ONE
Another post-Gift fic, Giles POV.
All the subtle flavours of my life have become bitter seeds and poison leaves without you
You represent what's true
I drank the colour from the sky and turned blue without you
- We Come One, Faithless
It seems strange to be in Buffy's house without Buffy, somehow. Odd to sit in Buffy's kitchen, and drink tea, without her here to make some jibe about how very English I'm being about all this. Of course, if she were here, there would be nothing for me to be English about. Business as usual. Still, I suppose something would be different, after all, it was Dawn or Buffy who would have to-
I should have known she would never let that happen.
((Tell Giles I figured it out, and I'm okay.))
Dawn knows it, too. That something went wrong, that there was some mistake. It should be Dawn whose broken body we see when we close our eyes, not Buffy's. It should be Dawn whose lifeless eyes stare back into our own and say "Why did you let me do this?" It should be Dawn's name inscribed on a cold stone in an unforgiving cemetery -
"Mr Giles?"
I didn't want to talk to him, particularly, because I had a preconceived idea of how awkward it
would be to discuss someone that we both saw as a daughter, but who only saw one of us as a
father. That's what he said to me - "Only one of us was ever a father to her." I'm not sure if he
meant me. I didn't know what to say, so I merely looked sombre, and made my excuses.
"It's so terribly, terribly hard."
Is that me speaking? A young man whom I know all too well has his cold hand on my shoulder
and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Young, ha! He's older than I am. Everything seems to -
"Black seems to get more fitting these days, don't it, Rupe?"
"This is a hellmouth," I reply stiffly. "We should expect it."
"Right, right. And she was a Slayer, and all. We should have expected it." He looks at me and I
can feel him daring me to reply to that without breaking down, but I won't, not in front of him, I
won't. "That how it works?"
"No."
"What's that?"
"No," I say a little louder. "Please, Spike, she wouldn't have wanted -"
"Me here? Sure about that?"
"Look, Spike, just get out." I'm crying now and the look on Xander's face is dreadful as he
speaks. Willow has a comforting hand on my arm and it's all I can do to keep from bawling my
eyes out. "Look what you've done. Are you happy now? Just get out!"
Spike slinks over to the door, but as he reaches it, he looks back, and our eyes meet for a
fleeting second - his as cold and hard as the barren earth, and mine, red and bloodshot, and
suddenly older than I've ever felt - and for a terrible moment I hear his voice, but his lips don't
move.
"You know I'm right."
And I'm afraid, because I do.
Another post-Gift fic, Giles POV.
All the subtle flavours of my life have become bitter seeds and poison leaves without you
You represent what's true
I drank the colour from the sky and turned blue without you
- We Come One, Faithless
It seems strange to be in Buffy's house without Buffy, somehow. Odd to sit in Buffy's kitchen, and drink tea, without her here to make some jibe about how very English I'm being about all this. Of course, if she were here, there would be nothing for me to be English about. Business as usual. Still, I suppose something would be different, after all, it was Dawn or Buffy who would have to-
I should have known she would never let that happen.
((Tell Giles I figured it out, and I'm okay.))
Dawn knows it, too. That something went wrong, that there was some mistake. It should be Dawn whose broken body we see when we close our eyes, not Buffy's. It should be Dawn whose lifeless eyes stare back into our own and say "Why did you let me do this?" It should be Dawn's name inscribed on a cold stone in an unforgiving cemetery -
"Mr Giles?"
I didn't want to talk to him, particularly, because I had a preconceived idea of how awkward it
would be to discuss someone that we both saw as a daughter, but who only saw one of us as a
father. That's what he said to me - "Only one of us was ever a father to her." I'm not sure if he
meant me. I didn't know what to say, so I merely looked sombre, and made my excuses.
"It's so terribly, terribly hard."
Is that me speaking? A young man whom I know all too well has his cold hand on my shoulder
and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Young, ha! He's older than I am. Everything seems to -
"Black seems to get more fitting these days, don't it, Rupe?"
"This is a hellmouth," I reply stiffly. "We should expect it."
"Right, right. And she was a Slayer, and all. We should have expected it." He looks at me and I
can feel him daring me to reply to that without breaking down, but I won't, not in front of him, I
won't. "That how it works?"
"No."
"What's that?"
"No," I say a little louder. "Please, Spike, she wouldn't have wanted -"
"Me here? Sure about that?"
"Look, Spike, just get out." I'm crying now and the look on Xander's face is dreadful as he
speaks. Willow has a comforting hand on my arm and it's all I can do to keep from bawling my
eyes out. "Look what you've done. Are you happy now? Just get out!"
Spike slinks over to the door, but as he reaches it, he looks back, and our eyes meet for a
fleeting second - his as cold and hard as the barren earth, and mine, red and bloodshot, and
suddenly older than I've ever felt - and for a terrible moment I hear his voice, but his lips don't
move.
"You know I'm right."
And I'm afraid, because I do.