Summary:

An alternate history; what if Buffy had made different choices over that lost summer or after she came back from LA? What if Giles had actually found her? What if they had actually talked?

Some responsibilities cannot be cast off. But neither can some human frailties and natural hopes. All you can do is try to find the balance.

Notes:

I have shipped these two characters at least 15 years now, but this is my first try at writing Buffy, Giles or any of the gang. I'm not sure if my voice suits them, but I'm so enjoying telling their story at long last. I hope it works for you as well.

The Chapter count is an estimate. I have more written, I have an outline, I have a lot of clear images for this fic, but due to my health, sometimes updates may be delayed. Please bear with me. You can always come talk BG shipping or bug me about updates over on my tumblr: althoughsolemn. Tumblr. com ;)

ineluctable (adj.):

"not to be escaped by struggling."

1620s, from French inéluctable (15c.) or directly from Latin ineluctabilis; "unavoidable, inevitable," from in- "not, opposite of" + eluctabilis "that may be escaped from." From eluctari "to struggle out of," from ex "out, out of" + luctari "to struggle."

Buffy had left Sunnydale in the middle of May, missing even the opportunity to fight to participate in the last weeks of the school year thereby doing ruin to her grades and leaving her school transcript what looked to be permanently unfinished, an undignified ellipsis to nothing. Despite the gripping malaise she'd found herself in, she had been sickly aware of the time passing during finals week, the awkwardly slow creep of school hours when she knew Willow, Xander and Cordelia must have been sitting their exams while she lay in her motel bed and pretended that she dozed. It startled her that she cared that much about her academic standing, but the shame of it had been enough to make a dent in her feeling of exhausted remove. She was informally expelled, likely she couldn't have taken her finals and tried to rescue her grades even if she'd still been there, but bald fact of her failure was yet another blow.

It wasn't long before her wad of ready cash was dangerously small, so necessity drove her out of her stupor. She looked for work while her friends back in Sunnydale would have been passing around their yearbooks. She was inexperienced and she didn't have a resume and she was under 18, but she was good at lying, good at looking pretty, petite, and agreeable. She didn't have the money and she didn't have the energy to stand on her pride. The job at the diner paid under the table if she needed it, and wasn't factory work or cleaning floors so she took it and counted herself lucky.

The manager was nice, sympathetic. His name was Mike, an energetic fair haired guy of broad build and middling height, probably around Giles's age. He was jovial, and despite his apparent strength and buzzed haircut he had an unimposing presence, an extravert but not a pushy one. He had a pretty, dark haired wife and two young kids who came by the diner sometimes, obviously his life was busy enough without prying into the lives of his waitresses. He'd looked genuinely concerned when Buffy had given him a reason for why she hoped he could pay in cash.

"I was in a relationship," she had said, looking at the formica table top in the corner booth, "I thought it was like an epic love story. But he changed. Things got… very bad. Right now I don't have access to my bank account. It's better if people can't find me."

"I understand," Mike had said, "I've heard that story way too many times. I can accommodate you for now. Let me know if he shows up, the boys and I have chased off persistent exes before so don't worry. You'll be okay here."

There was guilt at the lie, sick remorse at sullying the memory of Angel's returned and damned soul, but Buffy was also surprised at how much it felt like telling the truth. If you took away the demons and the threat of a hell dimension, her story was that of a battered wife. That was another dragging tide of shame, she kept having to steady herself against it when she forgot to keep her head down and her thoughts bound to only the most immediate and trivial. She didn't have to fake her grim look to tell her tale. She told Mike that she was 21, that before she had to move she'd been an assistant for a history professor, but that she was strong, and good at dealing with strangers. Mike didn't show any signs that he disbelieved her. He gave her a shift the next day and told her that payday was on Fridays and he didn't give advances, but that there was a staff discount for meals at the diner, and free day-olds of the quick turnover bakery goods.

Waiting tables was easy, in a way. She was tough, she didn't tire easily, her feet didn't get sore and her ankles didn't swell like some of the other waitresses complained about. If she happened to scald herself on a hot plate or overheated coffee, she was fine again in a matter of hours. Her balance was perfect and her memory was certainly adequate for conveying orders to the cook.

In other ways it was awful, draining, not as bad as staying in Sunnydale would have been but certainly taxing enough to feel the strain. All the forced smiling and friendly hellos, all the brushing off interest from the men she waited on who wanted more than their coffee and pie from her. Some of them were leering, some of them were interested and concerned, looking to save the pretty blonde waif in an old fashioned uniform from the life of drudgery that was not invisibly wearing her down. The worry of strangers was tiresome, but easy to cast off, as it was cloying and shallow and born of a glancing first impression of the figure she presented. It was just another kind of come on, really, and she already knew well how to let it pass by without much offense on either side. It was like playing a part, a constant effort, but at least it was a flatter, less dynamic and demanding part than the one she had played at Sunnydale High.

