It was early morning in Sunnydale, and Rupert Giles locked up the Magic Box for the last time, pausing at the door to be sure the note he had left was easily visible. Yes - Anya would be sure to notice it immediately, seeing as it was placed on the cash register. Satisfied, he turned away from the shop, and made his way to his car. The sun shone brightly in the blue sky, with only the odd wispy cirrus cloud to pick up the last hints of pink from the recent sunrise. It looked to be a beautiful day.
His lips pressed together, his expression pained. Suddenly feeling every one of his years, he got in the car and closed the door. When he had first come to California in search of the Slayer who was to be his charge, he had loved the weather here - almost always warm and bright, so unlike the grey damp that often permeated London even on fine weather days. Now it was just another thing he found unbearable about the place - that there were so many lovely mornings, just like the one upon which she had died.
He could withstand his failure to protect Buffy from the Master; he could withstand Jenny's death; he could withstand the torture of his love's murderer; he could withstand the often petty and occasionally malicious interference of his colleagues on the Council; he could withstand the pressure of so many near disasters incurred while averting apocalypse after apocalypse. He could even withstand the death of the girl he had come to think of as his own daughter - if only just. But he could not continue to do it here, where there were far too many memories of her.
If he wanted to be perfectly honest with himself, had it not been for the message Dawn had borne to them all - her sister's last words - he probably wouldn't have been able to do as much as he had.
Live for me.
To do any less would have been to dishonour her sacrifice, so he had done as she asked - although for the first few days, he had needed the crutch of a bottle to see him through the worst of the pain. He had been careful with his drinking though, never allowing himself to get too far into his cups. He drank only enough to dull the ache, knowing that no amount of alcohol would ever be able to obliterate it. Over a week or two, he had weaned himself from the habit and had fully gotten back to the business of daily life - such as it was for any responsible person in the area who knew of the Hellmouth's existence.
Research and slaying filled his days and nights as they had for the last five years - fighting evil didn't allow for bereavement leave. However in continuing the battle, he and the other survivors had found some measure of solace. Buffy was dead, but they could continue her work - not just because it needed doing, but as a memorial to her.
Even without a Slayer, they managed to hold their own. Granted, with Glory safely dead, the matter of dealing with the standard demons and vampires was a trifling affair, and easily handled. Things had been comparatively quiet since the showdown with Glorificus, and a large part of the reason was due to their charade with the Buffybot. Buffy's reputation as a Slayer had been fearsome for years, and the news that she had defeated and killed a goddess had spread through the demonic community like wildfire. As a result, most of the demons which might have become a cause for concern had left Sunnydale post-haste in the wake of Glory's demise, in fear that the Slayer would turn her attention to them next. Consequently, activity around the Hellmouth had been substantially diminished - at least for the time being.
While he had found comfort in continuing his work with the others, he had noticed a change over the past few weeks. At first, their grief had drawn them together, but as time passed, the group was reforming - and it didn't appear to include him.
With a little thought, the reason why was quite clear: his relationship to the others had been largely formed through Buffy. When she and her friends were in high school, they had seen him first as her Watcher, and then as their librarian. In short, he had been perceived primarily as a mentor, rather than a friend. While that had served well enough when his Slayer and her friends had been teenagers, they were teenagers no longer.
His relationship with Buffy had grown over the years, evolving as the Slayer grew into adulthood - but his relationships with Willow and Xander never had. He remained an authority figure who was worthy of their respect and trust, even their admiration - but he had not been, and still wasn't, their friend. And if his connection to them was once-removed, his connection to Tara and Anya was doubly so.
As for Dawn...
He had never had much to do with the Slayer's little sister - even including the artificial memories of her that the monks of Dagon had magically fabricated - and now the churning conflict of emotions the teen wrought in him defied belief. There was self-loathing and guilt, for if the opportunity had presented itself that terrible night, he would have killed her. He wouldn't have been able to live with himself or with the consequences, but to save the world, he would have done it - and that would have destroyed Buffy just as surely as her leap from the tower had.
