fish, Giles leaves the wood by the shelter and the shell on his seat. He hides in the forest until he knows Andrew has returned and taken leave again, then seeks out the warmth of the fire himself. When he dreams, he dreams of Andrew now. Sometimes Dawn, but always Andrew. Always Buffy. Five hundred seventy-four steps in and he almost doesn’t find his way out. It's too far, he decides. He'll go no more than five hundred steps next time. He brings back more wood, long grasses. He's found nothing of beauty on this trip and part of him is crushed. He has nothing to leave Andrew so he waits until the blond boy is near the water before dragging his booty to the shelter and working on laying down a floor. His trips become shorter in distance but longer in duration. Giles returns with armloads of materials, much of which he throws away one he has a chance to see how it will all fit. He finds his own pocketknife among their carefully arranged assets and uses it to cut his shirt into strips which he employs to fasten the branches together. The next day he doesn’t count, but he does climb. He climbs to an overhang that allows him to see their camp and spends the night watching. Andrew doesn't try talking to him anymore. The night is still and Andrew's face has grown rigid. Giles knows he has done this and knows, too, that he should feel guilty. For some reason his guilt quotient is all filled up for the week, though, so he tries to move on. He's a Watcher. He watches. Andrew scales a fish and cuts it into great chunks of meat, then spears them on pieces of wood. He rotates them on the fire until the smell makes Giles' empty stomach rumble. When the young man deems them done, he uses the knife to shove them onto a leaf and leaves for a while, returning with the shaving cream lid of water. He divides the food onto two leaves then; one is for Giles. This is his dinner. Did I eat this food once, too? Giles wonders. He remembers vaguely food being pressed between his lips. Remembers even more the feel of his own finger in Andrew's mouth. Andrew leaves and returns later, then lays in the sand staring at the fire for nearly an hour. He rolls something in his hand and casts anxious looks into the forest. Then he lays down his head and sleeps. When Giles returns to camp, he examines his hand and finds the black rock clenched in his fist. He crawls to his own small patch of sand and eats the cold fish quickly, memories of similar meals finally entering his mind. Then he stretches out and closes his eyes. "I was worried." The sound is as out of place as a scream in a library. Giles does not answer and tonight he does not dream. Three hundred sixty-one steps and Giles finds a pale blue stone this time. It's smaller than a marble, the color of Andrew's eyes. He keeps it in his hand the entire way back to camp, checking every twenty steps to make sure it's still there, that it's still real, that its color is the shade he thinks it is. This time he leaves it in Andrew's shaving lid and hopes that the boy won't accidentally drink it. Decides maybe he should stick around for a while to make sure. When Andrew comes up from the beach, he brings a fish with him. Giles has almost worked up the courage to ask him how he does it, but not quite. He stands behind the largest tree, watching. Andrew cuts the fish, spears it, rotates it over the flames. He scrapes the burning chunks onto a bed of leaves and searches out his small cup. Giles holds his breath. Andrew rattles the small stone around and takes it out, holding it to the dwindling light. He stares for long minutes and Giles worries. Then tears slide over his burned cheeks and Giles worries more. Andrew stands and goes into the forest. When he returns, his cup has water and the young man eats dinner. Tonight he dreams of Venice as Buffy saw it: raw and beautiful and true. He dreams of Andrew the same way, no longer innocent, but still virtuous. Honest. Andrew toes him awake without a greeting. There's some reddish fruit this morning. Andrew explains that the birds eat it so it can't be poisonous. Giles knows of several berries that are poisonous only to humans and not to birds, but he doesn’t mention it, so grateful is he that Andrew has spoken to him. Is this how Andrew feels when words finally find their way from Giles own mouth? Giles eats the fruit quickly but won't let it cross Andrew's lips until he's sure it isn't dangerous. At first Andrew doesn't understand, but when Giles knocks the fruit from Andrew's hand the second time, he mumbles, "twelve bananas" from between cracked lips. The grimace on his face tells him that Andrew remembers the heaving from his early days on the island. Two hundred twenty-four steps and Giles finds more volcanic glass and almost passes it up because it's flawed, imperfect, like Giles himself. Then the sharp edge cuts his finger and as he sucks the blood form his thumb, he makes two decisions. It takes him six days of searching to find a piece of obsidian large enough for what he wants. When he's finished, it looks crude. It's weak, but functional; this is also like Giles himself. It takes seven more days of hard labor for what he has planned. Giles begins to rise before the sun, stripping bananas and plucking at the red fruit, eating quickly, and toeing Andrew awake before he walks his eighty–six steps into the stand of small trees. He returns at midday to eat quickly, now too busy to find out how Andrew catches the fish he does. The pile of wooden beams he collects grows each day, as does Giles' resolve. When at last he feels satisfied with his stockpile, he waits until Andrew is asleep