(no subject)

[elgrey]

New All Over, Part Eleven

He arrived at Buffy’s house in probably more like seven minutes, having broken several traffic laws on the way, trying to keep his mind blank when it persisted in reminding him about meningitis and how fast a child could die from it, not to mention all the various demon plagues and toxins that someone could have unleashed upon Sunnydale through the Hellmouth. The door was open when he got there, the girls dressed in a combination of pyjamas and day clothes, Cordelia holding herself up with difficulty, grey in the face and swaying.

“Are you all right?” Giles asked her.

She glared at him. “Do I look all right? But it’s nothing…serious. Not like Wesley. Giles, please, you have to take him to the hospital.”

Giles thought it not unlikely that Wesley had whatever she had, but, of course, a child being so much more vulnerable would probably be hit harder. “Tell me your symptoms?” he demanded. “Wesley may not be able to and it would be helpful to know.”

“Headache. Chills. I ache all over and even the thought of food makes me want to barf. Also, I think someone died in my throat.”

“Keep warm, stay inside, drink something if you can keep it down,” he told her. Then Buffy was running along the corridor with Wesley wrapped in a blanket in her arms and Giles felt his heart turn over at the sight of that pale face against the boy’s dark hair.

He felt his forehead and it was burning, gently touching his throat he could feel it was also hot and his glands seemed to be swollen. His face looked greyish and clammy and he was obviously shivering. He opened his eyes with difficulty and said, “Uncle Giles…?” pitifully.

“Yes, Wesley, I’m here.”

“I don’t feel very well.”

“I know, and we’re going to do something about that right now.”

Giles nodded to his car and Willow rushed down to open the door for Buffy. Giles looked at Cordelia. “Are you going to be okay…?”

“I’m fine, just go…” She gesticulated towards the car and as he turned to go, caught his arm. “Please make everything be all right. Make Wesley better.” She looked so young in that moment – and so sick, that he felt an unusual spasm of sympathy for her and patted her gently on the arm.

“Keep warm and try to get some rest. We’ll be back as soon as we can. Are Xander and Oz coming to sit with you?”

Cordelia looked at him as if he were insane. “Are you nuts? They’ll be meeting you at the hospital. Angel too. I’ll be fine. Just go.”

Giles saw that Buffy was already in the passenger seat with Wesley clasped in her arms, with Willow squeezed into the back seat. He hurried to join them, sliding into the car and saying gently to Wesley that they were going to see a doctor now and he would soon be feeling better. Mentally crossing his fingers he could only hope that it was true.

As he drove, he was very aware of Willow’s frightened face, and Buffy as she murmured soothing things to Wesley, the calm words totally at odds with those tears in her eyes.


Giles took Wesley from Buffy as they reached the hospital, insisting that he could pass for Wesley’s uncle, while she certainly couldn’t pass for his sister as siblings tended to have the same accent. Buffy ran ahead, pushing open the doors and demanding a doctor.

“Please, he’s very sick…” Willow pleaded with a nurse. “He’s just a little boy and he’s so ill. Please, you have to let us see a doctor.”

They were ushered to chair and told to wait, a doctor would be with them straight away. It was more like ten minutes of waiting – which felt like an eternity – in which Wesley stirred, blinked painfully at the bright lights and asked where they were. Giles wondered if he was going to start asking for his parents. He was burning up and definitely seemed to be running a fever.

“We’re in the hospital, sweetheart,” Buffy told him.

“The hospital?” Wesley looked at her in confusion. “Why…?”

“Because you’re sick.” Willow wrapped the blanket around him even more securely.

“But…I thought hospitals were for when you break your leg falling out of a tree or for having your appendix taken out.” Wesley looked anxiously at Giles. “Do I have to have my appendix taken out?”

“No. We’re just being careful,” Giles reassured him.

“What seems to be the trouble?”

Giles looked up to see a young doctor looking at them. He thought the man looked too young. He’d hoped for someone knowledgeable and reassuring, not some still wet behind the ears junior doctor who had probably been down the pub the week before drinking the goldfish for a bet.

“My nephew is sick. He has a high temperature and his joints are aching. He’s had a persistent headache all day as well and he seems to be getting worse.”

“Well, let’s have a look at him.” The doctor led the way to a curtained off area and nodded to Giles to sit Wesley down on the bed. “What’s his name?”

“Wesley,” Buffy supplied.

The doctor nodded. “I’m Doctor Forrest, Wesley. I gather you’re not feeling too well?”

“No, sir,” Wesley said shyly.

The doctor examined Wesley’s eyes, felt his forehead, peered down his throat, felt his glands, listened to his chest, and then looked at Giles with a twinkle in his eye that seemed entirely inappropriate. “I gather you don’t have any children of your own?”

“Well…no.”

“And you live over here?”

“Yes.”

“And your nephew lives in England most of the time?”