There was also some amount of blame and anger that he simply couldn't divest himself of - those feelings weren't directed so much at Dawn for existing, but at the thrice-bedamned monks who had decided to involve the Slayer in their scheme to hide the Key in the first place. At the same time, had it not been for their plotting, Dawn wouldn't exist - and there would now be nothing left in the world of the daughter of his heart. For although it had taken him some time, he had finally realized the meaning of Buffy's words...
"She's me. She's made of me..."
The monks had needed a vessel to contain the Key, and a perfect disguise to hide it from Glory's eyes - and they had decided to make the vessel and the disguise one and the same. After all, there would be no reason for anyone to suspect that a younger sister of the Chosen One was anything other than a normal human girl. However, to create a true sister had to have required spell components incorporating Buffy's genetic material - hairs from her comb, blood from a discarded band-aid, saliva from a toothbrush or piece of gum, any such like would have done - and the monks obviously must have gotten them.
Dawn may have only existed as a human being for less than a year, but she truly was Buffy's sister. In a sense, she was even Buffy's child. He knew that now - and because he did, he understood the choice his Slayer had made with perfect clarity.
As Buffy had said that night on the tower, she had figured it out. And once she had, she chose the only course open to her that would save everyone she cared about, as well as the world - at the cost of herself. She truly was a hero, had proven it many times over - but never more resoundingly than when she had chosen to die in Dawn's place.
With the storm of emotions that assaulted him whenever he was around Dawn for any significant length of time, Giles found it difficult to be in her presence - and she could sense it. As a result, the girl had also distanced herself from him, turning to the others for the comfort he found himself too emotionally confounded to give her.
Of course, that simply added to his estrangement. Complicating matters even further, he had come to realize that he was no longer an essential player in the day-to-day operations of patrolling the Hellmouth. With time and experience, the others had grown to be as effective in battling demons as he had ever been.
Magically, Tara and Willow were a far greater force than he was. Xander had shown a definite talent for weaponry, and had long been helping to manufacture and maintain their cache of crossbows, quarrels, stakes, axes and the like - plus the young man was both faster and brawnier than Giles was himself. And Anya had likely forgotten more about demons that he could ever hope to know, seeing as she had been one for twelve hundred years. Finally, as far as research went, the whole group was well capable of the task, and all the available material they might need was ready to hand.
It was happening gradually, but between his emotional distance from the others and his redundancy, Giles was becoming increasingly shut out. There were times (more and more frequently in the last few weeks) when he would enter the room and the conversation would briefly still, as if he were interrupting them in the middle of something. Willow and Anya especially seemed to be almost evasive around him at times. Through some conversational slips they had made, he knew they had had meetings - not for fun, but for some purpose - without him.
He might have been able to understand why it was happening, but that didn't make it hurt any less.
More and more often, even when he was with them, he felt alone, rootless. As he had come to realize that he lacked their friendship, since Buffy's death, he also realized that he had come to lack his sense of purpose. Over the years, he had grown to define himself through his role as her Watcher. And as Buffy had so succinctly put it when putting the Council in its place - a Watcher without a Slayer might as well be watching Masterpiece Theatre.
If he wanted to move on with his life, honouring Buffy's final wishes, he needed time and space to rebuild his sense of self. Someplace both comforting and familiar was required for that, and England was the logical choice.
Away from everything that might openly remind him of the young woman he had come to love so deeply, he could mend the still unhealed emotional wounds left by her death, and determine what path the remainder of his own life should take. What he was going through was probably quite similar to the experiences of parents who had lost children. And if this was what it felt like, he found himself thankful that Joyce, bless her, hadn't lived to know the sensation. That was at least one tragedy that had been spared the Summers family...
Sighing, he started the car and drove toward his first destination. Fortunately, the florist was always open early. Upon his arrival, he exited the vehicle and went into the shop, reappearing a scant few minutes later with three bouquets. After carefully placing them on the passenger seat, he climbed back into the car, and made his way toward the cemetery.
