The Words
Author's Note: Feeling angsty, and thinking of Buffy's tombstone and how it came to be.
And so, this fic is born. For those who are following Dreams of You, next update
hopefully coming soon. As usual, reviews are greatly appreciated.
"We need to go-" he stopped, cleared his throat. No one looked up, no one spoke.
He took a deep breath, didn't feel any better. Tried again. "We need to go to the funeral
home." There, he said it. With barely a tremor. "They called this afternoon." Still, no one
moves. The girls are sitting silently on the couch; all three of them snuggled together like
they were set adrift on a boat in the middle of some desolate, lonely ocean. He knew
exactly how they felt. It's scary; to see them huddled there, silent and staring. He's not
used to being the one to take charge and raise the difficult subjects. He wishes Giles
would look up, but he's staring into his scotch like he can see her face there. He wonders
briefly if the watcher is seeing just that. God knows how much he's had to drink. Another
throat is cleared, and he turns back to the girls on the couch. His favorite red head is
trying hard to find her voice, and she succeeds eventually.
"Should we all go?" He looks down to where Anya is asleep with her head on his
knee. Giles takes a dangerous gulp of his drink before he acknowledges them all.
"Whoever feels able, I suppose. We'll have to take care of funds somehow."
"And slaying." Tara piped up suddenly.
"And me." No one seemed able to look at Dawn for a moment, then her two
shipmates rushed to her aid.
"No, Dawnie, don't even worry about that."
"We'll figure it out, sweetie, you'll be fine."
"You can stay with us for a while." There was silence a moment, then another
loud swallow, another British voice dull with grief.
"I promised to protect the little bit. I promised." Another long, unbeatable silence.
He strokes Anya's hair gently, feeling the emptiness weighing down on him, choking the
air from his lungs. There's a picture right in front of him, of the trio of them, him between
his best friends in the world... He's hovering on the edge of breakdown, and he fights it
back with all he's got, because there's no one to save them now if he doesn't keep himself
together.
"I'll drive."
The coffin's picked, and Tara and Anya have taken Dawn home. All that's left is
to choose what should be on the tombstone, and she doesn't want to be a part of that. So
he and Willow and Giles sit at the table facing the sympathetic director. The Watcher,
and the first of the Slayer-ettes. The original Scooby Gang, missing its most crucial part.
He suddenly realizes he's not breathing, and makes a mental note to begin doing so.
"I just don't know." Willow sighs, her voice so small and frail. He and Giles both
reach out automatically and place their hands on either of her shoulders. She smiles a
little at them.
"Beloved," Giles manages, then he has to clear his throat again, like everyone
keeps doing because they just can't seem to find their voices without her, they're so lost
they can't even speak without her, and what are they supposed to do now when all he
really feels qualified for is getting doughnuts, which he hasn't even done in so long, so
why does he suddenly feel so young and useless and scared. "Beloved sister, and friend."
And daughter, they all add silently, seeing the words on the face of the man who loved
her so much more than her own biological father ever could.
Willow folds her arms tightly across her chest, Giles begins cleaning his glasses
furiously, as if that will hide from them the sparkling of tears in his eyes. And so he is left
to look the funeral director in the eye and give some small phrase that must somehow
sum up the unspeakable greatness of the girl he'd loved in so many ways over the years.
She was strong, he wanted to say, so strong and beautiful. She could light the world with
her smile and drown it with her tears. She was loyal and true. She would cross the earth
for the people she loved. She would even die for them... She was so brave, so unfailingly
courageous. She would face anything that she came up against with boldness and power,
a sharp stake and a sharper wit. She made mistakes and learned from them, made friends
and taught them more than they could ever have imagined. He had loved her since the
very moment he'd seen her, and though that love had changed greatly over the years, it
had never faded. He blinked away the memories, blinked away the image of her laughing
and crying and breathing, and cleared his throat. The director looked at him expectantly,
pen in hand.
"She saved the world a lot."