before dragging the materials to camp. He leaves them next to the fledgling home and props Andrew's gift, this amateur ax, next to the blond. He knows he'll need Andrew's help to complete the shelter and for some reason that reminds him of his second decision. Just after the sun rises, Giles makes his way to their small storehouse of goods, held down with his very own dress shirts and a few large rocks. He picks through them quietly, careful not to wake Andrew from much needed rest. He finds what he needs: shaving cream, a broken piece of mirror, a plastic razor he doesn't remember packing. Perhaps it's Andrew's. He'd use his own straight razor, (not for the use in which it was packed, but to do its true job today) but he cannot find it. Assembling his possessions on a large rock by the sea, he examines his face in the small bit of glass. How long has he been lost? Not just on the island, but truly lost? Years, perhaps. He contemplates time, how it works, its relative subjectivity. There are certain demons with the ability to manipulate time. He'd forgotten that. He'd forgotten a lot. His face has remembered everything, though. His eyes have become worn and lines have appeared that were not there before. His skin is dark and peeling in places. His hair has grown longer, though still not so far as Andrew's. Giles runs his fingers through it and wonders if Andrew really *did* trim it while he slept. The tide splashes over his ankles. Giles slathers his face with cream, using too much because he's forgotten the proper amount. The smell is strong, the texture like heaven under his fingertips. It's as he reaches for the plastic razor that arms come around him, firm like a vice. His body freezes instinctively, then tells him to fight, to run, to defend himself, but he does nothing except wait. There's a blade at his throat—his own razor, which gives him a mind-bending moment of irony. He swallows hard and feels the roll of his Adam's apple under the cold metal. He knows it is what he deserves after long last and welcomes it as much as he fears it. He rolls his head back and his eyes sink shut. One small hand fingers his beard from behind, plucking it between long fingers. Giles shudders at this intimacy and realizes that he is panting. Then the blade is at his cheek, moving below those fingers over and over. His eyes open slowly and he watches a slim wrist whip a clump of foam and hair onto an innocent rock and then return to his face. When Andrew is done, the longer hair has been removed and all that remains is patchy stubble. It's then that he allows Giles to turn, rinsing the older man's face long enough to scrutinize its contours before reapplying a liberal amount of shaving cream. Giles has no words to express his gratitude, his appreciation, and yes, his love. Warm tears leak from his eyes and Andrew pretends not to notice. He just bites his lip and critically studies the space below Giles' chin the way he might examine a demon text in those long-ago days when Giles knew what life meant. His hands hang limp at his sides and he is utterly under Andrew's control, moving only when asked, speaking only when spoken to. "Turn to the right." Giles complies and watches as a large, white bird skims low over the trees. So much easier to watch its progress than to question the intentions of Andrew, who slides the plastic razor over his jaw with careful strokes. "Chin up." Andrew bends low and scoops seawater into his hands, then rubs it over Giles' cheeks. It burns in the places where Andrew has inexpertly shaved him and the sting is the greatest feeling Giles has known in a lot time. Real pain on the outside instead of the inside is a beautiful thing. His face still dripping, Giles watches Andrew swish his own hands in the sea and then walk away, his feet splashing saltwater as he stomps back up the beach. Giles runs his hands over smooth cheeks and can't help smiling. He smiles larger, wider, clown-like, just to feel the pull of muscle under skin. Then he begins to wonder when Andrew felt the need to sleep with a straight razor under his pillow. He doesn't have to wonder long, as images of blood and strangled cries bring him shuddering to the present. Part of him marvels at his naivete. He'd forgotten for a few minutes how desperately he'd violated the boy. He longs to scratch himself, to cut himself and bring absolution in some small form but knows that that would frighten Andrew as much as anything else has. Ah, the irony of it. When he returns to camp, Andrew has already found the mound of driftwood and truncated saplings, as well as the tiny hatchet. "Hold this." Giles does as he is told, grasping one end of a long, green piece that could hardly be called more than a branch. They work slowly, sweating as the sun hits midday and stopping only for water. Andrew beckons for Giles to follow him as he goes into the forest and finds that there's a freshwater stream only a little way from the camp. Andrew explains how he found it in those early days, exploring while Giles slept. They work hard. Giles does not speak, but he does try to be attentive, moving when asked and offering advice in grunts and pointed movements. In a few days they have four walls, weak though they are, and a grass floor. There's no roof, which really defeats the purpose of a shelter, but it provides shade. Giles helps Andrew move their belongings in, holding his breath when Andrew assembles the few books he'd packed—mystery novels, nothing useful, Giles bemoans—and places at their top the black rock, the pink conch, then the blue pebble. Two days pass. One hundred six steps and Giles finds a