He went to Jenny's grave first. Setting the flowers (not roses - ever since the night he had found her cooling body artfully arranged in his bed, he hadn't been able to abide them) down by the headstone, he paused there for some minutes, remembering their all too brief time together. The pain had never gotten any better, but it had gotten easier to bear with the passing years. He ran his fingers over her headstone, thinking of what might have been as he traced her name one last time. At last, he rose and slowly walked deeper into the cemetery, to the place where Joyce and Buffy lay buried side by side.
As he drew closer to the place, he saw that there had been a recent visitor...
His eyes flashed with barely contained fury as he approached, thinking that someone had dared to litter on their graves. However, his anger soon dissipated, for he had been mistaken. The 'trash' was in good condition, and clearly placed near the markers with care - like offerings of some kind. Now curious and somewhat apprehensive, Giles bent to examine them.
There was an empty wine bottle propped against Buffy's headstone, next to some sourdough bread (in life, she had been particularly fond of the stuff) and a paperback copy of Shakespeare's sonnets. Brow furrowed, he turned to Joyce's resting place, where he found a tin of cocoa. Beside it, there was some kind of booklet that had been left open on top of the grave - but it wasn't a booklet.
It was a copy of Soap Opera Digest - with a cover story about recent plot developments on Passions.
Absently, Giles set his tokens down beside the others - he would say his goodbyes a little later. Right now, for reasons he didn't entirely understand, he felt compelled to pay the previous mourner a visit.
Since Buffy's death, Spike had defied all expectations. Rather than simply leave town, mourning no more than a lost opportunity to gratify his Slayer obsession, Spike had remained in Sunnydale. More than that, he continued to slay with them, even though his only possible motivation for doing so - currying favour with Buffy - was gone.
Astonishing... but no more so than his reaction to her death. Giles had never believed that a demon could be capable of grief - not for the death of a human, at least. The mere idea went against everything the Watcher knew. However, if grief wasn't what the vampire was feeling, it was something very close to it.
Giles well remembered how Spike had broken down at the sight of Buffy's corpse, sobbing into his hands, his whole body shuddering. His tears only stopped after Dawn had painfully made her way toward him, and he had caught the scent of her blood. Something seemed to have snapped into place in the vampire's mind then, and he had snarled the order to get Dawn to the hospital, breaking the rest of them out of their horrified daze...
In the first days and weeks that followed, Spike had become a shadow of himself. He clearly wasn't feeding regularly, and unless Dawn was about, you could barely get him to open his mouth. Even through his own misery, Giles had noticed the signs and became concerned - if for no other reason, without the vampire's strength, their slaying capability would have been even further compromised.
His concern had culminated in one of the more bizarre nights of his life, when he had confronted the vampire, and ended up sharing reminiscences of Buffy with a depressed, drunken Spike. At least Giles had been able to determine that suicide was not on the the vampire's agenda, though his slurred explanations made little sense. Spike had rambled on about men, monsters, love, death and promises. One thing the Watcher had learned was that Spike believed he owed it to Buffy to look after Dawn. In turn, that had led to the other: there was obviously more to demons - or at least to this particular demon - than Giles had ever imagined.
Even now, a part of his mind scoffed at the very thought of a soulless creature experiencing any feelings excepting those that were selfish in nature. In order to for that to happen, a conscience was required... wasn't it?
Giles' mind shied away from considering that question before he could give himself a headache.
Arriving at the door of the crypt, he knocked - no answer. He pushed the door open, and poked his head inside.
"Spike?"
Still no reply. Giles stood at the door for a minute before stepping inside, giving his eyes a chance to adjust to the gloom. The vampire was nowhere in sight. Stepping deeper into the tomb, his foot struck something - another empty bottle from the sound of it. Stooping, he picked it up and sniffed at its mouth - bourbon.
The Watcher frowned - Spike hadn't been scheduled to patrol with the robot the other night...
"Lookin' for props before you give the temperance speech, Rupert?"
Giles started, dropping the bottle, as Spike's voice broke into his thoughts, and he turned to face the sound. The vampire was emerging from a trapdoor in the corner which the Watcher hadn't noticed before.
