Rupert Giles rose from the sink with a feeling of intense dread. He stared at himself in the mirror and his stomach lurched. He was old, and that was scary, but he'd started to get used to that, stopped thinking a twenty something year old would stare back at him. But now he couldn't stop thinking that "Giles" would be there.
But he wasn't Giles anymore.
Buffy, (who coined the term) was dead. He remembered the feeling of annoyance, at the stupid Americans who couldn't manage a Mr. now he felt sick at his past annoyance.
"you don't know what you've got till it's gone" he murmured. The recollection of song lyrics takes him back to an old college girlfriend, hazy summer days when magic and daemons all seemed so exciting. Now he knew the truth. The dangers, the threats, and the things you had to do. He thought of all the watchers in training walking around these finely carpeted halls. He wanted to grab them and shake them and tell them what it really feels like. How blurred the lines between good and evil are. How dirty you feel when you have to do something like he did, watching the breath, the life, slip away from that boy, the final beat of his heart.
"fuck!" he yelled, picking the soap up from the dish and throwing at the mirror- a meaningless gesture. He does that a lot, take out his anger on inanimate objects, on random people- a taxi driver, the stewardess on his flight, the woman in the bookstore. He had to keep it bottled down, for dawn, for willow, hell even for xander. But now with the watchers council. Well he would enjoy taking out his anger on them. He relished the thought, and for a second his hand stopped shaking and he could focus.
He'd been in London for a week or so. Spent the time alone. He sees an old friend from college in town. Shopping, a blonde woman hanging of his arm. He calls out ripper and every inch of Giles shudders. He introduces the women as his daughter, proudly tells Giles she's studying at Bristol and he owns a company that sells pens and what has Giles been up to? What HAS Giles been doing? Killing is the first thing he thinks of. Not saving the world countless times. It all pales in comparison. It can NEVER weight up. It's not an addition column, not for the first time he thinks about angel. "my daughter is dead" he lies coldly and walks in the opposite direction.
"Just wait there a moment Mr Giles." The receptionist indicates a sofa, next to copies of the lady and tattler, as he approached the big double doors that lead to the conference room.
"No. I don't think so." Giles snapped, and pushed the doors open, with a bang. The people around the long table flinch.
"mr Giles." One of them stands up immediately, the rest stare at him. three men, two woman. All but one dressed in sharp boring suits. The other one is sitting, just as bolt upwards in her chair as the others, but younger dressed in arm gear.
"it's a pleasure" the standing man offers his hand. "I've heard a lot about you"
"and yet you still called me here" he snapped.
"please, take a seat" the man said, removing his hand awkwardly.
Giles hesitated. He could shout later. He angrily threw himself into the chair.
"this better be about an increase in my pension"
"Mr. Giles, this is Natasha" he indicated the girl dressed differently.
"hey." She said softly.
Giles ignored her. He was beginning to guess what this was about.
"No" he said, his voice as tight as steel. "no."
"Mr Giles- Natasha is a slayer. Buffy's replac-"
"no!" Giles slammed his fist into the mahogany table. "Damn it NO!"
The girl didn't flinch. But she blinked, and her hand instinctively gripped the arm of her chair. Giles wondered if she was taught that kind of control by the watchers council, or if she learned it elsewhere.
"you can't just REPLACE people. Buffy wasn't just a warrior you can upgrade when she fails she was a PERSON!" He was standing now, the chair behind him. "You sick FUCKERS! You use people and you let them put their life on the line and you play games with them and you… you bastards! Find some other poor idiot to kill this girl!" he waved his hand at her and headed to the day. He hadn't said all he'd wanted to, but he felt to sick, he needed to back at his flat. To watch old episodes of university challenge with a bottle of scotch until he slipped into sleep.
"Mr Giles" Quentin Travers was standing between him and the doors. "I heard a ruckus, thought it might be you."
Giles made a fist. "you son of a bitch"
"now, now, Mr Giles we have the youth among us" Giles heard a low female snort from behind him, and felt a small wave of respect for the girl.
"why don't we talk privately"
"why don't we not?" Giles sneered. "why don't we say everything in front of her? Why don't you let her know what she's really in for? A short life, punctuated with death and depression, ending in a bloody and violent death and for what? For you lot? So you can sit on your arse, and order other people to their death? You pompous, self righteous ass!"
"ass? My dear Rupert, I'm afraid, you've been over in the states far, far too long." The smile hadn't faded from his face and Giles was filled with a terrible desire to wipe it off. "I understand, that you're angry, but perhaps you unique experience, will strengthen the ability of Natasha to-"
"do your dirty work?"
"to fight evil" he replied, still smiling but giving a strength to the final world. Giles knew that he'd never really seen evil, never knew it's ability to permeate you, to creep and crawl inside you, to destroy everything.
"Rupert, Miss Summer was one of the most successful and… longest surviving slayers-"
"she was twenty!" he shouted and the girl gasped.
