The Wrong Fic, Part I
Some people are waiting for a great stonking Giles/Anya story . . . it's going to happen. But this is not that story.
This is, instead, a piece of close-to-canon, indulgent, h/c messing about that has been unfinished on my hard drive for ages. A few weeks back, the inimitable headrush100 was asking for Giles h/c, and I thought -- hey, that old thing might do. So this is for her. It might have been a finer gift if I hadn't made her beta 'n' britpic, but, what are Friends for? (Thanks tons, A.)
ljs? I think this is safe for you, I think. It's a post-"Gift" Pain-a-thon (and thus has spoilers up to the end of Season 5), with a glimmer of hope toward the end. Or, in other words, Giles is broken, and receives help from unexpected parties.
The title comes from Edna St. Vincent Millay's "Dirge Without Music", which follows part II. Finally, some people would be a bit intimidated at posting a post-"Gift" story so soon after penwiper26 posted the third part of her perfectly luminous (and AU) trilogy on that same period. Ha! I laugh in the face of danger. Then danger laughs at me. Then with all the laughing, we forget why we were fighting, and I invite danger over for drinks, and . . . you know what? None of your business.
The Indiscriminate Dust
Day 1
For the first time in days, Giles knows with virtual certainty that he will wake in the morning in a world that is not poised on the brink of doom. There is a fair amount of irony in this situation, as his own private world has, for all intents and purposes, ended today. There is, therefore, cold comfort to be found in the fact that the hospital will still be standing in the morning. He should be listening to Willow’s disquisition on the State of Things, but all he can do is lie back and marvel at her composure. Of course, while it’s been an awful day for all of them, the centre of Willow’s universe was actually restored today, and so perhaps he can forgive himself for handing the reins off to her, whilst he takes a bit of a mental vacation. Willow has much to be thankful for; Giles has not been so lucky.
He feels churlish, resenting Tara’s return; he knows in fact that Willow is as shattered as anyone. No doubt Willow’s control is a façade, but he tries not to deny her that small comfort, does not ask difficult questions, or beg her to leave him alone. Her report to him is crisp and efficient: Tara and Dawn are being treated and will shortly be released - this is a blessing, he reminds himself -- that Tara should emerge from the nightmare whole, and that they still have Dawn. Without the child to look after, they might all immediately surrender to despair, even as the rest of the town rejoices in their near avoidance of - the disaster. The thing that nearly happened. The earthquake, or possibly tornado, or other strange weather-related phenomenon that stands in for what their sad company knows it really was. The world has been saved, again; if Rupert Giles takes little satisfaction from that fact, no doubt the failing is his alone.
Willow has, he realizes, been repeating herself for the past minute or so, and trying to get his attention. He manages to focus back on her wan face, her enormous eyes and firm set, sad mouth. Yes, Willow, yes. Anya will stay here tonight, as will Giles himself. Anya has a concussion, Giles has torn his stitches and the wound is on its way to a serious infection, complicated by his exhaustion and dehydration. He would not care, would check himself out, but he has nowhere to go and no particular thing to do. Everything he needed to do - everything that needed doing, is done now. So he nods as Willow explains that she and Xander will shepherd Tara and Dawn home, and watch them tonight, and try to hold Dawn together. And of course, they’ll be back tomorrow to talk the doctors into releasing Giles into their care, and they can all be together in their grief. He nods. He has nowhere else to go.
Day 2
Hospitals wake early, and Giles is a light sleeper. He is torn between removing the I.V. from his arm and calling a cab, and convincing the staff that he is in tremendous pain and requires a morphine pump. He is relatively certain that if he could not plant the proper suggestion in a doctor’s mind, he could certainly fling himself out of bed in such a way as to tear his stitches again, and possibly inflict a grievous head injury as well. In any case, he cannot face the somber, ponderous faces of the children, and neither can he make the call to London that certain people would certainly expect that he, as a matter of courtesy, not to mention duty, should make.
A nurse - Sylvia? enters to take his temperature and blood pressure, as they will every two hours while he is here. She asks how he’s feeling, and he responds with vague monosyllables. She checks his sutures, and replaces his I.V. bag with a fresh one. She tells him she is going off shift, that Danny will be coming on momentarily, that he should use the call button if he has any discomfort. She hands him a plastic tumbler of water and a smaller paper cup containing two large pills - a painkiller, and an antibiotic. When he’s swallowed it all down, she pats his shoulder and leaves the room. He is sorry she is leaving; he has appreciated her night-shift quiet, her reticence.
He drags himself out of bed and wheels his I.V. stand to the little W.C. His stocking feet are less than sure on the slippery tile, and the effect is enhanced by the more than slightly detached sensation he has - no doubt, a side-effect of the painkillers; he does not mind it as much as he should.
The hospital gown makes urination a surprising challenge, but he perseveres until the job is done. He washes his hands carefully, trying not to jar the I.V. port - having a long, sharp needle just under the skin of his arm makes him uneasy, but in a distant way. The painkillers again, he assumes.
By the time he returns to the bed, the pocket of warmth his sleeping body had created seems to have dissipated, but he finds himself suddenly entirely too heavy to contemplate the project of procuring a second blanket. There’s no point, as someone will no doubt appear shortly to interrupt his rest again. He falls asleep thinking about a chilly English rain.
***
They are here. They’ve come to retrieve Anya, who apparently has made it through a night of observation and is ready to go home. They’ve come to see him, to reassure themselves that some part of their world is solidly in place.
He ought to feel terrible for disappointing them, but he doesn’t. Perhaps they will attribute is unresponsiveness to his weakness, his illness. Perhaps they will see the truth that he’s hidden all along. Either way, they will leave him alone, and that is his real desire. Dawn clings to Tara near the door of the room; she has not stopped weeping since entering, when she leant over and captured him with a very tentative hug. His response had been limited to a gentle stroke of her head, and she offered a trembling smile that dissolved into active weeping, then retreated to Tara’s embrace.
Predictably, Willow is offering data: there is no further sign of mystical disturbance in Sunnydale, even near the mad god’s tower, where the dimensional portal had opened. There is no sign of Doc, although Spike has vowed to find and destroy him. Spike himself is recuperating slowly in his crypt. Giles has nothing to say about any of it; when Willow reports that there is no sign of Glory, that Buffy must have somehow destroyed her, or returned her to her own dimension, he does have something to say, but instead he simply turns his head away from Willow, and her narrative sputters to a close.
A small hand touches his, and for a moment he can almost believe it is Buffy’s, but he has not forgotten that much. No, it is Anya, who sits in the wheelchair the hospital has provided for her trip to its exit. She has a look he recognizes from seeing it on his own face so often - the post-concussive squint. She is more subdued than normal, but perks up enough to tell him a lengthy and convoluted joke about Lenin and Trotsky. He does not listen, but smiles when she looks up at him, expectantly, and squeezes her hand. Behind her, leaning heavily on the handles of her wheelchair, Xander looks as if his best friend has just died.
