Summary- Buffy wakes.

Setting- Season 4

Rating- PG

Author Note- As soon as I started "Bedside Manners", I knew that I wouldn't be able to leave it at that.

Disclaimer- Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy, et al own these wonderful characters and I am grateful that I am allowed to play in their sandbox.

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Awakening

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I surface slowly, my senses muddled. I am in a bed which is not my own, that much is clear. Little else is. Somewhere nearby, there is a steady beeping and it reminds me more than anything else of a metronome, keeping time steadily toward someone's song. The idea pleases me though I don't understand why. It begins to lull me back to sleep but memory nags. I know I cannot go back to sleep until I remember. There is something I must know, something I must discover before I can rest again. I keep my eyes closed, struggling to remember, pushing away the fog of exhaustion. Hazy images return to me. There had been smoke. Fire. A vile dust settling out of the air onto the floor, the remains of my enemies. And a sense of satisfaction of a job well done before the dawning realization that I was in trouble. Fear. Pain. Then, rescue. He had come for me.

That is what I need to remember, what I need to know. I can remember nothing beyond his arms gathering me, lifting me up.

Is he safe?

I open my eyes slowly. The room is smudged by the first hints of dawn, slowly growing brighter. There is silence but for the ongoing metronome and the soft sound of twin snores. There, in the chairs to the side of the bed, the two people that mean more to me than any others. My mother is curled into her chair, knees drawn up and half under the arm rest, her head pillowed onto the cushioned seat back by one folded hand. Her brow is furrowed, and I am sorry that once again she has worried for me.

And in the other chair... My breath catches in my throat to see him here. Safe. He is leaning forward in his chair, head pillowed onto his folded arms on the side of the bed, his left hand gripping my right as though it is a lifeline. I can feel the ring on his smallest finger, the cold metal weight of it against my palm. His back rises and falls gently as he breathes.

There is a line of stitches on his forehead, a crimson smear of dry blood. His glasses, pushed askew by his arm, are smudged. He is rumpled, dirty, and hurt and he looks exhausted, even in sleep. But he is here. Safe. As am I. Relief floods through me at the knowledge that we have once again beaten the odds. I know that one day, he or I or both of us will not be so lucky, but I treasure each time the worst is averted, every day that I can thump fate on the nose. Each day that I can know all those I care for are safe, especially him, makes all that I do worth it.

I wonder how badly I am injured and shift a little. Which experiment I regret immediately as I suck in a breath and wince, stifling a whimper. I am grateful that the head of the hospital bed is already raised so I do not have to do anything to sit up. I'm not sure I could manage it otherwise. I have certainly had worse but I can tell it will take some time before I'm completely better. Slayer healing can only do so much.

The sound of my whimper brings his head up with a jerk and he blinks in disoriented confusion. A grimace of pain crosses his face at the sudden movement and he raises the hand not holding mine to back of his neck. He rubs slowly at the doubtlessly knotted muscles, then pulls off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh and closed eyes. I smile at the sight of his familiar mannerisms, though the movement hurts my face. Small comforts, are always reassuring in the aftermath of trauma. As he replaces the glasses onto his face and blinks through the smudged lenses, I say the first thing that comes to mind, with a gentle squeeze of the hand that still holds mine.

"You're safe."

I blink in surprise. The voice sounds nothing like mine, hoarse and gravelled, but the reaction it spurs in him is electric. He startles, head whipping up to stare at my face, eyes wide.

"You-you're awake." His voice sounds as little like his normal tones as my own did but it is full of disbelieving joy and my heart clenches in my chest. As much as I worry for him, he worries for me. He always has. I smile at him and squeeze his hand again in reassurance. My mother stirs in her chair and she rushes to the other side of the bed, a choked sob spilling from her lips. She embraces me with the practiced caution of someone accustomed to their loved ones being injured. My heart goes out to her and I regret all I have put her, put both of them, through over the years. I can do nothing else, such is the curse of my gifts, but I am sorry nonetheless.

She pulls back slightly and looks at me, searchingly. I do my best to smile reassuringly. "I'm ok, Mom. Give me some time to heal and I'll be just fine." She smiles, enormous relief lighting her face, and looks over at him with a warm smile. She grips his shoulder with one hand warmly, reassuringly, as a look passes between the two of them, weighty with significance. Then she moves swiftly to the door and is gone.

I frown in confusion. While there has never been open animosity between the two of them there has also never been much in the way of understanding. She has resented him too much for that. Or so I had thought. Clearly something has changed but I am baffled as to what.

"Your mother," he murmurs, before I can question this new turn of events aloud, "is a wonderful woman. She-she and I talked last night. A-about you and-and about m-me." He is staring down at our hands on the bed, still linked, and so he cannot see my smile. He hasn't truly stuttered with me in years and I am amused in spite of my confusion. I had forgotten how much I had missed it, this endearingly odd trait in this strangely contradictory man. A man who faces down the worst things the Hellmouth spits out with a sneer but stammers himself to incoherency when he's uncomfortable in mundane conversation. "I-I'm not s-sure how to s-say this." I squeeze his hand again, reassuringly.