"twenny?" the girl repeated in a broad cockney accent. "that's how old I'll get to if I'm lucky, if this arsehole decides he'll deign to be my bloody mentor or whatever?" she was stood up now and Giles, really looked at her. Despite the baggy khakis and the hair in the tight bun, she was unmistakably only 16 or 17, she looked like a solider, robbed of her youth and feminity, of the colour in her life, he was reminded of a bad dream he once had, of Buffy in a dark world, without him a scar intersecting her lip. "What THREE YEARS? Fuck that! No fucking way! No. no. no. You said… you said HE was the best, you said that it was just a job, that I could live NORMAL life!"
"Natasha-" one of the other men stood up.
Giles stood there and looked at her. He still hated her, bitterly, irrationally, for not being Buffy, for being a reminded that Buffy was dead but… she wasn't the warrier shell he thought they'd made her.
"no. no. no. no fucking way!" she pushed over the chair and headed for the door, one of the men went to follow her. But travers, put his hand out.
"no let her go. It's a lot to take in for the poor girl"
Giles snorted. He felt certain that if he hadn't been here that travers would be threatening her family, telling her to snap out of it. If he hadn't been here…
Travers gave Giles a hard look. "she's 17 years old"
Giles set his mouth in a hard line. "that's okay. There are lots of seventeen year old replacement slayers out there"
Giles slipped into his flat. The walls were lined with books that he hadn't read in a long time. When had he last read a book not about deamons? He ran a finger down the spine of a dickens book. He didn't feel like reading. Or watching the TV, but he put it on in the back ground, (Hey Giles has a TV. He's shallow like us!) while he ate a ready meal. Pathetic. 53 years old eating a four minute chicken tikka on a plastic covered chair because all his stuff was still in storage. A newspaper from 1996 was still lying on one of the shiny chairs. The newsprint was faded but he could tell that when he last held it he'd been an entirely different person. Cheesy- that's whatBuffy would have said. Oh god. now he was crying. He took the bottle from the fridge, scotch rolled on it's side next to a single yoghurt. A single broken hearted mans fridge. He drank a large quantity of it while the fuzzy image of a 23 year old, smiling like an idiot and shouting at the top of his voice fled across his screen. British TV had gone downhill. He didn't go upstairs and fall asleep on his hard bed where only one side had been slept in.
Dawn called him at 4.00 am, some mothers had been asking questions about that fucking robot. Giles talked her through it. half an hour later when she hung up sounding almost happy Giles didn't feel relieved, birds were tweeting in the trees and he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep but he was so glad that she'd rung and now she was gone he felt so… lonely. 53 years old and what did he have to show for it? he looked around and the depressing house. The dust which gathered on the shiny plastic sheets, despite the lady he paid to clean every now and then. Dust in the wind. Another throw back to the good old days.
He thought about it for another hour or so. Over a cup of tea after brushing his teeth. He'd known for a while he was going to do it. for something to do. Just in case he could redeem himself. In case… maybe in case he could replace her. That thought held him back as his fingers lingered above the old fashioned phone.
At midday he left them a message.
He did know if they'd call again. But they did, the couriered over the girls files. He didn't read them. What did he need files for? He tore out her address. And grabbed a cab. The cab driver laughed when Giles read out the address.
"you sure mate?" he asked.
"perfectly." But when the cab drew up he was far less sure. It was a council estate, cinder blocks of grey as far as they eye could see. Barbed wire here and there. He'd never really thought about, but he guessed if he was a vampire in London, he'd hang around here… lots high-risk people to suck dry and a government that didn't really care about them. Maybe, that's why she was here. Five minutes of navigating the identical blocks and high rises later he left the final stairwell that stank of piss and knocked on flat 98c.
When she answered the door she looked far less like a soldier. Her hair was down and she was wearing a top and jeans, a necklace, earrings makeup. The sort of thing Buffy would have slayed happily in.
"oh. Erm… Mr Giles?" shocked, she hovered by the door.
"may I?" he gestured.
"oh sure… yeah… she opened the door and ushered him through.
"you should have more locks on it in this neighbourhood." He remarked.
"I'm not really afraid of anything which uses the door anymore"
"yes… of course"
They stood awkwardly in the clean but shabby flat.
"tea?" she asked. And Giles remembered how much Buffy hated tea.
"please." She edged over to the kitchenette, which was sparkling clean, if a little cracked around the edges. He took his chance to look around the little flat, it appeared to be a studio, one big room, no sofa, no T.V, just a big mattress on the floor, a chest of draws, a desk with a lap top. By the side of one greying wall, another wall of brown boxes with things written on the side of them, it was so…
"Spartan?" she said, handing him a mug.
"pardon?"
"this place… I think they give you somewhere crappy to make you better, y'know like the Spartans….? A real fighters place"
"yes. It is a bit… basic"
"yeah."
He looked at the mug. Worlds best father.
Giles spluttered on his tea. It was well made, considering she was swigging diet coke.