Day 3
The children will take him home today. Their visit yesterday was stilted enough, what will it be like today? He has agreed to leave the hospital, but not to stay at the Summers house. He cannot quite bring himself to be there. They have pledged to see to his needs, and “be there for him”, but he can think of nothing more odious. He wants to be strong for them, on the one hand, but he cannot be bothered, on the other. His dutiful self seems only to be phoning in, long distance, on a staticky line; it is entirely inefficacious.
He had been cleared to leave, finally, after his doctor had come to deliver undesired medical advice. Rest, food, plenty of fluids. More rest, and a course of powerful antibiotics. Would someone be able to take care of him? He assured the doctor that someone would. The doctor had informed him that his person was in poor shape - exhaustion and infection had sapped his resources, and, just between the grown-ups, there were clear signs of malnutrition and a rather alarming depression. The doctor would have liked to prescribe something for the last, but Giles convinced him that this would be a waste of paper. The doctor encouraged him to consult a therapist, but Giles assured him that this would be a waste of breath. He had insisted that time at home, surrounded by family, would be his cure.
Either he had made a convincing case, or the doctor had been more concerned to discharge his formal duty than to treat his patient. He tells Giles that he can prepare to leave, and goes off to set the discharge in motion. The children arrive shortly thereafter; Tara and Dawn have remained at home this time, and in some small and far away corner of his mind he concludes Dawn wants to avoid him and his unresponsiveness, and he knows he should feel badly about it.
Willow, Xander, and Anya fidget quietly, and he is surprisingly sanguine about their discomfort. And the silence drags on; until someone comes with his instructions and medications, they are all trapped in the room. It occurs to Xander that they have brought him some clothing for the trip home, and he shoos the women out so that he can help Giles dress. They do not make eye contact, and the only words Xander speaks are to coordinate their efforts.
During their absence, Anya and Willow seem to have chosen some discussion topics; Willow gives a halting report on their hiding of the body, and location of a burial place. Xander will build a casket, and Willow and Tara will ward the earth. Anya steps in to urge Giles to say meaningful words; she herself will choose appropriate flowers for the grave, and Buffy’s burial dress. At the mention of her name, Xander and Willow stiffen, and Anya looks mortified, opening her mouth to apologize. Giles simply squeezes her hand, and the moment passes.
When the nurse finally arrives with discharge instructions, Giles finds himself with two paper envelopes and two prescriptions - painkillers and antibiotics, and a directive to return in ten days (barring any complications) for removal of the external sutures. Anya and Xander gather his things and wheel him to the door, and Willow trails behind. Anya speaks quietly about how Tara and Willow had found spells to preserve “the body” until it could be properly buried. By the time he is being bundled into the Summers’ jeep and buckled in (by Willow, of course), their conversation - soft, slow, stilted -- has moved to the beauty of the coffin Xander is building.
As he expects, they pull up first in front of 1630 Revello Drive. Tara and Dawn come down the front steps, and Dawn appears to be completely wrung out. She manages a small smile for him, and he takes her hand through the car window. She would like him to stay, he knows she would, but he has nothing for her now. Nothing that she needs. In her little-girl worldview, the presence of adults is soothing, reassuring. She thinks if he were there, he would be a comfort to her, and make her safe. He would rather disappoint her with his absence than fail her by revealing the empty husk he knows himself to be.
He sits still and silent after kissing her hand, gently, and stroking her hair. She finally gives him one last kiss on the cheek and then flees into the house. Eyes forward, Giles simply waits until Xander returns to the driver’s seat to take him home. The others, excepting Anya, file into the house as Xander starts the ignition and puts the car in gear. Anya alone remains on the pavement, waving, as they pull away.
Day 4
He hasn’t played in so long that the guitar is morosely out of tune and the strings, instead of ringing clear and bright, emit dampened, blunted notes. The instrument allows itself to be tuned, but only perilously, and grudgingly, and in nothing like a satisfactory tone. For a moment, Giles considers dragging himself down to McCabe’s - he could pick up some new strings, see who is playing this month, even take down the old Martin he’s had his eye on for a year now and see if it still sounds as sweet - but he is likely to run into someone he knows. Almost certainly, Bill or Brian will be behind the counter this time of day, and will want to know where he’s been, and why he looks so ragged. Since he hasn’t actually moved beyond the well-worn track between sofa, kitchen, and bathroom, and McCabe’s is approximately 90 miles away, in Santa Monica, the entire idea is absurd, but it diverts him somewhat as he casts about for melodies that won’t strain the poor instrument’s present condition.
Every sad song that comes to mind seems trivial, and the livelier ones strike him as absolutely profane. He decides that he simply isn’t up to the neat order of an actual tune, so he settles for some noodling around in somber minor keys, and loses himself for long minutes with likely bass lines. Music, at least the music that had always tugged at him, is full of pain, and even the futility of life - but also of the refusal to concede, ultimately, to that futility. Thus, it isn’t something he can really face, at the moment.
The scotch, in contrast, warms his deepest self, and loosens his throat, his vocal cords. It very nearly mellows the hoarse, tear-drenched tones lying beneath his humming, mumbled vocals. For just a moment, he feels that life might have a richness; he can sense the deep, sweet meaning that has long been hidden behind the frenzied sense of desperation in these last few years of honor, of duty - then, without warning, his mind re-plays Buffy’s last seconds, her fall from the tower. His breath is torn from him, and he straightens so suddenly he feels the wound below his ribcage pull, a sharp, tearing sensation. His right hand slaps, flat, over the strings. He left reaches out for the scotch. He knocks back the last finger of his drink, then lays the guitar on the couch beside him, and watches a patch of light move across the floor in front of the fireplace. The room fades into shadows as the sun sets. The bottle empties steadily and he eventually falls into sleep, slouched next to his guitar and dreaming of towers and of the glory days of his youth. For every brilliant song, someone gets chosen to make the leap. For the next several hours, he wakes repeatedly, just before he hits the ground.
Day 5
Finally, there is daylight, and a moment of profound disorientation; he realizes he’s never had this view of his flat, at this time of day, before. It must be quite early, and he needs the toilet badly, but his hangover is ferocious. He levers himself slowly to his feet, and stumbles in the sharply angled light down the hall, steadying himself all the way with his right hand on the wall. His left hand is needed, alternately, to keep his head from wobbling off his neck and to keep the bottom of his rib cage from jostling his sutures. He’s had more auspicious beginnings of days, he thinks.
He drinks at least a pint of water, right from the tap, and then steps gingerly into the shower, realizing too late he’s forgotten to piss first. He tries to remember the last time he pissed in the shower: 1973, perhaps - or , no, ’77, more like. Bloody Ethan: pot, absinthe, and magic were never meant to be co-mingled. Not in any universe in which one had to wake up afterwards, and move about upright. The memories don’t charm at all; they make him feel old, dissipated.
His message machine is blinking frantically when he emerges, and he dimly remembers the phone ringing repeatedly yesterday afternoon and evening. He puts the kettle on and considers whether today will be the day he begins to face the world, then realizes he needn’t decide yet. He can disregard the messages just as well after listening to them, so he presses the ‘play’ button.
