Breath.
Breath was important; breathing
supplied the rhythm and when breathing failed, rhythm usually followed
suit. Gale knew that instinctively. With her eyes closed, she inhaled deeply
and centered herself, concentrating on the expansion of her lungs.
She rocked back, from the
ball of her front left foot to the heel of her rear right. Toes up, rounding
to heel, toe to heel, toe to heel; smooth transition, knees bent, flexed;
hips aligned, level; forward, back and forward, back and forward. Breath,
breathing; shoulders squared, chest open, head up.
Graceful. Powerful.
Slayer.
Gale poised on her toes then
sped forward, arches flexed. Three steps, one bounce, front flip, knuckle-thrust.
Left, right, left, right. A back-skip, crouching low into a sitting reverse
spin, back handspring, legs scissoring swiftly -- one foot as deadly as
the other. Over and erect, legs apart, knees slightly bent into right arm
blocking, left hand knifing. Sweeping elbow.
Concentrate, Gale.
Don't zone!>>
"Good! Again!" his distant
voice sieved through her focus, its mote of encouragement settling subconsciously.
Breath, breathing, speeding
forward en point, arches rounded. Three steps, one bounce, front flip,
knuckle-thrust. Left --
"HARDER!" the voice barked,
shaking her confidence. The remedial command shouldn't have been needed.
-- right, left --
"CONCENTRATE!"
I KNOW!>>
-- right
A back-step, crouching low
into a reverse sitting spin, back handspring, legs scissoring swiftly,
unevenly. Over and erect, legs apart, off balance, right arm blocking,
knees bending slightly, left hand knifing. Coughing. Elbow, wild.
I can do this better.>>
Doubt attacked. Breath, breathing far too heavily, speeding forward, stubbing
a toe, arches hurting --
The roundhouse didn't begin
high enough but Gale's airborne-adjusted landing kept her footworthy. Her
left fist followed-through, grazing the outside of Wesley's arm.
He stepped clear of her next
maneuver and the next one, his keen sense of self-preservation kicking
in faster than his fatigued reflexes. "Gale!" Wesley shouted, hopping clear
of the sweeping leg. "Gale!"
The rookie Warrior, with
her hair fraying out of the twisty tie at her nape, threw another sloppy
elbow. Her face was flushed, animated with determination.
She combo'd two lefts and
another right into the space Wesley had wisely vacated.
"GALE!"
Prepared to vault into a
flying leap, she caught herself before take off. Unfortunately, inertia
didn't recognize the 'all stop' and she stumbled forward, tackling Wesley
off his feet and into the high-low tufted carpeting.
Blinking rapidly, she avoided
being blinded by the sweat streaming off of her forehead. "Sorry," she
panted into Wesley's temple after rolling onto her back. By arching her
knees, she flattened the small of her back onto the floor. Her face wore
a mask of relief.
Wesley gasped. "What were..."
he winced, gritting his teeth as pain coiled up from the base of his spinal
column, "...you..." another gasp, a hard swallow, and the spasm became
bearable, "...trying -- GOD!"
Gale sprang onto her feet
and peered into Wesley's face. "Wes?" she asked tentatively, wiping her
brow with the hem of her oversized tee-shirt sleeve. "Did I... Hurt you?"
Three deep inhalations and
their slow releases later, Wesley opened his eyes to the ceiling.
With great effort, his left
arm rose and deposited the back of his wrist across his forehead, smoothing
perspiration into his cropped wavy hairline. "Falling is *not* a good idea,"
he joked, his voice actually tinged with good humor. He smiled his best
almost-dimpled smile. "I guess I'm still recuperating."
Relieved, Gale plopped onto
her derriere and, pulling on toes, wedged her crossed legs beneath her
thighs. "Cordy dropped me an E-mail about the explosion -- about you being
in Angel's apartment when it got blasted and how Angel rescued you and...
stuff. I'd imagine that, you know, 'cause it only happened a couple months
ago, you'd still be pretty sore. I should have --"
Her chin dropped to her chest.
"That was pretty rude of me to let you help me train. Especially since
you just got off the plane and all. I could have waited for Angel."
Wesley was so glad she hadn't.
He hadn't been directly involved in a training session for over a year,
since before being officially dismissed as Watcher -- first by his Slayer,
Buffy Summers, then by his employer, The Council of Watchers. Throughout
the six months in Angel's employ, the vampire had never required Wesley's
expertise, nor had he ever acknowledged the number of veiled offers for
guidance or support. And, since the explosion, Wesley's attendance at Angel's
assignments was no longer desired.