creamy white flower, large as a tea saucer. He leaves it on Andrew's side of their home and climbs onto the rocky overhang, watching Andrew once again. Over the next few weeks it becomes his favorite pastime. He notices one day that there's something in the ocean, some structure, but Giles can't tell what it is. Whatever the mystery object is made of, it appears to be how Andrew has become so proficient at acquiring fish. Andrew wades out of the water and up the beach. Giles watches his movements, the curve of his shoulders and the subtle sway of his hips as he struggles to walk, burdened by wet cargo pants. For the first time, Giles truly takes in his own attire. His bare chest, dark tanned and thick with curling salt and pepper hair. His trousers, now truly stinking. And his bare, blistered feet. He unbuttons his pants experimentally and the world does not end. Then he lets them drop to the ground and steps out, cool air striking the sensitized skin of his thighs. His underwear are shabby and soiled and Giles is horrified. How could he have let them get this bad? With sudden fury, he kicks the pile of wool off of the ledge, where it tumbles over rocks to land down in the water. He watches while they sink slowly, bobbing for a moment, then disappearing entirely. It feels like a fresh start. His skin, so used to being covered and always faintly damp, goosebumps in the salty breeze. Giles finds his body stirring, warming pleasantly in all the right places. He almost feels normal. Then movement on the beach catches his eye and he sees Andrew critically studying several types of palm that he's laid out, searching for the one most useful. An image rises in Giles' head: his own cock, smeared with blood pulling out of a young body too naïve to grasp what a monster really looks like. He wretches over the rocks, cursing the brief moment of solace he'd achieved because it made all moments following it that much worse. He walks on weak legs back to camp and collapses in their hut, refusing food or consolation. The next morning brings a thin cloud cover. Giles ravenously eats the previous evening's cold fish and then races forty-seven steps into the jungle, his feet bare and bleeding as they strike bits of rock and wood. He finds a red flower this time and avoids thinking about how his blood would be red like this flower if he were brave enough to let it flow. It sprinkles lightly as he returns to camp. Giles notices a ceiling for the first time as he approaches their shelter. It takes a long time to figure out that the top consists of palm fronds covered with the stripped out lining of their suitcases. Who would have known the boy was so infinitely resourceful? There's a door, too, of sorts. It's really only a few bits of driftwood tied together, but it suits their humble home. Giles crawls over Andrew's things, leaving the flower on his makeshift pillow, then taking a minute to touch the rock, pebble, and shell in turn. Between the pages of Andrew's books, Giles can see bits of stem and leaves poking out. He slides the trinkets off of the stack and pulls back the pages carefully. There's a purple flower crushed flat between the pages of one book, the white one in another, beginning to brown. He replaces the gifts, then leaves the red flower on top of the books with the stones and shells. The wind blows harder. Restless, Giles finally leaves the shelter. Peering through wet fingers for Andrew, Giles searches, but the boy is nowhere to be found. Walking down the beach, Giles scans left and right but finds no trace of the young man. A circle of the camp and then the rock overhang bring no more results. Giles begins to panic. It grows cold and Giles is shivering in his boxers, washed recently, shamefully, in an eddy far away from camp. They are far too little coverage for this sudden temperature drop. Giles wraps his arms around himself and tries to exercise his rusty vocal cords long enough to call out, " Andrew?" The wind picks up, carrying his voice over the island, but there's no answering call and Giles' fears escalate. He cannot be alone! He simply cannot! Andrew takes care of him! If Andrew isn't here, then how will he take care of himself? The thought is outlandish. No, he could not take care of himself, just as he could not take care of Buffy. Once he was a responsible man, worthy of others' love and respect, but not now. If Andrew is gone (he does not stop to wonder *where* Andrew is in his daydreaming) he'll do himself quickly. The razor or the sharp blade of obsidian. He can bleed red like a flower, like the blood Buffy bled, like the blood he made Andrew spill. But if Andrew is gone, he'll never receive his flower or the dozens of small gifts Giles intends on leaving the young man. "Andrew!" he cries desperately and cups his hands around his mouth, eyes scrunched tight against the rain. "Andrew!" He half imagines clouds of dust to blow from his rusty vocal cords, like the dust accumulated on ancient texts. Tears mix with the wetness already on his cheeks. Andrew can't be gone. Giles doesn't want to be alone. He doesn't *want * to! Andrew needs to be here! More than he wants Buffy to be alive, he wants Andrew to be here with him. And yes, that's when he realizes that he wants again. Wants more than pain and a dying sun. He wants Andrew near him again, wants to hear his string of commentary on bananas and fishing and Batman, which are slowly trickling into his memory. He wants to eat every bite Andrew puts before him and shade his tender skin now that they've run out of sunscreen and yes, keep *him* safe, ridiculous thought that it is. Giles' mind