XV
She hated to disturb him; he probably needed his sleep.
On the other hand, she wanted to be sure he was all right. She'd seen that terrible tension in him when he got back from next door, knew he was hurting.
He hadn't cried at the funeral, though that blackout thing was kind of scary. Maybe it would have been better if he had cried. Men had such hang-ups about crying in public. She respected his need for privacy, but....
But it had been over two hours. She just wanted to be sure he was all right. Foolish as it sounded, she missed his company. It would have been different at home, with her own things to distract her. But here, she relied upon him. She'd been reading Jane Eyre, which was holding her attention, but two hours was about all the reading she could stand at one time.
She opened the door and looked up into blackness. The upper door must be closed, too. She flipped on the stair light and made her way up, deciding that she'd just check on him. If he was asleep, she'd let him sleep. But if he needed anything....
She opened the door quietly and peered in.
The room was in darkness, only the light from the stairs providing illumination.
He was asleep, curled on his side in the narrow bed, his hand resting in a loose fist on the pillow next to his head. Even in sleep his brow furrowed, as if he couldn't escape his worries, no matter how tired he was.
Buffy studied his face intently. She'd never thought of him as handsome; he was just Giles. Really, he looked too haggard, too, well, old, to be her idea of handsome. But looking at him sleeping like this, she couldn't help noticing his interesting face: strong jaw, great cheekbones, nice eyes. They were closed now, but she'd always thought he had pretty eyes. Kind. She liked the way they crinkled at the edges when he smiled. He had a great smile. He never smiled enough. Especially not lately.
He sighed in his sleep and shifted, his curved fingers curling even closer to his face. It was chilly in the room but the edges of his hair were damp and his eyelashes were spiky. he'd been crying.
Her throat constricted at the conjured image of Giles, alone in his old room, weeping the tears he couldn't shed in public. She ached for him, for his reserve and his loneliness and his courage, in spite of everything. He'd buried his father today and his biggest concern hadn't been himself, it had been her and her fears.
She sniffed, swallowing past the lump in her throat, and the sound must have been enough to penetrate his light doze. He moved again, coughed softly, then slowly opened his eyes.
"I didn't mean to wake you," she whispered. He blinked a few times before focusing on her, staring as if to place her in his memory.
"What time is it?" he asked softly, his voice hoarse.
"A little after seven."
Another blank stare, then he rubbed a hand over his face to clear away the last of the sleep.
"You okay?"
He glanced at her. All right it was a dumb question. But she had to ask.
He nodded. "Have you eaten?"
"Sort of. I had the last of the scones."
He sat up, groaning. "If nothing else, I'll be glad to leave this bed behind." He rubbed his neck and shoulder, grimacing.
She sat next to him. "Here," she said, reaching to rub the sore spot.
But instead of relaxing, he stiffened. "Buffy, don't. Please."
She drew back, surprised. "I'm sorry, I..I thought it would help."
"I know you did. And I usually love back rubs. But...but Jenny...used to do that for me." He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face again. "I seem to be having too many memories at the moment. Jenny, my mother and father. Elizabeth."
She frowned. "Elizabeth's not dead."
"Remembering days gone by. When we were young and had our lives ahead of us." He sighed again. "I suppose it's inevitable that funerals remind us of our own mortality."
Buffy swallowed. She wondered if he even realized what he'd said. "I don't need a funeral to remind me."
He turned around, his expression stricken. "Oh, Buffy, I'm sorry." He pulled her into his arms, hugging her fiercely. "I'm maudlin and I'm taking you with me."
He held her close for a few moments, then eased the hug. "You're the one thing in my life that's good, that works. The one place where I feel I'm doing it right. You know," he held her at arm's length, cupping her face with his hand, "you really impressed the hell out of them this week. All of them. Even Burkridge. And I am prouder of you than I can possibly express. You really are an exceptional girl. Not just as a slayer, but as a person as well. And I am very grateful to have you in my life."
Buffy managed a smile. Sometimes it seemed to her that nothing she ever did went right. Angel lost his soul because of her. Ms. Calendar was dead, thanks to her. So much of it was her fault. But Giles never blamed her, never pointed his finger. Always offered support, encouragement and strength. He was grateful to have her in his life? Not half so much as she was to have him.
He was still looking at her, those wonderful, kind eyes filled with such warmth it dispelled the chill of the tiny room.
"You know what I want," he said softly, his thumb brushing gently against her cheek.
"What?" she whispered.
