Getting Off The Griefmobile
By Annakovsky
See part 1 for all relevant info and disclaimer.
***********
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
***********
Giles was reflective after their encounter with Murray's son. Murray had been two years ahead of him at school; he remembered him with a kind of younger schoolboy awe, picturing him mentally as one of the older, confident boys, good at games. The top swimmer in his year, if he remembered correctly. He had only known him slightly as an adult; he had seemed a competent man, a good man. His body had been one of those dug out of the rubble left after the explosion of the Council's headquarters. Giles had identified what was left of him.
It felt as though he had spent his entire year identifying remains. Looking back, the past ten months appeared as a dizzying succession of international flights, dazed, sleepless nights, and continually arriving too late. Arriving to find the bloody corpses of teenage girls or of men and women who had been his colleagues.
He remembered a time, not long before, when a room smeared with the blood of those he had known had made him vomit. Now he felt nothing but very weary.
During the time he had spent in Sunnydale, he had hardly felt like himself. When he closed his eyes he saw blood. His mouth tasted of ashes and in secret he drank more than he ought. He was dazed, foggy-headed from grief and lack of sleep.
For he did grieve the Council's loss. Despite its arrogance, uselessness and general archaism, he had spent the greater part of his life working with and for them. They were old family friends and twenty-odd years worth of colleagues; twenty-odd years of consultations over manuscripts, debates over procedure, friendly office conversation. And now nearly all of them were dead.
He felt much the way he had when Diedre, Philip and Thomas had been killed, leaving himself and Ethan the only survivors of their foolhardy group. No matter that he hadn't seen them in twenty years; it had shaken him. It's never easy to have an entire section of your life wiped out.
And now again - no matter how much he had often loathed Quentin Travers, the man had always been there and now he was not. Nor were Donaldson or Mallory or Bingham or Pritchard or dozens of others. And it was rather an empty world.
They had walked almost all the way up to the Jaffa Gate of the Old City when Faith finally spoke.
"So today's our last day here, right?" she asked.
"Yes," he said distractedly. "Our flight leaves Tel Aviv tomorrow morning."
"Then we should... I dunno. Do something tourist-y. You wanna go up on the wall and walk around?"
He glanced at her. "If you like." They were at the gate now, and he paid a small fee to let them both up to the top of the city wall. There was room for two people to walk abreast there in a sort of corridor between the high tops of the wall, which reached over their heads and were notched with waist-high crenellations, providing spaces through which one could view the city and countryside.
"Hot out, huh?" Faith said after a moment. It was, in fact, very hot - another Middle Eastern summer day, without a cloud in sight. The sky was bleached out around the horizon, pale blue, and he was squinting in the sun.
"Yes," he said. He was still remembering horrors, thinking of those lost. When he glanced at her she was looking at him tentatively, as if trying to feel out his mood. She looked uncomfortable at catching his eye.
"Sorry about freaking out earlier," she muttered, looking down.
He immediately lightened, turning towards her, trying to be reassuring. "Don't be."
Faith shrugged. "Whatever." They had walked to a turn in the wall, and she leaned into one of the crenellations, looking out at the landscape, silver-topped olive trees and dusty roads stretching out below them. She fiddled with a loose brick. "Is this the part where we have to have a big discussion about our relationship or something?"
Giles smiled wryly and leant beside her, the bricks rough under his arms. "Do you think we should?"
"God, no," she said quickly. He smiled, turning to lean against the wall and gaze at her. She fidgeted uncomfortably, still staring out at the valley below them as she chewed on her lower lip. He wanted to kiss her again. "Except..." she started. He waited for her to continue, but she didn't.
"Yes?" he finally prompted.
"This... there's just no way, you know? I mean, it's nice. It's very... yeah. But you're kidding yourself if you think this is going to end all happily-ever-after."
"What makes you think I think that?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. He thought of burying Jenny, of burying Buffy, of burying Randall, of burying Quentin bloody Travers, and how far away from happily-ever-after life always was.
"Well, you... I don't know, what, are you saying you think this is going to suck?" she looked confused, then almost offended.
"No, it's just..." he sighed and took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. He spoke slowly and deliberately. "Active Watchers have nearly as low a life-expectancy as their Slayers. You have already seen your Watcher die; I've buried my Slayer. We have to face facts." He looked at her wearily.
"Oh," she said.
"Not to mention," he said, "that it is always risky for either Watchers or Slayers to fall in love. It gives us so much to lose." Jenny, he thought. I am still so sorry.
"Xander told me about Angel killing your girlfriend," she said softly.
He closed his eyes. "Yes. Anyone who wishes to hurt us will invariably target those who mean the most to us."
"Yeah," she said, moving back and slumping against the far wall.
"This will almost certainly end badly. In fact, for us, loving is perhaps the most dangerous and foolhardy thing we could possibly do."
She was looking at him with wide open, hurting eyes, big and brown.
"And the bravest," he added.
She held his gaze for a long moment, looking so young and beautiful and fragile it hurt. Deceptively fragile - he knew how strong she was, how she didn't need to be protected.
"Risky and stupid and brave are three things I get called a lot," she said finally, stepping towards him.
"I know," he said, smiling slightly. The sun was hot on his face and all the colors of the world were washed out except for her, standing there vibrant, tan and alive. She tasted of sunlight and salt when she pushed him against the wall, bricks rubbing roughly against his back, and her hands, on his face and the nape of his neck, were sun-warmed like baked stones.
*****
TBC...