feels brittle, perched on a knife's edge. He hisses through his teeth, ready to scream. Giles has hardly been able to save himself, but if Andrew is in danger he'll do what he can to save him because he wants him safe, near, home. He wants. "Andrew—" "Hold this." He almost doesn't hear it through his panic, but then he feels sticks and an old shirt shoved into his arms and then Andrew's in front of him. "It needs to stay out of the wind, Giles. It's really important, okay? Do you understand?" Andrew is nodding at him like he's a child and Giles nods back, dumbstruck. "You look confused. More than usual." He raises his eyebrows, not expecting a response, and Giles nods again. "If it floats away in the storm, then it's 'Hasta la bye-bye, baby' to fresh food." The bundle in his arms takes on a strange new meaning. This contraption is how he catches fish. "I'm going to get the water cup. I left it by the stream. Keep this safe, okay? Okay, Giles?" Andrew shouts as the thunder and rain grow louder. Giles nods and Andrew darts quickly into the trees. He watches him go with concern before entering the shelter and piling the sticks and fabric in a safe corner, then covering it with one of his suit coats. Their roof is shoddy and leaks in many places but Giles thinks the idea was ingenious. He curls up on his old garment bag—now his makeshift bed, as the bags are softer than palm fronds or hard-packed sand—and thinks. He doesn't want to die. He's only had this knowledge for a few minutes but he is growing accustomed to it. And more intense than his will to live is this odd burning in his chest when he thinks of Andrew. He muses on the strange twists of fate that have brought him to this place, broken and regretful beyond what words can encompass. Sometime later he hears Andrew return. His relief is palpable. There is an intake of breath and he rolls over, concerned. "Why do you * do * this?" Andrew suddenly exclaims, and Giles finds Andrew wielding the red blossom like a weapon. "I—" "What are you going to say? Can you say anything? Or will I get a dozen more flowers and still be here alone? Alone!" Whatever has caused the sudden explosion, Giles is unsure. But he shuts his eyes tight to block out Andrew's fury. "I don't want this okay? I hate this! I hate you! I hate YOU!" And oh, how it hurts, these words of anger and truth. Andrew beats him with a long stem flower and the crushed petals fall like drops of blood. Any other time it might seem funny, this furious pummeling with a flower, but not now. Andrew replaces the flower with his hands, slapping at Giles' body with fury but without force. His face is sunburned red and made redder in his passion. Giles crawls to his knees, gathering the petals franticly and trying hard to press them back into Andrew's hand. The blond boy clutches at the proffered petals and throws them back with a scream. "It's not fair! It's not! I hate—I hate—it—" He sobs and Giles' heart breaks as Andrew picks up the rocks and shells and hurls them as hard as he can. The obsidian strikes Giles just above his eye and he feels a bump rise instantly, blood trickling over the bridge of his nose and he deserves it. He deserves everything Andrew can do to hurt him because he's a monster. He's a horrible monster, and unworthy of friendship or compassion. He scrubs the blood away from his eyes with one hand and scrambles across the small shelter. He shoves at the door that's not a door and goes toward the driving rain. Halfway out a hand grasps his ankle. He kicks at it, desperate to be free to do what he needs. What needs to be done. He's not sure what, only that he needs Andrew to be safe and he's not safe around Giles. He can't feel safe around Giles. The Englishman tries to stand and his vision grays. He's not sure if it's the blood or the pounding rain. Giles staggers a few steps, and then warm hands jerk at his elbows and Andrew's yelling at him again. "—Sorry! So, so, sorry! Giles! Giles, can you hear me? I'm sorry. Please don't leave—don't leave me!" Andrew yanks hard and Giles falls to his knees, then struggles to stand up. "H-have to g-go…" Giles sways and Andrew tackles him as best he can, pinning Giles with all of the force the slim boy has. Their position is so absurd that Giles wants to laugh, then realizes it's the reverse of the position that finally tipped his sanity over the edge. "N-no!" He stutters and struggles to crawl from beneath Andrew's body. "Can—won't hurt…" He reaches the edge of the forest before Andrew catches up with him again. "You ASSHOLE!" Andrew shrieks and though the rain is nearly torrential now, Giles hears the sound perfectly; it sounds somewhere between a whine and a cry. It makes him hesitate long enough for Andrew to catch up with him. The stand of trees muffles the sound of the rain and, as Andrew draws closer, Giles can hear him more clearly. "It's always about YOU isn't it? GILES is in pain, GILES is sad, GILES gets to decide when to speak. Well I'm not going to baby your shitty British ass any longer, got it? GOT IT? I'm so tired of it! I'm so tired—tired of doing this all by myself. For nine months I've…I've done it all myself." Andrew's sobs burn Giles' ears and break his heart. "So tired of waiting and wanting and wishing things were different. I can't do it any longer or I'll be as crazy as *you* so there's only one alternative and that's that you join *my* club. We're fucking LOST, okay? Both of us! And I know you miss Buffy—I do, too. And I know you're upset or whatever, but starting now you're not going to slink around this island like a ghost. You're going to pull your weight. You're going