Instead, Wesley had become
Angel's full-time bookworm.
Angel's answer to Gale's
request for a sparring match had been a brusque demand to be shown to his
quarters.
Far too excited to sleep,
Wesley was glad to volunteer. For the first hour he'd supervised Gale's
warm-up with stretching and free weights. The spacious basement, with a
ceiling high enough for Wesley to walk under without stooping, was perfectly
equipped for Gale. Besides weights and a heavy bag, the floor was generously
padded.
Gale had everything she needed
for proper training. Everything, except assistance.
Wesley raised his right hand
and used the crook of his index finger to tilt her chin, directing her
light brown gaze in his direction. "Don't feel responsible, Gale. I'm not
hurt. And I do need the exercise. I just shouldn't... Fall. Falling," his
head wobbled back and forth, "is very, very bad."
She tipped the top of her
head and smiled.
Wesley's hand retreated to
his chest as a rising breath caught its fall. "You're..." he paused to
watch her brows lift expectantly and disappear beneath her overgrown bangs,
"... dreadfully out of shape." He cringed out of tactlessness.
Gale's shoulders hitched
upwards for a millisecond. "I suck as a Warrior," she remarked dryly. She
shook her head negatively in response to Wesley's sudden burst of laughter.
"What if...? Wesley... what if I'm obsolete? That I was good enough five
centuries ago, but now all I'm doing is avoiding getting myself killed?"
With both dimples out and
about, Wesley mused, "unless something's changed, you are still immortal,
are you not?" His grey eyes regarded her suspiciously.
"Yeah, well..." Gale's face
colored with embarrassment. "OK. So, technically I'm not exactly killable,
but I can't handle this. Seriously, it's way, way, too hard. I was thinking
it might be better if I just went back to being a Messenger."
She got very serious. "I
was an *awesome* Messenger." She scrambled to her feet.
One-handing his 6:27AM shadow,
Wesley contested, "but, you *know* this. You bore a Slayer's duties. Surely,
with a diligent training regimen, you'll be able to regain your abilities
and hone your inborn talents?"
After helping Wesley upright,
Gale kept her hand extended, there to help him stay steady. But he politely
declined -- or because his lids were squeezed so tightly, he didn't notice
the gesture. Her full lips edged sideways and she started for the staircase.
At the first step, she took Wesley's arm and wrapped it around her shoulders
without asking if he needed help climbing, unwilling to risk a "no" for
his answer.
"I'm alone here, Wesley,"
she finally said topside. "That's not to boo-hoo about my situation or
anything. I was alone in Portland and before that, in Reno. Angel's lucky.
He's got support -- not just Cordy for a Messenger, but both of you guys,
even if neither one of you can't help with his Warrior chores."
"I had no idea..." Wesley
faltered, frowning at Gale. "I had just, naturally, assumed..."
She stepped from under his
arm. "That everyone's deal is as good as Angel's?"
"No." His sigh rose above
the soft creaks of his straightening spine as his arms crossed his chest.
"That you were still in Reno. I suppose the miracle of E-mail is that one
can relocate anywhere in the world without having to fret over forwarding
addresses. And, not just that. I should have personally kept in touch with
you instead of relying on Angel or Cordelia."
Mirroring Wesley's stance,
Gale shrugged. "It's cool, Wesley." She shrugged again, focusing beyond
him. "You have your priorities and I need to learn mine. I knew I had to
do this on my own, I just didn't know how 'on my own' I was really going
to be."
Sliding his glasses up the
bridge of his nose, Wesley treasured Gale's vivid appeal. The light through
the stained-glass window behind his shoulder kaleidoscopically illuminated
her somberness. Beads of perspiration jeweled her complexion; she glistened
like amber, rubies, and sapphires. Her pleasant must hovered between them,
almost visibly threading her sweat-stained workout gear to his rumpled
shirt where her clinch had provided support.
Wesley swallowed. He blinked.
He smiled encouragement. "You've got resources, Gale. Maybe you just haven't
learned to put them to use, yet."
She rubbed the tip of her
nose with her knuckles and bitterly replied, "I've got the *best* resources
at my disposal, Wesley."
"The *best*," echoed up the
stairs.
Wesley stood in the foyer
and considered his options. The truth was, he really could have used Gale's
help to his room. Not only did his lower back ache, but every muscle below
his waist was throbbing. When ten counted steps turned out to be nine too
many, he directed himself towards the kitchen.
