FIC: The Plural of Memento Mori (Giles and ensemble), PG13
Just the one entry from me today, but I'm sharing the day, so there will doubtless be more Gilesy goodies along soon!
Title The Plural of Memento Mori
Author Brutti ma buoni
Characters Giles, Jenny, Joyce, Buffy, Quentin Travers
Rating PG13
Word Count 1740
Warning Canon character deaths, therefore angst.
Giles to Jenny on Buffy, season one
“That moment, when I read the Codex... I truly believed she was dead already. That there was no way the prophecy could be avoided.”
“But she’s not dead, Rupert. You must know that, and be happy.”
“Well. Yes. But-” He didn’t want to say it. But Jenny’s huge dark eyes were waiting, ready to understand. He could talk to her. So he confessed.
“It was a rehearsal.” Jenny still didn’t speak. Tilted her head, interrogative. “I will, someday, prophecy or no prophecy, lose her. Buffy will die on my watch. Unless I die for her, which I’d gladly do. But I’m too young to die, Jenny, and the thought terrifies me. I’m too young. And she’s so much younger than I, this bright beautiful near-child, with her shoes and frivolity and shining spirit. It’s the curse of the Watchers, and I don’t think I can bear it.”
Jenny put her hand over his. Delicate consolation in her touch. “But she’s alive, Rupert. You and I are going to work to see she stays that way. And if the day comes... well, you won’t face it alone.”
Giles to Joyce on Jenny, after season two
“Are you sure you’re okay? Those bruises are nearly gone, but your fingers are still a mess. I could make some more casseroles, if you’re not coping with cooking.”
She was a very sweet woman. Practical too. A terribly American casserole-maker, though, so Giles thanked Joyce for her consideration and assured her mendaciously that his broken hands were serving him perfectly well. He wouldn’t starve; and it wasn’t as if he’d eaten any of the tuna fish smothered in broken rusks she had left last time.
It was the tenth time Joyce had visited, or thereabouts. From seeking any news of Buffy, she’d become cautiously more friendly. Perhaps it was just his injuries that softened her. He was pretty sure she was angry still about the Slayer and all that had been concealed. But just now they needed one another; perhaps to cover the yawning not-Buffy feelings they shared. They’d started safely, talked about art, music, books, then even touched on her divorce and the move to Sunnydale.
Now, Joyce put a cup of nearly-correct tea down before him, and said, very deliberately, “You were close to the teacher, weren’t you? Ms Calendar? You must miss her.”
Tea and free therapy on offer. Why not? Why not talk?
“She was so... alive.”
He snorted. Foolish thing to say. He could do better.
“Until she wasn’t. She reminded me of my younger self - always questioning, thinking of new approaches, but still absolutely steady in her belief in the power of good to triumph. She was inspiring. She was fragile. She never gave up.
“I think I could have loved her very deeply indeed. But I didn’t quite, not yet. It’s that bloody waste that makes me angry. I can mourn her, but not the way she deserved. No one could do that, because no one had time to get to that place with her.”
Joyce passed him a biscuit cookie. Silently waiting for more. He bit, chewed, swallowed, paused.
“Sometimes... You’ll think I’m crazy. But sometimes, I think there’s another world where she’s alive. Where we did go on together. Where we’re spending the summer together now, and worrying about how our relationship may impact on professional issues. Perhaps talking about moving in together, though it would be very early. But I’ve learned there’s no point in waiting and wasting time-”
He was crying, he discovered. Tried to take another bite of cookie to compensate, failed to complete the simple manoeuvre and exploded in a choking, swearing outburst. What a mess: tears, spittle, snot and soggy dough combined to bring him back to toddler-hood.
Humiliating. But Joyce quietly fetched him some water, curled up in the armchair and nodded as though he’d merely finished speaking. “Yes. I know what you mean. I’m having a great summer with Buffy right now. Her dad asked me to cover some of the time he promised to take her, and I had to close the gallery some days, which was an issue. But we’re really getting to know each other - it sounds odd, but she’s so grown up now, and we’re talking about Slaying and I’m being supportive and- But there isn’t any time for that, not any more.”
They nursed tea silently for a while, staring at the lives they didn’t have, until Joyce stood up, falsely bright. “Okay, time’s a-wasting.”
Time again. Yes. It was. And they went on living.
Giles to Buffy on Joyce, late season five
“I don’t want to talk about her.”
“Really? It might help you.”
“I’ve been talking about Mom all day. All week. Mom’s dead, Mom’s dead, Joyce has passed away, thank you for your memories of her, will you be attending the memorial? Giles, I can’t take any more.”
