Father Figure
Part 2
They parked in front of Buffy's father's condo and Giles waited patiently while Buffy summoned up the courage to get out of the car, walk up to the door, unlock it and go in. He accompanied her, a hand on her arm the whole time, steady and reassuring.
At first glance, everything looked normal.
"Daddy?" she called. "Daddy, it's Buffy." She shook her head. "Oh, that's good, who else would call him Daddy?"
Beside her, Giles didn't say anything, just stood there giving her silent support.
She took another step into the room and stopped. Something..."felt" wrong. Not the evil she felt with her father last night, but something unsettling. "There's something," she said. "Let's look around."
He nodded and closed the door behind them.
The first out of place thing she spotted was the cordless phone, lying on the floor. The battery was dead. "Off the hook," she murmured, returning it to its cradle.
They moved from room to room, checking each one out. Giles checked the kitchen, she checked the bathroom. His toothbrush and razor were still on the sink, and there were dirty clothes in the hamper. Like someone was living here, not like someone was out of town.
They met in the living room again. "There's food in the fridge that's starting to spoil," Giles said. "Nothing was got rid of in preparation for a trip, and he didn't take the trash out."
"That's because he didn't go out of town," she muttered. "Something stopped him."
They split up again, Giles checking the guest room, Buffy her father's bedroom.
She stopped just inside the door, that feeling of "wrongness" even stronger here. The bed was unmade, clothes and pajamas crumpled on the floor at the foot of the bed...almost as if he was taken, or whatever, right in the middle of getting ready for bed. "Daddy?" she called softly. "Daddy, are you here?"
She knelt down to look under the bed. It was a platform bed; there was no "under". She opened the closet, almost expecting a body to come flying out at her. But it was empty of bodies, holding only clothes.
Then she turned back to the bed. The sheets and blankets were all pushed off to one side, like they'd been thrown there, and the mattress wasn't sitting straight on the base. As if someone had picked up the mattress and....
She pushed at the mattress, shoving it out of the way.
"Giles!"
Her shout brought him running.
"What is it...oh my God...!"
Her father lay inside the hollow base of the bed, naked, his face caked with dried blood, arms and legs twisted at odd angles, body bruised. His eyes were closed and his lips slightly parted and Buffy backed away, unable to tear hear eyes away from the horrible sight, but unable to get any closer.
Giles moved her to the side and bent down, touching her father's throat, his chest, his mouth.
"There's a faint, thready pulse and his breathing is very shallow," he said. "Call for an ambulance."
Buffy heard his words but they didn't register. What was he saying, that this twisted creature was...alive?
"Buffy." Giles called to her again.
"Daddy," she murmured, stunned by what she'd found.
She felt herself being moved and finally tore her gaze away, saw that Giles was taking her into the living room and sitting her on the couch.
"Stay there," he ordered, scooped up the cordless phone, then swore. "Damn, I forgot it's out of order. Do you know any of the neighbors?"
She looked up at him, trying to figure out what he was talking about.
"We need to call for help. Do you know...oh, never mind. Just stay put, I'll be right back." He bolted out the door and she could hear him pounding on the neighbor's door.
She sat there numbly. That was her father in there. That bruised beaten shell was her own daddy. What monster had done this? Who had hurt him like that? She felt the tears trickle down her cheeks and let them fall. Daddy...Daddy....
Giles was back in a few minutes "They'll be here shortly," he said. "They said as long as he's still breathing not to touch him, but if he stops, to start CPR. I'll keep a watch on him. You wait for the ambulance."
She didn't say anything, couldn't feel anything, and he knelt in front of her, his hands on her arms. "He's alive, Buffy," he said urgently. "Your instincts were right. He's alive. We got here in time."
She looked up at him. He was trying so hard to make everything all right. But it wasn't. She knew enough to know that whatever had been done to her father, it was bad, very bad. He might still die. "We should have come right away," she whispered. "We should have come this morning."
"Whatever happened to him, it happened some time ago," Giles said. "Possibly days."
"He's been lying here all that time...."
"He's probably been unconscious for most of it," he tried to assure her. It didn't work.
"Oh, God," she whimpered.
"Shh, now. I'm going to check on him. You stay put."
He went into the bedroom again, and Buffy opened the front door to wait for the paramedics. It seemed like it took them forever, but eventually they pulled up in front and she guided the two men with the stretcher into the bedroom. She kept clear, and in a couple of minutes, Giles came out, too.
"Give them room to work," he explained.
"Something did this to him," she said, feeling sort of...detached from the whole thing. Like that wasn't really her father in there, it was just this guy.
"And we'll find it, and deal with it. But first, we'll make sure your father's all right."
She nodded. She didn't want to face whatever it was that could do that to her father. She didn't think she could face it. All she would see is his twisted, beaten body. How could she deal with this?
A plain-clothes police officer came in through the open door. "Are you the ones who made the call?"
"Yes," Giles nodded. "My name is Rupert Giles and this is Mr. Summers' daughter, Buffy."
The detective nodded. "Was your father expecting you, miss?"
Buffy shook her head. "I just...kind of came on a whim."
The detective frowned. "When did you see him last?"
Buffy thought about it. "Christmas?"
"And just like that you decided to drop in unannounced?"
Buffy glanced up at Giles. "Buffy tried to call him this morning and learned his phone was out of order," Giles explained. "She hadn't talked to her father in awhile and felt that something might be wrong."
"Uh-hnn," the detective said, unconvinced. "And what's your relation to Mr. Summers, Mr. Giles?"
"None whatsoever. I'm the librarian at Buffy's high school in Sunnydale."
The detective's eyes widened. "And you just happened to drive her to Los Angeles to see her father? That's neighborly of you." His implication was clear. Why did everybody, when they saw her and Giles together, immediately assume the worst about them?
"I'm also a friend of the family," Giles went on through gritted teeth. "Her mother was working, I was free, so I offered."
"If you haven't seen your father in awhile, why did you suddenly call him?" This was directed back to Buffy.
"I...I dunno. I just got this feeling something was wrong. So I called. And his phone here was out of order, so I called his work, and they said he was in Sacramento, but the hotel in Sacramento said he never checked in."
"Hmm." The detective seemed to accept that, and made a few more notes. "And when was this?"
"This morning."
"No, I mean when he failed to check in."
"Oh, Monday. And his secretary said she hadn't talked to him since then."
The detective nodded and was about to ask another question when the paramedics came out with their gurney. "What've you got, Phil?" He asked.