Willow, of course, solicitous as usual - but is that a hint of irritation as well? Good for her then. Let her be angry with him. He’s happy to be of service. She’s off for Los Angeles - he is to call Dawn and check on her, though Tara will be staying with the girl tonight, and Willow will return tomorrow. Well . . . best not to act precipitously. He’ll give that one some consideration. He feels for Dawn, of course, but cannot face the thought, just now, of having to respond to her grief.
Next message is Travers; seers employed by the Council have reported that Glory was stopped, and the portal closed. Obviously, since the world still spun around, and all the good little Watchers still had a library to report to. Council would like a report, of course - how did they manage it? And congratulations - understated, but no doubt genuine. Sod them. If he never speaks to Travers again . . . he’s almost overcome with rage, thinking about the gameplaying, the brinksmanship of their last encounter. The ordeal they’d put Buffy through before she realized what they were doing, and his own uselessness, his humiliation. His eyes are burning and he’s wiping tears from his face before he even realizes he’s weeping.
Suddenly it seems the kettle is shrieking without any warning and he’s missed the next several messages. He simply erases the entire tape without a thought, stomping down his momentary regret as soon as it rises, and goes to see about his tea. If it’s important, they’ll call back.
***
He’s choked down half a slice of dry toast when his door bursts open and a smoking, blanket-draped figure cannons into the room. Giles waits until Spike kicks the door shut behind him before he chucks the remainder of his breakfast into the bin and pours himself the dregs of the teapot. He simply stands in the kitchen, glaring at the intruder through the pass-through. He watches as Spike wrestles himself out of the blanket and discards it, then stands for a moment, trying to locate his “host”. In a heartbeat, the vampire wheels about and pins him with a glare, and Giles can see that he’s not fully healed from his fall from the tower. His movement is uncharacteristically awkward, and his face is still bruised where it isn’t even paler than normal.
“Right, there you are. You had the Bit convinced you were dead and decaying away in here, with no one to say last rites. What gives, Rupert? Whyn’t you call her?”
Giles sets his teacup on the counter with great precision, then folds his arms, wincing slightly.
“And why should she be so concerned? She saw me leave hospital, hale and hearty, not two days ago. What are you on about?” He keeps his tone mild, but there’s steel beneath. He wants to clear up whatever this is and get the man gone.
“Me? You’re the one’s gone incommunicado. She called you twice yesterday, and you haven’t called back, and the ponce said he hadn’t heard from you either.”
He dodges the legitimate issue, hoping for firmer footing beyond.
“Ponce? Which ponce would that be?”
“You know, Wesley What’s-his-face; called you yesterday on his way out of town? Condolences, et cetera?” Spike’s usual tone of derision is blunted a bit by his obvious fatigue; even Giles could see that the brat persona is thinly laid over a shattered soul - he just can’t bring himself to particularly care.
“Yes, well, I must have missed the message. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got rather a lot of work to do -“
“Work? What’s more important than - You can’t honestly mean that you’re not going to . . . to go?” He’s never seen Spike have such difficulty settling on a tone. At present, he totters between outrage and disappointment, with a hint of bewildered emptiness.
“Just where am I meant to go, Spike?”
Judging from his deep (if unnecessary) inhalation and the blazing fire in his undead eyes, the vampire has settled on righteous indignation, but his outburst is mercifully forestalled by a banging on the front door. They simultaneously recognize Xander’s worried shout -
“Giles? Giles!”
Giles is halfway to the front door, casting an irritated glare at Spike, when the door opens again, and Xander himself stumbles in.
“Oh, God, Giles! Thank God. Where the hell have you been? We’ve been worried.”
“Worried? Has everyone got so little to be concerned about that I’m the sudden center of unwanted attention? I’m fine, I’m busy, and I’d like to be left alone! Now, if you’d all please -“
His demand is swallowed under Anya’s razor-sharp shout: “There you are! But Giles, that’s not appropriate attire for a funeral, is it? Or is it because you were wounded? Xander, you would have told me if I could wear a bathrobe, wouldn’t you? Not that I would, but, having the option is always nice.”
The three men are frozen in a tableau - two of horror, one of confusion - while Anya wrings her hands and casts nervous glances back and forth between Xander and Giles.
Finally, her words melt Giles’s stunned outrage, and his overwhelming desire to climb back into bed recedes, slightly.
“Funeral? No, surely it's not . . . ”
Xander and Anya maintain attitudes of silent confusion, but Spike is suddenly set free by Giles’s quiet imprecation.
“What I’ve been trying to tell you, yeah? Everyone’s coming, gotta be done tonight - where have you been?”
Giles looks from one pair of wide-open deep brown eyes to the other, trying to avoid Spike’s knowing blue ones. Feeling suddenly as if the world has tilted on its axis, he tugs the edges of his bathrobe tighter over his chest, trying to disappear into its folds, and bows his head. He puts one hand over his eyes, and takes a deep breath.
"Wait here, please. I’ll be right down.”
He’s not up to putting on a suit; he’s not even had on a pair of proper trousers since leaving the hospital, but he isn’t about to wear pajamas or sweatpants to . . . this. He sits for a moment on the edge of the bed, and realizes he’s just climbed the stairs, zombie-like, for the first time since coming home from the hospital. A day of firsts, he thinks, but tightly clamps a lid on it. A soft pair of corduroys, a dark jumper over a dark T-shirt. A wool coat. He has no idea what the weather is, but cannot imagine even getting warm, let alone overheating, no matter what he wears.
As he comes slowly down the stairs, Xander and Anya are, he sees, still frozen in place, more or less like statues - if you discount the way Anya’s fingers drum in place on her upper arms as she hugs herself tightly. Spike has drifted toward the couch and is gently stroking a tuning peg on his guitar. He gathers them up with a look.
“Right, then, let’s go.”
Day 6
He is startled awake at just after 8 a.m. In the moment of dread that follows, he has just enough time to remember the cosmic wrongness of a world without Buffy, and the more local wrongness of the excruciating ritual of the day before; then an insistent rapping on his front door below informs him of what had awakened him to begin with. He cannot not have slept for more than two hours, and since he doesn’t feel hungover - quite - he concludes that he must still be soused.
His conclusion is confirmed by the sense he has that his bedroom floor is tilted at a 45-degree angle. He somehow cloaks himself in his bathrobe and makes his way down stairs, one hand on the back of his neck, and the other desperately clutching the railing. Again, an insistent knocking issues from the front door.
He knows who it is. Who else can be imperious from the other side of a door?
“Fuck’s sake, Anya, just a minute!” He is careful to enunciate clearly; his dignity needs no further injury from him.
He stops before the door and steadies himself, or tries, with a deep breath. He knows they are only trying to be solicitous; Anya in particular is suffering not only bereavement but deep confusion, and anxiety about how those around her - particularly Xander - are dealing with Buffy’s . . . death. It just feels so - invasive. He knows that, sometime in the future, he will feel a deep shame over his shortness with the woman. Only his own self-involvement explains his deep irritation with her apparent lack of delicacy. As usual, somehow the former demon manages perfectly to feel sad, anxious, lost, and all of the other feelings that a close friend’s death should inspire; the rest of them, though, would like to maintain some sense of distance from the tragedy, and Anya’s authentic confusion only highlights their own abandonment and failure to come to terms.
