On Death and Dying
Obviously everything belongs to Joss.
Denial
October 21, 2004
Bath, England
When he opens the door and it's her - wide, uncertain eyes and a self-doubting smile that's more like a grimace - he's quite certain he's dying, by the way his vision whitens and tunnels and he can't breathe.
The sunlight swims too bright around him, so warm it hurts her eyes. His hair is shot with white and the wrinkles that crisscross his too-thin face are deeper, but it's still Giles.
So much the same; dark rushing over until she can't see the sun again and it really is like drowning. Hysteria (fingers twist and bruise purple) tears the edges of longing sharp and jagged.
The silence rises black and thick like smoke, and the voice in the dark says alone, alone.
Then he says her name, so softly.
"Buffy?"
His voice is shaking and he's afraid she hasn't heard him.
She's looking straight through him, and he wonders bitterly if somewhere on the other side of him she can see the man she came for.
He means to call her to him again, but she shifts, and she isn't where she was, but wrapped around him.
He's suddenly unsure; this dream is so much like the others. Certainly, he smells her overly-sweet shampoo and hears the tell-tale pop when she squeezes too tight, but he knows he's already half-gone and doesn't put it past himself anymore.
His heart presses out of his chest and his lungs burn.
It's when she pulls back just enough to look him in the eye, and he knows she sees him and him only, something tells him it's a dream he won't wake from. Oh, fuck it all, he thinks, and he's relieved that his death is sweet, at least.
Anger
October 30, 2004
Almost sunset, and she'll leave soon. Animal waking to animal. Her calling.
She was his once, to follow into the night. Now he's only sick with emptiness, rib-less and hollow. Sometimes he thinks he'll choke on the rage.
She can feel it between them, like glass filmed over with grime and soot, and she presses against it when she thinks he isn't looking.
"I'm going for a walk." The front door's already open, her hand braced against the jam.
He reaches for her without thinking, and when she recoils further into the doorway, it really does burn.
"Giles-"
"Why are you here?" His hands are shaking, but he has to know what she wants from him. And so does she.
His face, younger and unknowing, crackles in her mind.
"Do you want me to go?" Poker isn't her game.
It isn't his either (the house always wins).
"Stay as long as you like."
"Hey, Giles?"
He doesn't want to turn, not really, but he's nothing if not obedient. He doesn't really need his dignity, surely.
"Yes?"
She's already second-guessing, but he's waiting patiently and she owes him that much. Besides, the nights are getting darker.
"Wanna walk with me?" Hand stretches out, fingers wiggling.
"Yes. Yes, of course." If she'd asked for a torch, he'd have set himself on fire.
Bargaining
November 14, 2004
London, England
First by breath. Always by breath. Just like he taught her.
"Concentrate. Find the center." He sounds so certain, and right now she just wants to believe him.
But it's dark; the panic presses against her, squeezing too tight and then stretching wide. She's not even sure they can still do this.
"Giles-"
"Breathe."
And she does.
Two bodies, one breath. It feels like a lifetime ago. It was.
She rolls her shoulders back, shakes out her hands. Like riding a bike.
She feels herself start to shift and spread, reaching outward until his breath pushes back. Suddenly, it's all familiar, even if the longing is sharper than she remembers.
"Let it all fall away." His voice is shaking, and she knows she's not the only one who isn't sure.
Then she feels it, like the first drop of rain. Light ripples from the center and the black is graying and he's there. Her delighted laugh leaves him a little breathless.
"That's it - now, come to me."
She doesn't know if she's getting closer, or if he's moving nearer. It doesn't even matter.
"Tag." It's not until the blindfold's off that she notices her eyes are wet. So are his.
"Indeed. Well done." His voice is hushed and a little hoarse, but his praise is always like gold, and she offers a sunny smile.
"Buffy, I-"
"That was totally wicked!"
They turn together, startled, and he's smug to see the thirty-or-so amazed faces of young Slayers and their Watchers, even if he is a little embarrassed. More than a little.
"Ah, yes. Thank you, Kristine. Very well, then. You lot pair up and practice."
"Yah, guys, start with your breathing: two bodies, one breath."
He doesn't know if it's that she remembers, after all these years, or if it's her hand still on his chest, over his heart, but he feels years younger.
Depression
December 1, 2004
Bath, England
When she sees him settled into the sofa, book propped against the armrest and glasses on the tip of his nose, she's already made up her mind.
He squints to see her in the low light. There's something too familiar in the way she won't meet his eyes, and he can't quite put a finger on it, but his gut is squeezing tight.
"Buffy?"
She settles next to him - legs tucked under tight - so close he can see himself in her eyes, and then it's his heart that clenches.
"Buffy, what on Earth is the matter?"
Her stomach dips low as she reaches for him; it doesn't help that he jerks a little, and she's already losing her nerve. But she's never been good at being alone, and they both know it's been a long time coming.
Her lips touch his and he holds very still, until her hand wraps around his hair and pulls, and then his world is tilting and she's pressing into him, taking more.
When he feels her tongue, he's sure he'll go completely mad.
Something pushes upward from within, and he refuses to name it, because names have power, and he's had about as much powerlessness as he can take.
"Buffy, really! This is entirely inappropriate."
"There's nobody else."
It isn't everything, and he knows it, but he smiles a self-depreciating smile none the less, because self pity is something he understands, and this isn't.
"Flattered, I'm sure."
He feels her palm on his cheek, sees her eyes glitter in the light, and he knows. Oh, he knows.
"Buffy, please. Don't ask this of me."
"Love me."
She's good and damned him then, and he half doesn't care.
"I do, dearest. I have. Ever so much." He knows it's not the same, but when he says the words, he means it.
"Show me."
He commits her to memory then, so later he can lie awake and replay this over and over again, until it yellows and fades.
His favorite mistake.
"Lie down."
Acceptance
January 2, 2005
Bath, England
He remembers knowing himself, what sort of man he is. Was. Darker, and defined.
Before he fucked his Slayer.
"So, then. Plans for the new year?"
He's breaking the rules, and he knows it, but the words are sliding out before he can catch them. Not his fault - here, with her, is too bright sometimes, and the colors blur together. Blinding.
Like now, for instance.
Muscles pull taunt over bone and soul too fragile, and she knows that somewhere it is colder than she can bear.
Not here.
"Oh, I don't know. Nowhere I really wanna go."
She hopes she isn't shouting.
"Will you stay here, then? At least - for a while?" The lilt in his voice isn't quite as shaming as the hitch in his heart when he finally turns and looks, and she's staring right back.
Her hand on him makes him jump a little. His heart is twisting then, naked and raw, and he loves her. She knows it too, and smiles, and the colors are bleeding bright and hot, and he's blind again.
Just like that.
Then he's not thinking, just kissing her mouth and touching her hair. Worshipping, always worshipping.
"Buffy-"
"I'm staying."
"If you're joking…" His throat closes before he can finish, a threat from man to god, and damn it if his eyes aren't already wet with the thought.
"Here to stay, Watcher-mine." Fingertips to tears and lips to lips. A contract. Until death, his or hers (it doesn't matter, since they're probably the same thing anyway).
Her hands shake a little, but her eyes are bright and clear. "A slayer slays."
He swallows, not sure if he can even speak. "A watcher watches."