The human eyed the demon critically. Spike seemed to have slowly been coming to terms with... whatever it was that he felt in the aftermath of the Slayer's death. He no longer looked haggard, and had gained back most of the weight he had lost. He had even started to be somewhat social with the others when patrolling, though he still tended to keep to himself at all other times. Given the state the vampire had been in before, Giles wouldn't have believed such a recovery to be possible a scant two months ago...
Spike regarded his countryman with a raised eyebrow, mildly irritated at the lack of response to his question, and bristling somewhat at the Watcher's silent scrutiny. Giving a mental shrug, he attempted to goad his visitor into speech.
"Sorry to disappoint, but I'm sober. Only had one bottle, an' that's hardly enough to get me sozzled, as you may remember - or not."
Giles coloured slightly in a mixture of embarrassment and annoyance at the pointed reminder of his last visit to the crypt - it had been during the time he was hitting the bottle to cope, and it was the only time since Buffy had died that he had allowed himself to get well and truly drunk.
"I've better things to do than inquire after your personal habits, Spike."
"Coulda fooled me - it might put some excitement into your tweedy, leather-elbow-patched life for once. So to what do I owe the honour then?"
"You were at their graves earlier today."
Giles had the satisfaction of seeing the incipient belligerence in Spike's eyes drain away, soon replaced by surprise - and a hint of furtive concern.
"Yeah," the vampire said warily, "what of it? A bloke can't pay his respects?"
"Certainly he can. So why have you done so?" Giles asked softly.
Spike stiffened at the question, realizing the Watcher's intimation. The vampire's eyes went flat and hard, and the dangerous glint in them made Giles instinctively feel for the crucifix he carried in his jacket pocket.
"I was a man once, Rupert," Spike said, his voice cold, "and as my vicious bitch of a great-granddam was fond of sayin', what we were informs what we become. The man I was may be dead, but that's not to say he's gone. He's part of me, as much as the demon wearin' his body is. You'd do well to remember that."
"You'll have to pardon me," Giles said, his curiosity piqued despite the situation, "as it's difficult to remember something one never actually knew. There is no record at all of what precisely the change from human to vampire entails, apart from the obvious things. And given the first act of most new-made vampires is to slaughter whomever crosses their path, with a special preference for their human family and friends - it rather suggests that nothing human is left, doesn't it?"
"Only if you don't have the brains or the willingness to look any closer - an' that's a pretty fair description of the bleedin' Council of Wankers, innit?"
"Perhaps," Giles admitted cautiously, "but given the available evidence..."
"An' what evidence would that be? The killing? Newsflash, Watcher: if you take all the people who've ever been killed in this world, you'll find that most of 'em were done in by one of three things: natural causes, disease, or each other! Demons haven't got a patch on what humans have managed to do to themselves over the years, and at least we're more honest about our reasons for killin' than you are."
"If that heartfelt declaration was meant to convince me of your profound and abiding sentimentality, it was sadly unsuccessful," Giles said dryly.
"Not tryin' to convince you of anything, Rupert. Just statin' facts is all. And the fact is that it's easier to kill somethin' if you can make yourself believe what you're killin' is nothin' like you. I can't fault the Council for takin' that line with their Slayers - doubt causes hesitation, an' that'll get a Slayer killed faster 'n anythin' else - but I can fault the bloody bastards for swallowin' their own line of shite. Remember the Judge?"
Giles blinked at the apparent change of subject.
"Why yes, of course..."
"The blue ninny wanted to fry Dru an' me - would've done it too, if it wasn't for the fact we were the ones what put 'im back together. Know why? Because we 'reeked of humanity', that's why! Because we 'shared affection'! A hundred an' twenty years between the two of us, spillin' blood like cheap wine wherever we went an' happy to do it - and we were too human for him, because we loved. I lost my life, my soul an' my conscience when I was turned - not my capacity to feel."
"So... what do you feel?"
Spike laughed bitterly.
"'Hath not a vampire hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?' What do you think I feel?" he demanded, his anger rising. "The woman I love and her mother, whom I admired and respected, are both dead - I miss them, you moron! I grieve for them! I sorrow and I hurt and I ache, because unlike the rest of you lot, I know there's no bloody chance I'll ever see them again. I've had everything I'm ever gonna have with 'em, it wasn't anythin' like enough, and it bloody well hurts. That answer your question, Watcher?"