He tries to capture the contrition he knows he should feel about snapping at her through the door. He pulls it open, blinded by the morning light.
“Anya, I’m sorry. It’s just a bit . . .”
Before he can explain just what it might be, it’s clear to him that his early visitor isn’t Anya. It is, rather, a tallish, solidly built young woman in a dark suit.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Giles. I have a message for you from . . .”
“Oh, good lord, just what I need.”
He stands aside to let the woman in. She proceeds to stand there, flatfooted and dumbstruck.
“Well?” He no longer bothers to stifle his irritation.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Giles. Don’t you want the countersign, or to ensure that -“
“You’re quite obviously from the bloody Council. And of course, despite the full sunlight in the garden, it’s against my interests to actually invite you in. You can thrill me with your secret handshake later.”
She opens her mouth to respond, then closes it, and steps inside, and he pushes the door shut.
“Cup of tea?” he asks, moving toward his small kitchen with what he hopes is studied nonchalance.
Again, she appears to have stepped out at the wrong tube stop.
“Er, no, thank you, sir. I’m meant to give you this document, and to wait for a reply.”
As she speaks, she reaches into the carrier bag at her side, and removes a heavy pasteboard envelope, sealed with wax and carrying no address or other identifying markings. Since he doesn’t emerge from the small kitchen, she hands the packet to him through the pass-through. It’s quite clear she is not receiving the greeting she expected, although she’s studied enough not to reveal exactly in what way she is surprised by his performance.
He pulls a table knife from the sink, smearing the pasteboard with water and who-knew-what-else, and asks her name.
“Banks, sir. Susan Banks.”
“Thank you, Banks.”
He is coming to himself, realizing he has no call to mistreat the Council’s couriers, even if they do seem grossly unprepared even for simply delivery “missions”. His good will saps away as he reads the words printed neatly on the single sheet of paper.
WE ASSUME CONGRATULATIONS ARE IN ORDER, AS THE DIMENSIONAL RIFT WAS CLOSED WITH NO LASTING EFFECTS. PLEASE COMMUNICATE OUR SATISFACTION TO THE SLAYER, FOR A JOB WELL DONE. YOU WILL, OF COURSE, REPORT TO US DIRECTLY FOR DEBRIEFING. WHEN CAN WE EXPECT YOU?
Motherfuckingbloodypigslop Travers! They must have got the signs by now, heard from the seers. They know bloody well Buffy's died. Another must have been called. One girl in all the . . . no. Perhaps not. Faith. Damnit. He doesn't know what they know. Well, in any case, they won’t ever, ever, know what he knows.
The kettle is beginning to signal its readiness. He turns off the flame, and sets the loathsome sheet of paper on the counter. He tightens the belt on his bathrobe, wondering if he is doomed to have difficult confrontations in inappropriate dress every morning for the rest of his life, and moves with sober conviction to the front door.
He opens it, and, turning to face Banks, crosses his arms tightly before him.
“You may tell Travers to expect me when pigs fly. Good day, Banks.”
For at least the third time that morning, Susan Banks opens her mouth to say something to him, then thinks better of it. She hitches her carrier bag more securely over her shoulder, nods once, and exits the flat.
He shuts and locks the front door, collects his bottle of Laphroaig, and trudges back upstairs to his bed.
***
The funeral had been ghastly; Wesley and Cordelia had come to pay their respects, while Angel, apparently, had fled the country - or perhaps the dimension. Giles did not know or care. They had held the quiet ceremony just after dusk; Spike had stood by in stoic silence except when needed to actually lower the - the casket into the ground. Xander, who’d been strongest of all of them up til now, had apparently been done in by the playing out of the previously hypothetical interment of his friend’s remains in the beautiful wooden box that he built for the purpose. Anya, Willow, Tara, and Dawn had surrounded him in a jumbled embrace; after they stepped back, he went to pieces all over again when Cordelia came near to hug him goodbye.
Giles himself had secluded himself toward the back of the little group, closer to Wesley than to any of the younger folk. He’d been unable to say anything, despite Anya’s urging; he knew it would be appropriate, and understood why they all looked to him to bring meaning to Buffy’s sacrifice, but he was hollowed out, completely empty. For a moment, he’d worried that Wesley would feel compelled to step into the breach, but the younger ex-Watcher seemed to have mellowed with his time with Angel, and merely stood respectfully, head bowed, and in the silence intoned, “She was the best of slayers. The best of champions. She was a true friend, and she was loved.”
When the gathering began moving, almost as one, toward the house on Revello, Giles had taken himself away as unobtrusively as possible in a different direction, and faded into the darkness.
***
Just recalling the previous day is exhausting; he seems to be coming up each day with less, rather than more, energy with which to face the world and his place in it. He falls asleep thinking about the sea, and dreams of storms, and shipwrecks, and white gulls in the sky.
Day 7
He wakes. He’s so tangled in the bedclothes he can hardly move, and his right arm is trapped beneath him between the mattress and his ribcage, provoking extraordinary pain from his still-healing wound. He manages to lever himself up enough to flop over onto his back, and gasps as his breath, though still painful, now flows in, unrestricted. The second his lungs expand, his chest begins to constrict, and he is rocked by great, croaking sobs. He wants to return to the dream, to where Buffy has become a large white seabird and flown beyond the storm, into the blue. He wants to follow her through that rent in the sky, needs to tell her everything he didn’t say, to apologize, and make amends. He needs to go back and do whatever has to be done to save her. He needs to take her place. To go into the dark, and the silence, and let the warm earth cover him.
***
He would have said he’d known headaches before; between the drink and the sobbing he imagines his brain has actually shriveled up like a salted plum. His mouth testifies that salted plum may well be the only thing inside of his skull. The Laphroaig bottle stands nearly empty on his bedside table, but he can hardly look at it. He knows the only thing to do is drink water and take pills, perhaps with dry toast. He’s not sure he can bring himself to leave the bed, however.
For the moment he is so dazed with sleep and dehydration that he can review the events without grief. He should have written it all down, by now; first, the battle with Glory, then the funeral, how things went. It might have forestalled the dreams, which leave him feeling even more regretful. He cannot quite contemplate recording his own actions, and the fact that but for Buffy’s plan to save his life, Glory wouldn’t have taken Dawn, and Buffy might still be alive. Cannot imagine how he will explain that he failed to kill Dawn himself, when things looked so bleak. How future generations of Watchers will judge his failures, he can only begin to imagine, and for the first time he is actively glad that he will have no children or grandchildren. At least he will not leave descendants who will have to live down his failures.
He’d rather not have to explain them at all. But he owes it to her, he knows he does. If he does not write it, no one will; if he does not include his own cowardice, he denies the full measure of her heroism. This is one last thing he can do.
He cannot face the diary yet, but he can begin to draft out an account in the notebook he keeps by the bed for the recording of late night brainstorms. Before he finishes the first sentence, he is sobbing too hard to hold the pen steady. He drops the notebook and pen on the floor and spends the day under the covers, watching Buffy fall through the portal again and again.