"Just say it." I am confused and uncertain as to where he is going in this but I am willing to be patient and allow him to get there. He looks up and I can't read his face; there is a welter of emotion there and I can't sort it out. I give him a smile. "It's ok."

He gives me his own shy, quick smile and looks down at our linked hands again. "I-I love you. More than for the fact that-that you are the Slayer and more than that I am y-your Watcher. For these things I re-respect you. I love you f-for your spirit and your fire and for your de-devotion to that which you hold dear." I can only stare at him, disbelief mounting. He loves me? That he cares, for all of us, is clear in his every action. But love?

Yes, love.

Haven't I always known he cared, from the beginning? And after all we have been through together, it only makes sense that such emotion could turn deeper. Hasn't my own? If I am honest with myself, and I must be in the face of a confession such as this, my own feelings toward him deepened long ago. I never suspected, though, that they could be returned and so I ignored them, choosing instead to treasure what we had, our bond forged in destiny and war.

His gaze steals up to mine for an instant, then darts away again. His apprehension in the face of my silence is clear. "I-I told your mother this last night. More specifically, she-she figured it out on her own and I confirmed it. She told me not to w-waste any more time and to tell you how I felt when you woke. I will-understand if you do not feel the same. Th-there is, after all, a great-great deal b-between us. Not least, our re-respective ages. I only-I could not bear the idea of something happening and you never-never knowing..."

He falls silent and looks up at me then, waiting for my response, his green eyes searching. I wonder briefly at his courage when, a breath ago, he was tormented by his stammering shyness but then that is what this man does. He is shy with emotion, especially his own, but when it comes time for action, there is no hesitation in him. This man, my Watcher, does what must be done, regardless of circumstances. Having stammered his way through baring his soul to me, he looks up at me steadily with his heart in his eyes, mingled hope and fear such as I've never seen in anyone, and I can't keep him in suspense. Even if I wanted to.

"I love you," I murmur and nearly cry at his look of sheer wondering joy.

He rises from his chair and kisses me with his hands cradling my face. It is a gentle, chaste kiss, respectful of my injuries and his own and our location and he smells of smoke and blood, and it is perfect. He draws back slightly and the quiet joy in his green eyes takes my breath. He rests his forehead against my own, his hands cupping my cheeks, his breath warm on my face. My heart is singing within me and I can't stand the idea of him retreating back to his chair, however close to the bed it might be. "Would you hold me?"

He makes a pleased noise and sits on the edge of the bed. I shift over with a grunt of pain, making room for him. He is solicitous, worried, as he slips in next to me, settling back against the raised head of the bed, but I wave off his concern with a reassuring smile. I have had worse. He has brought me back from worse. I will mend. And in the meantime, I have him here with me.

His care as he climbs into the bed proclaims his own injuries and I scold him quietly for sleeping sitting in a chair. For still wearing the same dirty, stained clothing. I don't mind, but he cannot possibly have been comfortable. He makes a dismissive noise as he settles. He holds out his arms and I take the invitation gladly, snuggling into his chest. His left arm wraps my shoulders and down my side. His right hand rests on his middle. I can feel him press a kiss and a smile onto the top of my head. "There was no way I was leaving until I knew you would be all right." His voice is a deep rumble against my cheek. "Until I had a chance to tell you."

"And now that you have?" I tease him gently.

"For now, I wish only to hold you and convince myself that I am not still asleep."

I look at his long legs stretched out along the bed, beside mine. He is on top of the blanket while I am under it, but I don't mind. There will be time enough for more intimacy, for more closeness, later. For now, the knowledge that I am loved so deeply, that I love him, and his sheer presence next to me is enough. I realize suddenly that his arm around my shoulders is trembling. When he whispers, his voice trembles as well. "I-I hadn't really thought..." I reach up and take his right hand.

"Hadn't thought I could feel the same?"

I can feel his nod and shaky exhalation against my hair. "How can I not?" I asked quietly, raising my head to look at him. "You hold my heart."

The look on his worn face is almost indescribable, like a man sentenced to death being granted freedom, like a starving man presented with a feast. My heart aches for him and I resolve to do everything within my power to convince him that this is real, that he is truly loved. I lean up the short distance and kiss him again. When I pull back once more, I whisper, "I love you, my Watcher."

I can see the joy in his eyes and he smiles. He whispers, "My Slayer."

I settle back into the bed and he holds me tightly.

His hands trace meaningless patterns on my forearm and shoulder and I doze, held warm in his arms, only to wake with a start as my mother comes back into the room. She pauses, gazing at us silently. I tense instinctively despite all that he said about what they discussed during the night and he holds me still, reassuring. She searches our faces and I am a little surprised to see her blink back a tear. "I never thought to see either of you so content," she says quietly.

I am touched by her reaction and acceptance but uncertainty still pulls at me. "You're really all right with it?"

She nods. "I really am. The most important thing in the world to me is that you are happy. Nothing else matters." To which I don't know what to say, but I look at her smile and I know that there is nothing else that needs to be said.

When the others come in once visiting hours start, blinking in surprise at the sight of him in my bed, he only tightens his hand in mine and, when I look up at him, I can see his comfortable grin.