Title: Mortality
Rating: T
Pairing: Buffy/Giles
Summary: Someone close to Giles dies and he goes to Buffy for comfort
Timeline: Season 7, Post-Bring on the Night
A/N: Written for Summer of Giles 2012
Giles had been in Sunnydale for a couple of days. It felt strange, like he was home. He had never let himself think of Sunnydale as home. England was where he was from; it's where his family lives… well, lived. Rupert was the last of the Giles'. His father had died nearly twenty years ago, killed in the same battle which killed his slayer.
At the time, he couldn't imagine why anyone would sacrifice themselves for their slayer. Now, twenty years later, he would do that and more if it meant Buffy got to live even a moment longer. He knew Buffy had some scotch in the house, for those rare occasions when he'd visit. He'd found it hidden in the very back on the top shelf of the pantry, where Dawn would surely never find it.
He couldn't remember what number this was, as he poured another glass, but he had a nice buzz going on and he was starting to feel good again. He had exited the council building only moments before the explosion. That was cause enough to question one's own mortality.
He took a sip.
He hadn't told Buffy the whole story. Though he supposed he probably should, after all, of all of them she would be the one who'd be able to understand most what he's going through. He threw back the rest of his drink, a warmth settling in his stomach. With his sleeve he quickly wiped away the remaining liquid from around his mouth, something he'd always felt himself too proper to do when sober.
He stood up and grabbed the bottle and another glass before making his way up the stairs to Buffy's room, making sure to be quiet, so as not to wake the potentials who were surely sleeping. It was two in the morning after all.
He had known Buffy long enough know that she would still be awake. He knew a slayer was built to function on very little sleep. He also knew how much it bothered her to think about how different she was from most. It wasn't just the destiny, it was written in the very foundation of her being, her muscular structure, her metabolism, even her sex drive.
He could hear shuffling on the other side of her door. He knocked softly. "Buffy?"
She opened the door a moment later, a small smile on her bruised face. He looked down, not wanting to see the damage. He should have been there for her. He should have climbed into the hole after her. Instead he'd left her there, not even knowing if she'd been in any danger.
"Hey, Giles." She said, opening her door a little more, as she saw the despondent look on his face. "You okay?"
"Hmm?" He asked, as he was pulled out of his thoughts. "N-no. I'm fine." He said as he closed his eyes. His head was buzzing.
"Are you drunk?" She asked, her eyebrow raised.
He held up the bottle and glasses. "Not enough." He muttered. "Could I come in?"
She nodded and opened the door for him. "Yeah, come on in."
He walked into the room. He pushed the door shut behind him with his foot. "thank you." He said as he looked around, but found no place to sit. He finally settled himself on the edge of her bed.
She sat next to him, six inches or so separated them. He poured them both a glass of scotch. "What's going on, Giles? This isn't like you. The last time I saw you drink this much was my freshman year of college."
"Last time you saw it." He corrected, "not the last time it actually happened. I believe the last time it happened was after you died the last time."
"Either way, that doesn't explain what's happening now."
"I was twenty years old when my father died." He said quietly before he took a sip of his drink. "I had just left university. I was taking so many narcotics at the time that I was completely numb. It's not as if I was close to my father anyway. I always was just a bloody disappointment."
She reached over, her hand rested on his shoulder blade. He sighed and threw back the rest of his drink. "I wish it were that easy this time 'round."
"What do you mean?" She asked, somewhat confused. She took a small sip of her drink. It burned her throat and she made a face, setting the glass on the night table next to her.
"I was there, Buffy. I could have stopped it. But it was too late. It just… exploded." He said the last part barely above a whisper. He poured himself another glass and downed it quickly.
"Perhaps you should take it easy on the booze." She told him, as she took the bottle away and set it next to her glass. "Are you talking about the council building?"
He nodded, his eyes watered slightly at the memory. At first she'd thought they were just glassy from the alcohol. "Giles, what's wrong? I thought you hated the council. I thought you'd be the first to join the good riddance parade."
He made a small noise. He looked down at his lap as he took off his glasses. "There was someone in the building." He said in a small voice. "I couldn't get into the building to get those papers myself, I was declared rogue a few months back. I had one last contact in the council, someone I knew I could trust." A tear slid down his cheek.
"She wasn't scheduled to work, but I asked her to." He said guiltily.
"Giles, you couldn't have known." She rubbed his back as she tried to reassure him. "Who was she?"
He looked up at her, ashamed. "She had worked in the council library for over fifty years."
"How did you know her?" She asked softly. Her hand continued to roam across his back in a comforting matter.
"She was my mum." He said, another tear fell as he reached for his glass and across Buffy for the scotch.
She watched as he downed another glass. "I'm so sorry, Giles. I didn't even think about the possibility… I guess I assumed, because you had never mentioned her…" She trailed off, not knowing what to say.
He shook his head slightly and looked up at her. "No, she was still alive. Barring apocalypse, I called her every Sunday." He said with a small smile.
She reached over and clasped his hand in hers. "Tell me about her, Giles."
He sighed and set his glasses aside. "Well…"
Thirty minutes later, they were exchanging stories about their mothers. Both of them sat against the headboard, his shoes kicked off to the side. She didn't know whether it was the alcohol he'd consumed or that he was finally able to talk about what was bothering him, but she thought he looked more relaxed than she'd ever seen him.
He'd just told her about the time he'd stolen his father's car and crashed it. His mother had taken the blame, and in return, for the next three years, spent three hours a week as his mother's dance partner, since his father had been too busy to do it himself for the last couple of years. He said he'd complained at first, but found that he actually enjoyed dancing, and soon found himself looking forward to it every week.
Buffy laughed. "Who would've thought? Rupert Giles, the next Gene Kelly."
"Hardly." He said, humor in his eyes.
She rolled onto her side; facing him at the same time he turned his head toward her. Their faces were inches apart. Her breath hitched.
"How do you get over it, Buffy?" He asked quietly.
"You don't." She said quietly. "One day, you wake up, and you'll find you can think about her without crying."
He reached over and cupped her face, his thumb running across her cheek, as if to wipe tears from her face. "I never saw you cry." He said softly.
"I didn't want you to. I didn't want anybody to." She replied, her hand coming up and resting on his, moving it from her face, but keeping it in her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. "You're drunk."
"Not enough." He said repeated, leaning in and brushing his lips against hers softly.
She responded for a moment then pulled back and ran her thumb along the back of his hand. "Get some sleep, Giles. We can talk about this in the morning." He opened his mouth to protest but she placed a finger over his lips. "We'll talk about it in the morning, Giles." He nodded and kissed her finger softly. She smiled and reached to the bedside lamp, turning it off and pulling the covers up over them.
"Goodnight, Giles" She said quietly, receiving a snore from the other side of the bed in response.