Don't worry -- part II follows in next post!
This is, instead, a piece of close-to-canon, indulgent, h/c messing about that has been unfinished on my hard drive for ages. A few weeks back, the inimitable headrush100 was asking for Giles h/c, and I thought -- hey, that old thing might do. So this is for her. It might have been a finer gift if I hadn't made her beta 'n' britpic, but, what are Friends for? (Thanks tons, A.)
ljs? I think this is safe for you, I think. It's a post-"Gift" Pain-a-thon (and thus has spoilers up to the end of Season 5), with a glimmer of hope toward the end. Or, in other words, Giles is broken, and receives help from unexpected parties.
The title comes from Edna St. Vincent Millay's "Dirge Without Music", which follows part II. Finally, some people would be a bit intimidated at posting a post-"Gift" story so soon after penwiper26 posted the third part of her perfectly luminous (and AU) trilogy on that same period. Ha! I laugh in the face of danger. Then danger laughs at me. Then with all the laughing, we forget why we were fighting, and I invite danger over for drinks, and . . . you know what? None of your business.
The Indiscriminate Dust
Day 1
For the first time in days, Giles knows with virtual certainty that he will wake in the morning in a world that is not poised on the brink of doom. There is a fair amount of irony in this situation, as his own private world has, for all intents and purposes, ended today. There is, therefore, cold comfort to be found in the fact that the hospital will still be standing in the morning. He should be listening to Willow’s disquisition on the State of Things, but all he can do is lie back and marvel at her composure. Of course, while it’s been an awful day for all of them, the centre of Willow’s universe was actually restored today, and so perhaps he can forgive himself for handing the reins off to her, whilst he takes a bit of a mental vacation. Willow has much to be thankful for; Giles has not been so lucky.
He feels churlish, resenting Tara’s return; he knows in fact that Willow is as shattered as anyone. No doubt Willow’s control is a façade, but he tries not to deny her that small comfort, does not ask difficult questions, or beg her to leave him alone. Her report to him is crisp and efficient: Tara and Dawn are being treated and will shortly be released - this is a blessing, he reminds himself -- that Tara should emerge from the nightmare whole, and that they still have Dawn. Without the child to look after, they might all immediately surrender to despair, even as the rest of the town rejoices in their near avoidance of - the disaster. The thing that nearly happened. The earthquake, or possibly tornado, or other strange weather-related phenomenon that stands in for what their sad company knows it really was. The world has been saved, again; if Rupert Giles takes little satisfaction from that fact, no doubt the failing is his alone.
Willow has, he realizes, been repeating herself for the past minute or so, and trying to get his attention. He manages to focus back on her wan face, her enormous eyes and firm set, sad mouth. Yes, Willow, yes. Anya will stay here tonight, as will Giles himself. Anya has a concussion, Giles has torn his stitches and the wound is on its way to a serious infection, complicated by his exhaustion and dehydration. He would not care, would check himself out, but he has nowhere to go and no particular thing to do. Everything he needed to do - everything that needed doing, is done now. So he nods as Willow explains that she and Xander will shepherd Tara and Dawn home, and watch them tonight, and try to hold Dawn together. And of course, they’ll be back tomorrow to talk the doctors into releasing Giles into their care, and they can all be together in their grief. He nods. He has nowhere else to go.
Day 2
Hospitals wake early, and Giles is a light sleeper. He is torn between removing the I.V. from his arm and calling a cab, and convincing the staff that he is in tremendous pain and requires a morphine pump. He is relatively certain that if he could not plant the proper suggestion in a doctor’s mind, he could certainly fling himself out of bed in such a way as to tear his stitches again, and possibly inflict a grievous head injury as well. In any case, he cannot face the somber, ponderous faces of the children, and neither can he make the call to London that certain people would certainly expect that he, as a matter of courtesy, not to mention duty, should make.
A nurse - Sylvia? enters to take his temperature and blood pressure, as they will every two hours while he is here. She asks how he’s feeling, and he responds with vague monosyllables. She checks his sutures, and replaces his I.V. bag with a fresh one. She tells him she is going off shift, that Danny will be coming on momentarily, that he should use the call button if he has any discomfort. She hands him a plastic tumbler of water and a smaller paper cup containing two large pills - a painkiller, and an antibiotic. When he’s swallowed it all down, she pats his shoulder and leaves the room. He is sorry she is leaving; he has appreciated her night-shift quiet, her reticence.
He drags himself out of bed and wheels his I.V. stand to the little W.C. His stocking feet are less than sure on the slippery tile, and the effect is enhanced by the more than slightly detached sensation he has - no doubt, a side-effect of the painkillers; he does not mind it as much as he should.
The hospital gown makes urination a surprising challenge, but he perseveres until the job is done. He washes his hands carefully, trying not to jar the I.V. port - having a long, sharp needle just under the skin of his arm makes him uneasy, but in a distant way. The painkillers again, he assumes.
By the time he returns to the bed, the pocket of warmth his sleeping body had created seems to have dissipated, but he finds himself suddenly entirely too heavy to contemplate the project of procuring a second blanket. There’s no point, as someone will no doubt appear shortly to interrupt his rest again. He falls asleep thinking about a chilly English rain.
***
They are here. They’ve come to retrieve Anya, who apparently has made it through a night of observation and is ready to go home. They’ve come to see him, to reassure themselves that some part of their world is solidly in place.
He ought to feel terrible for disappointing them, but he doesn’t. Perhaps they will attribute is unresponsiveness to his weakness, his illness. Perhaps they will see the truth that he’s hidden all along. Either way, they will leave him alone, and that is his real desire. Dawn clings to Tara near the door of the room; she has not stopped weeping since entering, when she leant over and captured him with a very tentative hug. His response had been limited to a gentle stroke of her head, and she offered a trembling smile that dissolved into active weeping, then retreated to Tara’s embrace.
Predictably, Willow is offering data: there is no further sign of mystical disturbance in Sunnydale, even near the mad god’s tower, where the dimensional portal had opened. There is no sign of Doc, although Spike has vowed to find and destroy him. Spike himself is recuperating slowly in his crypt. Giles has nothing to say about any of it; when Willow reports that there is no sign of Glory, that Buffy must have somehow destroyed her, or returned her to her own dimension, he does have something to say, but instead he simply turns his head away from Willow, and her narrative sputters to a close.
A small hand touches his, and for a moment he can almost believe it is Buffy’s, but he has not forgotten that much. No, it is Anya, who sits in the wheelchair the hospital has provided for her trip to its exit. She has a look he recognizes from seeing it on his own face so often - the post-concussive squint. She is more subdued than normal, but perks up enough to tell him a lengthy and convoluted joke about Lenin and Trotsky. He does not listen, but smiles when she looks up at him, expectantly, and squeezes her hand. Behind her, leaning heavily on the handles of her wheelchair, Xander looks as if his best friend has just died.