"Not good," the paramedic answered. "Blood loss, dehydration, broken bones, a real mess. You're his daughter?" He addressed Buffy. She nodded. "You want to ride along?"
Buffy looked up at Giles again. It terrified her, the thought of riding to the hospital in the ambulance with her father. With the man who she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt was her father, and yet a man so badly wounded. She swallowed.
"I'll take her," Giles answered for her. "Where to?"
"Central Valley," the paramedic answered. "On LeMoyne and Central."
"We'll follow you," Giles nodded.
"See you there." And they were gone.
"Now then, Miss...." the detective started again.
"If you don't mind, Detective," Giles interrupted, "I'm sure Buffy would like to be with her father. Can we continue this at the hospital?"
The detective frowned, as if that was some unusual request, then nodded. "We're going to bring a team in to investigate. Just don't go anywhere without letting me know." He handed Giles his card.
"Depending on how Mr. Summers is, we may be heading back to Sunnydale tonight," Giles told him. "Here." He flipped the card over, pulled out a pen and scribbled a couple of numbers on it. "Here's where we can be reached. The first is Buffy's home phone number, the second is the library at the high school. We'll be pleased to answer any of your questions, but now I really do want to get Buffy to hospital to be with her father."
"Yeah, sure. We'll be in touch, Miss Summers."
Buffy just nodded and Giles put an arm around her shoulder in comfort. "You ready?" She nodded again and he led her out of the apartment.
"I feel funny leaving it open like that."
"The police will seal it when they're done. Don't worry. Come on." He led her to the car.
"Thanks for everything in there."
He smiled gently. "You're welcome."
They got in and Giles pulled into traffic. They were silent for several blocks.
"Giles?" her voice was small.
"Yes?"
"What if he dies?"
"Pray that he doesn't."
"But what if he does?"
"You came up here thinking he might have already been dead. Don't buy trouble."
"I know, but...."
"Buffy, shush, no more."
She swallowed and lapsed into silence again.
"Giles?"
"Yes?"
"I'm scared."
He looked at her, his eyes full of compassion. "I know. I wish I could tell you it'll be all right. But I can't. All I can tell you is that whatever happens, you won't be alone."
She blinked, feeling the tears starting. She bit her lip, trying to keep from crying. "I'm scared...." she whispered again.
Hospital coffee, Giles decided, was the most vile substance on the planet. He knew better than to try and drink the stuff they passed off as tea in those machines, so he was making do with a substance almost but not entirely unlike coffee.
Buffy sat at his side in stoic silence, as she had been since they arrived shortly behind the ambulance. Every so often a nurse or an orderly would wander by and Giles would ask how Mr. Summers was. But so far the answers had been singularly unhelpful: they were still working on him; they were running tests; they were waiting for the results of the tests. No one was saying much about his condition. Probably because no one knew much.
The detective from the apartment, Detective Birch by name, came to the hospital and asked a few more questions, most of which Buffy couldn't answer. No, she didn't know who would want to hurt her father. No, she didn't know anything about his business dealings. No, she didn't know whether he had a girlfriend or a lover. No, she only saw him, at most, once a month. Lately, not even that often.
After the detective left, Buffy silently slipped her hand into Giles', leaning her head against his shoulder. Needing the reassurance she sought from him. His heart went out to her; she looked so forlorn, so afraid. He put his arm around her shoulders and held her close, letting her rest against him. Poor thing, she had to be exhausted. She might be the slayer, but she was still human. Human, and vulnerable, and frightened.
"Miss Summers?" A man in scrubs and a lab coat came into the waiting room.
Buffy sat up. "That's me. How's my dad?"
The doctor smiled. "I'm Doctor Greer." He shook Buffy's hand, and then Giles'. "Your father's had quite a beating, I'm sure I don't have to tell you that." He sat on the edge of the end table. "He's suffered some extensive damage: broken bones, contusions, internal bleeding. It's possible it can all heal in time. But what's got us most concerned is...he seems to have received some sort of head trauma. The EEG, the CT scan, all indicate trauma. But there's no physical evidence of it. Usually, if someone hits their head, there'll be a mark-a lump, a bruise, split skin. Something. But there's nothing. He's got bruises all over his body, but his head is clear. His brain wave activity is that of a man in a very deep coma. But we can't find any external cause."
Next to him, Buffy stiffened. "A..are you saying he..he's brain-dead?" Giles tightened his arm around her in reassurance.
"No, not at all," Dr. Greer answered. "Or at least, not yet. Right now we don't have a good explanation for what's going on with him."
"Doctor, could it be that the severity of his beating has caused him to...go inside, so to speak?" Giles asked. He remembered Billy, the little boy who'd been beaten by his baseball coach, and how Billy's own fears had kept him in a coma.
"Possibly, though we're used to seeing certain brain patterns in cases like that. We usually get frenetic brain wave activity, as if the victim's still fighting. This is different. It's almost like there's a physical cause, only without any physical evidence."
"So...what are you saying?" Buffy asked. "Will he recover?"
The doctor shrugged. "We're doing everything we can. He'll be moved up to ICU and we'll be monitoring him constantly. But...do you know what his wishes are regarding life-prolonging treatments?"
Buffy gasped and her trembling hand went to her mouth. "No," she whispered, shaking her head.
"I thought you said he was stable," Giles said.
"For the moment he's as stable as we can get him. Which isn't really saying much. I know it's unpleasant to think about these things, but-"
"Giles," Buffy cried softly, shaking her head again.
He pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly, stroking a hand over her hair. "She doesn't know. We'll need to talk to her mother, back in Sunnydale."
"Of course," the doctor nodded. "There are phones over-"
"No, we'll need to go to Sunnydale. It's not the sort of thing that can be discussed over the phone."
"I don't know if we have-"
"Listen," Giles' voice was soft but intense. "I am not going to force Buffy to call her mother and have to tell her over the phone that her father is dying." In his arms, Buffy stifled a sob and he held on tighter. "And I won't expect a woman to make a decision like that without speaking to her face to face.
"What would you do if you didn't have family to ask about a DNR?"
"We're under obligation, by law, to offer treatment," the doctor said.
"Fine. Then that's what you'll do." Giles reached for a piece of paper, scribbling numbers on it again. "We'll be in touch as soon as we can, but if you need to reach us, this is where you can call. You'll call if there's any change?"
The doctor looked at the piece of paper. "Of course."
"All right," Giles nodded. "Then we'll be going."