"sorry, it's my dads"
"oh. And where are you parents?" he said glancing around the flat, as if they were hiding somewhere.
"dead." That flat emotionless voice, like a slayer-droid. Like a Buffy bot.
"oh. I'm sorry." He wondered, not for the first time, just how far would the watchers council go to ensure good slayers? Broken girls were easier to mould into weapons, but then… who was he to judge? The wrong thing for the right reasons? Where would you draw the line?
"thanks. I'm sorry about… Buffy?"
At her name Giles lurched back to seeing her on the ground and spike sobbing behind him.
"yes well." He put the mug on the kitchen counter. "lets get to business"
My god she was ridged. She wasn't instinctive, like Buffy. And unlike Buffy she'd read and memorised the handbook and insisted on following every blood step. Occasionally he got hints that she might have a personality, but they faded quickly. She had developed the sense that Buffy never had, being able to just tell when someone was a vampire. This irked him a little. She'd only been a slayer for a few weeks and yet here she was, standing before and fresh grave saying
"I can tell… honestly Mr Giles…I can just tell"
"yes, well a slayers instinct is all very well and good, but what if it's not that one and there's a vampire behind you and then your-"
"brown bread?"
"quite" he suppressed a smile. "well, wait for this one if you must, but for gods sake keep your wits about you"
She nodded, and he half expected her to salute. She was, like Kendra, everything a watcher could want from a slayer. Dedicated, informed, smart, fit, obedient, but not Buffy. He often wondered if he worked her too hard. It couldn't be much of a life, out every night, training every evening and he was setting her big chunks of dusty books to read. They were practically nocturnal now but that was okay, it meant he was in the same time zone as Dawn, so he got her phone calls.
The vampire in the grave was dusted. Natasha had long since bothered to look at Giles for praise. Instead she brushed herself down and twirled the stake in her hand.
"that was slow. And sloppy"
"right. You need to let go, loosen up . B- someone I know slayed a vampire with a number two pencil."
She looked at him blankly. "But I have a stake."
He sighed. "yes, but if you didn't what would do?"
"duck!" she yelled
"ye-"
"NO! Duck!" she screamed. Sending a kick over his right shoulder. He did, so moving quickly away from her and the vampire. Giles watched as she fought him. textbook move after textbook move. Giles had no qualms, he knew she'd win this fight, but she wasn't ready for the big ones. It was being able to think outside the box to be ready for anything that meant Buffy survived so long. Twenty. How long did Natasha have then? Twenty he only looked down for a second, consumed with a memory of him and Buffy and then she screamed. He looked up and Natasha had lost, blood was streaming down her neck, her lips formed the perfect O and then before he reached her she'd wrenched the vampires teeth from her neck and she was in the ground in a pile of dust.
"Natasha" she was face down. He pulled her up and he saw she was still breathing, still alive, coughing her hand clamped around her neck. "fuck, show me the-"
"get off." She pushed him away with her remaining strength. There was a lot of blood.
"for gods sake, show me the wound!"
"No!" she stumbled away
"where on earth are going?"
"I thought I'd pop in number bloody ten, see the PM for a spot of lunch" she said sarcastically. "I'm going to the fucking A&E, where the fuck else would I go"
"Natasha for god sake!" he ran up to her. "let me look" she took her hand off her neck, revealing a deep bloody wound.
"this is bad, you've lost a lot of blood"
"No shit sherl-" she staggered, and he caught her.
"c'mon, I'll drive you, okay?"
"I'm still angry" she warned, when she was in the front seat, head pressed against the window. "I just don't want to die"
"you won't"
She turned her head and looked at him and said in a small voice "Don't let me die okay"
I'm sixteen years old Giles, I don't want to die.
Giles put his foot on the accelerator.
As she was treated he vowed he'd stop what he was doing. He knew what he was doing, he didn't need the two hundred dollar an hour therapist-( two hundred pounds, he remembered) the watchers council had paid for to tell him. He was punishing her. Punishing her for not being Buffy, for being a sign that Buffy was replaceable. Working her too hard, to make her a better slayer. So she'd win. Every time. But he'd thrown her in the deep end.
He vowed he'd make an effort. Find out her parents names, how they died. Her favourite colour (Buffy's was blue) what she wanted to be when she was older (figure skater) if she'd had the chance, favourite movie (Buffy liked the Christian Slater one) and it wasn't replacing Buffy. It wasn't her fault Buffy had died. Such good intentions. Dawn called when he was in the waiting room. He let it go to voicemail. Five minutes passed, but the sickening feeling of guilt was too much. He stood up to go to the door.
"you are Natasha Hawkins uncle?" the doctor asked. "she's awake"
"oh. Okay…" he headed to the door.
"where are you going?" the doctor asked.
"I have to make a quick phone call" after all, if she was awake, she was fine. She could wait. He would be a better watcher in the morning.
And at 5.00 he was at the air port. By 7.00 he was on a plane.
Buffy was alive.