FIC: A Wiccan Gets The Wiggins 3 & 4 (revamped and reposted)

A Wiccan Gets the Wiggins
(and the girl!)

by badbard

(de_badbard@xxxxxxxxx)

See first part for relevant disclaimers and explanations.

* * * * * * * * * *

3.

Giles may be a stuffy English muffin, but he's Buffy's stuffy English muffin. He's more to her than just her Watcher.

Oh sure he watches, or at least he once did, before being fired by the Watcher's Council. That
wasn't because he was a bad watcher, although it must be hard to watch effectively without 20/20 vision.

If you ask me, Giles is jobless because he realized that being the Slayer's Watcher is more than just watching. More than just reading dusty old books and theorizing and doing his Slayer's Mother on the hood of a car in a freaky, not to mention sick, return to adolescence.

Being a watcher is also about helping out with the slayage and helping Buffy stake her emotional demons and being like a father figure. Deep huh?

"Willow," said Giles gravel y, turning to me, "Buffy may have need of your special talents."

"Really?" I asked, turning flame-red as I unconsciously began flexing my fingers. "Really truly? Now? Do you think now is such a good time? What with Buffy being laid low and all…oh, I see what you mean..."

Giles gave me a perturbed sniff. "Willow," he interjected, "are you familiar with the Mystic Scroll
of Shankalin, Volumes I through C? More precisely his version of the Spell of Lethe as described in Scroll XV?"

"Um," I said, "Uh..."

"That would be NO," translated Xander less than helpfully.

"Fortunately it's right here," revealed Giles, flipping busily through his moldy tome. "Shankalin's
spells are usually worse than useless but I have a feeling that in this case..."

"Oh I remember!" I burst out, finally getting my mind out of Buffy's bed. "Shankalin is that weirdo from ancient Greece, right? The one who was blind except that he could see with second sight. The one who called himself a god and went around entrapping genies after shocking them with his really bad fashion sense?"

"Something like that," muttered Giles, finding the relevant page and beckoning me over. "Now you'll remember that in Greek mythology, the waters of the River Lethe were used to induce forgetfulness in the world-weary souls of the dead."

"Actually," put in Xander. "I don't remember that."

Giles ignored him. He often does that.

"This Shankalin chap determined a spell that supposedly recreates the waters of Lethe."

"Excuse me," countered Xander, "but why do we need 'magic water' that drowns our sorrows, oh wise ex-watcher? They sell that at the Bronze."

"More permanent solution," explained the librarian.

"To what?" I burst out, beginning to feel all queasy inside. Giles looked down at Buffy's now peaceful form for what felt like a long time. When he looked up his eyes were misty behind his glasses.

"She's outlived them all," he said finally, chin quivering with some long suppressed emotion. "Do you realize what a miracle that is? Buffy is the oldest slayer in recorded history."

"The oldest?" I whispered as fear embraced me with icy fingers. I had always known Buffy was risking her life on a nightly basis but I had never dared to dwell on all the others, the Slayers, the girls who had died before. Martyrs one and all. Holding back the tide of evil undead by sacrificing themselves to slow its onslaught.

"The oldest," confirmed Giles, his voice shockingly reedy. "I propose to keep it that way."

"Make Buffy forget?" I whispered, unable to believe what he, what we, were contemplating.

"Now wait just a vamp-staking minute!" burst out Xander, dark eyes flashing as he began to pace.

"Buffy's the Slayer. The Chosen One. The One and Only. The Only thing between Sunnydale and all hell breaking loose, literally. As much as I hate to admit it, we need her slaying. Without her we may as well go o ut and bare our necks to the creatures that go suck in the night."

"She's not the Only One," I realized, very much wishing the words would just stick in the back of my throat where they belonged. "There's Faith."

"Faith," whispered Buffy from the bed, reaching out for Xander's tummy.

"Faith," confirmed Giles, lifting his glasses to rub bleary eyes.

"That no-good, low-down, hot, sexy, nasty, mean, naughty, oh so naughty, bad, very sexy, smutty, did I mention very, very sexy, rotten excuse for a Slayer?!" protested Xander.

I knew exactly what he meant. Faith was the bad egg. The evil twin. Hyde to Buffy's Jekyll. The Grinch who stole Christmas. The Devil Woman - she's gonna get ya!