Day 3
The children will take him home today. Their visit yesterday was stilted enough, what will it be like today? He has agreed to leave the hospital, but not to stay at the Summers house. He cannot quite bring himself to be there. They have pledged to see to his needs, and “be there for him”, but he can think of nothing more odious. He wants to be strong for them, on the one hand, but he cannot be bothered, on the other. His dutiful self seems only to be phoning in, long distance, on a staticky line; it is entirely inefficacious.
He had been cleared to leave, finally, after his doctor had come to deliver undesired medical advice. Rest, food, plenty of fluids. More rest, and a course of powerful antibiotics. Would someone be able to take care of him? He assured the doctor that someone would. The doctor had informed him that his person was in poor shape - exhaustion and infection had sapped his resources, and, just between the grown-ups, there were clear signs of malnutrition and a rather alarming depression. The doctor would have liked to prescribe something for the last, but Giles convinced him that this would be a waste of paper. The doctor encouraged him to consult a therapist, but Giles assured him that this would be a waste of breath. He had insisted that time at home, surrounded by family, would be his cure.
Either he had made a convincing case, or the doctor had been more concerned to discharge his formal duty than to treat his patient. He tells Giles that he can prepare to leave, and goes off to set the discharge in motion. The children arrive shortly thereafter; Tara and Dawn have remained at home this time, and in some small and far away corner of his mind he concludes Dawn wants to avoid him and his unresponsiveness, and he knows he should feel badly about it.
Willow, Xander, and Anya fidget quietly, and he is surprisingly sanguine about their discomfort. And the silence drags on; until someone comes with his instructions and medications, they are all trapped in the room. It occurs to Xander that they have brought him some clothing for the trip home, and he shoos the women out so that he can help Giles dress. They do not make eye contact, and the only words Xander speaks are to coordinate their efforts.
During their absence, Anya and Willow seem to have chosen some discussion topics; Willow gives a halting report on their hiding of the body, and location of a burial place. Xander will build a casket, and Willow and Tara will ward the earth. Anya steps in to urge Giles to say meaningful words; she herself will choose appropriate flowers for the grave, and Buffy’s burial dress. At the mention of her name, Xander and Willow stiffen, and Anya looks mortified, opening her mouth to apologize. Giles simply squeezes her hand, and the moment passes.
When the nurse finally arrives with discharge instructions, Giles finds himself with two paper envelopes and two prescriptions - painkillers and antibiotics, and a directive to return in ten days (barring any complications) for removal of the external sutures. Anya and Xander gather his things and wheel him to the door, and Willow trails behind. Anya speaks quietly about how Tara and Willow had found spells to preserve “the body” until it could be properly buried. By the time he is being bundled into the Summers’ jeep and buckled in (by Willow, of course), their conversation - soft, slow, stilted -- has moved to the beauty of the coffin Xander is building.
As he expects, they pull up first in front of 1630 Revello Drive. Tara and Dawn come down the front steps, and Dawn appears to be completely wrung out. She manages a small smile for him, and he takes her hand through the car window. She would like him to stay, he knows she would, but he has nothing for her now. Nothing that she needs. In her little-girl worldview, the presence of adults is soothing, reassuring. She thinks if he were there, he would be a comfort to her, and make her safe. He would rather disappoint her with his absence than fail her by revealing the empty husk he knows himself to be.
He sits still and silent after kissing her hand, gently, and stroking her hair. She finally gives him one last kiss on the cheek and then flees into the house. Eyes forward, Giles simply waits until Xander returns to the driver’s seat to take him home. The others, excepting Anya, file into the house as Xander starts the ignition and puts the car in gear. Anya alone remains on the pavement, waving, as they pull away.
Day 4
He hasn’t played in so long that the guitar is morosely out of tune and the strings, instead of ringing clear and bright, emit dampened, blunted notes. The instrument allows itself to be tuned, but only perilously, and grudgingly, and in nothing like a satisfactory tone. For a moment, Giles considers dragging himself down to McCabe’s - he could pick up some new strings, see who is playing this month, even take down the old Martin he’s had his eye on for a year now and see if it still sounds as sweet - but he is likely to run into someone he knows. Almost certainly, Bill or Brian will be behind the counter this time of day, and will want to know where he’s been, and why he looks so ragged. Since he hasn’t actually moved beyond the well-worn track between sofa, kitchen, and bathroom, and McCabe’s is approximately 90 miles away, in Santa Monica, the entire idea is absurd, but it diverts him somewhat as he casts about for melodies that won’t strain the poor instrument’s present condition.
Every sad song that comes to mind seems trivial, and the livelier ones strike him as absolutely profane. He decides that he simply isn’t up to the neat order of an actual tune, so he settles for some noodling around in somber minor keys, and loses himself for long minutes with likely bass lines. Music, at least the music that had always tugged at him, is full of pain, and even the futility of life - but also of the refusal to concede, ultimately, to that futility. Thus, it isn’t something he can really face, at the moment.
The scotch, in contrast, warms his deepest self, and loosens his throat, his vocal cords. It very nearly mellows the hoarse, tear-drenched tones lying beneath his humming, mumbled vocals. For just a moment, he feels that life might have a richness; he can sense the deep, sweet meaning that has long been hidden behind the frenzied sense of desperation in these last few years of honor, of duty - then, without warning, his mind re-plays Buffy’s last seconds, her fall from the tower. His breath is torn from him, and he straightens so suddenly he feels the wound below his ribcage pull, a sharp, tearing sensation. His right hand slaps, flat, over the strings. He left reaches out for the scotch. He knocks back the last finger of his drink, then lays the guitar on the couch beside him, and watches a patch of light move across the floor in front of the fireplace. The room fades into shadows as the sun sets. The bottle empties steadily and he eventually falls into sleep, slouched next to his guitar and dreaming of towers and of the glory days of his youth. For every brilliant song, someone gets chosen to make the leap. For the next several hours, he wakes repeatedly, just before he hits the ground.
Day 5
Finally, there is daylight, and a moment of profound disorientation; he realizes he’s never had this view of his flat, at this time of day, before. It must be quite early, and he needs the toilet badly, but his hangover is ferocious. He levers himself slowly to his feet, and stumbles in the sharply angled light down the hall, steadying himself all the way with his right hand on the wall. His left hand is needed, alternately, to keep his head from wobbling off his neck and to keep the bottom of his rib cage from jostling his sutures. He’s had more auspicious beginnings of days, he thinks.
He drinks at least a pint of water, right from the tap, and then steps gingerly into the shower, realizing too late he’s forgotten to piss first. He tries to remember the last time he pissed in the shower: 1973, perhaps - or , no, ’77, more like. Bloody Ethan: pot, absinthe, and magic were never meant to be co-mingled. Not in any universe in which one had to wake up afterwards, and move about upright. The memories don’t charm at all; they make him feel old, dissipated.
His message machine is blinking frantically when he emerges, and he dimly remembers the phone ringing repeatedly yesterday afternoon and evening. He puts the kettle on and considers whether today will be the day he begins to face the world, then realizes he needn’t decide yet. He can disregard the messages just as well after listening to them, so he presses the ‘play’ button.