Giles hoped for more than that from her. “But you remember her, more than anyone else. Those memories are so precious, Buffy. Whenever someone dies, one fears the loss of their presence. Talking keeps it alive. I’d like to help you do that.”
She blinked shiny eyes, defensive. “Okay. But if it’s about doing Mom on the hood of a police car-”
He laughed, hugely relieved. It was a genuine joke. He could tell, because she was smiling, and he was blushing.
“No. I think some things should remain decently veiled from one’s offspring. Though it’s no bad thing to be reminded that mothers are people too.”
Joyce, legs spread and welcoming for him, beckoning as she reclined, then twirling her underwear to give him the final, barely needed, encouragement. That bloody feathery garment, getting in his way as his mouth sought her breast...
No. Buffy didn’t need to know it.
And he talked instead about Joyce as civilised, mature, good company; how much he admired her spirit in starting up the gallery from scratch. Her courage in coming to terms with Buffy as a Slayer. How supportive she’d been when he was unemployed the year before: introducing him to her circle, book groups and music appreciation and all. She’d tried; not her fault he was stuck in a darkness she’d never fully understood. “She was a good person, Buffy. Not in a saintly way, just a normal person doing her best with life.”
Buffy listened. It helped him. But perhaps not her.
Giles to Quentin on Buffy, very early season six
It was the silence about Buffy that drove Giles away. They tried to talk, but no one (not even Willow or Xander) seemed to remember Buffy the way he did, nor to want to hear him talk. They had been simply her friends, he her father-substitute-slash-guardian. Not an equivalent.
But on the plane home, he already knew he’d made an error. Who in England would be able to understand Buffy? His need to talk was unassuaged, unbearable. And it drove him to do the thing he’d never expected. He had never sworn he would not, simply because he’d never thought it an option. Yet, like a homing pigeon with an absurdly long memory, he went straight back to the Council.
Hello chaps, been a while, could I possibly make my final Watcher’s report? Slayer’s popped her clogs, a bit later than scheduled, no doubt you’ll want details.
But it wasn’t like that. Quentin Travers shook his hand, almost before he’d got in the door. “Rupert. We’re so glad you felt able to come.”
The Head of Council’s study, the ritual amontillado, leather armchairs by the fire - all so familiar (though since when did the Council run to fires in September? Must be getting old, Quentin).
Certainly, he looked it. Travers sipped the sherry, staring into the fire. Then said, “Tell me about her.”
“You know about her.” Steady, Rupert. He’s not the enemy.
And indeed Travers’ next words were wiser than he would have expected. “I don’t think I ever really knew her. When we visited recently, I was impressed.”
“You didn’t show it.” Hostile still, Rupert?
Quentin almost smiled. “Professional pride, dear man. We mustn’t let the Slayers know how little they need us.”
That was too much. “She needed you. You wouldn’t play ball. I’ll never forgive you for it, Quentin. Never.”
“Tush, man. We told you what we could. Frankly, we knew very little about Glory, and had no means of combating her. We wouldn’t fail to support you where we could; certainly not when the fate of the universe depended on it.”
That was unsatisfactory. Rupert needed to believe there could have been another way. He’d dreamed of it; of Buffy living.
“You could have fought with us. You could have-”
Quentin’s voice was kindly; unprecedented. “Saved her? No. We couldn’t have done that, Rupert. If saving were so simple, we would always swoop in at the last moment, save the girl and the world... in fact, we wouldn’t need the girl. A bunch of Council chaps in tights running around saving humanity. I wish we could.”
Rupert’s face must have given his sudden inner laugh away.
“Though not in the tights, naturally. I don’t have the figure for them.” Travers almost smiled in return. It had broken the moment, yet he went back to dangerous ground.
“So, please Rupert, let’s not try to rewrite Miss Summers’ last moments. You will want to remember your Slayer as she lived. We always do. So tell me about her.”
And Rupert Giles gave his last Watcher’s report and talked about Buffy. In a room with a man who, in his time and as Rupert suddenly, finally, understood, had trained and supported another young girl in her battles to save the world. Had been exasperated by her fashion sense, rolled his eyes at her wish to live more normally, feared for her on every patrol... and, in the end, buried her with honour.
It was the Watcher’s curse, the Watcher’s duty - but also the Watcher’s pride. Just for a moment, Rupert Giles felt at one with the hundreds who had preceded him in that role.
Well done, Buffy Summers. A good life’s work indeed.