Even worse she betrayed us all and joined forces with the enemy. Even worse she kidnapped me. Even worse she definitely has a thing for Buffy. Not a little thing either: a hungry, horny, 'Slayers of the world unite' thing.

I sorta hate her.

"You’re both forgetting something," said Xander. "Faith's comatose. Out of commission. Hasn't had a good lay for weeks...except on a hospital bed."

"She's not dead yet," I muttered, secretly wishing maybe she were.

It's an awful thing to feel this way about another human being. But you don't know Faith.

You don't have to watch the way she stirs Buffy up.

Anything to get some semblance of passion from my best friend. Anything to make the blood rush hot in her own veins, anything to get that heady rush of power.

"She'll die soon enough," noted Giles coldly, snapping me from my baleful thoughts. "When she does, a new Slayer will be called. With any luck, not a Psychopathic Killer."

"Whoa, Giles, harsh much?" gasped my childhood friend, echoing my own sentiments.

"Be Quiet, Xander," ordered the librarian, not meeting our wide eyes. "We must do what's best for Buffy."

"But Buffy will never stop slaying," I offered. "She feels like it's her duty to protect us all."

"Why would that be I wonder?" bit out Xander sarcastically, glaring at Giles. "Maybe because it
IS?"

Giles rose to his feet slowly, his face beginning to take on a strained reddish tinge. A vein in his
forehead pulsated, his eyes got all hard and glinty and suddenly our mild-mannered librarian was gone and the Ripper was staring down a sweaty Xander.

"I didn't ask for your moronic opinion, little boy. You're gotten us almost killed more times than I care to count. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of you. Grow up. Get the hell out of here and grow up."

Xander backed off the bed. He was shaking but trying not to show it.

"Coming, Will?" he almost begged, giving me an out.

I stared at Buffy's sleeping form, all helpless and needing me for once. I wouldn't leave her. I couldn't.

Xander gave an angry shrug and left at a very fast walk. The wrinkles in Giles' brow smoothed
slightly.

"Are you going to help me with the spell?" he asked.

I didn't like the slight edge in his clipped tones. I didn't want to leave Buffy alone with his nervous
breakdown.

"Yes," I said softly. "Yes I am."

* * * * * * * * * *

4.

The spell was disgusting.

It smelled worse than that freshly-risen corpse that had been involved in the Cannery's meat-mincer incident, very downplayed by the local press. I suppose an expose on what really
happens to the declining population of Sunnydale's Nursing Home might be bad for local business.

I was with Giles in my kitchen, picking wings off dead flies as he forcibly dragged a quickly dissolving iron ladle through a pot filled with purple sludge.

It's times like this I wonder why I became witchy.

Apart from wanting to impress Buffy and protect Buffy and be part of Buffy's life that is. Not to mention my secret craving for occultic power so my ten year high school reunion will truly be a night to dismember!

Joking!

"Wings of fly," requested Giles. I dutifully added the most important ingredient. Being squeamish is not for the actually-practicing-Wiccan. I've gotten alot better about that. These days I don't faint ‘till after I add the eyes of newt.

With a grunt the librarian dro pped the hissing remains of my ladle into the pot and mopped his
forehead with his sleeve.

"Hopefully that won't adversely affect the spell," he muttered while I hunted through the kitchen draws for yet another ladle. My plans for future prosperity involve marketing a line of spell-resilient cutlery for every witch who wants to cook up black magic without boiling the kettle blac k, so to speak.

"Giles," I began tentatively, wondering if he was back to his normal stodgy self. "Giles, what do you think is wrong with Buffy, anyway?"

"Most likely a combination of the recent traumatic events and..."

"You mean the Ascension?" I asked, wanting to clarify his sure to be long-winded explanation in my mind.

Wanting to know we were doing the right thing.

"Yes, the Ascension, what else would I mean?" he snapped, shoulders bulging against the tweed of his jacket as he stirred even more vigorously.

"Now as I was saying before I was so thoughtlessly interrupted, Buffy has been under all sorts of stress of late. Not even the Slayer herself can be expected to weather storms such as these without succumbing to..."

"English please."

I spun around with wide guilty eyes. Buffy slouched against the doorframe, staring pointy stakes into Giles' back.