Willow, of course, solicitous as usual - but is that a hint of irritation as well? Good for her then. Let her be angry with him. He’s happy to be of service. She’s off for Los Angeles - he is to call Dawn and check on her, though Tara will be staying with the girl tonight, and Willow will return tomorrow. Well . . . best not to act precipitously. He’ll give that one some consideration. He feels for Dawn, of course, but cannot face the thought, just now, of having to respond to her grief.
Next message is Travers; seers employed by the Council have reported that Glory was stopped, and the portal closed. Obviously, since the world still spun around, and all the good little Watchers still had a library to report to. Council would like a report, of course - how did they manage it? And congratulations - understated, but no doubt genuine. Sod them. If he never speaks to Travers again . . . he’s almost overcome with rage, thinking about the gameplaying, the brinksmanship of their last encounter. The ordeal they’d put Buffy through before she realized what they were doing, and his own uselessness, his humiliation. His eyes are burning and he’s wiping tears from his face before he even realizes he’s weeping.
Suddenly it seems the kettle is shrieking without any warning and he’s missed the next several messages. He simply erases the entire tape without a thought, stomping down his momentary regret as soon as it rises, and goes to see about his tea. If it’s important, they’ll call back.
***
He’s choked down half a slice of dry toast when his door bursts open and a smoking, blanket-draped figure cannons into the room. Giles waits until Spike kicks the door shut behind him before he chucks the remainder of his breakfast into the bin and pours himself the dregs of the teapot. He simply stands in the kitchen, glaring at the intruder through the pass-through. He watches as Spike wrestles himself out of the blanket and discards it, then stands for a moment, trying to locate his “host”. In a heartbeat, the vampire wheels about and pins him with a glare, and Giles can see that he’s not fully healed from his fall from the tower. His movement is uncharacteristically awkward, and his face is still bruised where it isn’t even paler than normal.
“Right, there you are. You had the Bit convinced you were dead and decaying away in here, with no one to say last rites. What gives, Rupert? Whyn’t you call her?”
Giles sets his teacup on the counter with great precision, then folds his arms, wincing slightly.
“And why should she be so concerned? She saw me leave hospital, hale and hearty, not two days ago. What are you on about?” He keeps his tone mild, but there’s steel beneath. He wants to clear up whatever this is and get the man gone.
“Me? You’re the one’s gone incommunicado. She called you twice yesterday, and you haven’t called back, and the ponce said he hadn’t heard from you either.”
He dodges the legitimate issue, hoping for firmer footing beyond.
“Ponce? Which ponce would that be?”
“You know, Wesley What’s-his-face; called you yesterday on his way out of town? Condolences, et cetera?” Spike’s usual tone of derision is blunted a bit by his obvious fatigue; even Giles could see that the brat persona is thinly laid over a shattered soul - he just can’t bring himself to particularly care.
“Yes, well, I must have missed the message. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got rather a lot of work to do -“
“Work? What’s more important than - You can’t honestly mean that you’re not going to . . . to go?” He’s never seen Spike have such difficulty settling on a tone. At present, he totters between outrage and disappointment, with a hint of bewildered emptiness.
“Just where am I meant to go, Spike?”
Judging from his deep (if unnecessary) inhalation and the blazing fire in his undead eyes, the vampire has settled on righteous indignation, but his outburst is mercifully forestalled by a banging on the front door. They simultaneously recognize Xander’s worried shout -
“Giles? Giles!”
Giles is halfway to the front door, casting an irritated glare at Spike, when the door opens again, and Xander himself stumbles in.
“Oh, God, Giles! Thank God. Where the hell have you been? We’ve been worried.”
“Worried? Has everyone got so little to be concerned about that I’m the sudden center of unwanted attention? I’m fine, I’m busy, and I’d like to be left alone! Now, if you’d all please -“
His demand is swallowed under Anya’s razor-sharp shout: “There you are! But Giles, that’s not appropriate attire for a funeral, is it? Or is it because you were wounded? Xander, you would have told me if I could wear a bathrobe, wouldn’t you? Not that I would, but, having the option is always nice.”
The three men are frozen in a tableau - two of horror, one of confusion - while Anya wrings her hands and casts nervous glances back and forth between Xander and Giles.
Finally, her words melt Giles’s stunned outrage, and his overwhelming desire to climb back into bed recedes, slightly.
“Funeral? No, surely it's not . . . ”
Xander and Anya maintain attitudes of silent confusion, but Spike is suddenly set free by Giles’s quiet imprecation.
“What I’ve been trying to tell you, yeah? Everyone’s coming, gotta be done tonight - where have you been?”
Giles looks from one pair of wide-open deep brown eyes to the other, trying to avoid Spike’s knowing blue ones. Feeling suddenly as if the world has tilted on its axis, he tugs the edges of his bathrobe tighter over his chest, trying to disappear into its folds, and bows his head. He puts one hand over his eyes, and takes a deep breath.
"Wait here, please. I’ll be right down.”
He’s not up to putting on a suit; he’s not even had on a pair of proper trousers since leaving the hospital, but he isn’t about to wear pajamas or sweatpants to . . . this. He sits for a moment on the edge of the bed, and realizes he’s just climbed the stairs, zombie-like, for the first time since coming home from the hospital. A day of firsts, he thinks, but tightly clamps a lid on it. A soft pair of corduroys, a dark jumper over a dark T-shirt. A wool coat. He has no idea what the weather is, but cannot imagine even getting warm, let alone overheating, no matter what he wears.
As he comes slowly down the stairs, Xander and Anya are, he sees, still frozen in place, more or less like statues - if you discount the way Anya’s fingers drum in place on her upper arms as she hugs herself tightly. Spike has drifted toward the couch and is gently stroking a tuning peg on his guitar. He gathers them up with a look.
“Right, then, let’s go.”
Day 6
He is startled awake at just after 8 a.m. In the moment of dread that follows, he has just enough time to remember the cosmic wrongness of a world without Buffy, and the more local wrongness of the excruciating ritual of the day before; then an insistent rapping on his front door below informs him of what had awakened him to begin with. He cannot not have slept for more than two hours, and since he doesn’t feel hungover - quite - he concludes that he must still be soused.
His conclusion is confirmed by the sense he has that his bedroom floor is tilted at a 45-degree angle. He somehow cloaks himself in his bathrobe and makes his way down stairs, one hand on the back of his neck, and the other desperately clutching the railing. Again, an insistent knocking issues from the front door.
He knows who it is. Who else can be imperious from the other side of a door?
“Fuck’s sake, Anya, just a minute!” He is careful to enunciate clearly; his dignity needs no further injury from him.
He stops before the door and steadies himself, or tries, with a deep breath. He knows they are only trying to be solicitous; Anya in particular is suffering not only bereavement but deep confusion, and anxiety about how those around her - particularly Xander - are dealing with Buffy’s . . . death. It just feels so - invasive. He knows that, sometime in the future, he will feel a deep shame over his shortness with the woman. Only his own self-involvement explains his deep irritation with her apparent lack of delicacy. As usual, somehow the former demon manages perfectly to feel sad, anxious, lost, and all of the other feelings that a close friend’s death should inspire; the rest of them, though, would like to maintain some sense of distance from the tragedy, and Anya’s authentic confusion only highlights their own abandonment and failure to come to terms.