to talk to me. You're going to respond appropriately and you're going to eat whatever I give you and I don't want to hear any grief about it." Giles' knees give out and he collapses to the ground, groveling at the bare, callused feet. He scrambles to hold onto the legs, pressing his wet cheeks against the tan, lightly haired skin. His face is twisted in grief and regret but there's no way to apologize—no new way—so he sobs and sobs and rubs his smooth cheeks against Andrew's legs. Andrew's thin fingers weave into his hair and yank his head back brutally, daring him to meet his eyes. "STOP THAT! Stop the rocks and the shells and the flowers, okay? Because they don't mean crap to me. They don't—they don't mean crap." The crack in Andrew's voice betrays otherwise but Giles only twists his face in grief and cries harder. "—F-fair" "What?" "It's f-fair." "What's fair, Giles? What?" Andrew stops sobbing, stops yelling, in order to hear Giles' words. His face is so hopeful that Giles cannot bear to look at it. "T-took…beautiful and…give it back." Andrew's death-grip on Giles' hair lightens and the Englishman uses it as an excuse to grovel again, pressing his forehead to Andrew's shins. Then the firm grip resumes and Giles finds himself being pulled away once more. This time Andrew kneels too, moving his hands to hold Giles' head steady. "What did you say, Giles? What?" Giles coughs. His voice is still gravelly; it doesn’t sound like it belongs to him, which makes his words marginally better to hear. "—have to give you every bit of beauty I find. Took your beauty from you. Take and take and don't give. Can't give. Nothing of my own to give…" He sobs louder, his body swaying from side to side with the sheer force of his weeping. He hasn't fully cried for Buffy, for their situation, for the wicked turn that life has provided him with, so he does it now. He sobs until his innards feel as though they might burst from his body and his eyes feel like molten lava in his head. Andrew lets go of Giles' head and sits back on his heels, rubbing the palms of his hands into his eyes. "I can't do this anymore, Giles. Oh my goddess, I can't keep reassuring you every fucking day about this. I think I'm going crazy, I think…" He cries into his own hands, then sits back on his bottom and wraps his arms around his head in frustration. "I tell you this ever day—every fucking day." The young man begins to rock, his voice growing shrill and desperate. "Every day I remind you about this. Every day I tell you that you didn't do anything wrong, that I love you, that I want you to love me and touch me and fuck me again and every day you shut down and go to that place in your head where you don’t hear me. If you do this again, I swear to Yoda I'll kill myself. I can't—I can't—" He shoves his face between his folded knees and sobs. Giles replays Andrew's words in his head, trying to make sense, to glean some understanding from them, but they're unfamiliar to him. "Giles…Giles…" Andrew rocks and rocks and Giles weeps. They're both wet, drenched to the skin, and still the rains come. "…please love me… please…can't do it…can't anymore…please, Giles…." Some time later the rain slows, as does the fury of their pitiable sobs. Andrew's words have tickled at the edge of Giles' memory. He thinks…he *might* remember some such conversation from…earlier. The day Andrew shaved him? The day they began the shelter? He doesn't remember. Giles doesn't dare accept the words. Instead he rolls them around without letting them absorb, the way a child might suck a penny candy instead of crunching into it; it's so better to savor than to consume. Eventually Giles stands because he knows not what else to do. Andrew touches his wrist as he passes, mumbling, "I'll be there in a few minutes," in such a way as to make Giles think it's a pattern they've done countless times before. Maybe it is. It's taken nine months, but Giles thinks maybe Andrew's spirit is finally broken like his is. It's a bitter, shallow victory. "Okay," he says as he slinks away. Andrew looks surprised at the response and Giles takes it as a good sign. His boxers are soaked and cling to his skin but Giles hardly notices. All of his emotions are wrung out and he collapses on his makeshift bed, his mind a whirl of questions and emotions. If Andrew's words are true, if—no, they can't be. He hurt him; Giles saw the blood. But if Andrew loved him, wanted him, wants him still—no, that can't be. Though it's slowed, the rain has not stopped and it still leaks into their shelter. Giles moves so that his wrist is under the largest spot. He lets the steady dripping splash over his skin, watches the silvery beads of water collect and run across his arm. He feels Andrew enter their home before he hears him. When he tips the water off of his arm and looks to the entrance, he's only a little startled to discover Andrew slowly undressing, his fingers sliding over the zipper of pants he never wanted to wear in the first place. They drop to the ground and Andrew kicks them away, then stands resolutely. His body is obscenely well-tanned and the beginning of a stout erection stirs from a nest of sandy curls. Giles feels guilty again at his sudden libidinous hunger. Andrew doesn't move, just stares at him from high above, and Giles licks his lips. Giles doesn't speak, but this time it's not out of choice. He simply doesn't know what to say. He opens his arms then, spreads them wide. He is gratified when Andrew lowers himself to his knees, still crying softly, and slides up Giles' body, covering and warming Giles' frigid skin with his own. "Andrew…" "Shhh…" Andrew