"I want you to be the first slayer they have to retire due to old age."
She giggled at that. "Right. I'll slay 'em with my cane."
"Just so," he chuckled.
She put her arms around him and hugged him tight. Impossible as it was, and they both knew it, it was the best idea she'd heard in a long time.
She kissed his cheek, content to just let him hold her. "I'm glad I came with you," she said softly.
"So am I," he agreed, his voice gentle.
"It's been cool, seeing where you grew up." She straightened from the hug, looking around the room. "Will you miss it?"
He sighed. "I didn't think I would. And mostly I won't. It hasn't been my home in a long time. But seeing it again, especially under these circumstances.... Yes, I suspect I will miss it. Or rather, I'll miss what it stood for."
He raked a hand through his hair. "Well, there are still things to do before tomorrow."
She took her cue, getting up from the bed. "Want me to put the kettle on?"
"Yes, please." He swung his long legs out of the bed, stopping for a moment as if to gather himself together.
She headed for the door, then paused, looking back at him. "Giles?"
"Yes?"
"I love you."
The look on his face-surprise, shock, awe and delight-carried her downstairs.
The remainder of the evening passed quietly. Several more boxes of papers and miscellany were sorted, packed, and labeled for mailing home. The box for Burkridge was sealed and ready to go. A list of instructions for the auction house was drawn up.
A little after ten p.m., Giles finally gave up. Buffy was still perking along, her customary bubbly good humor seemingly restored after the trauma of the week. She even went on and on about how much she was enjoying Jane Eyre, how it was "really cool, for an old book", and how she hardly wanted to put it down. He was delighted that his choice had been so successful and promised her that she could take the entire Bronte collection home with her, thinking that next he'd start her on Jane Austen.
But for himself, he was exhausted, physically and emotionally. He simply could not stand to sort through another stack of papers, trying to decide if they were of use or not. Those stacks which remained would simply get tossed into a box and sent home, to be dealt with later.
He got up from the table, stretching, and walked into the parlour, trying to work the kinks out of his back. He could feel Buffy's eyes on him and took a deep breath. "If that backrub's still on offer, I'll take you up on it."
Her eyes widened. "You sure?"
He nodded. "It's time to get on with my life. There will always be things which remind me of her. I can't go around avoiding them for the rest of my life."
She didn't answer, just patted the seat next to her. He sat down and she knelt behind him. "Where's it hurt?" she asked, tentatively touching his shoulders.
"Yes," he murmured, dropping his chin to his chest.
She laughed softly and set to work, massaging out sore muscles in his neck, shoulders and back. She was good; he almost asked where she'd learned her technique, then decided he really didn't want to know. Some things they simply didn't need to discuss.
She finished up with a pat to his shoulders. "How's that?"
"Wonderful. That feels much better. Thank you."
"Any time," she smiled, easing out from behind him and sitting at his side.
He sighed and leaned back contentedly.
"You look mellow," she commented.
"I suppose I am. It's quiet, this horrendous week is almost over, we can go home tomorrow. I've just had my kinks worked out...." He glanced at her. "My slayer is smiling. I'd say I have every reason to be mellow." He sighed. "Of course, I'm also exhausted. We should probably think about turning in."
"I'm not tired."
He smiled. "Ah, to have the energy of youth. Well, you can sit up if you'd like, but I'm...how do you put it? Wiped?"
"You ever wish you were my age again?" she asked with a grin.
"Good lord, no!" he laughed. "I can't think of anything more dreadful than being seventeen again. Except perhaps for being sixteen."
"Is there any time you wish you could do over again?"
"I don't know. There are things I wish I hadn't done. Getting involved with Ethan Rayne is one of them. But Elizabeth rightly pointed out that if it hadn't been for what happened, I wouldn't have been here for her when she needed me. So I suppose everything happens for a reason. Even if we can't see the reason at the time."
"I keep thinking I was happier before I met Merrick," Buffy said, "but it wasn't really that I was so happy but that I was stupid. I didn't know any better." She glanced at him. "You wouldn't have liked me back then. I was pretty shallow. Like Cordelia. Or like she used to be. God, weird to think of Cordelia as actually becoming a human being."
He chuckled. "Yes, well I don't have the urge to throttle her quite so often so I suppose that's something. Perhaps Xander's a good influence on her. Now there's a terrifying thought. Though what he could see in.... Oh, never mind."
Buffy laughed. "Well duh, Giles!"