After work was harder. Buffy had a choice between trying to amuse herself at the apartment, or going out to patrol. She did patrol, though she had sworn to herself that she would not as she had made half-coherent plans on that long bus ride south. She only lasted a week before she bowed to the guilt, and the non-deferrable pull of the restless and ashy night. The habit and the bone-deep restlessness would not be put aside no matter how vacant, or muted with exhaustion she felt. But she did try to pace herself. She didn't know the territory and she had no backup in case of nasty surprises. She didn't go out every night or even every two or three. It felt like she was dangerously tired, and anyway she had saved the world, and at enormous cost, so it only seemed right to take some time for herself.

Time to herself was something of which buffy was getting plenty. The diner had been looking for help because a waitress had left with no notice, but Buffy was the newest hire and the lowest priority in getting shifts. She was making her rent and just about getting by for food and some thrift store clothes to fill out the necessities shed forgotten to stuff in her bag. Probably that was because she didn't have much interest in food or clothes since she'd come back to LA, or longer if she thought back clearly, since Angel had turned. But there was no spare cash for nights out, or better restaurants, or for regular trips to trendy coffee shops for four dollar mochas and the cozy atmosphere. Not yet anyway. Maybe later, when she got more hours or found a better job, and got some savings.

Buffy found though that her mind shied from long term plans. It was impossible to see. Maybe she didn't really believe that she had left Sunnydale for good. Going back was equally impossible to picture, so she doubted it. Maybe she didn't believe that she would live that long. Girls like like her, the chosen few with their stakes and swords, they lived short lives. Giles had refused to give an average, but he'd let her look through the journals. In 7 months she would be 18, the age when so many of the dead girls in the records met their ends.

It didn't seem to alarm her anymore, that fated end. It still sent a faint cold shiver of the bleak unknown through her when she thought about it, but Buffy had also accepted that she looked at the inevitable with a breath of relief, almost like relying on a promise. She could endure this life because it wasn't going to go on forever, not decades, not even years maybe, but a string of months that stretched only just out of sight. Not an interminable duty after all, just a brief passage to be endured. Funny how that same awareness of brevity used to grieve her, leave her feeling confined in a grim, exitless enclosure while her friends viewed vistas ahead of them. Now that spectral future loomed brutal and implacable and even closer than it ever had been, but she could look at it now, from time to time, and feel nothing much at all.

That same nothingness of feeling, a quiet nervelessness that didn't allow any sense of reality beyond immediate minutia had seemingly surrounded her entirely. There were so many important things she ought to have been thinking about, or reacting to, or planning towards, but all of those concerns felt to Buffy as much like the summer wildfire haze that drifted over the city, constant and consequential but insubstantial and far out of reach.

What felt real were the shifts at the diner, long and not so pleasant but subdivided into small, repetitive tasks and easily managed. Or the weekly dull afternoons at the laundromat, people watching, or stalking through her new neighborhood in ever-widening loops, trying to burn off energy and learn her way around in this sullen, black and gold city where no one walked if they cannot afford to drive. Or the quiet days to herself in her haphazardly furnished studio apartment, with the snowy tv on low for the noise, buried in a paperback mystery.

There was a used bookstore in easy walking distance from her apartment, she'd stumbled on it and it had reminded her, with it's yellow light and dry book smell and dark wood floors and maze of high shelves, of the Library she had given up, so she kept going back. The romances she used to like held no comfort for her any longer, nor the dark, crowded shelves of too-false and too-close fantasy, nor did she feel equal to better class of novel that her mother always used to bring home from book club and try to pass along to her, but she had taken to the murder mysteries. They were riddles as much as stories. The long-suffering detectives, the winsome and tragic damsels, the greed-riddled villains, they were all trotted out in turn and made their dances through the plot, parading their clues, regular as clockwork, and then all was revealed and the evil-doers met their sticky ends, all's well that ends well, and even the damsels and the detectives tended to go on their separate ways, discrete and self-contained as before. They were stories that made no undue promises. There was a particular author, almost absurdly prolific, whose works took up three whole shelves at the bookstore, who wrote with a wry, steady but tepid voice (though Buffy herself had not the practice to diagnose this mediocrity of craft she nevertheless perceived). She had gravitated to the long lines of yellowy spines, subtly reminded of the library copies of Nancy Drew Mysteries she'd worked her way through as a kid, and tempted by the sheer volume of sameness. They were entertaining enough to keep her attention, but not so lively as to require more energy to consume on her part than she was able to give, comfortingly regular and lullingly grim. Buffy bought them in twos and threes, and returned them for credit when she'd finished, in order to put towards the next batch.