Buffy raised her head. "Can...can I see him?" she asked, her voice tiny.
The doctor looked dubious for a moment, then smiled gently, as if realizing that it might be her last chance to see her father alive. "Just for a moment."
She nodded. "Thanks."
"This way." He led them back to the treatment room. "Don't stay too long," he told them. "We want to move him to ICU soon."
The man in the bed was hooked up to oxygen and a respirator, and to two different IV drips-one restoring much-needed fluids to his depleted system, one replacing lost blood. There were bandages on his face and splints on one arm and one leg. His complexion was pasty and slightly blue, and the heart monitor beeped rhythmically, if a little quickly, its pressure monitor flashing numbers which were much too low.
"Oh, God, Daddy," Buffy cried softly. She reached for his hand; three of his fingers were splinted and Giles' own formerly broken fingers ached in sympathy. "Why would anyone do this to you?" she murmured tearfully. "Why?"
He let her have a quiet moment with him, then he put his hand on her shoulder. "We'd best be going."
She shook her head. "I want to stay. He...he might.... If he's...dying...I want to be here with him."
A fist tightened around his heart. It was cruel, forcing her to do her duty at a time like this, but it was the only way. "Buffy, whatever it was that did this to your father is still out there, more than likely in Sunnydale, and may be with your mother even now."
She looked up at him, eyes brimmed with tears. "Oh God...."
"Come on," he urged gently, "let's go."
Finally, reluctantly, she nodded. She moved to the bed again, leaning over to kiss her father's forehead. "'Bye, Daddy," she whispered, her voice catching. "I'll see you soon. I love you."
Then she let him lead her away.
The lights were all on when they got home. Giles had wanted Buffy to call ahead, to warn her mother, but she'd said there was no way she could have explained it over the phone. What could she have said: hey, Mom, stay away from Daddy because he's actually a demon? Sometimes Buffy thought her mother went along with the slayer stuff because she couldn't think of any other explanation, but she really didn't believe any of it.
Giles pulled up in front. "What's your plan?" he asked.
"Straight in the front door," Buffy answered shortly.
"We should have stopped at the library for weaponry."
"No time," she said. She reached for the door handle, then froze. Whatever was in there, and Buffy knew it was here, as sure as she knew anything, whatever it was, it would look like her father, sound like her father, act like her father.
"But it's not," she whispered.
"Buffy?" Giles' voice was soft, concerned.
"Let's go." She climbed out of the car and strode up the walk, Giles following.
What she found inside was as bad as anything she'd feared. Her parents were together on the couch, making out. He had her lying on the couch and was covering her with his body as he....
"Leave her alone!" Buffy shouted.
The creature with her father's face looked up and something terrible flashed across his expression before his mask slid back into place.
"Buffy!" He smiled charmingly and climbed off her mother, who scrambled upright, pulling her open blouse closed. "We weren't expecting you home; your mother said you usually stayed out late."
"Move away from her," Buffy said, her voice icy. He still looked exactly like her father, but knowing that he wasn't made the charade that much more terrible.
"Honey, what's gotten into you?" Joyce asked. "I thought you'd be pleased that your father and I-"
"That's not my father."
There was a momentary silence.
"Don't be ridiculous!" the father-creature scoffed.
"What do you mean it's not-" Joyce began.
"Joyce, listen to her," Giles interrupted. "We just came from Los Angeles. The real Hank Summers is lying in hospital, having been beaten and left for dead."
Her mother's eyes grew huge and she paled. "Wh..what...?" Her hand went to her throat where he'd left marks on her.
The father-creature stared at Giles. "What are you talking about? Who the hell are you?"
"You should know who he is," Buffy said. "My father would."
"Oh, I know who he is, I just want to know what the hell gives him the right to stick his nose in my family's business. Buffy, honey, this man is a bad influence on you. Your mother told me all about him."
Buffy's mouth opened, stunned. "W..what? Mom...?"
"W..well, honey, you know if it wasn't for Mr. Giles...." her mother stammered, looking confused.
"You told him?" She couldn't believe this.
"He...uh...."
"Don't raise your voice at your mother," her father scolded. "And you-" he pointed to Giles, "get out before I throw you out!"
"Giles...." Buffy's hands went to her head, confused. This was just like her father. This is just what he'd do....
"Buffy, don't see with your eyes," Giles said, speaking calmly to her, "feel with your senses. What do you feel? What do you know to be true?"
Buffy closed her eyes and concentrated, and could feel the evil emanating from the man wearing her father's face. This wasn't her father, this was a terrible mockery.
"You tried to kill him," she said to the father-creature, calm now. Angry.
"Buffy..." Joyce pleaded.
"Mom, that's not Dad. Trust me. I know it."
"Joyce, I promised you last summer I wouldn't lie to you anymore," Giles added. "I'm not lying now. The real Hank Summers is still in Los Angeles. This is an impostor."
The father-creature stared at him for a moment, then stared at Buffy, true malevolence in his gaze. And then he chuckled. "Very good. I'm impressed."
"What are you?" Giles asked.
The father-creature sighed exasperated. "And you just blew it. I thought you'd have figured that one out by now. Not much of a watcher, are you?"
"He's a good watcher," Buffy said, getting angry. "A lot better than you are a father. What was that?" She pointed at the couch, hoping to distract him. She needed to find a way to get a weapon. "Trying to relive old conquests?"
The demon laughed. "I thought you said I wasn't your father. In which case they weren't my conquests, were they?"
"Why did you have to hurt him like that?" she said, choking on the words as she remembered her battered and bruised father, barely clinging to life.
"He wouldn't cooperate," the demon shrugged nonchalantly. "Listen, I'm as upset about it as you are. I was planning on drawing my strength from him. Instead I have to settle for just taking his face."
"Not anymore," Buffy said, her hand closing around the base of a lamp. She ripped it from the wall and lunged at him, swinging.
"Watch it, little girl!" the demon sidestepped her. "You kill me and you kill your beloved daddy." She stopped in mid swing. "Right now I'm the only thing that's keeping him alive, the connection we have that allows me to use his image. You destroy me and you'll kill him as surely as if you'd hit him yourself."
Buffy stopped, lowering the lamp. She thought about the doctor's statement, about a brain injury they couldn't explain. Maybe this was what he meant. "You're killing him."
"I'm keeping him alive," the demon countered.
Buffy swallowed. How could she be sure he was telling the truth? "If...if I let you go, will you let him go?"
