'Sick of Shadows' Chapter Six Giles/Wesley by Jane Davitt and Wesleysgirl

[janedavitt]

Here is Chapter Six of this fic, written with wesleysgirl.

Previous chapters are here:
Sick of Shadows



Thanks to everyone following it for all the kind feedback! ::hugs::



Sick of Shadows by Jane Davitt and Wesleysgirl


Chapter Six

The flat door closed behind them and Giles couldn't help contrasting this return with the one earlier in the day. The same sense of relief that they were away from other people, but now it was Wesley beside him; an ally, not an enemy. It was astonishing how comforting that was, even though this was far from over.

"I had an idea," he said. "I'm going to use that digital camera you insisted we needed – " Wesley gave him a wan smile in place of his usual vigorous defence of his purchase, and Giles bit his lip but continued, " – and I can photograph this thing from various angles, and then we can work on researching it without it needing to be close to you. For the initial stages at least. How does that sound?"

Wesley nodded, staying near the door as Giles moved further into the flat, taking the bag with the sculpture in it along with him to put as much space between it and Wesley as possible. The other man was pale, but composed.

"Stay there," Giles advised him, going to retrieve the camera. He unwrapped the sculpture with great care, not actually touching it with his bare skin, and set it in the middle of his bed while he quickly snapped a dozen or so photos from an assortment of angles. When he'd finished, he wrapped the statue back up in the towel and left it where it was, returning to the front room where Wesley had obviously chosen not to follow his suggestion and was sitting on the sofa with an open book in his lap.

Giles walked over to him and held out the camera. "Want to swap?" he said. "Put them on the computer, or print them out... whatever it does." He could probably have done it himself, but his antipathy for computers had waxed, not waned, over the years, no matter how useful they were. Besides, Wesley was staring blankly at the page rather than reading; giving him something to do would be a good idea.

He glanced down at Wesley's book, and, even with the text upside down, saw enough for him to give Wesley an approving nod. "Yes; my thoughts too. The statue's a little crudely done, and the markings on it are worn, but it's definitely a Viking warrior. Whether or not that's what is, presumably, trapped inside, remains to be seen, but it's a starting point."

Standing up, Wesley set the book on the table and took the camera from Giles' hand, going over to the desk and booting up the laptop. He went through the necessary connecting processes to attach the camera to it as Giles perched himself on the edge of the sofa and began to page through the same book Wesley had just abandoned. He glanced over at Wesley on a regular basis, but he couldn't see much more than Wesley's back, so he wasn't able to tell how the other man was dealing with the situation until Wesley unplugged the laptop and brought it over to the couch, sitting down beside Giles.

"Here," he said, putting the computer on the table in front of them and gesturing at the screen, where one of the photographs was framed in a window. "You can page through this way," and he demonstrated how to do it. It was clear to Giles from the way Wesley was talking that it was taking a fair amount of concentration for him to get through even rather simple tasks.

"Thank you," he said, retreating into a formality they'd left behind them months before. Wesley's arm brushed against his as he leaned forward and reached out for one of the books Giles had collected and stacked on the table. Giles shifted along the sofa at once, giving Wesley some space, and then wondered if he'd done the right thing. Wesley was clearly distressed about what had happened between them – Giles was, too – but flinching away from a fleeting, accidental contact wasn't going to help to restore the relaxed friendship they'd had or make Wesley feel better.

And if friendship was all they were to have, as now seemed likely, Giles was determined to make the best of it. He eased back to his original position and gave Wesley an uncomfortable, overly bright smile.

Wesley barely seemed to notice. He picked up another book and began to look through it, and, a moment later when Giles looked over at him, he seemed to be holding the book in an unusually tight grip. "I want to take this pendant off," Wesley said, his voice strained, although he kept his eyes on the page. "It's as if it... whatever it is... is trying to influence me."

"You mustn't!" Giles shook his head in disgust as the words slipped out. "And I get the award for most stupidly obvious comment. Sorry." He took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. "Perhaps we could tape it to your chest? Make it harder to get off, so if you try I'll have a chance to stop you?" He hesitated. "Or I could do what you suggested earlier, but, God, I don't want to. For one thing, you won't be able to help me research with your hands tied behind you, and – Wesley, I don't want you to think I don't trust you. Because I do."

"Possibly against all common sense," Wesley pointed out, still without lifting his eyes. He turned another page. "I won't take it off. If I think there's a chance I might, I'll tell you. Try to give you enough warning to stop me." He sounded determined enough that Giles believed his will was strong. "It doesn't seem to be getting worse, if that's any consolation."