This would be the last of his losses. Retired middle age was beckoning. He was done.
***
Title The Plural of Memento Mori
Author Brutti ma buoni
Characters Giles, Jenny, Joyce, Buffy, Quentin Travers
Rating PG13
Word Count 1740
Warning Canon character deaths, therefore angst.
Giles to Jenny on Buffy, season one
“That moment, when I read the Codex... I truly believed she was dead already. That there was no way the prophecy could be avoided.”
“But she’s not dead, Rupert. You must know that, and be happy.”
“Well. Yes. But-” He didn’t want to say it. But Jenny’s huge dark eyes were waiting, ready to understand. He could talk to her. So he confessed.
“It was a rehearsal.” Jenny still didn’t speak. Tilted her head, interrogative. “I will, someday, prophecy or no prophecy, lose her. Buffy will die on my watch. Unless I die for her, which I’d gladly do. But I’m too young to die, Jenny, and the thought terrifies me. I’m too young. And she’s so much younger than I, this bright beautiful near-child, with her shoes and frivolity and shining spirit. It’s the curse of the Watchers, and I don’t think I can bear it.”
Jenny put her hand over his. Delicate consolation in her touch. “But she’s alive, Rupert. You and I are going to work to see she stays that way. And if the day comes... well, you won’t face it alone.”
Giles to Joyce on Jenny, after season two
“Are you sure you’re okay? Those bruises are nearly gone, but your fingers are still a mess. I could make some more casseroles, if you’re not coping with cooking.”
She was a very sweet woman. Practical too. A terribly American casserole-maker, though, so Giles thanked Joyce for her consideration and assured her mendaciously that his broken hands were serving him perfectly well. He wouldn’t starve; and it wasn’t as if he’d eaten any of the tuna fish smothered in broken rusks she had left last time.
It was the tenth time Joyce had visited, or thereabouts. From seeking any news of Buffy, she’d become cautiously more friendly. Perhaps it was just his injuries that softened her. He was pretty sure she was angry still about the Slayer and all that had been concealed. But just now they needed one another; perhaps to cover the yawning not-Buffy feelings they shared. They’d started safely, talked about art, music, books, then even touched on her divorce and the move to Sunnydale.
Now, Joyce put a cup of nearly-correct tea down before him, and said, very deliberately, “You were close to the teacher, weren’t you? Ms Calendar? You must miss her.”
Tea and free therapy on offer. Why not? Why not talk?
“She was so... alive.”
He snorted. Foolish thing to say. He could do better.
“Until she wasn’t. She reminded me of my younger self - always questioning, thinking of new approaches, but still absolutely steady in her belief in the power of good to triumph. She was inspiring. She was fragile. She never gave up.
“I think I could have loved her very deeply indeed. But I didn’t quite, not yet. It’s that bloody waste that makes me angry. I can mourn her, but not the way she deserved. No one could do that, because no one had time to get to that place with her.”
Joyce passed him a biscuit cookie. Silently waiting for more. He bit, chewed, swallowed, paused.
“Sometimes... You’ll think I’m crazy. But sometimes, I think there’s another world where she’s alive. Where we did go on together. Where we’re spending the summer together now, and worrying about how our relationship may impact on professional issues. Perhaps talking about moving in together, though it would be very early. But I’ve learned there’s no point in waiting and wasting time-”
He was crying, he discovered. Tried to take another bite of cookie to compensate, failed to complete the simple manoeuvre and exploded in a choking, swearing outburst. What a mess: tears, spittle, snot and soggy dough combined to bring him back to toddler-hood.
Humiliating. But Joyce quietly fetched him some water, curled up in the armchair and nodded as though he’d merely finished speaking. “Yes. I know what you mean. I’m having a great summer with Buffy right now. Her dad asked me to cover some of the time he promised to take her, and I had to close the gallery some days, which was an issue. But we’re really getting to know each other - it sounds odd, but she’s so grown up now, and we’re talking about Slaying and I’m being supportive and- But there isn’t any time for that, not any more.”
They nursed tea silently for a while, staring at the lives they didn’t have, until Joyce stood up, falsely bright. “Okay, time’s a-wasting.”
Time again. Yes. It was. And they went on living.
Giles to Buffy on Joyce, late season five
“I don’t want to talk about her.”
“Really? It might help you.”
“I’ve been talking about Mom all day. All week. Mom’s dead, Mom’s dead, Joyce has passed away, thank you for your memories of her, will you be attending the memorial? Giles, I can’t take any more.”