Author's Note: Feeling angsty, and thinking of Buffy's tombstone and how it came to be.
And so, this fic is born. For those who are following Dreams of You, next update
hopefully coming soon. As usual, reviews are greatly appreciated.
"We need to go-" he stopped, cleared his throat. No one looked up, no one spoke.
He took a deep breath, didn't feel any better. Tried again. "We need to go to the funeral
home." There, he said it. With barely a tremor. "They called this afternoon." Still, no one
moves. The girls are sitting silently on the couch; all three of them snuggled together like
they were set adrift on a boat in the middle of some desolate, lonely ocean. He knew
exactly how they felt. It's scary; to see them huddled there, silent and staring. He's not
used to being the one to take charge and raise the difficult subjects. He wishes Giles
would look up, but he's staring into his scotch like he can see her face there. He wonders
briefly if the watcher is seeing just that. God knows how much he's had to drink. Another
throat is cleared, and he turns back to the girls on the couch. His favorite red head is
trying hard to find her voice, and she succeeds eventually.
"Should we all go?" He looks down to where Anya is asleep with her head on his
knee. Giles takes a dangerous gulp of his drink before he acknowledges them all.
"Whoever feels able, I suppose. We'll have to take care of funds somehow."
"And slaying." Tara piped up suddenly.
"And me." No one seemed able to look at Dawn for a moment, then her two
shipmates rushed to her aid.
"No, Dawnie, don't even worry about that."
"We'll figure it out, sweetie, you'll be fine."
"You can stay with us for a while." There was silence a moment, then another
loud swallow, another British voice dull with grief.
"I promised to protect the little bit. I promised." Another long, unbeatable silence.
He strokes Anya's hair gently, feeling the emptiness weighing down on him, choking the
air from his lungs. There's a picture right in front of him, of the trio of them, him between
his best friends in the world... He's hovering on the edge of breakdown, and he fights it
back with all he's got, because there's no one to save them now if he doesn't keep himself
together.
"I'll drive."
The coffin's picked, and Tara and Anya have taken Dawn home. All that's left is
to choose what should be on the tombstone, and she doesn't want to be a part of that. So
he and Willow and Giles sit at the table facing the sympathetic director. The Watcher,
and the first of the Slayer-ettes. The original Scooby Gang, missing its most crucial part.
He suddenly realizes he's not breathing, and makes a mental note to begin doing so.
"I just don't know." Willow sighs, her voice so small and frail. He and Giles both
reach out automatically and place their hands on either of her shoulders. She smiles a
little at them.
"Beloved," Giles manages, then he has to clear his throat again, like everyone
keeps doing because they just can't seem to find their voices without her, they're so lost
they can't even speak without her, and what are they supposed to do now when all he
really feels qualified for is getting doughnuts, which he hasn't even done in so long, so
why does he suddenly feel so young and useless and scared. "Beloved sister, and friend."
And daughter, they all add silently, seeing the words on the face of the man who loved
her so much more than her own biological father ever could.
Willow folds her arms tightly across her chest, Giles begins cleaning his glasses
furiously, as if that will hide from them the sparkling of tears in his eyes. And so he is left
to look the funeral director in the eye and give some small phrase that must somehow
sum up the unspeakable greatness of the girl he'd loved in so many ways over the years.
She was strong, he wanted to say, so strong and beautiful. She could light the world with
her smile and drown it with her tears. She was loyal and true. She would cross the earth
for the people she loved. She would even die for them... She was so brave, so unfailingly
courageous. She would face anything that she came up against with boldness and power,
a sharp stake and a sharper wit. She made mistakes and learned from them, made friends
and taught them more than they could ever have imagined. He had loved her since the
very moment he'd seen her, and though that love had changed greatly over the years, it
had never faded. He blinked away the memories, blinked away the image of her laughing
and crying and breathing, and cleared his throat. The director looked at him expectantly,
pen in hand.
"She saved the world a lot."