Buffy found that she was capably self sufficient. Though at times she felt like she was sleepwalking, or anyway shut off from her true senses and the full shape of her mind, she was pleased to find that she could feed herself, keep her new place clean, wake up at the right times, appear at her job at the right times. Buffy had often thought of herself as easily distracted and under motivated, perhaps even lazy when it came to anything besides her pet interests or situations with immediate, mortal consequences. She had wondered often over the last couple years, as it became clear that she would have to move away from her mother's house if she ever wanted to stop lying and sneaking around to fulfill her responsibilities, if she would really be able to look after herself and her living space, as chores always seemed to fall to even lower priority than homework and sleep.

And yes, she missed clean, folded clothes showing up on the end of her bed, and someone else preparing food she didn't have to pay for, but that was all. But it turned out she kept up fine, she even liked householding. She liked having her own space and her own things, cheap and few as they were - and all the more reason to keep them nicely. She'd found a new appreciation for the mundane, for routine. It wasn't as though there were many other demands on her energy. The diner shifts didn't generate homework. There were no demonic crises to research. There was just herself, alone, sequestered in her tiny apartment, and if she lived and worked neatly and quietly, patrolled unobtrusively and paid her due tithes against the dark, maybe she could fool the universe into letting her keep her small life as if she'd earned it.

June passed in this way, and July, and a hard-baked and smoky august settled in, with copper sunlight in the mornings and dusty pavements bleeding heat in the was air conditioning at the diner but there was none in her apartment. Buffy splurged on a new large standing fan, wrestling the box home on the bus and dooming herself to day-olds until next payday, because the brick apartment building had become unbearable, taking in the day's heat and holding it. She kept the curtains closed and the fan blowing at all hours of the day.

Marlena and Zosia, the two waitresses that weren't that much older than she, had realized that Buffy wasn't just passing through. They tried to make overtures of friendship, coffee breaks taken together, invitations out for drinks and a little dancing. Marlena was outgoing and vibrant, with a sweet round face and thick dark hair and a cajoling manner. Marlena wanted to be an actress, wanted to fall into a great big fairytale love. Zosia was taller and paler, with an oval european face to match her Polish name. Zosia was much more reserved but she had a deadly dry sense of humour. Zosia was putting herself very slowly through community college, though she had no specific ambitions for her degree. They obviously spent a lot of their free time together, they spoke in the patter of shared experiences, though she suspected that Zosia and Marlena had the friendship of shared circumstance rather than shared interests. In another life Buffy could easily see becoming fast friends with Marlena and Zosia.

Buffy was happy enough to chat with them at work, to have a little light conversation. She didn't take up any of their invitations though, or issue any of her own. She liked both of them. She didn't want to lie to them. She didn't want to put them at risk by letting them into the periphery of her life. Being a Slayer on the run was a little like being in witness protection, she supposed, keep yourself to yourself, don't get to know people, don't attract any attention, and no one around you will get hurt.

She wasn't lonely, not really. She wondered how Willow was recovering, and Giles, of course, Giles who probably had suffered the most of all, though he had been - miraculously - on his feet and well dressed the last glimpse she had of him. She wondered what Oz thought of all of it, the canny outsider in their midst. She wondered how they'd all done on their finals, if Xander and Cordy could really still be together in the face of every improbability. She wondered, in a stiff, oblique and hesitant fashion, if her mother missed her and regretted throwing her out. Buffy didn't long for their company, though. Didn't find herself reaching for the phone and wishing she could chat or share some piece of news. Buffy was aware that her leaving must have hurt all of them, but there was only more of that submersing stillness between herself and her friendships, or even anything as coherent as remorse.

She didn't grieve, either. Not the way Buffy pictured grieving, not with fits tears and sorrowing. Not the way she had after her birthday, just after Angel had turned. She felt guilt, yes, and something harder and more immovable and iron-cold that didn't have a name. But the ecstasies of grieving that girls in stories who had lost their loves were shown to have, that never came. Maybe too much had already happened since she'd lost Angel the first time, too much innocence lost. Or maybe that skill she'd learned when she was Called, even before that when her parents started fighting all the time, of tucking life's hurts quietly within where no one else could see them (save for rare, shaming outpourings) worked too well now, hid them so deeply that even Buffy herself couldn't reach them and take them in her hands anymore.