The demon laughed. "It doesn't work that way. My power is the only thing sustaining him now. If I let him go, he'll die. You see, perfect symbiosis. I give him life, he gives me...his life." His smile was ugly. "His life, his face. His family."
Her hand tightened on the lamp base. "That's not life, what he's doing," she muttered angrily. "All that is is staying alive. He's not even conscious."
"Of course not. I have his consciousness now. I am Hank Summers."
"No you're not! You're a monster that's stolen him! Now let him go!"
The demon grew deadly still. "You really want me to kill him, Buffy?" he asked smoothly. "You really want him dead?"
Buffy was crying now, anger, fear and frustration all getting mixed up, the same as how the whole situation was mixed up in her head. Her father was alive, but in a coma. She knew this, knew it. But he was here, too, in demonic form. If killing the demon would kill her father, could she kill it? But leaving the demon alone would condemn him to remaining a vegetable, not even aware, until eventually he would die. He was dead whatever she did.
"I want my father back!" she cried and swung the lamp.
He was quick; he turned and took the blow on the shoulder instead of the head, catching the base in his hands. "Ow! That hurt!" He pulled the lamp out of her hands, trying to wrap the cord around her neck. He was strong, too, stronger than a human.
But then, so was she. She kicked out, catching him in the stomach and he doubled over, dropping the lamp. Buffy fell to the floor and scrambled to her feet, but the demon recovered quickly. He moved again, grabbing her and slamming her back into the fireplace. She cracked her skull on the mantel and fell to the floor, winded and stunned. He smirked and she wished she could find the strength to get up, to wipe that horrible smile off his face. She put a hand behind her to lever herself up, and felt the fireplace tools lying where she'd landed on them. Her hand closed around the shaft of one, she didn't know which, and she staggered upright.
He was still smirking when she lunged. "You killed my father, you son-of-a-bitch!" The fireplace tool-it was the poker-found home, embedded in his chest.
The smirk disappeared, replaced by a look of shock. "Buffy-" he whispered. And then he toppled backwards.
Buffy stared at him for a moment, expecting him to turn back into the demon he really was. But he didn't. He just lay there, his eyes wide open in death. Her father's eyes.
Her father's death.
The horror of what had just happened, what she'd done, hit her and her face crumpled. "Daddy," she cried. "Oh, God...Daddy!"
~~~~~
It all happened too quickly, more quickly than Giles had anticipated. He had no weapon at hand, no way to distract the demon away from Buffy. It had slammed her against the fireplace and before he could pick up the statue on the end table to use as a weapon, she was up, fireplace poker in her hand, impaling the creature.
It was dead now, lying in the middle of the floor, staring at the ceiling, fireplace poker standing straight out of its chest.
Even in death, it still looked like Hank Summers-the first shape-shifter Giles had ever heard of which could maintain its shape after death.
And Buffy.... Dear God, Buffy had crumpled to the ground at his side and was sobbing piteously, racked with grief and guilt. The fact that her father had technically died days ago when this creature first enslaved him didn't lessen the pain of knowing that her killing blow had also killed the man who had given her life. Her sobs were painful, almost hysterical as she rocked back and forth, her fingers tangling in her hair, tugging clumps of it from her head.
He dropped to his knees beside her and pulled her into his arms, holding her as tightly as he could. "Shh, Buffy, hush. It's over, shh now," he soothed, trying to calm her. But how to calm her when he felt himself getting caught up in her grief. She was in such pain.
"Oh, God...Daddy..." she sobbed. "I killed him...!"
"No, you didn't, you set him free," Giles coaxed. "He's at peace now."
"No...." she wailed and Giles felt helpless. He could only hold on tight and let her grieve.
He looked across the room to where Joyce still sat, clutching her unbuttoned blouse around her, staring at the corpse of the man who wasn't her ex-husband. Her eyes were wide open in terror. Complete shock. Exactly opposite Buffy's near-hysteria.
Buffy's sobs were turning into chokes and coughs now and he patted her back, trying to comfort her. "It's all right, Buffy, it's all right. Just relax. You'll be all right. Everything is all right." He knew the words were meaningless. Everything wasn't all right. He wondered if they'd ever be all right again.
Buffy put her arms around him, turning her head against his shoulder. "Oh, God, Giles...." she cried. He just held on. It was all he could do.
Eventually, her weeping slowed a little bit, less, he suspected, from lack of grief as from lack of energy to keep crying. She simply didn't have the strength anymore. She still wept, but now it was a soft cry, almost like a kitten.
"Buffy, let's get you upstairs," he murmured, "let you rest, hmm?" She didn't answer, so he got up, bringing her with him, and scooped her into his arms, carrying her upstairs. He hit the bedroom light switch with his elbow and laid her gently on her bed. She slipped from his arms easily, where she curled onto her side, still weeping. He dug his handkerchief out of his pocket and gently dabbed the tears on her cheeks, tucking the cloth into her hand in case she wanted it. He smoothed her hair tenderly. "You just rest," he soothed. "Close your eyes, that's it."
He wanted to sit at her side, comforting her until she fell asleep. But he wanted to see to Joyce, too; in many ways her silence was even more frightening than Buffy's sobs. And then there was that matter of the body in the living room.
"Buffy, I'm going to go check on your mum, all right?" he said. "You just rest. If you need anything, I'll be here."
She didn't answer, but she sniffed, and he thought she nodded her head, just a little. "Good girl." He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead, then with a final caress, left her side.
Joyce was where he'd left her, still staring wide-eyed at the corpse. One trembling hand now covered her mouth, and tears spilled across her cheeks. But she didn't weep, and she didn't move.
He sat next to her, reaching for her shoulder in comfort. "Joyce? I took Buffy upstairs. She's...rather upset. Do you want to check on her?" He hoped he could appeal to the mother in her to see to her little girl.
"I didn't know," she murmured, still gazing at the body. "I didn't know."
"It's not your fault," he assured her. "You couldn't have known."
"I didn't know," she whispered again.
Giles sighed. Wonderful. Buffy was hysterical and her mother was catatonic. Her hand still clutched her blouse closed, knuckles white. He reached for her hand and uncurled it, easing the fabric from her grasp, and then gently fastened her buttons, all the while watching for her reaction. There was none. "Why don't you go upstairs, see to Buffy?" he suggested. "I'll...take care of things down here." He wanted to dispose of the body, but he didn't want her here when he dragged it out. "All right?"