licks the water from his neck, his chin, and takes Giles' wrist in his mouth to remove the water there. The pressure of another body, warm and willing and alive, takes Giles' breath away and he's gasping before Andrew's even kissed him. "Please let me, Giles. Please…." He rocks against Giles' body and the Englishman feels the stirring of his own long-denied erection. Lips salty with dried tears press against his own and then he's not sure which of them is crying, only that tears are leaking between their cheeks and lips and Giles doesn't care. "…please…please love me, Giles…" Giles' hand finds the small of Andrew's back and pulls their bodies more tightly together. He lifts his hips to create more contact and pants scratchy words of acquiescence. "…yes...yes…love you…" Andrew's face is as raw and open as Giles knows his own face looks. Giles kisses his cheeks, his ears, the corners of his lips. Promises himself that at some point he'll kiss every new freckle on the suntanned cheeks if this turns out to be something other than a dream. His wet boxers are the only sign he has that this is real and he hesitates before letting Andrew slide them off. The blond boy quickly resumes his place, letting their bodies slide freely over one another. Andrew pins Giles' arms to the ground and Giles relinquishes control, utterly under Andrew's command. When the young man finally cries out, it's Giles' name he calls, fluid bathing both of their bodies. Giles is still hard and Andrew continues to slide against him. The older man's face is twisted in pleasure and the sweet pain of unreleased tension. Andrew rubs harder, faster, then clutches at Giles' wrists until the half-moon marks bleed. With a whimper, Giles comes. Pleasure rips through his body and he feels a moment of guilt before Andrew's lips are on his, kissing and tasting and forcing his mouth open. A sweet tongue slides against his teeth and he parts his mouth, accepting and stroking Andrew's tongue. Andrew is still kissing him, even as he's drifting off. That night, he does not dream. The next day brings sunshine. It's a day for airing out old laundry—literally and metaphorically. They bask naked in the sun, stopping to make love at noon and talking until far into the night. Andrew retells the events of the day Buffy took him to the Hellmouth's seal, the day he began his road to redemption. Giles tells him of the night Buffy came to visit and met her destiny on a slick, one-lane road. They both cry. Two days pass, then three. They work on the shelter, making it stronger, larger. Making it home. Giles begins to remember the life he had before, the knowledge that he and Andrew shared. With two clear minds, they set about making a plan of some sort. Both know that they owe their little island a lifetime of thanks, but neither is eager to spend that lifetime on it. "A transdimensional portal could be created if we had an Orb of Minkon." "Which we don't, I'm afraid." "True. What about a potion? One that could transport us to…" "Another island? The middle of the ocean?" "Okay, point taken. We don't know where we are. I just feel like we're missing something." Giles shifts against the tree he's leaning on. They've decided to rest in its shade; Andrew's body is inclined against his, Giles' arms are wrapped around his middle. The Englishman leans forward, pressing a kiss against one smooth temple. "Tell me again about that day." "You were pretty out of it." "I know." The words are bitter in his mouth, but made sweeter because they're finally spoken, at long last. "Well, the coven made the circle and we were in it with all of our stuff." "Go on." "Then they began. I guess about ten minutes had passed before it happened." Giles squeezes Andrew tighter, encouraging him to go on. "There was a crash and then there was a tree in the house. You just looked so…blank. I was scared. I'd never seen you like that. You're supposed to know what to do and stuff. Always." "Andrew, grief is something that's unique to all of us—" Giles begins. "—Don't, okay Giles? It's okay. I understand." Andrew crosses his arms over the ones at his chest and squeezes hard. "And then I saw that one lady—the one with the accent?—and she was trapped under the tree, dead. The markings on the floor were all wet and messed up." "No doubt that's what led to our less-than-satisfactory destination. The calculations were irrevocably obscured." "Does that mean 'the tree fucked up the spell'?" Giles chuckled. "Yes, Andrew. Precisely." "Could we do it again?" "What do you mean?" "I mean, could we do the spell from here and try to get back?" "I'm afraid not. We'd need an entire coven. Transport spells—especially ones that cover great distances—are quite difficult. Besides, we'd need to recreate the exact circumstances. It could only work from the coven's home in England and so on. We'll have to think of something else." "Oh." Andrew's voice holds such a note of despondency that Giles feels momentarily guilty before he remembers that that is an emotion they've both pledged to give up. "I'll race you to the water," he calls suddenly, and shoves Andrew forward so that he can stand and begin the sprint to the ocean. A week later and they're standing in the ocean as the waves break over their thighs. "So *this* is how you do it?" Giles eyes the contraption of sticks and cloth suspiciously. "Yep." "Doesn't seem very…sportsmanlike." "That's exactly what Kevin Bacon thought in "White Water Summer" when Sean Astin made one. See, I got the idea from this movie where the kid rigged up a—a—" His words are swallowed up as Giles claims his mouth. When he's been kissed breathless, Andrew pulls away. "I love you." They've also agreed on not lying. Andrew smiles happily and Giles must kiss the young man again. "I wondered for months how you caught fish," he admits and Andrew laughs. "All you had to do is ask." Two more weeks and Giles stands on the shore. The sun is low and his heart burns as it does every day at this time. //"Can you hear it?"