V
The first thing Buffy noticed was the silence.
Giles sat in a chair next to the bed, still like a statue, elbows resting on knees, face leaning against his steepled hands, eyes staring into some middle-ground. His glasses were nowhere to be seen.
The man in the bed lay still, his eyes closed and his mouth partway opened and lax. There was no gentle hiss from the oxygen, no rasp of struggled breaths.
One look at this scenario and everything Buffy had wanted to say, every question, every concern vanished and she found herself crossing the room in an instant. Giles glanced up and that was all she saw before her arms went around him, hugging him tight. He held onto her for a long time, his whole body trembling.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
He pulled away, at least as far as she would let him. "I didn't expect you here," he said, his voice shaky.
"I got bored by myself." It was as good a reason as any. She touched his hair gently. "When...?"
He simply shook his head, looking away bleakly. "He wanted me to read to him. I'd brought the Dumas, but...but he...he wanted me to read from my journal. About you. About us.
"So I did. I read for a long time. Then I suddenly realized I couldn't hear him anymore. Couldn't hear his breaths. I don't know how much earlier they'd stopped before I'd noticed."
He took his own shaky breath. "I know...there was nothing that could have been done. It was his time. But I feel like...like I should have done more."
She hugged him close again. "I'll bet he didn't. Mrs. Peavey told me he used to talk about you all the time. Everything you were doing, how proud he was of you being a watcher."
He gazed at her as if not believing her words. "I tried...."
"Giles, his last memory was of his son sitting at his side, being with him. Telling him things to make him proud. You did more than try."
He didn't answer, simply looked down again, his head resting against her shoulder in an interesting reversal of situations. Usually it was him, offering her comfort or encouragement after something had gone disastrously wrong yet again. That night, the one after everything had gone so wrong with Angel, she'd been heartsick and devastated. And he'd said just the right words to her, gave just the right support. Just before she got out of the car, he'd reached over and put a hand on her shoulder.
She'd fallen apart and went into his arms, weeping bitterly. He'd held her gently, a little awkwardly, but securely, simply being there for her. Until she'd calmed enough to be able to go inside.
Since then, things had changed between them. They'd been less tentative with each other. As if he wasn't afraid anymore to offer comfort to her if she needed it, and she was more comfortable not only accepting it but also offering her own.
A noise down the hall made him raise his head and by the time the ambulance guys came into the room, Giles was on his feet, his chair pushed back from the bed.
Miss Wentworth was with them and she escorted Giles and Buffy out of the room, allowing the workers to get on with their task.
"I know you don't want to be thinking about these matters," she said, "so we'll gather up his personal affects for you. You can pick them up tomorrow or the next day."
"What? Oh, yes, thank you. Is...is there an account which needs to be settled?"
She shook her head. "It's all been taken care of. I want to offer my condolences. Mr. Giles was a good man. I know he'll be missed."
"Thank you," Giles replied mechanically.
The coroner, or whoever it was, came out. "You're Mr. Giles's relatives?" he asked.
"Y..yes," Giles nodded.
"Are you going to use Larkin Brothers?"
"Uh, yes, I believe so."
"All right." He dug in his pocket. "You can call them tomorrow morning. They'll take care of everything for you." He handed Giles a card. "Condolences."
"Thank you," Giles repeated. Buffy could see he was just going through the motions, that none of this was registering.
The ambulance guy went back into the room and in a few minutes brought the wheeled gurney out. The bundle on top of it seemed oddly small. Buffy glanced at Giles, but he had turned his head away, not wanting to look at the cart and its occupant.
She watched until the cart disappeared from view, then she touched Giles's arm.
"Come on," she said gently, "let's go home."
He looked up and blinked, but she still hadn't seen any tears.
"I need my..my books," he indicated the room.
They went back inside; the bed had already been stripped. She heard him swallow audibly. Then he turned toward the small table. In a moment, the books were under his arm and his glasses appeared on his face just like normal. With a simple nod he gave her his arm and she took it, accompanying him out of the building.
"Will you be okay to drive?" she asked when they got to the car.
"Yes, I'm fine," he dismissed, but she could see the terrible tightness in him. He was repressing-big-time.
They were silent as he started the car and pulled off down the lane. She didn't know what to say to him, how to make it easier.
"H..how was your day?" he finally broke the silence.
"Okay," she shrugged, deciding that now was not the time to tell him about Mrs. Peavey's revelations or the diaries. "We have food. I have something warm to sleep in. And some guy named Bill, who looked like the product of too much in-breeding, if you know what I mean, delivered a load of coal. It's in the shed."