Even before 7AM, the household
was active. The children shuffling past were unconcerned with Wesley except
when he presented an obstruction. Two boys tore past him, their flat-footed
charge unmuffled by throw rugs lining the hardwood hallway. The remembrance
of once being so young and so energetic -- and of a certain towheaded co-terror
named Ozzie Shaw -- made Wesley chuckle.
"OUT!" Trixie called over
her shoulder at Wesley's shove through the swinging kitchen door. "Oh,
it's you," she smiled, waving him in.
As Wesley walked past the
house matron standing at the stove and stirring the largest kettle of oatmeal
he'd seen since leaving the Academy, he peered over her shoulder. "I'm
sorry to intrude," he said, confirming the hot cereal's texture.
"No problem," Trixie replied,
patting his bicep. She replaced the lid on the pot and lowered the heat
under the double-boiler. "Coffee?"
"Haven't been to sleep yet,"
he asided.
Lured towards the wall of
windows lining one side of the kitchen, Wesley was mesmerized by the abundant
brilliance of the 'English Light'. He missed being North during the summer;
missed the longer days and the barely-dark nights; missed the mornings
that bloomed with full sun.
He squinted into the spacious
back yard. There, the tree-boundaried area was alive. Birds and winged
insects flitted from tree to foliage. Yet, oblivious to the commotion,
sat the motionless Tibo with his arms and legs pretzeled and his eyes tightly
shuttered.
"YEAH! BOY, DID I! COOL!
OW, STOP HITTING ME! DON'T, IT'S MINE!" was a boisterous chorus, disturbing
Wesley's reverie. He bustled out of the way of several children clamoring
to get outside.
The door slammed shut behind
the children. Its café curtain wafted into place, fanning the quiet.
"He's meditating," Trixie
said, motioning outside with the top of her head. "Communing with the Powers
That Be. That's what he does every morning, rain or shine."
"He communicates with them,
then?" Wesley's sleepy eyes opened wide. "He knows who they are?"
With her nose wrinkling playfully
and the apples of her high cheeks budding with amusement, Trixie wrapped
her arm through Wesley's and guided him to a bench at the farmhouse-style
table. "He's *meditating*," she specified, "which looks like something
you should probably go do after you have some juice."
Wesley took the offered glass
and toasted his gratitude. "Excuse me for prying, if that's what I'm about
to do. But, I --" Wesley stalled with a dainty sip, " -- find this entire
situation rather strange. These *are* human children, are they not?"
Trixie patted his hand. "They
are, indeed. *I'm* not." Wesley's questioning look prompted her to add,
"my late husband was human."
"Please accept my condolences
for your loss."
A forelock of Trixie's long
graying hair was casually looped behind her ear. "Thank you, dear, but
Roland's been gone for over a decade."
She joined Wesley for a sip
of her own beverage -- a cup of coffee that was more creamer than caffeine.
"You're probably wondering: The Powers That Be, a Warrior and a Messenger
sharing a home with human children. Since you look like a confused young
man who might enjoy listening to a story, it just so happens that I feel
like an old woman who's willing to tell you one. I'll make it brief?"
Anticipation snipped Wesley's
yawn in half. "By all means! And I didn't realize I was so transparent."
She chortled and toyed with
the fingers of Wesley's free hand, fascinated. "My husband had hands like
yours -- long fingers, beautiful nails. Roland played the piano and I used
to listen to him tickle the ivories for hours. Ragtime. He loved anything
with a bounce to it. It was great for the kids."
"Then your husband helped
you with the children," Wesley asked, skimming the flotsam of pulp off
the top of his orange juice with his lip.
"Well, we couldn't have any
of our own, so this was the perfect arrangement. Some of these kids are
so broken when they show up at the door -- "
She rose to tend to her pot,
stirring it vigorously before turning the flame off beneath it. "But that's
not the story I'm telling you."
"For me, it was love at first
Sight," she continued after retaking her seat. Her full smile displayed
a set of dull-white teeth, doll-like in size and shape. Flickered with
sunlight, Trixie's cinnamon-brown eyes sparkled rosy with remembrance.
"I met him in my Vision."
Intrigued, Wesley leaned
onto his forearms. "You're a Messenger, then, too? Gale has *two* Messengers?"
"I *was* a Messenger, but
when I fell in love with Roland, my Gift was removed."
"The transference. Yes, of
course. Like how Cordelia got her Gift!"