"Buffy!" I gasped. "It's not what it looks like, unless you think it looks like Giles is cooking, food
that is, not cooking up a spell, even though the food is spell ingredients. I've discovered a good way to save my limited allowance for the magic shop is to eat spell leftovers as a healthy afternoon snack." I brandished a pair of fly wings in the air. "Protein. Lotsa protein."

Buffy favored me with a weak half-smile. According to my inner Slayer manual that translated as, 'Stay out of this, Willow. This is between me and Giles. Us and two super soakers when the clock strikes midnight and nothing’s gonna get between him and my holy water.'

"How are you feeling, Buffy?" asked Giles solicitously.

"Lousy," admitted the Slayer. "But at least I'm still batting stakes straight into the dirty hearts of the other team, which is more than I can say for a certain Watcher."

"Giles is gay?" I wondered aloud. Buffy stared at me. Giles made a choking noise. All the blood cells in my body sprinted to my face.

"Nooo," drawled Buffy, now struggling to hide her amusement. Unsuccessfully I might add.

"That was my way of saying he's acting all wacky and weirding me out. Not an obscure reference to him rooming with Wesley."

Giles made more choking noises. Buffy staggered over to the table and sat herself down, looking up at his rigid back with a hurt _expression_ on her face.

"Look, Giles," she began carefully. "I handled Angel growing a fang face 'cause we spent the night together. I handled killing him. I handled sending him to hell. Sure, I made myself scarce for awhile..."

"The whole summer!" I burst out, feeling my heart skip erratically at the horr ible memory. Buffy refused to look at me but I saw her jaw clench.

"I was scarce but that was my way of dealing. I handled all that just fine and I can handle Angel
leave...this as well. So stop worrying already! I'll be ready for some serious slayage just as soon as I get me a good night's sleep."

"No you won't," murmured Giles as he finally stopped stirring and started turning to face us.

I sat up straight.

Something about the way he turned so slowly, his arms hidden from view was giving me the
wiggins.

"You won't ever be slaying again," he proclaimed far too cheerfully, setting a steaming concoction down in front of Buffy.

The Waters of Lethe.

I opened my mouth to cry out.

Giles' eyes drilled right through his glasses and hammered into me. I closed my mouth and tried to swallow.

"What's this?" asked Buffy, sniffing at it with an _expression_ which readily bequeathed her disgust.
"Nightshade nightcap for Slayers?"

"It'll help you sleep better," purred Giles. His eyes still bored into mine, freezing me in place. "I was helping Willow with her little arcane experiments. Humor her."

Buffy smiled at me.

"Anything for you, Will."

My mouth popped back open.

Giles' gaze grew sharper.

I tried to convince myself I wasn't terrified of a moldy old librarian. Besides, this was best for
Buffy, wasn't it? Anything for Buffy.

We watched her drink.

"Gross much?!" she spluttered, coming up for air, lips stained purple. "Needs more lavender, Spice Girl. Hell, it needs a whole herb garden."

"I told her not to include the actual contents of the stomach of toad along with the er...stomach," said Giles, a little too earnestly for my liking.

Buffy took on a glowy green tinge.

Then she hefted her cup and took another lengthy sip, offering me a cocky grin. Trademark Buffy. Trying to convince me she likes my bad cooking.

"I've had worse," she decided. "Of course I can't actually remember it 'cause mercifully I was hopped up on painkillers at the time. Getting my stomach pumped. Which brings me to the part where I beg for many, many glasses of water to wash this down."

I ran to get her water. When I got back she was fast asleep. Giles picked her up tenderly and carried her up to my bed. I walked him back down to the front door, staring uncertainly at his back all the while. Time for creeporama? Or just unnecessary freaking?

"Well done, Willow," he praised quietly. "I know it was hard but you did the right thing."

And he smiled at me. Toothily.

I was so glad to see him go.

Dragging myself back upstairs, I changed into my Mickey Mouse nighty and crawled in beside Buffy. She was snoring. Loudly. Into my ear.

I'm pretty darn sure a Slayer isn't supposed to sleep deep enough to get to the snoring stage. Folding my arms over my chest I stared out into the darkness and wished I had more courage. Like Buffy.

Back when she was the Slayer.

TBC in 5.