“Yes, he’s just visiting me while his mother is sick.” It was strange how familiar that lie was becoming. He had almost got to the point of believing it himself. His poor worn out sister in her hospital bed and the boy safe with him to give her peace of mind.

“You’re probably a little out of practice at being around young children then?”

Giles grimaced. “Well…yes.”

The doctor nodded. “I don’t blame you for being careful. A lot of the symptoms for meningitis and the common cold are the same. Better to be safe than sorry.”

“For the…what…?” Giles demanded.

“Common cold.” The doctor moved his stethoscope around and pushed up Wesley’s pyjama jacket so he could listen to his lungs from the back. “Your nephew has a cold. The symptoms can be a little frightening at first, but I assure you most children have tremendous resilience. For the first six or seven years of their lives it’s not unusual for them to have five or six colds a year.” Then he looked down to place his stethoscope and froze. When he looked up at Giles his eyes were much colder and all the humour had gone. “Could you leave us alone, please?” he asked in a way that made it clear this wasn’t a request but an order. “I need to ask Wesley some questions.”

Confused, Giles nodded. “Of course.”

He stepped outside, with Buffy and Willow following and saw that Buffy looked as if she were going to pass out. “Are you feeling ill?” he asked in concern.

“He saw the bruises,” she whispered. She clutched Giles’ arm. “What if he calls social services? What if they take him away?”

Giles’s heart sank like a stone and he took a step backwards. Of course. Those bruises had been fresh a week ago and although they were fading now, the mark across his ribs now looked worse than ever. It had changed from an angry red to an ominous blue-black while his back still had a mottling of yellowing contusions from where Faith had gone in for a little Watcher abuse herself.

It was a few minutes before the doctor came out, clearly angry now, and beckoned to Giles to join them. Buffy and Willow came with him and the doctor looked Giles in the eye and lifted Wesley’s pyjama jacket so he could see the bruises for himself. Giles winced at the sight of them. They really did look horrendous, especially the mark around his ribs.

“It doesn’t hurt any more,” Wesley offered tentatively.

“Can you explain how Wesley got these bruises?” the doctor asked crisply.

Giles opened his mouth and then closed it a few more times. “Well, I’m not entirely… That is, I think…”

“I fell.” Wesley pulled his pyjama jacket down to hide the marks.

“I see.” The doctor definitely had the look of a man about to call social services and Giles couldn’t even blame him. Wesley was a thin pale little boy with severe bruising that could easily have been the result of deliberate abuse.

“At school,” Wesley added. “It was going down the stairs through the tunnel between the Upper Junior and the Lower Junior playground.” His voice sounded hoarse and croaky but there was something very persuasive about his earnest conviction. “We’re not allowed to run and I didn’t, but it’s steep going around the bend and I couldn’t reach the handrail and Algy Mather pushed me. He said he didn’t, but he did. And I fell and I hit my head and my elbow too.” Wesley bent his head so the doctor could look at his skull, pointing to the place and then pulling up his pyjama jacket to present his elbow for inspection.

A little confused, the doctor looked at his head, feeling it carefully and then said, “Well, I can’t feel any kind of fracture…”

“I hit my elbow too.” Wesley held it up higher. “And Algy Mather definitely pushed me and it wasn’t an accident either. He’s always picking on me.”

The doctor looked at his unblemished elbow and said, “I can’t see anything…”

Wesley gazed up at him, eyes bright with sincerity. “It’s faded now, but it was bruised before, and it really hurt.” He looked up at Giles. “Can we go home now, Uncle Giles? I don’t feel very well.” As Giles began to answer, Wesley’s eyes lit up and he exclaimed: “Angel!”

Giles turned to see the vampire hovering anxiously, looking absurdly stylish for a two am trip to the hospital in his layers of black clothing and impeccable coiffured hair. He strode over and Wesley practically threw himself into his arms, moving him from the doctor’s terrain of the bed into the very much their terrain again. He wrapped his legs around Angel who gave him a careful hug.

“How are you feeling?” the vampire asked anxiously, feeling his forehead. “Buffy said you were really sick.”

“I am and Cordelia’s sick too. She threw up in the bathroom. I heard her. Where are Xander and Oz?”

Giles looked back at the doctor. “I’m very sorry for taking up your time like this, doctor. I really did think it was something terribly serious. He’s been a little bit under the weather all day and when his temperature spiked like that I’m afraid I rather panicked.”

“Perfectly understandable.” The doctor put away his pen. “I’d advise some Junior Nyquil, lots of rest, and plenty of liquids. Obviously, if he’s coughing up a lot of green or yellow mucus for more than ten days, or his temperature stays around the 103º mark for twenty-four hours or more, bring him back in. He’ll probably be a little restless and irritable, he may have a cough, sore throat, aching limbs…”

Giles tuned the man out as he let the relief wash over him. He could see Willow taking mental notes of everything he said. For himself, he was still stuck in the ‘Wesley doesn’t have meningitis – he isn’t going to die’ mental place and didn’t seem able to come out of it.