"Probably nothing like how
your lovely Cordelia received her Gift, young man. Navute were Messenger
from the beginning. Not every Navute will become one; it's a privilege
to be embraced and an honor for a family to have at least one Gift-bearing
ancestor. My family -- to still retain the Gift after my disgrace is a
rarity."
Wesley mulled over her comment.
"So your inference is that you are *directly* Tibo's aunt, then. The same
type of demon." Searching her face, he finally matched Trixie's facial
structure to her nephew's -- the female's version definitely more plesantly
evolved.
"Demon? Hmmmmm." Trixie stuffed
a fist beneath her tapered chin. "With our human-appearances, we don't
consider ourselves demonic. Yet, we know we're not human. We merely consider
ourselves Native Americans even though our culture has existed longer than
the Americas or its first human inhabitants."
"Remarkable. And to give
all of that up for true love..." Lowering his eyes to the glass confined
between his clasped palms, Wesley prompted, "and after your husband died..."
Trixie sighed heavily.
"After Roland's funeral,"
her fingers took a stroll with the memory, "I sat alone at this table and
thought back over my life to that point. I had hardly been more than a
child when I made a life-altering decision, but I had over fifty wonderful
years with my husband. No grief, no anxiety. Perhaps if I'd been accustomed
to the complexities of *real* life, the transition would have been easier."
"I can sympathize," Wesley
said softly. "I was released from The Council of Watchers and I had no
direction, no resources. After having been so sheltered, it was a devastating
position to be in. To be without my past and, especially, to be without
a future."
"Council?" Trixie concentrated
on replacing her cup into its saucer's groove. "Cordelia's involvement
with The Warrior Angel is legendary, but yours... Of Council and assisting
a vampire? I'll concede that my life's tale is quite insignificant compared
to yours."
Wesley's empty glass whacked
the table. "Was. I *was* of Council. As I said, I was let go -- "
Trixie shook her head. She
grasped Wesley's hand again. "I *was* a Messenger, but I will be *Navute*
until the day I die. We will always be what we were, Wesley, no matter
that we're elsewhere. The elsewhere doesn't change us, it just gives us
someplace 'to be'."
"Being disowned -- No..."
Slipping out of her grip, Wesley stowed his hand and his temper from view.
"Your people even took your Gift away."
The door crashed against
its stopper. "I *TOLD* YOU! NUH-UH!" The curtain flailed helplessly and
was trapped against the jam after the door banged shut. "HE DID, TOO! NO
YOU DIDN'T! STOP IT!"
Counting the children shuffling
back into the kitchen, Trixie paid extra attention to their grimy footsteps.
"Alone at this table, Wesley, I realized that my people took *a* gift from
me, not *the* gift. My place is here with the children that I raise, just
as it was always meant to be. On the day you find your elsewhere, you'll
know it, too."
Wesley rose to follow the
last child that trudged in from outside. "And Gale -- Has this become her
elsewhere?" he asked, puzzled by the pensiveness that seemed to doubly
age the woman's mature features.
"It's obvious that Gale likes
you very much, Wesley." Trixie's voice was hoarse, as if she was dragging
out words reluctant to leave their hiding place. "I don't care why that
is because it's not my place to interfere with such matters; but, if the
feelings are reciprocal, be cautious with your affections. Tibo may live
among human-kind, but he does not necessarily accept their ways."
Lifting her eyes, she spoke
to Wesley's disquiet. "We, Navute, are a prideful lot and a Navute Messenger
is considered holy -- directly touched by The Powers That Be. Tibo believes
in the old customs, that possession of the Gift is just as important as
its use and that Warriors, by nature of their duties, are unclean. He doesn't
respect Gale. As a result, she can't do her job. Perhaps with you, Angel
and Cordelia here now, this will be resolved."
"We'll try our best, of course,"
Wesley promised. "It's difficult, at best, to work with any type of fanatic
but your insight on the situation should help us tremendously."
At Trixie's silence, Wesley
turned. "My nephew, for all his self-importance, fails to recognize the
irony that the pain each Messenger receives comes directly from The Powers
That Be," spoken at his back, chilled his retreating spine.
He climbed the ten stairs
without thinking, each of his thoughts possessed by his own situation.
Enthusiastic about inclusion in Angel's travel plans, Wesley had blissfully
ignored the much larger picture: that his connection to The Powers That
Be came only as a concession of Angel's employ, no matter how often it
felt otherwise.
-0-
The backflip concluded with
a backflop.