*****
By Annakovsky
See part 1 for all relevant info and disclaimer.
***********
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
***********
Giles was reflective after their encounter with Murray's son. Murray had been two years ahead of him at school; he remembered him with a kind of younger schoolboy awe, picturing him mentally as one of the older, confident boys, good at games. The top swimmer in his year, if he remembered correctly. He had only known him slightly as an adult; he had seemed a competent man, a good man. His body had been one of those dug out of the rubble left after the explosion of the Council's headquarters. Giles had identified what was left of him.
It felt as though he had spent his entire year identifying remains. Looking back, the past ten months appeared as a dizzying succession of international flights, dazed, sleepless nights, and continually arriving too late. Arriving to find the bloody corpses of teenage girls or of men and women who had been his colleagues.
He remembered a time, not long before, when a room smeared with the blood of those he had known had made him vomit. Now he felt nothing but very weary.
During the time he had spent in Sunnydale, he had hardly felt like himself. When he closed his eyes he saw blood. His mouth tasted of ashes and in secret he drank more than he ought. He was dazed, foggy-headed from grief and lack of sleep.
For he did grieve the Council's loss. Despite its arrogance, uselessness and general archaism, he had spent the greater part of his life working with and for them. They were old family friends and twenty-odd years worth of colleagues; twenty-odd years of consultations over manuscripts, debates over procedure, friendly office conversation. And now nearly all of them were dead.
He felt much the way he had when Diedre, Philip and Thomas had been killed, leaving himself and Ethan the only survivors of their foolhardy group. No matter that he hadn't seen them in twenty years; it had shaken him. It's never easy to have an entire section of your life wiped out.
And now again - no matter how much he had often loathed Quentin Travers, the man had always been there and now he was not. Nor were Donaldson or Mallory or Bingham or Pritchard or dozens of others. And it was rather an empty world.
They had walked almost all the way up to the Jaffa Gate of the Old City when Faith finally spoke.
"So today's our last day here, right?" she asked.
"Yes," he said distractedly. "Our flight leaves Tel Aviv tomorrow morning."
"Then we should... I dunno. Do something tourist-y. You wanna go up on the wall and walk around?"
He glanced at her. "If you like." They were at the gate now, and he paid a small fee to let them both up to the top of the city wall. There was room for two people to walk abreast there in a sort of corridor between the high tops of the wall, which reached over their heads and were notched with waist-high crenellations, providing spaces through which one could view the city and countryside.
"Hot out, huh?" Faith said after a moment. It was, in fact, very hot - another Middle Eastern summer day, without a cloud in sight. The sky was bleached out around the horizon, pale blue, and he was squinting in the sun.
"Yes," he said. He was still remembering horrors, thinking of those lost. When he glanced at her she was looking at him tentatively, as if trying to feel out his mood. She looked uncomfortable at catching his eye.
"Sorry about freaking out earlier," she muttered, looking down.
He immediately lightened, turning towards her, trying to be reassuring. "Don't be."
Faith shrugged. "Whatever." They had walked to a turn in the wall, and she leaned into one of the crenellations, looking out at the landscape, silver-topped olive trees and dusty roads stretching out below them. She fiddled with a loose brick. "Is this the part where we have to have a big discussion about our relationship or something?"
Giles smiled wryly and leant beside her, the bricks rough under his arms. "Do you think we should?"
"God, no," she said quickly. He smiled, turning to lean against the wall and gaze at her. She fidgeted uncomfortably, still staring out at the valley below them as she chewed on her lower lip. He wanted to kiss her again. "Except..." she started. He waited for her to continue, but she didn't.
"Yes?" he finally prompted.
"This... there's just no way, you know? I mean, it's nice. It's very... yeah. But you're kidding yourself if you think this is going to end all happily-ever-after."
"What makes you think I think that?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. He thought of burying Jenny, of burying Buffy, of burying Randall, of burying Quentin bloody Travers, and how far away from happily-ever-after life always was.
"Well, you... I don't know, what, are you saying you think this is going to suck?" she looked confused, then almost offended.
"No, it's just..." he sighed and took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes. He spoke slowly and deliberately. "Active Watchers have nearly as low a life-expectancy as their Slayers. You have already seen your Watcher die; I've buried my Slayer. We have to face facts." He looked at her wearily.
"Oh," she said.
"Not to mention," he said, "that it is always risky for either Watchers or Slayers to fall in love. It gives us so much to lose." Jenny, he thought. I am still so sorry.
"Xander told me about Angel killing your girlfriend," she said softly.
He closed his eyes. "Yes. Anyone who wishes to hurt us will invariably target those who mean the most to us."
"Yeah," she said, moving back and slumping against the far wall.
"This will almost certainly end badly. In fact, for us, loving is perhaps the most dangerous and foolhardy thing we could possibly do."
She was looking at him with wide open, hurting eyes, big and brown.
"And the bravest," he added.
She held his gaze for a long moment, looking so young and beautiful and fragile it hurt. Deceptively fragile - he knew how strong she was, how she didn't need to be protected.
"Risky and stupid and brave are three things I get called a lot," she said finally, stepping towards him.
"I know," he said, smiling slightly. The sun was hot on his face and all the colors of the world were washed out except for her, standing there vibrant, tan and alive. She tasted of sunlight and salt when she pushed him against the wall, bricks rubbing roughly against his back, and her hands, on his face and the nape of his neck, were sun-warmed like baked stones.
*****
TBC...
*****