Buffy grabbed his arm tightly, gaze fixed on the doctor. “Back up. What was that about aspirin?”

“Don’t give him any aspirin. A cold is a viral infection and aspirin can trigger Reye’s Syndrome in children – or even adolescents – who have a viral infection.”

“I gave him aspirin!” Buffy gasped.

“How much?”

“Half an aspirin. One that dissolves. I gave it to him in orange juice.”

“I’m sure that won’t have done any harm and Reye’s Syndrome is extremely rare – there have only been about forty cases a year since 1987, but don’t give him any more. Just stick to the Junior Nyquil for now and make sure he gets plenty of liquid and warmth and rest. Okay?”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Giles said automatically.

Angel was still cautiously feeling Wesley’s forehead. He said anxiously to the doctor. “He has a temperature, I can tell. It must be up near 102º.”

“That’s why he needs the rest and fluids and warmth,” the doctor told Angel firmly. “Now take him home and let him get some sleep. Is there someone who can stay with him?”

“Yes.” Giles managed to answer a hair before anyone else. “I will be taking time off work to take care of Wesley.”

“And we’ll be helping,” Buffy insisted.

“All of us,” Willow added emphatically.

Any further answer the Doctor may have been about to make was drowned out by the noisy arrival of Xander and Oz, who ran down the corridor and came to a breathless halt.

“Is he okay?” Oz demanded.

“What did the doctor say?” Xander asked fearfully.

“He’s fine.” The doctor looked at them all. “Are you all his relatives?”

“Friends of the family,” Xander said without a pause. “Well, friends of Giles. Not friends of his parents on account of them being…” At a look from Giles he said: “English. And hence – in England. Where we’re not.”

“Not that we don’t like them on account of them being English,” Willow added hastily. “Because that would be prejudiced and anyway Giles is English, and we like him, and Wesley is too.”

“Though Angel does sort of have English Issues,” Buffy admitted.

“But not with Giles or Wesley,” Angel protested. “And I wouldn’t exactly call them ‘Issues’. Just when I was younger I may have…”

Giles hissed: “Please, for the love of God, all of you Stop Talking.” He smiled at the Doctor. “Thank you again, Doctor Forrest. We’ll get Wesley some Nyquil and make sure he has plenty of rest and warmth and liquid.”

“And no aspirin!” Buffy added.

The doctor gave them what looked suspiciously like a ‘humouring the crazy people’ smile and backed away.

Giles said rapidly: “Let’s get out of here quickly before he changes his mind and phones social services. Don’t run. And, Angel, give me Wesley.”

The vampire reluctantly did so but looked at him in confusion. “Why?”

“Because I want to carry him.” Giles took the blanket from Willow and wrapped it around the little boy who snuggled in against him. They walked at what was a rather fast pace out to the car park where Giles heaved a sigh of relief. He bent his head to look at the feverish little boy. “That was very clever of you, Wesley.”

“Well, it did happen like I said. It wasn’t a fib. Except that I don’t think I got those bruises like that. But I did hit my head and my elbow. And Algy Mather did push me, but if you just go on and on about it no one wants you to talk about it any more and then they just want you to be quiet and go away and so I thought the doctor would too.”

“You’re scarily smart sometimes,” Buffy said in awe.

But Xander’s eyes were bleak. “Yeah, you know all about the fastest way to get yourself ignored. Great thing for a kid to know at the age of eight.”

Giles tightened his grip on the little boy in his arms, feeling his feverish bony body through the blanket, all angles and clammy skin. “I’m taking him home with me,” he said clearly. “Your mother has enough to contend with, without having to take care of a sick child, and the rest of you have to go to school.”

“I don’t,” Angel pointed out.

“Or can’t go out in daylight which may become necessary if his temperature rises during the day.”

“But...” Buffy began.

“But…” Willow protested.

Giles just looked at them and they both subsided. “You can take care of Cordelia,” he told them. “Wesley is coming home with me. We’ll stop off at your house to pick up his things.”

“I’ll go on with Giles to his house.” Angel got into the back with Willow before there could be any argument. “I can hold Wesley while Giles drives.”

“I can take time off from school!” Buffy protested.

“Let’s argue about it tomorrow,” Giles said. “Tonight, Wesley needs peace and quiet.”

Buffy narrowed her eyes at Giles. “There’s going to be a rota and you’re going to have to share.” She sat down on the passenger seat and held out her arms. “Gimme.”

Reluctantly, Giles handed the drowsy boy over to her. Wesley smiled up at her sleepily. “Hello, Buffy. Did you come too?”

“Yes, sweetheart. I’m right here.”

“Is it Sports Day tomorrow?”

“No, Wesley. You have a fever. You don’t have to do anything tomorrow except stay in bed and eat soup and feel better.”

“No lessons?”

Buffy bit her lip. “No, sweetie. No lessons.”