"Oh. Good. Any problems at the bank?"
"Nope. Piece of cake."
"Good," he repeated. She got the feeling she could have said, "Mrs. Peavey got run down by an elephant" and he'd still have nodded and said "good".
"Did you have lunch?" she asked.
"What? Oh, no."
"You must be hungry. I can make a Buffy Summers special. Which means opening a can of soup." She grinned.
It failed to get a laugh.
"I'm not very hungry. You go ahead."
"You have to eat, Giles. I mean, sorry if I'm sounding like a nag, but you do."
"Perhaps later."
"Yeah, okay." She looked at him, saw the tightness in his jaw, the sadness in his eyes. Her heart ached for him. "I wish there was something I could do," she said softly.
He swallowed convulsively. "I'll be all right," he said. "It's...it was a long day."
"I know." Again she looked at him. "Well, you can go to bed early if you want. And there shouldn't be a Mrs. Peavey waking us up early." Still no reaction, so she tried again. "I found bubble bath last night."
"Buffy, please!" He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "I'm sorry. I know you mean well."
The rest of the short drive was conducted in silence. Buffy had never felt so helpless in her life. He was hurting so much, but she didn't know what to do. That damned British reserve of his kept getting in the way!
They arrived home and he headed into the house, leaving her to follow. His books and jacket got dropped on the end of the couch and he headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on. From there he went into the bathroom and was still in there when the kettle whistled, so she turned it off and called to him that his water was ready.
He came out a minute later, minus tie and glasses, the edges of his hair and collar damp. He fixed his tea, setting the cup to steep. Then he ignored it and walked into the study where he sat at the desk, staring into space for a long time.
She checked on his tea; it was about the color of dark coffee and smelled bitter. She tossed the teabag and took it to him.
"Did you want your tea?" she asked.
He blinked, startled by her presence. "What? Oh. Thank you." He took it, took a sip, grimaced at the taste, and set it down, walking out of the room. She followed and saw him go upstairs.
She sighed, flopping on the couch in frustration. Great. Giles's dad was dead and Giles was going zombie king on her. Swell way to spend a vacation.
And there wasn't even a TV to pass the time. What was she gonna do with herself while Giles was moping?
Several minutes later, he came back downstairs, wearing a fresh shirt and sweater, glasses back on his face, his expression absolutely impenetrable.
He scooped up his jacket from the couch. "I'm going for a walk," he announced, heading for the door.
She got up. "I'll come with you."
"No." He put his hand up, stopping her. "I need to be by myself for a bit, Buffy. I'll be back shortly."
He turned his back on her, heading out the door and closing it behind him.
She pulled it open again, but his long legs had already taken him to the edge of the drive where he went through the gate, letting it bang shut.
"Giles," she whined softly, "don't."
But he had.
Not that she begrudged him the time to himself, not really. She understood that sometimes dealing with people, even if they had the best intentions, took more energy than you had. Sometimes you needed to be by yourself. But when Giles shut down on her, it always made her nervous. Memories of Eyghon, and of the warehouse, were still too clear.
She sighed, closing the door again.
So here she was, stuck in this house, just like this morning, bored. She couldn't read any more of those diaries; they'd wigged her out too much. And with all the books in the house, none of them were the sort she could just "lose herself" in. Not a cheap, trashy romance in the bunch.
Well, maybe she'd start going through the stuff in the bedroom like he'd asked her to this morning. Maybe it would give her something to focus on.
Something besides Giles.
For the second time that day, Buffy walked to town. Only this time, instead of going through, she stopped at The Maiden. There were a few cars out front, the only place still open at this hour on a Saturday night. Which was why it was her best bet.
He hadn't come home. Four hours later and she still hadn't seen him. Just to make sure, she'd checked the stable, remembering Mrs. Peavey saying that he and Elizabeth used to go out there when he was recovering, and thinking that maybe he'd gone to his old "thinking place". But he wasn't there, either.
But he had to be somewhere. And The Maiden was the next logical choice.
She went in, wondering what English rules about minors in bars were. The interior was as dark as she'd remembered it last night (was it really only last night? It seemed so long ago), but it was smokier now, with more people.
She looked around cautiously and saw the bartender from last night, who looked up at her entrance and smiled. She waved but before she could say anything, he pointed to the far corner. She followed his direction and there was Giles, sitting hunched over a glass, staring morosely. She nodded her thanks to the bartender and went to where Giles sat, sliding in next to him.
