Title: "Goodnight, My Angel"

Rating: PG (as it deals with death)

Disclaimer: Yes, the rumor's true. Buffy, Giles, and co. are the sole property of Joss Whedon, and do not belong to me. However, my words and ideas do. So if you take a fancy to this vignette and would like to feature it on your website, please ask my permission first. Chances are, I'd be happy to donate it. I am earning no profit from this piece of fiction, and it is not my intention to infringe upon copyrighted material.

My thanks to: Kelly and Verdandi, for giving me the idea.

Goodnight My Angel

By Sarie

*~*~*

Parents should never have to outlive their children… The old saying was tossed through the storm of Rupert Giles' thoughts, a constant reminder of her pure spirit and his ultimate failure.

Goodnight my angel, time to close your eyes…

Buffy's wake had been held at her house, the coffin conspicuously absent from the Summers' living room. Her death had been too gruesome, the body too badly damaged to be presented in open casket for her mourners. Though Giles doubted he could have handled seeing her there anyway; lying so statuesque, pale and somber in death. As if at any moment she might blink back the effects of the spell, and awaken from her dreamlike slumber.

But it wasn't a mere fairytale. No true kiss or fervent wishing would bring her back from the void. There was no spell, and all the magic the world had once held, had bled away with the rest of Buffy's innocence.

And save these questions for another day…

Giles wore his grief well, beneath a proper shroud of solemn melancholy. Characterized by his British sobriety, he was resolved to remain composed for the sake of the others, especially Joyce, who was understandably inconsolable. It would be later, once he was alone again and out of the presence of his distraught friends, that he would allow himself the right to lament.

That first hellish night had nearly driven him mad. The empty, questioning look in Joyce Summers' eyes remained with him well into the early hours of the next morning. Was it possible that she blamed him for leading her only daughter down such a treacherous path? Perhaps. And was Buffy's untimely demise truly upon his head? Absolutely. If there was fault to be found, surely it lay with him. As her watcher, it had been his sacred duty to prepare her for all the aspects of life as a slayer. Whether her downfall stemmed from insufficient training, inadequate weapons, or poor technique-all were his sole responsibility.

He couldn't help but wonder; wonder and brood over why that particular night had proved fatally different for her. Why, after all of the grisly battles, near-death misses, and miraculous victories, one ordinary incident would seal Buffy's fate. Death's eclipse had loomed over their small band nearly every day for the last several years, and it seemed inconceivable that it would actually catch up with them.

I think you know what you've been asking me…

It would be a routine hunt, she had assured him, 'a piece of cake'. And he had believed her of course. She was, after all, his most gifted and experienced slayer. Buffy had patrolled alone an infinite number of times before, had spent much of her adolescence lurking in the dank, dark places everyone else avoided. What was there to fear? She had never let him down.

I promised I would never leave you…

And a piece of him had died that day, the unfortunate hour when he had learned of her fatal encounter. The painful death she had so bravely faced alone, far from his arms, in the cold, unrelenting night. Part of him, the savage part that stirred in the dark recesses of his heart, the urges he had dutifully suppressed since his Ripper days, longed to make all of them pay. Never before had he so thirsted for the blood of vengeance. The beast within him awoke after years of submissive hibernation, awoke snarling, and opened its jaws in roaring outrage. It was almost a physical reaction; each moment Buffy remained unavenged, the faster the dull ache numbed his soul. He hadn't been there when she needed him. He hadn't been enough to protect her. And what worth did a person have when they couldn't keep their loved ones safe? For the first time in his unquestioned destiny, Giles began to doubt his life's sole purpose.

…and you should always know, wherever you may go, no matter where you are, I never will be far away…

How difficult it was, to be visited by ghosts each night. The Phantom memories and spectral emotions tore at the lining of his heart, giving way to nostalgic bouts of insomnia. Shadows of what had been haunted his every waking thought; plaintive reminders of what would remain forever lost. First it had been Jenny, his beloved Ms. Calendar that had guided his troubled dreams. Now Buffy would join her, pressing against the back of his mind with her cries for justice. And Giles would be destined to spend the midnight hours plagued by atrocities he couldn't prevent, and wondering why everything he loved was wrenched from him.

Yet, Buffy wouldn't have wanted it that way. He could picture her now, scowling down at his sleepwalking state of anguish, ordering him to 'lighten up'. If life was indeed like a hand of poker, then death had been a lesson dealt to Buffy very early on in the game. It was one of the great ironies Giles had learned; vibrant, young girls, peaking with life and exuberance, forced into the harsh reality of slaying. His loyal pupil had ultimately accepted her calling and embraced the death and danger it entailed nightly.

Goodnight my angel, now its time to sleep, and still so many things I want to say…

"S-she was more than just a student to me… She was the closest thing I had to a living relation. A daughter. I feel so ashamed to have never told her so. If only I had reminded her now and again…how I admired her." He could make out the memory of his own speech, the very words he had choked over at Buffy's funeral. They came surging back to him now, bringing with them a sudden downpour of emotion. "Her radiant courage and valiant selflessness, her unwavering loyalty to those in need. She ought to have known how dear she was to me. How I… I loved her."

Remember all the songs you sang for me, when we went sailing on an emerald bay…

The remainder of the funeral had swept by without a hitch, in a breeze of tears and testimonials, a blur of troubled faces and kind condolences. Giles thought he spotted Wesley Pryce and Cordelia Chase among the mourners, but paid very little attention otherwise. His blank stare seemed to find itself lingering on the freshly unearthed pit that would soon embrace Buffy's broken body.