Finally, she tore her eyes away and looked at him. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
He squeezed her hand in reassurance. "It's all right. Come on, why don't you go upstairs?" He helped her to her feet, steered her around the corpse and up the stairs. By the top, he was practically supporting her as she seemed to have lost strength and coordination. They stopped outside Buffy's room. He could hear her weeping softly. "Do you want to...?" But Joyce turned her head away, trembling.
"I..I can't...."
He groaned inwardly. He hoped she wouldn't blame Buffy for what had happened. So much of what happened around here Joyce didn't understand. Whatever she'd said to Buffy's father-or rather, to what she believed was Buffy's father-about Giles himself bore that out. He'd tried to explain things to her, but tried not to frighten her too much in the process. Perhaps he'd withheld too much information, but he was always afraid of her breaking under the strain. Joyce wasn't very well equipped to handle her daughter's world. Her reaction right now was proof of that.
"All right," he murmured, leading her on to her own bedroom. He helped her to a seat on the bed, sitting with her for a moment, holding her hand. As helpless as he'd felt dealing with Buffy and her grief, he felt even more so with Joyce. At least he and Buffy were friends. They cared about each other, had learned to depend on each other. But Joyce.... Things were complicated with Joyce. His role in her daughter's life was a very specific one, but very complex in all its facets. Joyce frequently resented him, always resented what he stood for-the thing that could take her daughter away from her. Usually didn't understand him and what he did. And underlying it all was a certain basic attraction between them. Pheremones at work. Things would never be easy with Joyce.
Her head was bowed and silent tears streaked her cheeks. He wanted to wipe them away, but he'd left his handkerchief with Buffy. So he squeezed her hand in reassurance.
"You relax, take it easy," he said, soothing. "I'll...take care of things downstairs."
She raised her head, blinking at her tears, and sniffed, struggling to give him a smile. He gave her one which he hoped was more reassuring than it felt, and got up from his seat on the bed. "If..if you need anything...."
She swallowed and nodded through her tears, and he left the bedroom.
Buffy was silent now, just an occasional sniff coming from her room. He wanted to check on her, but he needed to deal with the corpse in the living room first. He put his hands over his face and took a deep breath. This entire matter had been nothing short of a disaster. He'd never seen Buffy so...ruined. Not even after what happened with Angel. She'd had so many tragedies in her young life, to add this one more, perhaps more tragic than all the others.... It wasn't bloody fair.
Heading down the stairs, he tried to remind himself that he'd been around Buffy's age when he'd lost his own mother, a loss that had affected him deeply. But she'd died of cancer. She hadn't been beaten to death by a demon. Moreover, he hadn't killed her by destroying her lifeline. He wished Buffy had hung back and let him do it the way he told her he would; he would have risked her anger, risked alienating her for life if it would have saved her her present pain. But she'd said in the car that it was her father, her responsibility. That she "owed" him that much. She wouldn't have let him interfere, even if he'd been able.
Giles hadn't known Hank Summers well, had only met him twice. But he'd found him a decent enough man. A little clueless when it came to his daughter, but then...he imagined most men were pretty clueless when it came to teenaged girls. God knew most of the time he was completely baffled by Buffy and her friends. He was sometimes irritated that Hank Summers couldn't seem to find time to spend with his daughter. As the other adult male in her life, Giles saw how much her father's neglect, however unintentional, hurt her. And sometimes he had to remind himself that he was not Buffy's father, that that role was filled by a man whose simple existence was sacred to Buffy. He could never hope to fill those shoes, and in fact, didn't want to, not really. But with the protective instinct known to parents everywhere, he was angered by anything which could hurt "his" child.
The body was still lying where it had fallen, still staring at the ceiling, that awful look of surprise and shock on its face. On Hank Summers' face. "I hope you're satisfied, you bastard," he muttered. He nudged it with his toe in irritation.
The toe sank straight into the body and the flesh around it crumbled.
"Bloody hell!" He pulled his foot back and nudged another part of the body. Again it crumbled. He reached for the poker and pulled it out. The chest caved in. He dragged the poker across the body and within seconds, nothing remained but a sand-like dust in empty clothes.
"Well, it'll make disposal easier," he commented, and instead of going for the garbage bags, he went for the dustbin and a broom. Fifteen minutes later, the demon's remains had been dumped in the hedges at the back of the property and the clothes tossed in the trash. He found the sweeper and vacuumed up what remained, then righted the fireplace tools and andirons, picking up the pieces of the broken lamp.
Then, knowing he couldn't stall any longer, he went into the dining room, finding the scotch and pouring out two measures. The first he downed in a shot and refilled the glass. Then he carried them both upstairs.
Buffy was silent, sleeping, her lashes spiked, her face streaked with dried tears. Her fist curled next to her face, and his handkerchief was clutched in her hand. He smiled with concerned affection. She must be exhausted; she hadn't slept the night before, with worrying. It wasn't surprising she'd cried herself to sleep. He left her room without disturbing her.
Joyce was still sitting on her bed, but with a box of tissues next to her. In her hand she held a framed photograph of the Summers family, taken several years ago, in a happier time. From the look of the picture, Buffy must have been around eleven or twelve, a pretty little girl with a bright, carefree smile.
When he came into the room, Joyce looked up. He didn't say anything, just handed her the glass, and she sipped gratefully.
"I..is... h..he...?"
"It crumbled to dust when I touched it."
Joyce frowned. "Then it really was a demon."
"Yes."
She looked up at him. "I..I didn't know."
"I'm not surprised."
"Buffy did."
"Buffy has heightened senses about certain things. One of her slayer's gifts. I doubt I would have recognized him for what he was, either."
Joyce wiped at an eye and looked back at the picture in her hand. "He could make me so mad, like no one else on earth," she said softly. "One minute careless, the next minute stifling. I used to get so angry.... But he was a good man, and...and I think I probably still loved him, at least a little." She sniffed. "I can't believe he's gone."
Giles didn't say anything; there was nothing to say.
"Now I... I'll need to call his sister and...oh, God, this will just kill his mother. And his office. So many arrangements. The hospital will want to know what we...which one did you say it was?"
Giles froze, a thought clicking into place. "Hospital," he murmured.
"What?"
"Hospital," he repeated. "When we left the hospital, we gave them this number and told them to call if there were any change."
Joyce looked up sharply, mouth open as the implication hit her. "So why haven't they called?"
They stared at each other for a long moment.
"Joyce, it may not mean anything," he cautioned. "They may not have had the chance to call yet. They may have had another emergency or...or something...."