He tries to capture the contrition he knows he should feel about snapping at her through the door. He pulls it open, blinded by the morning light.
“Anya, I’m sorry. It’s just a bit . . .”
Before he can explain just what it might be, it’s clear to him that his early visitor isn’t Anya. It is, rather, a tallish, solidly built young woman in a dark suit.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Giles. I have a message for you from . . .”
“Oh, good lord, just what I need.”
He stands aside to let the woman in. She proceeds to stand there, flatfooted and dumbstruck.
“Well?” He no longer bothers to stifle his irritation.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Giles. Don’t you want the countersign, or to ensure that -“
“You’re quite obviously from the bloody Council. And of course, despite the full sunlight in the garden, it’s against my interests to actually invite you in. You can thrill me with your secret handshake later.”
She opens her mouth to respond, then closes it, and steps inside, and he pushes the door shut.
“Cup of tea?” he asks, moving toward his small kitchen with what he hopes is studied nonchalance.
Again, she appears to have stepped out at the wrong tube stop.
“Er, no, thank you, sir. I’m meant to give you this document, and to wait for a reply.”
As she speaks, she reaches into the carrier bag at her side, and removes a heavy pasteboard envelope, sealed with wax and carrying no address or other identifying markings. Since he doesn’t emerge from the small kitchen, she hands the packet to him through the pass-through. It’s quite clear she is not receiving the greeting she expected, although she’s studied enough not to reveal exactly in what way she is surprised by his performance.
He pulls a table knife from the sink, smearing the pasteboard with water and who-knew-what-else, and asks her name.
“Banks, sir. Susan Banks.”
“Thank you, Banks.”
He is coming to himself, realizing he has no call to mistreat the Council’s couriers, even if they do seem grossly unprepared even for simply delivery “missions”. His good will saps away as he reads the words printed neatly on the single sheet of paper.
WE ASSUME CONGRATULATIONS ARE IN ORDER, AS THE DIMENSIONAL RIFT WAS CLOSED WITH NO LASTING EFFECTS. PLEASE COMMUNICATE OUR SATISFACTION TO THE SLAYER, FOR A JOB WELL DONE. YOU WILL, OF COURSE, REPORT TO US DIRECTLY FOR DEBRIEFING. WHEN CAN WE EXPECT YOU?
Motherfuckingbloodypigslop Travers! They must have got the signs by now, heard from the seers. They know bloody well Buffy's died. Another must have been called. One girl in all the . . . no. Perhaps not. Faith. Damnit. He doesn't know what they know. Well, in any case, they won’t ever, ever, know what he knows.
The kettle is beginning to signal its readiness. He turns off the flame, and sets the loathsome sheet of paper on the counter. He tightens the belt on his bathrobe, wondering if he is doomed to have difficult confrontations in inappropriate dress every morning for the rest of his life, and moves with sober conviction to the front door.
He opens it, and, turning to face Banks, crosses his arms tightly before him.
“You may tell Travers to expect me when pigs fly. Good day, Banks.”
For at least the third time that morning, Susan Banks opens her mouth to say something to him, then thinks better of it. She hitches her carrier bag more securely over her shoulder, nods once, and exits the flat.
He shuts and locks the front door, collects his bottle of Laphroaig, and trudges back upstairs to his bed.
***
The funeral had been ghastly; Wesley and Cordelia had come to pay their respects, while Angel, apparently, had fled the country - or perhaps the dimension. Giles did not know or care. They had held the quiet ceremony just after dusk; Spike had stood by in stoic silence except when needed to actually lower the - the casket into the ground. Xander, who’d been strongest of all of them up til now, had apparently been done in by the playing out of the previously hypothetical interment of his friend’s remains in the beautiful wooden box that he built for the purpose. Anya, Willow, Tara, and Dawn had surrounded him in a jumbled embrace; after they stepped back, he went to pieces all over again when Cordelia came near to hug him goodbye.
Giles himself had secluded himself toward the back of the little group, closer to Wesley than to any of the younger folk. He’d been unable to say anything, despite Anya’s urging; he knew it would be appropriate, and understood why they all looked to him to bring meaning to Buffy’s sacrifice, but he was hollowed out, completely empty. For a moment, he’d worried that Wesley would feel compelled to step into the breach, but the younger ex-Watcher seemed to have mellowed with his time with Angel, and merely stood respectfully, head bowed, and in the silence intoned, “She was the best of slayers. The best of champions. She was a true friend, and she was loved.”
When the gathering began moving, almost as one, toward the house on Revello, Giles had taken himself away as unobtrusively as possible in a different direction, and faded into the darkness.
***
Just recalling the previous day is exhausting; he seems to be coming up each day with less, rather than more, energy with which to face the world and his place in it. He falls asleep thinking about the sea, and dreams of storms, and shipwrecks, and white gulls in the sky.
Day 7
He wakes. He’s so tangled in the bedclothes he can hardly move, and his right arm is trapped beneath him between the mattress and his ribcage, provoking extraordinary pain from his still-healing wound. He manages to lever himself up enough to flop over onto his back, and gasps as his breath, though still painful, now flows in, unrestricted. The second his lungs expand, his chest begins to constrict, and he is rocked by great, croaking sobs. He wants to return to the dream, to where Buffy has become a large white seabird and flown beyond the storm, into the blue. He wants to follow her through that rent in the sky, needs to tell her everything he didn’t say, to apologize, and make amends. He needs to go back and do whatever has to be done to save her. He needs to take her place. To go into the dark, and the silence, and let the warm earth cover him.
***
He would have said he’d known headaches before; between the drink and the sobbing he imagines his brain has actually shriveled up like a salted plum. His mouth testifies that salted plum may well be the only thing inside of his skull. The Laphroaig bottle stands nearly empty on his bedside table, but he can hardly look at it. He knows the only thing to do is drink water and take pills, perhaps with dry toast. He’s not sure he can bring himself to leave the bed, however.
For the moment he is so dazed with sleep and dehydration that he can review the events without grief. He should have written it all down, by now; first, the battle with Glory, then the funeral, how things went. It might have forestalled the dreams, which leave him feeling even more regretful. He cannot quite contemplate recording his own actions, and the fact that but for Buffy’s plan to save his life, Glory wouldn’t have taken Dawn, and Buffy might still be alive. Cannot imagine how he will explain that he failed to kill Dawn himself, when things looked so bleak. How future generations of Watchers will judge his failures, he can only begin to imagine, and for the first time he is actively glad that he will have no children or grandchildren. At least he will not leave descendants who will have to live down his failures.
He’d rather not have to explain them at all. But he owes it to her, he knows he does. If he does not write it, no one will; if he does not include his own cowardice, he denies the full measure of her heroism. This is one last thing he can do.
He cannot face the diary yet, but he can begin to draft out an account in the notebook he keeps by the bed for the recording of late night brainstorms. Before he finishes the first sentence, he is sobbing too hard to hold the pen steady. He drops the notebook and pen on the floor and spends the day under the covers, watching Buffy fall through the portal again and again.
Don't worry -- part II follows in next post!