Speaking had seemed an entirely useless activity that morning, and his mind had stubbornly refused to concentrate on what was flowing out of his mouth. Instead, he thought only of what it would be like to hear her voice again, prattling on, scolding him in that inane way of hers. Her witty quips, the verbal sparring, even the ear-shattering noise she had referred to as 'music'-he would have traded anything in the universe for just a few moments time with her.

The following days passed on, unnoticed and equally unanticipated. Embracing the consuming darkness, he eventually began to shut out everything else. The concerned slayerettes, a grimly inquisitive watcher's council, Angel's frequent phone messages… How life could just inexplicably return to its everyday normalcy, and move on without her seemed a grave indignity to Giles. It was as if it didn't quite comprehend the devastation of such a significant loss. Did they even realize-the same oblivious civilians that Buffy had saved countless times-that their champion had sacrificed herself for their benefit?

Soon a new girl would step forth to accept her fate as the slayer, and mankind would once again have a rightful defender. But the fact brought Giles little comfort. The world could end right now, stop dead in the middle of its rotation, and he wouldn't bother to notice. The road of his mourning stretched infinitely out before him, and he doubted that he would ever truly recover from this tragedy. His thoughts swam in bitterness and he surrendered any remaining hope to their acidic waves.

And like a boat out on the ocean, I'm rocking you to sleep…

It had been Willow, the best friend Buffy had left behind, that had ultimately saved him. The empathetic redhead had arrived unexpectedly at his doorstep one day, sorrowfully requesting to borrow a few of his ancient diaries…

"To read about the others," the young wiccan murmured sheepishly. "You know, the other slayers… There has to be some kind closure in this, and maybe there's something in there that will, I dunno, help us to understand why…" She willingly allowed the explanation to linger, unfinished. "Something that might help us to accept it."

He felt the urgent desire to curtly remind her that a sense of closure simply didn't exist, but he silenced it, and with a quick nod, gestured her in. She was merely searching for answers, like he was, and Giles could follow her reasoning. Though the texts contained little information after the recorded death of a slayer, he knew that researching the legacy that had come before Buffy was just Willow's way of working through the grieving process.

"Here you are," the Englishman mumbled absently, easing four aged, leather-bound volumes into the other's trembling hands. "That should give you something to start on."

"You don't mind me taking these?" Willow inquired hesitantly, tenderly accepting the load. "I know how important these books are to you. You're sure you don't need them for anything?"

He managed a short, caustic laugh and paused to remove his glasses, rubbing at his weary eyes. "I have a very limited use for them now, Willow. I'm certain they will serve you far better."

Worry filtered through her gaze as she observed him quietly. "Giles, are you okay? I mean, I know you must not be. None of us really are…but still, you're not yourself. Do you need-"

"I'm just…very tired is all." The elder interjected, cutting her off mid-sentence.

"Okay." She swallowed uncomfortably, clutching the books to her chest. "But if you ever did need anything, like someone to talk to, you know Xander and I…"

"Goodbye, Willow." He held open the front door, eyes averted in shame.

"'Bye…" The college student hung her head, and wordlessly moved to exit. Then, as if struck by a sort of fearless inspiration, she stopped to offer a final consolation.

"She knew, Giles."

"I'm sorry," He protested dubiously, mind blanketed with ignorance. "She knew what?"

Willow spared him a sympathetic glance, her eyes filling with watery emotion. "She knew that you loved her. You were like the Dad she always wanted. Maybe she didn't really show it, but she knew. I think you both knew."

The tears came, springing suddenly to his listless eyes, blinding him. They ran fierce trails down his cheeks, baptizing him in their release. Making him whole again as he allowed himself to break down. And suddenly Giles was helpless, a lost and fragile child, desperate for solace. Hungry for forgiveness.

Willow hugged him gently, her nurturing instincts taking over. "It wasn't anyone's fault, Giles. It took me a long time to realize that. But Buffy knew the risks, and she accepted them. Helping us-defending other people-that was what she loved. She died for a cause she believed in. And I don't want to betray her memory by acting like her death was in vain."

The water's dark, and deep inside this ancient heart, you'll always be a part of me...

In vain. Of course. Such a complex truth, and stated so simply. He was ashamed to the core of his being to admit that he had been doing just that. Betraying a very dear memory. Instead of celebrating Buffy's life and honoring her accomplishments, he had succeeded in depleting his own resources by focusing on her death. Giles knew that now, and he would make certain that such a mistake wouldn't be made again.

Someday we'll all be gone…

Though he had spent many a night wandering through the Sunnydale cemetery, the once-familiar landscape, now bathed in warm, autumn light, looked strangely foreign to him. He supposed that might be attributed to the fact that he was now attending the quiet scene in the afternoon, and for entirely different reasons this time.

Clutching the large bouquet of neatly wrapped flowers he carried with him, he scanned the sea of headstones carefully. It took him a few, brief moments to locate hers. It stood out among the others like a silent cry for attention. Giles gave into the beckoning, approaching its finality with uneasy acceptance.

Kneeling down next to the cold, marble headstone, he released a shaky breath. "I must admit," he confessed in a whisper, a sad smile quirking the corners of his mouth. "I'm inclined to believe that these Hollywood graveside scenes are extraordinarily cliché…" He felt his lips quiver at the sight of her name, engraved in flawless calligraphy. "But I can't bear the thought of you alone."

But lullabyes go on and on…

"No, not alone." Giles quickly corrected himself, "Never alone."

They never die…

He lovingly relinquished the arrangement of lilies, lying them against the tombstone. "I'll take you with me, if you'll please do the same."

That's how you and I will be.

"Rest easy, Buffy. We'll see you again soon."

*~*~*

The End

*Billy Joel's "Lullaby"