Tibo stepped over Gale, trailing
one foot across her stomach. "I thought Wesley was helping you train."
Ignoring the snide remark,
Gale rolled over and, straightening her arms, assumed the push-up position.
Her inner coach tried several times but failed to convince her body that
the distance back up would be no greater than the distance down to the
floor.
The sound of spewing water
broke her concentration and was as good an excuse as any to stop exercising.
She sat back on her heels and watched the steaming faucet pour over Tibo's
hand into the washing machine's tub. "You'd think with all the communing
you do, the Powers That Be would have you relay a message or two to me,"
she badgered.
Gale hopped to her feet.
Tibo turned around just as she misstepped for balance.
Sprinkling water at her with
his reddened fingers, he jested, "perhaps They want you to be less clumsy
or something before sending you on an assignment."
"I can still fight," she
challenged, baring her bottom teeth.
"Barely," taunted her eye-to-eye
combatant.
One beat. No breath. Gale
zipped across the room with her arms in the lead. Clutching Tibo by the
front of his weathered chambray shirt, she chucked him up and over. He'd
been flattened several seconds before flakes of stucco snowed down from
the ceiling.
"How's *that* for barely?"
Gale sneered.
An impudent grin perverted
Tibo's features. "Not so great. Perhaps, you need some rest." With brute
eagerness, his two strong hands seized Gale's shoulders and changed their
positions on the floor. Reining her neckline, he derided her cruelly, "and
I've got three more R's for you, Gale. Re-energize. Regroup. Retrain."
"TIBO!" Trixie snapped from
the base of the stairs.
Tibo lowered a head heavy
with contempt. He jerked Gale to her feet and yanked her forward, seething
against her ear, "Da'ur Etrix won't always be around to protect you."
Gale shoved with all her
might, but only succeeded in moving herself. "Is that supposed to be some
kind of threat?"
With a quick bob of his head
in reply to his aunt's reprimanding glare, Tibo carried the laundry basket
away from her arms. He sauntered to the washer without recognizing Gale's
confrontational attitude. "I'm just giving you a Message," he tossed over
his shoulder, loud enough for his Warrior to hear above the agitation.
-0-
Wesley bumped against the
footboard of Cordelia's bed. Again.
"Sorry," he grumbled under
his breath.
On a normal day, Cordelia
would have already been up. She would have also had a full night's rest
instead of a few measly hours of post-dawn's. Cocooning herself, she nestled
deeper under the covers. "I was already awake," she fibbed. Her drowsy
smile beamed from out of the shadows.
Wesley heaved his duffle
onto his mattress. Tugging too hard, the zipper's slider ran off of one
track. Aggravated, he threw his toiletry bag inside.
His jaw shifted askew.
"You know, Wesley, this trip
was a suck idea. I think that Angel... He's really wigging."
With his sight set on one
of the many macaroni craftworks adorning the room's walls, Wesley fixated
on massaging his thigh. "That's what Angel does, Cordelia. He wigs. He'll
be fine."
Unconvinced by his clipped
explanation, Cordy sat up, propping back against the headboard. "So then,
that's Gale," she said, taking care to sound extra causal.
"That's Gale," Wesley responded
perfunctorily. Rummaging in the bag, he extracted something plaid. Upon
further excavation, he retrieved something mini-checked. Both somethings
turned out to be pyjama bottoms. Annoyed with the prospect of going topless,
he huffed and reached in for thirds, coming up paisley.
Bottoming out. Again.
Palming the stubble on his
cheeks, Wesley gave up and slung the plaid legs over his polo-shirted shoulder.
He stuffed the other pants away and pushed the duffle onto the floor.
Cordelia shimmied under her
covers. "So... Once you decide to stop going bump in the morning, you aren't
gonna snore are you, Wesley?" she joked, instantly flinching at Wesley's
obvious irritation.
"As often as I've bunked
at your apartment since Angel lost his, you don't know if I snore yet?"
was his withering retort.
"As if I listen to you."
Cordy flopped over, muttering, "and, in case you haven't noticed since
you've been doing the bunking thing, Dennis isn't a snitch."
Secure that Cordelia had
turned away for good, Wesley changed his pants. Flinging back the bedspread
untucked all the linens from under the foot of the mattress. He climbed
in, anyway. "If you're so concerned, Cordelia, you might want to consult
Angel about whether I snore. After all, he's the sleep-gawker of our ménage,
is he not?"
-0-
evancomo@netscape.net