Her hand on his arm stopped him from raising the glass to his lips. He looked up, startled.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, his words slightly slurred. He was drunk, not that that was surprising. It seemed to be something he did when he wanted to "hide out". He got drunk.
"Looking for you," she said simply. "When you didn't come back, I got worried. It's a good thing there aren't too many places to go around here."
"I'm all right, Buffy," he said sadly. "Go home, there's a good girl."
"Yeah. With you."
"Buffy...."
"Come on, Giles, don't do this," she pleaded, both hands on his arm now as she tried desperately to figure out how to get through to him. "I know you're upset. You're supposed to be. But don't-don't crawl away like this."
"What I do is my concern, not yours," he muttered bitterly.
"Says who? I'm out of my element here, Giles. I...."
"I never asked you to come."
"Yeah, but you didn't say no, either, so here I am. I need you. Don't do this. Please."
He didn't say anything, just stared into his glass, his face so sad, so devastated....
She sighed. She might be strong enough to knock him unconscious, but throwing him over her shoulder and dragging him home was out of the question. She needed him mobile and cooperative. And in his present state, he was unlikely to be either.
"Giles..."
"Buffy, I just need to..." he interrupted. They both paused. He stared at her blearily. "Just go home."
"Not without you."
He opened his mouth to protest.
"Look," she stopped him. "If you want to go to your room and sulk, or throw things, or find a bottle and finish drinking yourself into a stupor, I don't care. But come home first, where I'll know where you are. Where I'll know you're safe."
Again he stared at her, as if trying to sort out what she was telling him. But before he could reply, the bartender appeared at their table.
"Missy? Would you like someone to drive you and your Da home?" he asked.
She almost refused, not wanting to involve anyone else in their "family feud". But then she remembered the problems with getting him home, so she agreed. "That would be great, thanks. He's a little upset," she explained. "His father...."
"Yes, I know. He has our condolences. Mr. Giles was a good man."
Giles looked at the bartender, blinking to focus. "Thank you," he said quietly.
"I'll get Tim to take you. Hang on a minute." The bartender left, returning momentarily with a young man, probably in his twenties, probably his son. "Take them to the Giles place."
"Come on," Buffy coaxed, helping her watcher up. "Let's go home."
Together she and Tim got Giles vertical, and with a glance of thanks to the bartender, together they got him to the car. Within a few minutes they were pulling into the drive. Tim helped Giles out of the car while Buffy dug out the key Giles had given her this morning.
"We'll be fine from here," she said. Tim seemed nice enough, but she really didn't want anybody else here. She just wanted to get Giles inside.
Wordlessly, Tim climbed back into his car and drove off. Buffy let them into the house, flipping on lights as she went.
"Do you want tea?" she asked.
Giles stood in the middle of the parlor, looking confused and sad. She put a hand on his arm. "Giles?"
He didn't answer, but she saw his jaw tighten. Then he swallowed audibly, pushed past her and stumbled for the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. A moment later, she heard the sound of retching.
Her throat constricted in sympathy and she forced back the bile. It wouldn't do any good if she got sick, too. She only hoped he'd managed to make it to the toilet. Either that or he was gonna have to clean up his own mess.
Her face wrinkled at the thought and she went to the kitchen, putting the kettle on and pouring herself a glass of soda, anything to wash away the disgusting taste in her mouth.
Giles was still coughing in the bathroom. She briefly thought about going to him, but decided that barfing was a very private thing. She certainly wouldn't want to do it in front of him; she was pretty sure he wouldn't want to be doing it in front of her.
The kettle boiled and she fixed a cup of tea. At least she'd learned to do that much in their brief association. And then she carried it out to the parlor and sat it on an end table.
In a few minutes, she heard the toilet flush and the tap run. Then Giles came out. The sweater was gone, as were the glasses, and his hair was damp. He looked a little gray. And his eyes were so weary, so sad. He stood in the doorway, looking lost.
"I made you a cup of tea," she said gently, taking his hand and leading him to the couch. She sat next to him and handed him his cup, and he sipped gratefully. Then with shaking hands, he put it down.
"How are you feeling?" she asked.
"Appropriately wretched," he answered quietly. He glanced at her. The pain in his eyes made her throat tighten in sympathy. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay," she said softly. "But you scare me when you go off like that. I didn't know what to do."
"I'm sorry," he whispered again.
She took his hand, holding it against its tremors. Her thumb gently stroked the back of his hand, and a finger traced the line of his ring. It was a distinctive piece, the only jewelry he wore, except for a watch, but he wore it constantly. Silver, with a black stone in the center and some very faint engraving on the edges.