"Do you have the number?"
Even before she said it, he was digging in his pocket for the card. He handed it to her as she reached for the phone. Her hand shook.
"I can't...."
He dialed the number and at the first ring, handed her back the receiver.
"Intensive care?" she asked him. He nodded. Then her expression changed, her focus on the telephone. "Yes, Intensive care, please." Giles watched her as she twined the phone cord in her fingers, trying not to get his hopes up. "Yes, hello, this is Joyce Summers. I'm calling about...about Hank Summers?" There was a pause. "Oh? Oh. Oh!" Giles wished for a speaker phone so he could hear what was happening. He thought about going into Buffy's room and picking up the extension, but he didn't want to leave her. "A..are you sure? No, I.... Yes. Yes, I see. Yes, of course. So you think he'll be...all right?" Giles closed his eyes. All right. Not dead. All right. "I see. Yes, we'll do that. Thank you. Thank you very much." She hung up.
Her eyes were brimming with tears again. "He's alive," she whispered. "He's alive!"
He smiled gratefully and she laughed. "He's alive!" She reached out and he found himself sitting on her bed, holding her tightly, his eyes pinched shut, thanking whatever god happened to be listening, for this miracle. Tragedy had changed to relief, sorrow to joy.
He pulled back abruptly. "Buffy."
Joyce's eyes widened. "Oh, my God."
As one, they bolted from the room and into Buffy's. Giles started forward, then held back and let Buffy's mother do it; it was her place.
Joyce bent over her daughter, shaking her shoulder gently. "Buffy? Buffy, honey, wake up."
Buffy squirmed and turned her head, not wanting to be disturbed.
"Buffy, wake up," she repeated. "I just talked to the hospital. Your father is alive."
Buffy's eyes opened sharply. "Wha...?"
"He's not dead. He's alive. He's just regaining consciousness and-"
"But he said-" Buffy began, sitting up.
"Why should a demon tell the truth?" Giles said.
Buffy stared at him for a moment, then back at her mother. "He's...okay?"
"They think he will be," Joyce said. "But the important thing is that he's alive. He's alive, Buffy!"
"Oh, God...!" She threw her arms around her mother and they cried together, tears of joy. Then Buffy raised her head, saw Giles, and extended a hand to him, and he sat on the bed, joining in their embrace: joy, relief, support and love.
They spent a long time like that. Giles tried to pull away, but Buffy would have none of it. She held onto him tightly. And Joyce snaked an arm behind his back as well. He was well and truly imprisoned by the embrace of the Summers women. It was, he realized, a wonderful place to be.
Eventually, the hug eased.
"What did they say?" Buffy asked, her voice small and tearful.
Joyce sniffed and cleared her throat. "Well, they said that about thirty minutes ago, he suddenly had some sort of seizure and his heart stopped. Then all of a sudden, before they could even work on him, it started again, on its own, even stronger than before. And he started breathing on his own, and his pulse rate settled down and he started waking up. They said he's not fully awake yet, but they think it's only a matter of time. They can't promise anything, of course, but...but they're optimistic."
Buffy grinned, a beautiful sight, and hugged her mother again.
"We have to go there!" she said. "We have to see him."
"Of course," Joyce answered, as if there could be any question. "In the morning, we'll...."
"No, now!"
"Buffy," Giles soothed, a hand on her back, "it's very late. And we're all tired. Tomorrow will be soon enough. He's not fully awake yet."
He thought she was going to protest, but she nodded. "Yeah, okay. Tomorrow."
Giles sighed, grateful to not have to fight her, and Joyce laughed softly. He smiled, then chuckled, joined by Buffy's soft giggle. The relief was making them giddy.
"Well," Joyce said, sitting up and letting go of her daughter, "I could use something to drink. Who wants cocoa?"
"Me," Buffy said, and Giles nodded. Cocoa would not have been his drink of choice at this time, but it would do. It would most definitely do.
"All right, cocoas coming up."
"Come downstairs, Buffy?" he asked, standing up.
"I wanna clean up," she said and climbed off her bed, heading to the bathroom.
In the kitchen, Joyce reached for the pot to boil the water, then stopped, staring into space.
"Anything I can do?" Giles asked.
She blinked. "Oh, sorry." She looked at her hands. "I can't seem to stop shaking."
"Not surprising. Shock affects people differently." He put his hand over hers and they stared at each other for a moment, far too many things needing to be said, but no words available to say them with.
"I suppose so," she whispered. She turned back to the sink and filled the pot with water, setting it on the stove. "Umm...in the dining room, there's brandy...."
He went into the dining room and brought it back for her. He poured her a small glass and she drank it down, then she got out the mugs and poured a measure into each mug. Giles smiled. Sometimes the only reasonable response to a situation was to have a drink. And mixed with the cocoa, Buffy would probably take the brandy without complaint. It would go a long way toward settling her down.
As if in cue, the object of his thoughts came into the kitchen. She'd washed her face, and with her face scrubbed clean of tears and makeup, and her damp hair brushed away from her face, she looked very young and innocent.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
She shrugged and came to him, tucking herself against his side, resting her head at his shoulder. "Maybe," she murmured. He put an arm around her protectively, a little surprised by her sudden needy physicality. They'd never needed this type of reassurance between them before. Of course, she hadn't just killed her father's image before, either.
Before she could elaborate, Joyce said, "Why don't you two go into the living room; I'll bring it out when it's done."
Giles nodded and escorted his slayer into the other room, grateful to have a bit of quiet time with her. There wasn't anything he needed to say, he just...needed to reassure himself that she was all right.
Joyce Summers took a deep breath, trying to calm her trembling. She felt elated and devastated all at once, one moment wanting to laugh out loud, the next wanting to cry. As the shock faded, realization of what had happened set in and when she thought of it, she felt nauseated. She took another swallow of the brandy, trying to banish the foul taste in her mouth, a taste that seemed to emanate from her roiling stomach.
She finished making the cocoa and took the three mugs into the other room. Buffy and Giles were sitting on the couch, Buffy tucked up against his side, their heads bent together in earnest conversation. Joyce felt a pang when she saw them, a pang she knew was irrational but couldn't help feeling it nonetheless. When it came to Rupert Giles, most rational thought fled out the window.