Wesley cuddled in against her wearily, hot and shivering at the same time. “It’s bad to coddle children when they’re sick. It makes them weak. No one likes a whiny child…” And then his eyes closed and he slumped against her, fast asleep, and she wrapped him up in the blanket even more warmly.

She gazed up at Giles. “I hate his father.”

Giles deliberately made himself look in the rearview mirror instead of turning around, that way he could only see Willow biting her lip and didn’t have to see the look in Angel’s eyes which was probably promising murder. Unfortunately when he adjusted the mirror he saw that expression anyway; it was there in his own reflection. But aloud he said only: “Let’s go home.”

***

Light was spilling from the Summers’ house as they drew up outside and for a moment Giles’s heart gave a lurch as he feared the worst, but then he realized it was Cordelia and Joyce waiting in the doorway anxiously

“What did the doctor say?” Joyce rushed out to the car to greet them. “Is Wesley okay…?”

“He has a cold.” Giles opened the car door. “Cordelia – don’t stand in the draught like that. You need to wrap up warm and drink lots of liquids.”

“We brought you Nyquil.” Xander held it out to the tall brunette, who was shivering in the doorway. “And throat lozenges and a whole bunch of other stuff. All of which are nothing compared with the entire pharmacy worth of stuff we had to buy for Wesley.”

“A cold?” Joyce demanded. “Are you sure? Did the doctor do any tests?”

“He seemed pretty certain,” Angel explained.

“So, he’s going to be okay?” Cordelia pressed. “Let me see him.”

Buffy hesitated before bringing the sleeping boy any closer. “You could be infectious.”

“And he’s already infected. Let me see him.” Cordelia put her hand across Buffy’s forehead. “He’s really hot. He must have a high fever.”

Xander put a hand across Cordelia’s forehead. “Cord, so do you. In fact you look even worse than he does. You need to go back to bed.”

“Let me just…” Cordelia stroked Wesley’s hair again. “Get better soon, Wesley.”

His eyelashes flickered and he looked up at her blearily. “You look really sick.”

“It’s just a cold.” She was still shivering violently. “Which sucks but nothing like as much as us both having Hellmouth Flu or something.” She looked up. “Maybe as I’m already infected, I should take care of him?”

“Yeah, nice try, no way.” Buffy pulled him out of reach. “Cordelia, go to bed.”

The girl did so reluctantly while Giles sent the others to fetch Wesley’s things. “He could stay here,” Joyce offered. “I’d be happy to look after him.”

“Thank you, Joyce, but, no. He’s my nephew and therefore my responsibility, and I really don’t think it matters if I miss a few days of school.”

“We should record that,” Xander observed to Oz. “Play it back to Giles when he’s out of anxious surrogate parent mode.”

“Is he ever out of that mode?” Oz indicated the rest of them.

“I make him more for the bossy and stuffy and less of the anxious on a day to day basis,” Xander shrugged.

It took a while but Giles did finally manage to get all of Wesley’s belongings into a suitable bag and into his car. There was what threatened to turn into a brief tug-o-war between Buffy and Angel over Wesley as the vampire took the child from her and Buffy tried to snatch him back.

“You don’t need to come,” Angel protested. “I’ll hold Wesley, Giles can drive. We can take care of him tomorrow and you can come and see him after school.”

“You have got to be kidding me!” Buffy retorted.

Joyce looked at Giles anxiously. “Don’t you think perhaps…a woman’s touch…?”

“I assure you I’m perfectly capable of looking after a sick child.”

“But I have taken care of Buffy when she was ill in the past and it would really be no trouble for him to stay here.”

“Actually, it would.” Giles gazed at her. “You have to go to work and Buffy needs to patrol, and you already have Cordelia to take care of.”

He and Angel made it back to the car with Wesley with Willow and Buffy still trailing after them saying, “But…” but Giles was firm and Angel got himself into the passenger seat with Wesley in his arms and said a firm ‘Hush…’ to Buffy indicating the sleeping child when she began to protest again. And then they were driving away and could exchange a glance of relief.


Giles realized how exhausted he was when they get home. It was the drop off of adrenaline after the spike of it, induced by his fear for the child. Wesley was asleep in Angel’s arms. It was almost disturbing how comfortable he looked there; the pale dark-haired child in the pale dark-haired vampire’s tender grip. Angel had acquired the habit of gazing down at Wesley as if he would always be a child. Giles knew he was guilty of that too.

“Better put him to bed…” he suggested.

Angel was still gazing at Wesley with all that parental tenderness as Giles opened the door for him and the vampire carried him upstairs, slipped him into the bed. It all felt too natural, too familiar. A week before Giles hadn’t known where the lightswitch was in this spare room. It was the room he never used. Now it was Wesley’s bedroom, the one with the child’s nightlight, all his books. Angel slipped Wesley into the bed, gently removing the boy’s fingers from his coat, bending to kiss him on the forehead, good night.