"A small one," Giles said. He stared at the screen. "Ugly brute, isn't he? Well, let's see what we can find out..."

The hours went by, and Giles allowed the routine of research to insulate him from the worries nagging at his mind. He felt overloaded by them; concern over Wesley's predicament came first, but under that was a more selfish one as he cursed whatever impulse had led the creature – demon, or human – to seduce him, and ruin any chance – He frowned. Why had it done that, anyway? Setting aside his own thoughts on the matter – which were too tangled to be unraveled right now – what had been the motivation? Sex, violence and the desire to have fun... natural enough reactions if someone had been released from a long imprisonment, but not really apocalyptic in nature. Somehow he didn't think they were dealing with someone who had an agenda that involved anything beyond gratification of the more basic needs. Oddly anticlimactic, but it should make it easier to deal with.

"Wesley," he said. "Can you remember what it wanted to do? Did you sense an aim, or a purpose? Because I'm beginning to think we're dealing with something simple; an imprisoned soul, who took the first chance it got to get a body to play with; and that seems to have been what it did, by its lights. Play. It picked fights, drank, wanted sex in and out of season... Good Lord, I'm inclined to think adolescent human rather than anything demonic."

Wesley seemed to consider the questions for quite a long time before answering. "You might be right. It didn't feel... alien enough to be demon – a hybrid like a vampire, at worst. It seemed hedonistic. As if it wanted good food and sex and..." He trailed off, giving Giles another of those apologetic looks. "As if it was enjoying sudden freedom."

As all his research indicated that the statue was eighth century, that made sense. Giles nodded. "Strictly personal then; no grandiose schemes or revenge plots..." He flipped over a few pages and then sighed. "We're not going to find much here, then. Our books aren't really geared toward that period in history and although magic must have been involved, I'm guessing it was nothing more than a binding spell. Young Thor, or whatever his name was, must have annoyed someone." He grimaced. 'I can't say I'm any too fond of him myself."

Looking as if he agreed wholeheartedly, Wesley reached out and pulled the laptop over in front of himself, opening a new program. "Then we'll look online," he said. "Is there anything concrete at all? A time period?"

Giles told him that it seemed likely the sculpture was from the eighth century, and Wesley nodded and began to search, using a variety of keywords. He didn't work with his usual speed and efficiency, but he still, Giles couldn't help but note, did a far better job of it than Giles would have. Time seemed to pass slowly, Giles reading over Wesley's shoulder where he could, and it wasn't more than an hour later that Wesley suddenly straightened up. "Well, this looks remarkably like our man, doesn't it."

Giles looked at the computer screen again, Wesley turning it slightly to improve his view. In the window was a good sized photograph of their Viking warrior, complete with sword. The statue seemed in slightly better shape than it was now – not that that should come as a surprise, considering the state of Bill's flat – and was, really, unmistakable.

Peering at the screen with eyes tiredness had made blurry, Giles read out what was written under the picture.

"'Legend has it that Godfred, one of the minor rulers of Denmark in the ninth century – ' Hmm, I was off by a hundred years or so, was I? – 'used this statue, carved from a meteorite that fell on the site where Godfred later built his keep, seeing it as a sign from the Gods, to store the soul of his finest fighting man, granting the honour only to one who had proven himself a hero in battle. The warrior was slain in a ritual sacrifice, his body being cleft from breastbone to – ' I think we'll skip the details; they look quite revolting ' – his intention was that the warrior would be called forth in times of need, a common theme in many mythologies...'"

Giles sat back, imagining the chaos if a Viking warrior were to be unleashed in a modern world and feeling mildly sympathetic towards the Viking. Poor devil wouldn't know what had hit him...

Wesley clicked on the next link, his eyes skimming across the screen. "Here. 'The warrior was released from its prison some time in the late 1500s, and wreaked havoc on five villages before the ritual to return it to the sculpture was unearthed and performed by a small group of wizards..." He trailed off as if he'd read something he didn't like the sound of, and Giles turned the screen toward himself again so that he could see.

'Only two of whom survived.'

"Oh," he said, a little flatly. Seeing Wesley looking even more discouraged than before, he forced himself to mutter something about how at least there were some survivors, and then gave up and went to get a much needed drink. Anything but whisky...