He actually flushed. "I haven't totally forgotten what it's like to be seventeen."
"Something you once said about testosterone being the great equalizer?"
"Quite," he agreed reluctantly. His behavior with Elizabeth last night was proof enough of that. "And she is very pretty, if a bit, uh, brassy."
"Hey, was that a dig at my dye job?" she teased.
"Not at all, I was referring to Cordelia. Though if you're asking, I actually preferred your natural haircolor."
"You've never seen my natural haircolor."
"Well, whatever that was when we first met. I thought that was very pretty."
She looked at him curiously. "I didn't figure you ever paid any attention to how I looked."
"I might not comment, but I do notice, Buffy. I'm not as oblivious as all that. But the fact that I think you're a very pretty girl is rather inconsequential. It's your talents, your skills, what's inside that matters to me. And what's inside would make you beautiful to me no matter what you looked like."
She stared at him, shocked. Then she laughed. "Man, are you the master of the back-handed compliment or what?"
"What?" he frowned, confused. Now what had he said?
"Remind me not to go to any effort for you, you wouldn't notice anyway."
"I just told you I noticed, but that it doesn't matter. Besides, you don't go to any special effort on my behalf as it is, at least not that I'm aware of."
"Oh, right, I got dressed up today for Mrs. Peavey's benefit. Or Burkridge's."
"I rather assumed you did it for yourself."
"Well, yeah, but...but I also wanted to look nice for you."
"And you did. You looked lovely. I was pleased you chose to wear Mother's cross." He smiled and she returned the expression. Then it faded.
"What was she like?"
"Who?"
"Your mother. What was she like?"
He frowned. "I...she...that is...."
"If you don't want to talk about it...."
"No, it's not that. It's just...how does one describe one's mother, especially filtered through thirty years of memory. I can say she was beautiful, but you know that from her pictures. She was kind, had a wonderful sense of humor, pampered me and my father, loved to sing, and garden, and read.... She'd trained to be a schoolteacher, but once she married my father, never worked outside the home. What I remember is all these things, and more. But I tend to forget that she was also a hard taskmaster who used to drill me unmercifully in my schoolwork. She kept an impeccable home and used to scold me interminably because I'd leave my clutter lying about. She used to go after my father about it, too, but she put up with more from him, which I suppose I always resented. She hated the watchers and everything they stood for, but supported my father completely in his calling, and insisted I accept mine as well.
"She was a woman, Buffy. A very real, very human woman, with good days and bad ones. She was often impatient and, like my father, did not suffer fools gladly. And yet during her illness, and she must have been in considerable pain, she never once complained, at least not when I could hear it. I adored her, I idolized her, and when she died I was devastated. But I'm not sure anymore who she really was. If I ever knew. All I have left are my memories, and some simple trinkets. I think she would have liked you very much. I know she'd be pleased that you're wearing her charm."
"It's beautiful," she said softly. "Thanks for giving it to me."
"You're welcome," he smiled, then struggled to smother a yawn. "That's it for me, I think." He sat up. "Tomorrow's going to be another long one, I dare say."
Together they stood. "What time's Lovejoy coming?" she asked.
"Who?"
"Lovejoy. You know, like the guy on TV who does antiques?"
"Oh, yes!" he chuckled. "Lovejoy started out as a book, you know."
"Didn't everything?"
"Just about." He put his tea things in the
kitchen. "How do you know about Lovejoy?
Doesn't seem like the sort of thing you'd watch."
"My mom did. Lovejoy, Cracker, Sherlock
Holmes, that French guy with the funny mustache...."
"Poirot," he supplied.
"Yeah, him."
"Ah," he nodded. "Around nine."
"Huh?"
"The appraiser. Around nine. And they're called Fletchers, not Lovejoy. Anyway, we've a lot to do tomorrow. Pack up, get all these boxes posted, shut everything up. We need to leave here by noon to catch our flight out."
"Right. Night, then." He smiled, wondering if she even realized she was beginning to pick up some of the local phraseology and inflections.
"Good night, Buffy."
She started down the hall, then stopped and turned around. "Oh." She came back, putting her arms around him and standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.
He held her in a gentle embrace, overwhelmed again by her sweet spirit and kind heart. "By the way," he said, gazing into her pretty face, stroking her hair. "I love you, too."
"I know," she said softly, her tiny voice no more than a whisper. "You tell me that all the time. Even if you never say it." Then she slipped from his arms and went down the hall, closing the door behind her.