An uncomfortable silence descended. For the first time, Giles fully realized how great a disservice he and the others had done to their former enemy. Spike may not have been a friend precisely, but he was an ally - an ally who had suffered and bled with them. Yet the vampire usually received worse treatment at their hands now than in the days when they had actively been trying to kill him. When he was unchipped, he had at least received a certain amount of respect from them, even if it was a respect born of fear. Respect was almost never accorded him now, and after all they had endured together, Spike deserved far better of them than that.
Giles knew he should have been an example to the others - done the right thing, and shown some common courtesy to their hapless foe when desperation had forced the vampire to go to them for help. Instead, the Watcher had stooped to baiting Spike, and the rest of the Scoobies had followed suit.
Guiltily, Giles recalled how he and the vampire had shared some black humour over an altered version of the St. Crispin's day speech on the night of his Slayer's last battle, and his shame only increased as more of the original quotation was brought to his mind.
*'...we band of brothers/For he to-day that sheds his blood with me/Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile/This day shall gentle his condition'... our band has failed one of our own.*
Spike was right - they had never put any stock in his feelings, because to do so would have been to admit that demons were capable of feelings in the first place. Although they had witnessed the full gamut of emotions - negative and positive - in the vampire since they had first crossed paths, they chose to dismiss those emotions as inconsequential simply because he wasn't human. As Spike had said, it was ever so much easier for them to do that than to admit what they killed bore more than a surface resemblance to themselves.
There was little the Watcher could do to make up for his past slights, but he could at least amend his behaviour from now on...
"I confess to being somewhat surprised at your choice of volume," Giles said at last. He smiled faintly as the vampire met his eyes. "Given your other offerings, I would have thought to find the Rubaiyat itself."
"Yeah, well, couldn't find my copy," Spike said, recognizing and accepting the other man's words as the peacemaking overture they were. "Thought ol' Willie would do in a pinch." He ducked his head as if embarrassed, then changed the subject. "What are you doin' in the boneyard so bloody early anyway?"
Giles was brought out of the shock of learning that Spike actually possessed books - of poetry, no less! - by the vampire's question, and it was the Watcher's turn to look uncomfortable.
Spike's eyes narrowed as he took in the other man's reaction to his question, then put his century's worth of observational skills to use. The facts all pointed to one conclusion, and he answered his own question before Giles could muster a reply.
"You're leaving," the vampire stated. "Why?"
Giles certainly hadn't intended to have this conversation with the vampire, let alone anyone else. He hadn't wanted to explain or justify his decision to anyone at all, hence why he had chosen to say nothing about his departure, and simply left behind a note with his goodbyes. At least, that had been his decision at the conscious level. However, his subconscious obviously had other ideas, seeing as something had drawn him to the crypt when he should have been driving to the airport...
"I need some time to... make some sense of my place in the world now, I suppose," he said haltingly. "When Buffy was alive, things were simple, I had a purpose - but now..."
Giles voice trailed off, and Spike nodded in understanding.
"Know what you mean, Rupert," he said quietly, "All too well at that."
Giles opened his mouth to say that the vampire couldn't possibly understand his feelings - then stopped cold as he remembered both his new resolution and each time William the Bloody had of necessity reinvented himself in the last five years alone.
"You do, don't you?" the Watcher said with a note of wonder in his voice.
Spike chuckled with genuine humour.
"Too right, I do - seein' as I've gone through it a time or three. And it's always because of the same thing, you know."
"I'm not sure I follow..."
"Love, mate. We're all bloody fools for it," the vampire said. "Love's the only thing we exist for, the only thing we change for. An' it doesn't matter what the change might be, or if the occasion's findin' love or losin' it. And it's bloody reciprocal - you might change for love, but at the same time love'll change you. If there's one thing I've learned in a century and a half, that's what it is." He paused. "You loved Buffy. Now you've got to figure out how to live without 'er, and you need to scarper for a while to get yourself sorted. Peaches did the same thing, for the same reason. Gave doin' it some thought meself, to tell the truth."