Giles said quietly: “It will only be a few more days now.”

“I know.” Angel slipped Wesley’s hand under the covers, pulled the duvet up higher so there was no danger of a draught finding him. Wesley’s eyelashes were so long and thick on his pale cheek. He felt the boy’s forehead and looked up at Giles. “Maybe we should get some of the medicine inside him.”

“The fever is what kills the germs,” Giles said automatically. “It happens for a reason.”

“I know… It’s just…” Angel took an unwilling step away from the bed. “He’s so fragile.”

“It’s a cold, Angel.”

Angel gazed at Giles and then smirked. “I can’t believe you panicked over a cold.”

“Oh, like you would have been any better,” he retorted.

“But…a cold.”

“Do be quiet.” Giles switched on the nightlight and pulled the duvet up higher, even though Angel had already done it. He felt the boy’s forehead – it was hot and clammy, and resisted the urge to kiss him, just because Angel was watching, and would smirk.

It was an effort to leave the room and if Angel hadn’t been there he wouldn’t have bothered, just slumped in a chair all night to watch him. When they got downstairs, he found Oz and Xander already there. Xander was answering the phone while Oz wordlessly held up Cuthbert. Xander was saying: “Yes, Buffy, we’re here. He’s fine…?” It was a question.

Angel took the phone from Xander and Giles let him deal with it, the calming words and reassurances. He waved at the couch, muttered that the blankets were where they’d left them and that he was going to bed. He took himself a cup of tea upstairs, going into his own room to change into pyjamas and a dressing gown. When he went in to Wesley’s room to just check on him again, he found Xander already there, slumped in a chair with a blanket wrapped around him.

“You don’t need to,” Giles said groggily. “It’s just a cold.”

“I’d like to. Just tonight.” Xander shrugged. “It’s kind of weird when you have a fever and you wake up and don’t know where you are. It’s not like his parents are shouting at each other from another room to ground him to reality.”

“I don’t think Wesley’s parents shout…” Giles realized that it was Xander’s own parents he was thinking of and grimaced. “Just for a few hours, Xander. You need your sleep. Call me if he wakes up or wants anything.”

“Sure.”

Then he staggered into his own room and climbed into bed, still seeing that little boy in the pyjamas curled up in that bed, and trying not to do the maths in his head that told him how little time there was left before that boy was gone forever and all they would be left with was the man who didn’t like or trust them and who they had belittled, insulted, and ignored.

***

Wesley was bewildered by his illness. Not the fever and the aching limbs and the sneezing and the sore throat or the coughs that tore through his fragile little body with such vigour that they made everyone flinch. He was bewildered by not being blamed for it. It took them all a little while to work that one out.

Xander was there on the first morning when Wesley asked croakily if he could please stay in bed for another hour, just another hour, please. Giles walked in as Xander was saying that there was no way he was getting out of bed for a day at least.

“You’re sick, Wes. You have a cold.”

“It’s not good to coddle children,” Wesley whispered.

Xander bit his lip then forced a smile from somewhere – Giles suspected it may have had to be dragged up from the soles of his feet – and told him that he needed to drink his medicine and then go back to sleep.

“We should ask Uncle Giles.” Wesley looked nervous. “He may want me to get up and do my lessons.”

“Uncle Giles wants no such thing,” Giles assured him from the doorway. “Do as Xander says. Take your medicine and go back to sleep.”

Wesley obeyed, of course, but he was confused. Giles could picture previous illnesses in his mind’s eyes. A dark bedroom, bare boards because children carry infection and no carpet gives it less places to hibernate. Wesley was a delicate child. His father would not have liked that description but Giles had no doubt a doctor would have used it at some point. Wyndam-Pryce senior would have resented the description and used it somehow as another proof of Wesley’s weakness and inadequacy. Wesley murmured things to that effect when his fever climbed higher. Giles already knew that Wesley’s house was old and cold. He was not exactly surprised by that as his own was also old and cold. But he had been allowed to take a few days off when ill. Not expected to drag his shivering coughing little body down to an unheated schoolroom to continue his studies.

He could even imagine the arguments:

You’re going to kill him, Roger!

I’m going to keep him alive. Do you know what the life expectancy is for untrained Watchers...?

Perhaps it came from a place of love. Giles didn’t want to condemn Wesley’s father out of hand, but it was difficult not to when all the usual acts of compassion that accompanied a child’s illness surprised Wesley so completely. Being sat up against soft pillows so honey and lemon could be spooned into his poor sore throat. Being read to. Being spoon-fed trifle that Joyce Summers made for him specially and brought around in her lunch-hour along with a brand new teddy bear with a pink ribbon who she thought might keep Cuthbert company while Wesley was sick. Being carried downstairs, wrapped in a blanket so he could sit and watch cartoons. His confusion because surely if he was well enough to watch television, he must be well enough to translate demonic texts from the original Ancient Greek. Being sat on Oz’s lap to eat ice cream. Being cuddled.