They saw her come in and Giles sat up, removing his protecting arm from Buffy's shoulders. But she stayed resting against him in a way which was familiar and comfortable. Just for a moment Joyce remembered Hank's suggestion that perhaps there was something improper between them, then she pushed back the memory. It hadn't been Hank, it had been some monster who had seduced her, invaded her mouth with his tongue, marked her throat, caressed her body.... She swallowed back the bile again and her hands shook so hard she almost dropped the tray. Giles leapt to his feet and relieved her of her burden, setting it safely on the coffee table. He led her to a seat on the couch next to Buffy and sat back down on Buffy's other side.
"Sorry," she murmured awkwardly, feeling like an invader in their private world.
'That's quite all right," Giles said and smiled at her. Somehow she managed to smile back and calmed her trembling hands enough to pass out the mugs.
Buffy took a sip. "Whoa, Mom, kinda heavy-handed with the brandy, aren't you?"
"Drink it," she said. "We can all use it. God knows I can."
"Likewise," Giles agreed. Buffy looked at him sharply but didn't say anything. And finally she shrugged and took another sip, giving a little shiver. "Feels all warm going down," she said. "And at least it doesn't taste so bad this way."
Joyce chuckled softly. She didn't have to worry about Buffy's becoming much of a drinker. She looked over at Giles. He was smiling, too, very likely thinking the same thing. She sipped from her mug; the cocoa was sweet and hot, and the brandy warming. She only wished it would stop her trembling.
"What would you do?" Buffy asked.
"What?" Joyce replied, then realized Buffy was talking to Giles, obviously continuing their earlier conversation. Again that pang of jealousy. They inhabited a world she didn't understand, didn't really want any part of.
"You mean if it had been me who'd been taken by the demon?" he asked. "Not even any question. I'd want you to destroy it, release me."
"Even if it meant you'd die?" Buffy asked, her voice tiny.
"Especially then," he confirmed. "In a coma, unresponsive, unaware.... That's not living, not by any standards I subscribe to. I wouldn't want to endure that, and I wouldn't want to put my loved ones through it. Better you should destroy the demon and set me free."
Buffy frowned. "How would killing someone set them free?"
Giles sighed. "What happens when someone is taken by a vampire?" he asked.
She tilted her head at his apparent non-sequitur. "They die."
"They still walk and talk," Giles countered.
"Yeah, but it's not them," Buffy insisted.
"How is this different?" he asked. "In this case, the...the soul still inhabits the inanimate body, unable to be free. Unable to find rest and peace. Imprisoned by the demon. Just as we must destroy the vampire who kills a human being, even though that human's body still walks and talks, you needed to destroy the demon who had taken over your father. Even if it meant risking killing him, too."
Buffy stared into her mug for a long moment, her face wrinkled in a frown as she puzzled it out. Joyce glanced at Giles, who felt her gaze and looked at her, a silent word of support going between them.
"Honey," she began, putting a hand on her daughter's shoulder, "unless he's changed his mind recently, your father always had a living will, a document that said he didn't want any special life-prolonging heroics. If he was in a coma with no hope of recovery...he'd want to be able to go in peace." Her voice caught; it was all too close to speak about easily. She glanced up again. Giles was smiling at her supportively.
Buffy looked at her mother, considering. "I don't ever wanna have to do that again," she whispered, ducking her head. Joyce felt her throat tighten. What could she possibly say to that? So she did the next best thing: put her arms around her daughter and held on tight, her eyes closing against the pain, the confusion.
She didn't know how long they'd sat there, holding each other. Didn't know at which point Giles had reached over to lay a reassuring hand on her shoulder, where it remained, giving her mute support. But eventually, she opened her eyes and raised her head. He smiled gently at her, warm compassion in his eyes.
It hit her like a ton of bricks, that compassion. She'd been jealous, she'd been resentful. When all he was doing was expressing his love, in that simple, quiet way he had. Her eyes pinched closed again and she shuddered on a breath.
In her arms, Buffy felt the change and pulled back just a little. "Mom? You okay?"
Joyce took a deep breath, struggling for calm. "Delayed shock or something." She opened her eyes. "I'll be all right."
Buffy's fingers traced the mark on her neck. "Did he hurt you?"
Joyce knew she was blushing. "No. My pride, maybe. I guess I...I didn't realize how much I...." She swallowed. "He was being so charming, and I was so willing to accept it. If he'd been like that when we were married we probably would never...." The words faded and died. "Though I suppose that should have been a dead giveaway that something was wrong." She couldn't help the bitterness. She felt deceived. She felt soiled.
"But you're okay?" Buffy asked again.
She forced a smile. "Yeah. I'm okay. Or I will be." She could feel Giles' gaze and couldn't bring herself to look at him, to see the pity in his expression.
"Just give it time," he said, his voice soft, soothing. "Don't fight it. You've been through a lot. It's all right to be upset, you don't have to pretend everything is all right."
Buffy looked over at him, extending a hand, which he enfolded in his. She leaned against her mother, who pressed her cheek to the top of her daughter's head. They sat quietly for a time. Silent support. The only good thing in this whole terrible evening.
Until Buffy's eyes slid closed again and she curled against her mother.
"I think you should get some sleep," Joyce said, easing Buffy from her arms. Buffy sat up and rubbed her face.
"Yeah. It was a long day."
"And it will be another busy one tomorrow," Giles reminded her.
She turned toward him. "I'll miss patrol again tomorrow night."
"That's all right, we'll manage. I may try and get Faith to take a patrol. And I'll tell Wesley what's going on...so he doesn't worry, of course." His smile was small, sly.
Buffy giggled. "You mean so he doesn't go charging in and make a mess of things."
"That, too," he admitted.
Buffy sighed. "I'm gonna go to bed."
"Good night, honey," Joyce said, hugging and kissing her daughter. After all the anxiety and all the pain...it was nice to be able to do something supremely "normal", like kiss Buffy good night.
"Sleep well," Giles said softly. "I'll see you when you get back."
"Thanks," she whispered and gave him a quick hug. Then she slid off the couch and went upstairs.
They watched her go, sitting silently for a time afterwards. Awkwardly.
"Well," Giles said, standing up, "it's late. You've got a busy day tomorrow. I'd better-"
"No, don't go just yet." Joyce stopped him, suddenly unable to let him go, not with so many things unsaid. "Stay for a minute?"
He gazed at her for a moment, considering, then sat back down.
She took a deep breath, not knowing how she could possibly say the things she wanted to say to him. Nor even whether she could say them at all. Everything seemed...especially intense tonight. Like her emotions were magnified. Meanwhile, Giles sat at her side, patient and silent.