Giles looked curious.
"And why haven't you?"
"I made a promise to a lady."
Spike's eyes were distant as he spoke, his sharp-featured face a study in both grief and resolve. "Buffy asked me to protect the Bit that night. An' I told 'er I would - 'til the end of the world. Seein' as the world an' Dawn are both still 'ere, no thanks to me, I've still got a promise to keep. So here I am and 'ere I'll stay, for as long as she does."
While he may have ignored such clues in the past, Giles didn't fail to pick up on what Spike hadn't said.
"I see. And after?" the Watcher asked softly.
"Hardly matters, does it? Apart from a few more amusing diversions an' a gentler climate, there isn't much difference between 'ere and Hell anymore - not to me."
The vampire's voice was as empty as it was matter-of-fact, and Giles was again struck by his own foolishness. It wasn't that demons had no feelings, he suddenly realized - they simply had no conscience to keep those feelings in check. Consequently, the emotions of a demon were, in addition to being more selfish, far more violent and far more visceral than those of a human - but no less real.
Whether Giles wanted to admit it or not, Spike had truly cared for Buffy, perhaps as deeply as the Watcher had himself. Given his new insight about demonic emotions, it was even possible the vampire's feelings had in some ways run even deeper than Giles' own. As a result, he found himself in a situation that no Watcher had ever imagined in his worst nightmares - attempting to offer solace to William the Bloody.
*Somewhere in the universe, some Power is falling about itself, I'm sure*
"Spike, I know it's cold comfort at best, but Buffy was willing to entrust the most precious thing in her life to you - twice. Though she didn't love you, she would never have done such a thing if she didn't care for you in some way," Giles said. "Dawn... is all that's left of her now. And I certainly hope that you care more about the girl than to consider her, and your duty to her, as nothing more than 'amusing diversions'," he reproached.
Spike flinched.
"You know that's not what I meant, Rupert," he said earnestly. "That girl is everythin' to me now, everything... Dawn's no diversion, she's my bloody purpose!"
"Good - as she should be. I feel much easier in my mind, knowing that someone is here who will watch over her as I would."
"Since when did you give a bloody..." Spike got out angrily before Giles calmly interrupted him.
"I realize that Dawn and I are not now, nor have we ever been, terribly close. However, the reason is not that I don't care for her - I do, very much. But sorting through my feelings for her is one of the things I need to do while I'm away, and I believe you can understand why. I hardly need tell you that Buffy was as a daughter to me, and Dawn..."
Words failed him at that point, and Spike saw for the first time just how deeply torn the Watcher had become.
*No bloody wonder it's driven him to this... and the rest of the sods too blind to see it - not that it's such a shocker. If it doesn't bite 'em on the arse, they're bloody oblivious. But I should've noticed...*
"Right - no need to fash, Rupert," he said. "I'll look after our girl."
"I know," Giles said with a small smile - then an idea came to him. "I've left information on how to contact me for the others at the shop - but here," he said, producing a piece of paper and a pen, and scribbling rapidly. He finished, and handed it to the vampire. "Just in case."
"In case?" Spike questioned, pocketing the note.
"I trust the others to see to daily matters without trouble. However, they can be somewhat less than forthright in asking for help at times - especially mine," he said, his expression rueful. "I'm not sure if it's a natural consequence of their growing up, or if some of Buffy's habits rubbed off on them over the years. At any rate, I know you're intelligent, resourceful - and I can trust your judgement. If you ever come across something which you feel ought to be brought to my attention..."
The vampire nodded, and Giles held out his hand. Spike's eyes widened in disbelief and pleasure at the simple gesture, then he firmly shook the offered hand.
"Safe flight, Rupert - I'll be in touch," the vampire said, as the Watcher made his way to the crypt's entrance.
Giles paused at the door, his face solemn.
"I'm counting on it."
The Watcher walked into the early morning sunlight, closing the door
softly behind him.
Quotes:
1. Paraphrased from William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice,
Act III, Scene I.
2. William Shakespeare, King Henry V, Act IV, Scene III.