When Wesley threw up on the sofa, he looked terrified, and was too sick from his temperature not to cry when Xander scooped him up at once and told him it was okay, that no one was angry with him. The relief and the aching limbs proved too much for his poor hot feverish little frame and he sobbed for ten minutes while Xander rubbed his back and Oz cleaned up with supercharged efficiency. Then he cuddled against Xander, sucking his thumb while Oz wrapped them both in a duvet until Wesley’s wet lashes dropped and he fell asleep.

It was difficult not to join the dots of all the things that surprised him and all the things he expected and get to a place where hating Wesley’s father felt like the only logical response.

It was mostly Giles who got to take care of him, but there was a constant stream of visitors. The Hellmouth could have threatened to swallow them all whole and he didn’t think so many classes would have been cut. Angel was always turning up, even during daytime, presumably scuttling around in the shadows, or covering himself with a blanket. Xander usually brought different flavoured ice creams. Oz brought little things from Willow to help fever or sickness or to ward off aching joints. Willow came herself all the time, in breaks and lunchtimes, with new medicine to try that might ease his fever. Giles’s house reeked of menthol and sage. Buffy would claim the child as soon as she walked through the door. Wesley was pulled onto her lap and would stay there, curled against her, either watching TV or being spoonfed soup or more of the inevitable ice cream.

Giles and Angel read to him; taking over when the other’s voice began to fail. They read to him downstairs in the sitting room or upstairs in his bedroom. They couldn’t really stop his temperature from climbing or his joints from aching or his nose from running or his head from thumping, but they could stop him being cold or lonely or feeling unloved. Wesley had taken to holding onto Giles’ jacket when he cuddled up against him, as if that would stop him from leaving him. But, of course, Wesley was the one who was going to be leaving.

As they days went by, it was getting harder for everyone to accept that it couldn’t stay like this. Giles thought it was just as well that Ethan had skipped town. Otherwise they might start asking him for the impossible. When the child was safe in his arms, temperature dropping now, cuddled up against the warmth and comfort that Giles provided, he thought about how much he wanted him to stay like this. How he was free now from Council control and could do what he liked. They could tell the Council that Wesley had been turned, and then dusted, hence, no body to send home. A tragedy. He was brave and they were sorry, now send another Watcher to replace him. Giles would stay on as librarian; find a way to get Wesley some papers. Leave it a decent interval and then tell everyone that Giles’ poor sick sister has died. Give Wesley another surname. Above all keep him safe and let him be happy. Make it so that what he expected when he was ill was to be comforted and taken care of, not scolded for being weak. Make it so that lessons were something he could enjoy again; not a test he always failed. Make it so it wasn’t so unbearably moving for him to realize that he was loved…


Buffy arrived that day as the sun was setting, carrying ice cream of some special esoteric blend that was particularly ‘yummy’. It apparently had chocolate chunks and pieces of fudge in it and was to be regarded not as a foodstuff but proof that Wesley really was as well as he claimed.

“I’m feeling much better, Buffy, really,” he insisted, unfortunately having to break off to cough halfway through.

“I’ll believe that if you can eat your ice-cream,” she returned, sitting next to him.

Giles reluctantly rose to his feet. “Will you take care of him while I do a little research?”

She nodded and stroked Wesley’s hair. “Hey, your head isn’t so hot.”

He smiled at her. “I really do feel much better.”

“You need a few more days to rest.” Buffy played with his hair idly as he curled up against her; all of them so used to the weight of his body against theirs now; the lightness of him when they lifted him; the way he moulded himself to them so comfortably. Everyone had grown used to sitting Wesley on their hip or their lap or their shoulders, feeling his fingers curl around their lapel. Buffy fed him ice cream and smiled delightedly when he laughed out loud at the cartoons. Laughter made him cough, but it seemed worth it. He put his hand across his mouth to stifle the cough but no longer looked at Giles to see if he was angry with Wesley for being noisy and laughing too loud.

“How’s my little guy…?”

Xander also carried ice cream, Giles noticed. It was just as well the child was so thin, they were all so keen to stuff him full of sugar at every opportunity. Giles looked down at his notebooks. There were notes about the ascension it was true, but there were more about the spell that Ethan had cast, and the calendar with the days crossed off. He had cross-referenced as much as he could and they all seemed to confirm that ten days was the usual time. Tonight was the evening of the tenth day. Any way he added it up, he couldn’t squeeze another day out of this spell and it hurt far too much to think of losing this little boy. The adult Wesley had receded far too quickly. Even looking at the photograph no longer helped. They were going to lose this child that they loved and gain a person they hardly remembered. Giles knew everything about this little boy now. Could tell if his head hurt just by looking at him, if he was cold, hungry, scared. Woke in an instant if he had a bad dream. Knew the right words to soothe him. Could comfort him with a touch, with a word, with a whisper. He wondered how people bore it whose children were handed a death sentence. How did they survive day by day? He was becoming more and more sure that he would have loved to be a parent and that it was not now something that would ever happen. This spell-created child was the closest he would probably ever come and tonight he was going to lose him, just as he had become not only familiar but necessary.