"I..." she began, licking her lips nervously, "I don't even know how to thank you for what you've done. For us."
His smile was gentle and she thought he flushed just a little. "There's no need."
"Yes, there is. I'm.... I'm so sorry...for what I said before. I...I didn't mean it like that."
"Yes, you did," he countered, his smile fading. "But I understand."
"He...it's just that he got me so confused.... Saying things about you, about your relationship with Buffy...."
Giles frowned. "Then he knew about her being the slayer before you said anything?"
"I don't know," she said miserably. "He knew...something. I'm not sure what."
"Damn," Giles muttered.
"Do you know who...what he was? It was?"
"No. But I may know why it was here. Unfortunately, I can't say anything more without proof."
She bristled. "I thought you said there wouldn't be any more lies."
"I'm not lying," he insisted. "But I cannot tell you what I suspect, not unless I have facts to back the accusation up. I can tell you that it's likely that the demon targeted...Hank...because he is Buffy's father."
"It used him to get at her," Joyce said, wide-eyed.
"It's likely," he agreed.
"So we're not safe, no matter what we know," she said, the importance hitting her. She would never be safe. Not now, not ever.
He paused. "I'm sorry."
Joyce swallowed the last of her cocoa. There wasn't nearly enough brandy to calm her trembling. "I hate this. I hate your world of vampires, and demons, and slayers, and never knowing who the good guys are. I hate it!" Her eyes filled with tears. "I don't understand it and it scares me to death. I wish it would all just...go away." She looked up at him, her voice dropping to a whisper. "But it won't."
"I'm sorry," he repeated helplessly. "I wish you didn't have to be a part of it, too. Not because I prefer keeping secrets from you, but because I can see what it does to you. It's a very difficult thing we're asking of you, Joyce. I know that. Especially telling you things, and then telling you there's nothing you can do about it, and that you must keep quiet about what you know. I know it's hard. But you're not alone. There are others who understand."
"Understand?" she said bitterly. "Understand how it feels to watch your only, beloved child go off night after night to face unspeakable horrors, knowing that one night she won't come back? You think you really understand how I feel?" She lashed out, wanting him to feel the same pain she was feeling.
It worked, at lest a little bit. He looked away and she saw him swallow. "Yes," he said, quietly. "Buffy is not my child, but I love her as if she were. She is the most important thing in my life and if something happened to her, I would be devastated."
"But you still send her out there to get killed!"
"I try my best to help her not get killed," he answered tiredly. "Do you really think she could stop being the slayer? Knowing what she knows, having seen what she's seen? Do you think she could simply ignore the evil, let the vampires attack, knowing she could stop it? I didn't make Buffy what she is, but by God, I'll do everything in my power to keep her alive." He took a deep breath. "I gave up everything I've ever known, everything I ever believed in, my life's work, because I care more about Buffy than I do about the institution that's supposed to govern slayers and watchers. I don't know what else I can say to convince you that I have her best interests at heart. It's Buffy herself who matters to me, not what she can do. I'm not your enemy, Joyce. I never have been."
His gaze was intense, passionate, and the hand that clutched hers warm and firm. She'd always thought of him as a bit of a milquetoast. But she'd learned in recent weeks that his strength went far beyond the surface. Quiet passion which ran deep.
"I know," she said. "I do know. Really, I do. But I...oh, God, sometimes it's.... It's too much. Buffy, and you, and...and Angel.... Sometimes I think I'll go crazy from it all. Or that I already have. I mean...who would believe any of this?" Her laugh was brittle. "Or that if one more thing happens, I'll shatter into a million pieces." She felt what fragile control she had left slipping. "I've seen too much myself, know too much. But when it hits the very core of your life.... I don't know how much more I can take."
Her strength was gone, all of the emotion raw and exposed. And when he put his arm around her shoulders in comfort, the last of her reserves crumbled. She pinched her eyes closed and bit her lip, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a sob. But when it escaped, he followed through and pulled her into his arms. She wept against his shoulder, crying for her fate, and that of her daughter, her loved ones.
"Shh, it's all right," he murmured. "Just let it go." His voice was soothing and sure. She wanted to just let go and sob, safe in his arms, but her natural inhibitions wouldn't let her and after a few moments, she pulled back, wiping at her eyes with trembling fingers.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled.
"I'd give you my handkerchief, but Buffy has it," he said.
She chuckled. "That's okay." She sniffed away the last of the tears. "I didn't mean to do that."
"I think you needed to," he countered. He didn't let her go, and his gentle touch on her cheek, her jaw, her hair, felt good. He placed a finger under her chin and raised her head. "Joyce, you and I have had our differences, and I imagine we always will. But I want you to know that I will always be here, for Buffy, and for you."
Maybe he didn't understand, not really. But he listened, and he cared. Even if it simply meant she had another adult to talk to. She realized that was worth an awful lot.
"Thank you."
"You're very welcome." He bent his head, kissing her cheek. That felt good, too.
They stayed like that for a long time, not kissing, not crying, just holding and being held. Joyce felt a measure of peace in his arms and sighed. Why couldn't it always be like this?
As if on cue, he released her from their embrace and she straightened, wiping a hand across her face. They gazed at each other awkwardly for a moment, then he grinned and she giggled. Obviously, the chemistry between "Ripper" and "Joycie" hadn't relied entirely on candy.
"I'd better go," he said, getting to his feet.
She followed. "Yes, it'll be a long day tomorrow." She walked him to the door. "We'll call you tomorrow, once we get there. Let you know how everything is."
"That would be nice," he said. "Thank you."
Another awkward moment. "Well...good night."
"Good night, Joyce." He smiled. Then he leaned in and gently kissed her lips, chaste and tender.
He straightened and cupped the side of her face. "I've had a thought," he said.
"What?"
"Let's really surprise Buffy." At her look of puzzlement, he went on. "Let's you and I be friends."
She smiled at that. Attraction or not, she realized that's what she really wanted from him: friendship. Someone to talk to, who understood. She nodded and he put his arms around her again, hugging her close.
"Which doesn't mean," she said, straightening from the embrace, "that I'm not going to get upset with you anymore."
"And it doesn't mean I'm not going to get irritated with you," he agreed.
She smiled. "That's okay, then," and he laughed.
"Good night." He let himself out and she closed the door behind him with a sigh. Maybe it was an intrinsic flaw in her. She always seemed to go for irritating, frustrating men.
Shaking her head, she went upstairs to bed.