Title: Tampering With Evidence
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Giles
Pairing: None. Slight mentions of Giles/Jenny, in a way.
Spoilers: S2 E17 - Passion
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Joss. Nobody pays me. As always, any mistakes belong to me.
Author's Note: I don't have a clue where this came from. I'm sorry.
They didn't know what he'd done.
They'd never asked for details. He'd never provided any. They'd seen his flat. They'd put it together.
She'd been there, on his bed. His bed that she'd never even shared while alive. But even to the joke that was Sunnydale's police force, it would not look good for him.
But her neck had been broken. Broken quickly and cleanly. There were no bruises, no fingerprints. Angelus was far too elegent to leave marks on his gifts.
He knew she'd been killed instantly. There had been no pain.
The knowledge didn't bring him peace.
He'd known what he'd had to do.
He'd gently cradled her cold limp body in his arms. Gently carried her to the landing of the stairs. Gently arranged her in a scene of deception, paying close attention to detail. Position of arms. Position of legs. Half her body stuck where it had begun to tumble over the turn in the stairs but had been slowed by the landing. The broken wine bottle would help his case. She'd dropped it when she tripped, probably. That's what they'd conclude, in their investigative wisdom.
For good measure he'd dropped a couple of roses over her body. She'd obviously knocked them from their position on the stairs and pulled them along for the ride. A candle or two he'd tipped as well. He'd watched the wax drip over the edge of the stair.
He had surveyed the scene. Deemed it worthy. And called the police.
When they'd arrived he had given his statement. He'd come home. Found her body on the stairs like that. Checked that she was dead. They'd nodded, glanced around, given each other knowing smirks at the seductive scene before them. Those looks had withered when they'd seen his face. They'd given him sympathy. Told him it was clearly a horrible accident. There would be no further investigation. They'd told him they were very sorry for his loss. As though they'd been at fault. As though they'd had any idea what loss was.
They took away her body and put up caution tape. It was procedure, they'd explained.
Procedure that would cause the neighbors to become more suspicious than they already were, naturally.
Then he'd called Buffy.
He had been very calm. He supposed they'd all concluded it was shock.
Maybe if he tried very hard, he could convince himself it had been.
The detached calm had surrounded him as he'd gathered his weapons; as he had put his half-thought-out plan into action.
Angelus.
Angelus had to die. For good.
It was all he'd known.
It was not until Buffy's fist connected with his face that he had remembered how to feel.
It was only then that he had finally collapsed. Finally broke.
The funeral. The gravestone. He'd done it all. Her family hadn't even wanted her body. They thought her a failure.
He'd handled it all with a brave facade.
He was the adult. He had to set a good example. Couldn't show how frightened he really was. Couldn't show his anger. Couldn't show grief.
Couldn't show his disgust with himself.
And so he sits, on dark nights such as this, when he remembers how near they are all to destruction. How vulnerable and fragile human beings are.
They celebrate their victory. They've lived another day, and feel that much more alive.
He feels that much closer to death.
Sleep won't come after a battle. Not for him.
He sits in his chair and stares at the colorful tiles decorating the staircase. Remembers when they were decorated with roses and wine and candle wax. Remembers her dead eyes staring at him. Accusing. Remembers all the hell he'd put her through.
Remembers.
The whiskey burns his throat, but it doesn't dull the memory. Or the pain.
They didn't know what he'd done.
He'd never tell.