Willow and Oz arrived with lots of Chinese food ten minutes before Angel arrived with the adult Wesley’s pyjamas, dressing gown, and a change of clothes. No one else had wanted to confront the reality of that transition so Angel had done it. Giles watched the vampire go upstairs with the belongings and had to take off his glasses to let everything blur. When he dared to look up again, Buffy had Wesley in her arms and a stricken look on her face. She knew Giles couldn’t make this all right for them, but somehow her eyes still seemed to be asking it.

Cordelia had stayed away. She had thought it over and then decided it would hurt less if she didn’t see the little boy again; if she just started thinking about the adult. It had sounded sensible and matter of fact when she said it to Giles, and in her phone call to the child Wesley she had clearly been bright and funny as he had laughed quite a lot despite his head cold, but Willow had told him out of Wesley’s earshot that Cordelia had cried herself to sleep every night since and blamed it on her fever. It seemed that no one was taking the imminent transition well, not even the person who had idly doodled ‘Mrs Cordelia Wyndam-Pryce’ on the back of an exercise book.

There was a forced jollity about the evening. Everyone wanted his or her time with Wesley, who was still washed out and coughing from his cold but no longer had a runny nose, a headache or a fever. Giles suspected that the coming transition was not very real for him. They had tried not to dwell on it, not wanting to frighten him. Willow had brought a cake, because, as she pointed out, they had missed his birthday, and Wesley was well enough to eat at least a few spoonfuls of cake, and jelly, and ice cream, after his few little heaped spoonfuls of special fried rice. They watched cartoons and then Toy Story, both of which Wesley enjoyed, and then it was time to read the end of The Silver Chair. Eustace had reminded Giles of Wesley, although he certainly hadn’t told the boy that. But it had given him a new liking for the character even at his worst in The Dawn Treader and he’d revelled in his triumph into a better person in this book.

They all took turns to read a chapter, passing it along the line solemnly, while Wesley stayed awake through willpower alone, being passed from lap to lap so everyone had their time with him. Giles couldn’t decide if Cordelia had been foolish to miss this last precious time with him, or wise to make the loss of him a little less painful.

It was Giles’s turn to read the last chapter and it occurred to him that the others had worked that between them; done the maths so that he would be the last one to read to Wesley as the boy fought valiantly to stay awake and hear the end. Looking at their faces as he read the last line and Wesley smiled in relief that it had ended so satisfactorily, he saw that all of them were putting their own pain at the prospect of losing the boy behind their sympathy for him. For an Englishman he was evidently not doing too well on the stiff upper lip front. And yes, he felt devastated by the prospect of losing this child, and they clearly knew that.

“Bedtime,” he said gently.

Wesley looked up at him sleepily. “Yes, Uncle Giles.”

Buffy took him into the bathroom to brush his teeth while they crowded outside, everyone solemn. It was absurd, Giles told himself, cleaning his glasses again; all of them standing outside the bathroom while Wesley relieved himself and washed his hands as if it were a sacred ritual. Then he thought of not being able to make his breakfast in the morning; not having Xander turn up with some new exciting cereal, even though they had barely scratched the surface of the last one, so that Wesley could find the plastic toy in this new box.

Buffy came out of the bathroom, clutching Wesley’s hand and trying very hard to smile, but her eyes were shining with tears. “Goodnight, sweetheart,” she said brightly, sweeping him up into her arms for a last hug. Wesley was solemnly passed from person to person, automatically hugging them as he was placed in their arms, everyone trying to smile and sound bright and happy when they were all on the verge of tears.

Giles had already told them that he thought that they should go tonight. There was no point in them staying and he wanted the boy to just go to sleep usual, which he wouldn’t do if he knew they were all downstairs. The important thing was not to frighten him – to be as matter-of-fact as possible. It seemed to be working in that Wesley hugged them all ‘goodnight’ quite cheerfully. Then it was Giles’ turn to carry him up to bed.

“You’d better take your pyjamas off, Wesley.” He tried to sound brisk and cheerful but doubted he achieved either. “I’ve turned the radiator up so you won’t get cold.”

“Why can’t I wear my pyjamas, Uncle Giles?” Wesley was obediently unbuttoning them even as he asked the question.

“Well, if you get big again tonight, they wouldn’t fit you.” Giles tried a smile but he gathered it wasn’t as reassuring he’d hoped as Wesley looked sad.

“Will I remember everything?”

“No, Wesley. Remember we talked about this before? You probably won’t remember anything.”

“But I want to remember.”