It didn't take too long to unearth details on the ritual, and Giles was obscurely comforted by the fact that they had to turn back to their books to do it. Wesley, too, looked more relaxed with his hands curled around a heavy, leather-bound text than he'd done crouched over the keyboard. Giles stared at Wesley's hands, remembering how they'd felt on him, and took an unwisely large gulp of brandy. Fool, he thought as he choked and wiped at watering eyes. No better than that warrior...

Wesley had refused a drink, and he glanced up as Giles began to splutter and then looked away again.

Giles cleared his throat. "Anything needed that we don't have?" he asked.

"I don't think so." Wesley had a list scribbled on a piece of paper and a steely look in his eyes as he stood up and moved across the room to the cupboard where they kept their magical supplies. He opened the doors and crouched down, rifling through the things on the bottom shelf. "Wormwood," he muttered, setting a small packet on the floor beside him. "I know the copal resin's in here somewhere, I just saw it last week. Oh good, here it is." An even smaller packet, labeled in Wesley's careful handwriting, joined the first on the floor.

He turned, and it struck Giles, suddenly and almost painfully, how Wesley fit in his flat, his work, his life. "I don't know if they would have had copal during the Viking Age – but they would have had some form of resin, if only for varnishes. They used sandarac the previous time, but the copal should do just as well – they both contain terpenes," Wesley said. "It will be a very volatile mix – I wonder if that's where they ran into trouble." He still looked pale, not quite himself, but he sounded very much like Giles remembered him sounding when he'd first shown up in London – tentative, unsure of himself.

"Are you sure..." Wesley had to clear his throat a bit before continuing. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I don't – we don't – have a choice," Giles said. "If this possession continues, there's every chance the amulet won't be strong enough to hold him back; and, if it were, you can hardly wear it for the rest of your life. There's also the very real possibility that once he's free, he'll be virtually immortal; once your body dies, he'll find another." He took a deep breath and opted for honesty, bracing himself against Wesley's reaction. "And none of that matters as much as the fact that if he did succeed, I'd lose you. I'm not going to let that happen, Wesley. We're doing this, and it's going to work."

"But what if – what if the ritual..."

Giles could tell that Wesley was trying to give him the opportunity to back out gracefully, if the thought of being killed as a result of the ritual was too much.

"I don't want to lose you either," Wesley breathed, and Giles didn't have any trouble hearing him, not with the way they were focused on each other in that moment. It was as if time had stopped, nothing else important for that one fleeting instant. "I couldn't live with myself if..."

"You won't have to," Giles said. He stood up and went over to where Wesley was still crouched beside the cupboard and held out his hand to help him up. "But as there's a remote possibility that I'm wrong, I'll make it quite clear; I want to do this, and, if something goes wrong, it's not going to be your fault."

Wesley's hand slid into his, long fingers cool against his skin. Giles pulled him to his feet and then found himself unable to step back or release the hand he held. There was a questioning, almost hopeful look in Wesley's eyes, and Giles wondered again how he could have been so unforgivably stupid to have not realised sooner that something was wrong. Wesley's eyes the night before had been hard, filled with a cruelty Wesley didn't possess.

Wesley wasn't letting go either, and he took half a step toward Giles. For a fleeting moment Giles thought that maybe, just maybe Wesley was going to kiss him, and the emotions that stirred up must have shown on his face because Wesley blinked and moved back quickly, dropping Giles' hand. "Thank you," he said, his voice rough. "I don't... I don't know what I did to deserve your friendship, but I'm grateful."

Giles bent to retrieve the packages Wesley had selected, glad of the chance to hide his face for the moment it took to compose himself. He straightened up and gave Wesley a small smile. "You didn't do anything other than be who you are, Wesley. You're very easy to like." He grinned. "Especially since we both got fired, and you stopped calling me 'Mr Giles' in your most disapproving voice."

He could see Wesley make a valiant attempt at a smile, but it fell flat. "What now?" he asked. "I'm not sure I trust myself to be in the same room with the sculpture, unless you restrain me somehow. And then if anything were to go wrong..." He looked up at Giles, worry and some other emotion shining in his eyes.

"I need you able to move for this," Giles said firmly. "There have to be at least two people chanting and walking the circle." He let his hand rest lightly on Wesley's shoulder for a moment, needing that small amount of contact, knowing, despite what he was telling Wesley, that there was a very real chance this wouldn't work and they'd both die, in one way or another. "Please, Wes?" he added softly. "Help me do this and believe we can? Going into a spell doubting yourself really isn't a good idea, you know."

Wesley cleared his throat. "Yes. Yes, you're right. Of course we can do this."