"What's the ring say?" she asked, hoping to distract him.
His breath caught and he turned his hand, looking at the piece. He slid it from his finger, turning it over, examining it in the light. "Observare. To watch. My father gave it to me.... When I got the call."
He held it out and she picked it up. Around the inside was the date of December 11, 1996. "Was that the date you got the call?" she asked.
He nodded. "I only had the chance to see him briefly before I left. He came up to London to bring me some books. And he gave me this." She slipped it back on his finger. He chuckled, a sound that was almost more of a sob. "He told me not to make a cock-up of it and for God's sake to write occasionally because the council would want to know what was happening. Never said a word about his wanting to know. That wasn't his way."
He took a deep, shuddering breath. "It seemed as if...as if I was finally doing something he approved of. I was doing what I was always destined to do. And doing it well. He seemed to think so...at least I think he did. He wanted to hear everything. All about you, about what we did, the demons we've encountered. At first I thought it was so he could live vicariously through my experiences. But then it seemed like he wanted to know because he...he was proud that I was doing well. He was happy with me.... For the first time. We were actually getting along, for the first time in...in...."
The words faded, caught by emotion as his eyes slid closed and his jaw tightened again. "There wasn't enough time," he whispered harshly. "There's never enough time...."
Buffy acted purely on instinct, pulling him into her arms. He turned his head into her shoulder, choking on a sob and held on, trembling, letting the grief finally overtake him. Her eyes filled, too, in sympathy. It hurt, to see him in such pain. To finally be making it up with his father, only to have his father die. God, that must hurt terribly.
There was nothing she could say, nothing she could do. Except what she was doing. And it wasn't enough. It was never enough.
In a few minutes, he straightened from the embrace, wiping his hand across his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
"It's okay."
He sniffed, trying to pull together the battered remnants of his reserve. The look on his face was heartbreaking. It went deeper than grief. It was the expression of a man who had lost too much, who had no reserves left.
He refused to look at her, kept his head bent, eyes downcast. She didn't know what to do for him. She felt so helpless.
They sat like that for a long time, not speaking. Sometimes, no matter how much you wanted them to, the words just wouldn't come. This was one of those times. Eventually, his eyes closed and his chin dropped to his chest. He must be exhausted.
"Why don't you go to bed?" she suggested softly.
He sat up with a jerk, blinking and looking around blearily, as if trying to remember where he was. Then he let his breath out, his shoulders slumping once more. He nodded mutely, but made no move.
She stood and extended her hands to him. He stared at them for a moment, then looked up at her, gratitude and apology on his face. She reached down, helping him up, and he staggered against her.
"You know," she said as she steadied him and put an arm around his waist to guide him out of the parlor, "you'll never make it up those stairs tonight without breaking your neck. And I can't carry you.
So why don't you take the bedroom tonight and I'll sleep upstairs?"
He seemed to consider it for a moment. "I...my...upstairs I have...."
She thought about that for a bit before she figured out what he was trying to say. "I'll get your stuff. It'll be easier than trying to get you up those stairs." And before he could protest, she steered him down the hall and into the bedroom.
She lowered him to a seat on the bed. "I'll be right back." He didn't say anything, just sat there looking sad and sort of...empty.
With a sigh, she ran upstairs, cursing that she hadn't changed the lightbulb in the stairway yet. She found his pajamas, crumpled on the end of his unmade bed, and smiled, shaking her head in wonder. Somehow she'd always assumed Giles would be a "make your bed and fold your pajamas" sort of guy. You learn something new every day.
She thought about the sad, hurting man downstairs and her smile faded. She'd learned a lot today, about Giles, about herself....
"Oh, good, now I'm going all weird and gloomy. Get a grip, Summers." She grabbed the pajamas and headed back downstairs.
What she found in the bedroom made her smile again.
Giles was asleep. He looked like he'd simply...tipped sideways. His feet were still on the floor, but his face was buried in the pillow, his body lax. Buffy shook her head. So much for getting his pajamas. She knelt down and removed his shoes, lifting his feet onto the bed. He never stirred.
She surveyed him critically. "Sorry, that's it for me." He could just sleep in his clothes. She pulled the blanket over him, making sure he was all right. His breaths were soft and even; he hadn't passed out or anything, he'd simply fallen fast asleep.
She smiled, smoothing his ruffled hair with gentle fingers. Sleep would be the best thing for
him.
"Sweet dreams," she whispered, and left his side, turning off the bedroom light and closing the door.