“Well, perhaps you will. We really don’t know. The important thing is not to worry about it. We don’t even know if it’s going to happen tonight. It’s just a precaution for you to take off your pyjamas. Into bed then, quickly. Don’t want you catching another chill.” He lifted up the duvet and Wesley slipped into it quickly. Giles handed him Cuthbert and sat on the bed to switch on the nightlight.

Wesley gazed up at him. “Uncle Giles…?”

“Yes, Wesley?”

“Will you still like me when I’m big?”

“Yes.” A great deal more than you’re going to like me, given what a shit I’ve been to you since you arrived here. “Of course I will, Wesley. You’re my adopted nephew now. For bigger or smaller.”

It seemed to be the right thing to say. Wesley smiled and then put his arms around his neck and hugged him, warm bare little body still much too bony but so painfully familiar. “Goodnight, Uncle Giles.”

“Goodnight, Wesley.” He kissed him on the forehead, covered him carefully with the duvet and then watched the sleepy little boy snuggle down under the duvet. He suspected he was much too tired to stay up even to worry about the possibility of growing big again and would be asleep within minutes.

Giles backed out of the room silently and closed the door then leaned against it, taking off his glasses so he could wipe his eyes. It was perfectly absurd to feel as if this little boy were dying when all he was doing was becoming who he should always have been; yet it did feel like that all the same.

When he put his glasses back on and looked down the stairs, he saw the others standing silently by the door. They all looked as wretched as he felt and Willow was crying, although she didn’t seem to be aware of it. He went down the stairs and Buffy said, “I want to stay.”

“Buffy, think about it,” Giles sighed. “Wesley – the adult Wesley – is going to have enough to contend with realizing that he has been here for a week or so while he recovers from a mystical coma. He’s only going to be more embarrassed and upset if you’re here. He doesn’t even…”

“Like me?” Buffy gazed up at Giles and bit her lip.

“That wasn’t what I was going to say. He doesn’t know you. Or any of us. But I am probably the least…strange to him. He may not like me very much but he probably would feel the least disconcerted by waking up here.”

“I feel like I had my insides scooped out.” Buffy wiped her eyes. “God, it hurts so much. It’s just as well Ethan isn’t…”

She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to. “I’ll stay,” Angel said. “Just in case. And maybe Ethan’s wrong. Maybe he won’t change back.”

“He will,” Buffy sighed. “I know he will. When I kissed him goodnight I knew I was never going to see him again.”

“Actually you will,” Xander put in. “He’s still going to be Wesley. He’s just not going to be eight years old. But he’ll still be who he was. Maybe we’ll just be able to see it now.”

Giles looked at him warily. “That sounds worryingly profound.”

“I remember Willow and Cordy when they were kids. I can see those kids in them all the time. Maybe now we’ll be able to see that kid in Wesley.”

“But he won’t remember us,” Oz said quietly. “Or rather what he does remember – probably not going to be giving him too many of the warm fuzzies.”

“The kid Giles and Buffy found in that room was scared of them and expected to be punished all the time, remember? He changed because of the way they treated him. I guess the same thing would go for the adult version.”

Giles nodded. “I quite agree, Xander. I think Wesley, more than almost anyone I’ve ever met, probably becomes a reflection of the way he is treated by others. We know how the child version of him responded to patience and kindness. I see no reason to suppose the adult version might not also respond better to that than…”

Buffy shrugged. “Constant sniping and insults and put downs and thinly veiled contempt? Gee, I wonder…” She looked up the stairs. “Maybe, I should…”

“He’s asleep,” Angel told her. “I can hear his heartbeat. He’s fast asleep and not even dreaming. You should just go. Come by in the morning and see how he is.”

“See who he is,” Willow said sadly.

“That too,” Giles said it matter of factly. As they all looked woebegone, he added: “We all knew this time would come.”

“Yep.” Buffy looked back up the stairs. “And it doesn’t help one little bit now that it’s arrived.”

She hugged him when she left; he’d thought it was because she needed comfort, and then he realized she was comforting him. He had that reinforced when then all hugged him, except for Oz, who just nodded in quiet sympathy. Even Xander hugged him awkwardly, patting his back jerkily in a manner that was absurd and yet still comforting. Willow said tearfully: “It will be fine, Giles. He’ll be fine. He’ll just wake up and be fine and it’ll be like it never happened. Which is good. It’s all…of the good.” And then Oz gently drew her away before she made Giles any damper, and he closed the door behind them and looked at Angel who said: “I’ll stay.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know. I’ll stay anyway.”

Giles realized that he was relieved that Angel was staying. It was only a few months ago that Angel standing on his doorstep had felt like the sickest of all sick jokes, and now he did take some comfort in him, another grown up, someone else for whom this mystically created child was probably the nearest thing he was ever going to have to a son.

“I appreciate it,” he managed.

Angel looked at Giles and then looked up the stairs. “I’ll make tea,” he said.

It probably said everything about Giles’s state of mind that he let him and, when Angel handed it to him, sipped it without another word.

***