Giles hoped for more than that from her. “But you remember her, more than anyone else. Those memories are so precious, Buffy. Whenever someone dies, one fears the loss of their presence. Talking keeps it alive. I’d like to help you do that.”
She blinked shiny eyes, defensive. “Okay. But if it’s about doing Mom on the hood of a police car-”
He laughed, hugely relieved. It was a genuine joke. He could tell, because she was smiling, and he was blushing.
“No. I think some things should remain decently veiled from one’s offspring. Though it’s no bad thing to be reminded that mothers are people too.”
Joyce, legs spread and welcoming for him, beckoning as she reclined, then twirling her underwear to give him the final, barely needed, encouragement. That bloody feathery garment, getting in his way as his mouth sought her breast...
No. Buffy didn’t need to know it.
And he talked instead about Joyce as civilised, mature, good company; how much he admired her spirit in starting up the gallery from scratch. Her courage in coming to terms with Buffy as a Slayer. How supportive she’d been when he was unemployed the year before: introducing him to her circle, book groups and music appreciation and all. She’d tried; not her fault he was stuck in a darkness she’d never fully understood. “She was a good person, Buffy. Not in a saintly way, just a normal person doing her best with life.”
Buffy listened. It helped him. But perhaps not her.
Giles to Quentin on Buffy, very early season six
It was the silence about Buffy that drove Giles away. They tried to talk, but no one (not even Willow or Xander) seemed to remember Buffy the way he did, nor to want to hear him talk. They had been simply her friends, he her father-substitute-slash-guardian. Not an equivalent.
But on the plane home, he already knew he’d made an error. Who in England would be able to understand Buffy? His need to talk was unassuaged, unbearable. And it drove him to do the thing he’d never expected. He had never sworn he would not, simply because he’d never thought it an option. Yet, like a homing pigeon with an absurdly long memory, he went straight back to the Council.
Hello chaps, been a while, could I possibly make my final Watcher’s report? Slayer’s popped her clogs, a bit later than scheduled, no doubt you’ll want details.
But it wasn’t like that. Quentin Travers shook his hand, almost before he’d got in the door. “Rupert. We’re so glad you felt able to come.”
The Head of Council’s study, the ritual amontillado, leather armchairs by the fire - all so familiar (though since when did the Council run to fires in September? Must be getting old, Quentin).
Certainly, he looked it. Travers sipped the sherry, staring into the fire. Then said, “Tell me about her.”
“You know about her.” Steady, Rupert. He’s not the enemy.
And indeed Travers’ next words were wiser than he would have expected. “I don’t think I ever really knew her. When we visited recently, I was impressed.”
“You didn’t show it.” Hostile still, Rupert?
Quentin almost smiled. “Professional pride, dear man. We mustn’t let the Slayers know how little they need us.”
That was too much. “She needed you. You wouldn’t play ball. I’ll never forgive you for it, Quentin. Never.”
“Tush, man. We told you what we could. Frankly, we knew very little about Glory, and had no means of combating her. We wouldn’t fail to support you where we could; certainly not when the fate of the universe depended on it.”
That was unsatisfactory. Rupert needed to believe there could have been another way. He’d dreamed of it; of Buffy living.
“You could have fought with us. You could have-”
Quentin’s voice was kindly; unprecedented. “Saved her? No. We couldn’t have done that, Rupert. If saving were so simple, we would always swoop in at the last moment, save the girl and the world... in fact, we wouldn’t need the girl. A bunch of Council chaps in tights running around saving humanity. I wish we could.”
Rupert’s face must have given his sudden inner laugh away.
“Though not in the tights, naturally. I don’t have the figure for them.” Travers almost smiled in return. It had broken the moment, yet he went back to dangerous ground.
“So, please Rupert, let’s not try to rewrite Miss Summers’ last moments. You will want to remember your Slayer as she lived. We always do. So tell me about her.”
And Rupert Giles gave his last Watcher’s report and talked about Buffy. In a room with a man who, in his time and as Rupert suddenly, finally, understood, had trained and supported another young girl in her battles to save the world. Had been exasperated by her fashion sense, rolled his eyes at her wish to live more normally, feared for her on every patrol... and, in the end, buried her with honour.
It was the Watcher’s curse, the Watcher’s duty - but also the Watcher’s pride. Just for a moment, Rupert Giles felt at one with the hundreds who had preceded him in that role.
Well done, Buffy Summers. A good life’s work indeed.
This would be the last of his losses. Retired middle age was beckoning. He was done.
***