// //"I don’t hear it, Buffy."// //"When the sun hits the horizon, it says goodnight."// A hand slips into his. "Andrew, did you know that if you listen very carefully, you can hear the sun speak when it reaches the horizon?" "I did not know that. What does it say?" Andrew humors him. Giles stands and stares and tries to understand. "I suppose it's different for every person." That night they make love while the waves crash on the beach. It's like no music Giles has ever made love to and he promises himself he'll find a recording of that sound to play when they get home. "Giles? Are you asleep?" "No." "Are you sure the transit circle couldn’t work? If the coven did it again?" "What do you mean?" "I mean, couldn’t *they* just recreate it and bring us back?" "I’m sorry, Andrew. I don't want to sound negative, but that would be nearly impossible." "Why?" "It would have to be exactly replicated, as I said. And if I’m not mistaken, by your own account, one or more members of the coven are not alive to do the spell. I wish I could tell you something hopeful." "Willow could do it. What if she took their place? Could it work then?" "Willow is quite powerful, but even with the help of the coven, I'm not sure she'd have enough power to recreate the spell at its full intensity. She'd risk the chance of transporting us halfway—landing in the ocean or, heaven forbid, making it home but with only half of our bodies." "Ew! Are you sure?" "No, I honestly don't know for sure. But I don't think so. I'm sorry, Andrew." "It's okay. I know you're just being honest. And I'm glad, even if I am sad." That night he dreams of Buffy for the last time. Her smile is as bright as the sun and that thought tickles a memory that slips away before dawn. As he stirs awake, Giles reaches out for the warm body he's grown accustomed to. Andrew is not there, though. Fighting a momentary panic, Giles stands and smoothes his hair, then steps outside. He can just make out the form of his lover on the rocks and he watches him for several minutes before joining him on the outcropping. "You're up early." "I was just thinking about something." "Me?" Giles steps behind him, tucking one arm around his waist, another around Andrew's shoulders. "Always." Giles smiles then, and he feels a tickle of déjà vu. He begins to stroke Andrew's belly in a soothing manner, encouraging him to speak. "Actually, I was thinking about what you said before. About Willow not being strong enough to make the spell work." "Yes?" "There *are* ways to give a spell some extra va-va-va-voom." Andrew bites his lip nervously and stares into the cold blue sunrise that hasn't quite begun. "She could use a Derwinian amulet—" "Too expensive." "The counsel has money." "Not that kind of expensive, I'm afraid. It takes the sacrifice of three human lives to purchase one." "Oh, then…yeah. Probably not going to use that one." "No." "But she could do other stuff. Infuse the circle with sage or crushed Tojas root—" "Still not strong enough." "Or wait until a correlating lycanthropic lunar cycle to draw on the elementals. But that's pretty farfetched because she'd need a werewolf for that." Giles' hand stops rubbing Andrew's belly. "Go on. Tell me about that one." "Well," Andrew begins cautiously, "I don't really know how it works, exactly. But it wouldn’t be easy. She'd need to find a werewolf first off. Then there's a monthly ceremony and some bloodletting and the werewolf would have to totally be down with all of that, so it's mostly unlikely." Giles lets out his breath slowly. "But if she could find a werewolf?" He won’t tell him, not yet. He's promised not to lie and he has no intention of breaking that promise, but first he has to know what Andrew knows. He has to know if he's feeding Andrew false hope or if there really is a chance that at this very moment Willow is working on a plan for their return. "Then she could recreate the spell the way you said—only it would be uberpowerful. Maybe powerful enough to bring us all of the way home." Giles mulls over Andrew's words, looking for flaws in the plan. "It would take a long time. Years maybe." "Years to find the corresponding lycanthropic cycle, but unless it's a werewolf you're trying to transport, I bet you could just do it on the date in time relative to the original spell. For us, I guess that would be, like, a year? So…on the anniversary or something." Giles is quiet, thinking. "Hello, McFly? Share please." Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Giles says, "I was only thinking that you've come up with a brilliant plan. I just wonder if Willow is able to draw the same conclusions that you have." Andrew's stomach rumbles. "I wouldn’t mind if she drew a conclusion that transported a cheeseburger to the island. I'm so tired of fish." "For once I am inclined to agree," Giles teases, watching as the sky grows pink. "A cheeseburger sounds lovely." "Yeah," Andrew agrees, tilting his head to allow Giles access to his neck, "but a cheeseburger is pretty tangible. You couldn’t do anything like that, probably. The best you could do with the broken circle is maybe send some light or something." Giles runs his lips over Andrew's neck and let's free association take over. He feels on the edge of something, some huge breakthrough, but the thought is as illusive as sunlight. Sunlight. "Andrew?" "Yeah?" "Pretend you're Willow." "I don't have boobs." "Humor me," Giles says dryly. "Okay, I'm Willow. Wiccan lesbian and brilliant scientific mind." "—and you've just realized that you have a werewolf and a plan to bring your friends back from an unknown location." "Okay." "And you fear it will take a long time—one year to be exact—before you'll be able to rescue them. What is going through your mind?" "Besides what a badass Wicca I am for figuring out the lycanthropic angle?" "Besides that, yes." "I guess…." "Yes?" "I'm Willow-thinking! Don't rush me!" Andrew stares at the horizon and Giles stares at Andrew, willing the young man to put into words something that he's afraid to legitimize. "I'd be worried," he says finally. "Worried that you'd be unable to do the spell?" "No, worried that my friends were lost somewhere. Alone. Afraid." "Go on." "So…I'd try to do something." "Like what? You know Willow. Be specific." "Um, I guess I'd… I'd work with what I have." "Which is?" "Stop breathing down my neck and start…oh, breathing down my neck…" Andrew shudders as Giles lips trail over the skin. "I'd probably try to reassure them. You know, let them know that I was still working on things and not to give up hope." "How?" "Use what I have at my disposal, like I said. I could…" Giles is nearly breathless, waiting for Andrew to go on. "I'd send them a message of some kind. Like, you know how I said that recreating the spell might send a little light forward from the transit circle to wherever the heck we are?" Giles nods and stands still. "I'd try to tell my friends that I'm coming, that they just have to wait and be patient." "What kind of message?" "Ideally? I'd send a letter or something, but I don't think the spell would be strong enough to—I don't know." Andrew's brow scrunches up in concentration. "Not you, Andrew. Willow. What would Willow do?" Giles' lips are pressed to Andrew's ear and he holds his breath waiting for a response. Andrew is quiet. Either he's thinking hard, or he's about to give up, and Giles tries hard to be patient. He knows now, *thinks* he knows, what Willow might do, but he has to have it confirmed; he doesn't dare put the words in Andrew's mouth. "Willow…" Andrew's eyes open and he smiles. "She'd draw us a picture. A Willow-picture. 'Cause she'd know she only had a few seconds and that's not enough time to explain everything. So she'd send a picture probably and—What?" He's not cracked, not totally. Giles feels moisture on his cheeks and realizes he's crying. He's been a hundred kinds of deranged while on this island, but it's a relief to admit that one of them is real. "Andrew, what if I told you that she *had* sent us a sign?" "Huh?" "What if I told you that earlier, months ago, I'd seen a sun?" "We watch the sun every night, Giles," Andrew says gently, perhaps afraid of opening old wounds just barely healing. Giles is grateful enough at this tender act that he must stop to kiss him before continuing. "Not that sun. A second one, mocked up like a child's drawing. A sun…with a smiling face?" "Oh! Like a circle with little lines and a super big smiley face?" "Yes," Giles answers and nearly laughs with hysteria. "That's how Willow signs all of her letters when she's writing to us!" "I've never seen her do that." "You've never been away for her to write to you." "I suppose you're right." "Wait, so you're telling me you saw the sign—in a non-Ace of Base kinda way?" Like much of what comes out of Andrew's mouth, Giles isn't entirely sure what he's talking about, but he nods anyway. "Yes, I saw a sun." "Why didn't you say anything?" "I thought I was crazy." I *was* crazy, Giles thinks to himself. But no more. Andrew bounces in his arms, eager to understand. "So she's going to do it! Or something like it?" "I believe so. Yes." Giles catches Andrew's exuberance and begins bouncing himself. "We're going home, Giles. Pretty soon…we're going home!" They jump like schoolgirls and Giles doesn’t care that, once they return, Andrew will likely tell the others that he was bouncing about. When their euphoria has finally ebbed, they collapse on the rocks, dangling their legs over the pounding surf. "So now what?" "Now we wait." Giles pulls Andrew's body into his, tucking his arm around the smaller man and resting his chin on a freckled shoulder. Later, they'll make love again. Giles makes a mental plan for the day: food, sex, perhaps a discussion of how they can assist in the upcoming transport spell from their end. But now…for now… Giles watches the sun rise on the opposite side of his world, first a glowing strip of gold, then a wider bar. Soon he can detect a distinct half-circle, and eventually the entire sun hangs over the horizon. It's a fiery testament to his newfound sanity and he welcomes it. "What does it say?" "I'm sorry?" Lost in thought, Giles isn't aware that Andrew has spoken at first. "The sun. You said it speaks." "That's only when the sun sets." "Are you sure?" "No, I don't suppose I am." He watches the sun, watches Andrew's face bathed in light, and decides that he was wrong. "Perhaps the sun does speak when it rises." "So what does it say? 'Here's another day, boys. Try not to fuck it up.'?" "Probably." He laughs and squeezes Andrew in his arms. "But it tells us all something different. I think…" //"There it is, Giles! Can you hear it? When the sun hits the horizon, it says goodnight."// "I think it tells *me* that at last…at long last…the night is over." The End |
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| Then Came the Dawn |