Or else that catharsis of girls in love stories was made up as well. Fake, fake, fake like love conquers all, and the constancy of a mother's generous heart. Funny sort of world it turned out to be. The monsters were real, and magic, and Destinies and Callings, but every softening recompense and passionate enticement of fairytales turned out to be smoke and mirrors. No wonder she'd had to go away, after all that.

Warm September loomed large. Zosia and Marlena backed off from their attempts to get to know her. Mike's wife and kids, a little brown-haired boy and even smaller girl, came in one afternoon to visit him in the manager's office to show off their back to school shopping. Brightly colored backpacks and super hero lunch boxes and shiny yellow rubber boots, getting ready for kindergarten and second grade. Fall was coming, though not the tv and movie fall showered in maple leaves and rain Buffy always inwardly pictured despite her southern California upbringing.

Last chance to go back, she warned herself more than once. Last change to slot back into her Sunnydale life. Last chance to go beg for her education, to get her diploma on a schedule that might still look alright on a college application. Last chance to make amends, go be Willow and Xander's friend again, hope that Giles would be willing to put up with her some more. Buffy couldn't put it into words, but the beginning of the school year felt like the final deadline, the last test to see if she would stick to her new life.

Buffy's resolve held. Whether it was bravery or cowardice, righteousness or stupidity, she didn't know, but she stood her ground. September arrived and no disaster befell her. So this is it, then, she told herself, part reassurance part regret, this is what I'm doing with my life now. The evenings cooled enough that she bought a better coat at the second hand store, with nice deep pockets for stakes, just in chase. Life in LA looked like it would go on and on, just the same as over the summer. A month or more had passed since her dreams were full of Angel and blood and fear.

On the day of the equinox, a quiet balmy day with a wind from off the coast so the sky was clear and blue, there was a knock at the door. Buffy didn't have shift until the evening, and she was almost through with the latest mystery - guessed who'd done it but wanted to know for sure - so she was home. She wasn't dressed for the day, no point, no plans, but she put a sweatshirt on and that was presentable enough to tell whoever it was they had the wrong door.

Buffy opened the door a cautious foot, enough to look and speak and close it quick, but when she saw, she let it swing wide. Shocked but not afraid, she stood still, arms at her sides.

"Hello, Buffy," said Giles, a faint smile around his eyes.

"What are you doing here?" Buffy demanded, "How did you find me?"

"A simple casting," he said with a dismissive tilt of his head, "A locator spell. Well within even my ability."

Buffy wondered if she should be angry, or flustered and unsettled to be discovered, but she wasn't. She was something, something suffusing and large and biting that made tears rise in her eyes, but she didn't have a name for it. For a second it was like drowning. Then she found her balance, cleared her throat. Buffy crossed her arms, tight and protective.

"Come in," she said, and stepped back from the door.

Giles stepped into her apartment. She could smell for a second his cologne, soft, balsam, sweet and smoke, and vividly familiar - she hadn't realized she knew it so well until there he was and after so long. He was moving carefully. Not like he was injured still, thank god, Giles had already suffered more than enough from her disaster, but like he was uncertain of his welcome. His posture rounded and non-threatening. He watched her closely, his eyes not leaving her until the last possible second as he passed.

"You know you oughtn't do that, invite people in. Especially if you haven't- haven't seen them in months," said Giles. His voice was quiet, tight. His eyes were deferentially downcast but she could tell that there were manifold complicated, bitter things beneath that tone.

"You're not people," she said bluntly, "and I would know if something had happened to you, even if I didn't hear about it."

Giles looked up, startled. Then something in his face seemed to soften, or come to life, in recognition. He made a faint noise of assent.

"Well," said Buffy, after she had closed the door. "Here you are. Here, in my apartment. There isn't… There's not another apocalypse already, is there?"

"No, Buffy," he said, still staring.

"Okay. Good. That's something anyway. So. I guess you need some kind of explanation, then," said Buffy.

"If you would like to give one," he said softly, "But I don't require it, if you would, um, would prefer…" he trailed off, shrugged.

She was staring, too, astonished. Giles, here in real, waking life, healthy and intent and she didn't know what. She still didn't recognize the expression he was making, but she was sure it didn't mean he was angry - at least not on top where she could see it. Shell shocked, maybe. He seemed taller than she remembered, even with the non-threatening posture, and a more pervasive, startling presence. She always forgot, somehow, and it had been four month since she had seen her Watcher.

Big as life, she thought, So now what?