Funeral
Part II

Giles heard from Roger Wyndam-Pryce about Wesley's death. The old man spoke of the death of his son matter-of-factly, in passing, in the same tone of voice he would have used if he were referring to the Council offices running out of coffee. It was a situation; it had to be dealt with.
Upon returning to his London flat, Giles called Faith. He had been her Watcher, after all; when Faith came out of her coma, it was he that she tortured. A perverse connexion, perhaps, but one which he knew had been meaningful to both of them. When Wesley needed help, it was to Faith that he turned.
Wesley had been Buffy's Watcher, too, at least officially, but Giles did not even bother to call her.
He opened his notebook computer and began to make travel plains, for him to travel from London to Los Angeles, and for Faith to travel there from Cleveland. It was the latter set of plans which required more finesse, considering that she and not he was a fugitive from the law.
Within the week, then, Giles had returned to California, to the place where he had lived on and off for seven years, to the place which held so many painful memories for him, ready to add another to the list. He has traveled to the state many times before, but always before (with the exception of the first time, which had been so long ago, before Buffy, it seemed to be in a different life,) there had been a contingent of rowdy adolescents waiting there to meet him. This time, he was alone.

Giles was surprised at who was at Wesley's funeral, and who wasn't. Roger Wyndam-Pryce was there, of course, with his wife Delores, wearing the same interminable scorn which had graced his face for decades, and his contempt for his colleagues who came to wish farewell to his son is clear. This was his distasteful duty, he seemed to say; why would anyone else wish to travel across the globe to witness the culmination of his failure?
Still, there were other Watchers here; it seemed there were those in the Council who mourned his passing besides Giles. It surprised him to see how many had turned out; after all, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce was a twit when Giles had first known him. (He hated to think ill of the dead, but it was the truth.) Later, when Wesley had matured, he had already quit the Council. Perhaps Wesley signified to them what they secretly wished to be themselves: an adventurer who fought for Good on his own terms, unobstructed by the weight of institutional bureaucracy.
Giles knew most of the Watchers, or at least could put their names to their faces. He remained mostly silent to them, however, and they treated him likewise. He wasn't one of them, not really, not anymore. He was like Wesley—alone.
Except Wesley hadn't been really alone, at least not until the end. He had had allies, friends. Angel. Krevlorneswath of the Deathwok Clan. Charles Gunn. Giles wondered where these people were now; had they all been destroyed in the collapse of Wolfram & Hart? Why were they absent from the funeral of their friend and colleague?
The only person, it seemed, from that core team who had come to the funeral was one Miss Winifred Burkle. Her face was somber, and she kept looking to Wesley's open coffin as if to convince herself he was really dead. Giles made his way over to her, informed her quietly that he was sorry for her loss. "Thank you," she said, looking up at him with eyes full of a sorrow he had seen too many times. "I give you thanks."
Giles paused. He wanted to ask how she had survived the destruction of Wolfram & Hart, where were her colleagues. But he saw the pain in her eyes, and knew that this was not the time. He passed on, leaving her alone.

Wesley Wyndam-Pryce
Requiescat in pace
1966-2004

A/N: I didn't originally plan on continuing this (half of writing a good story--esp. a fanfic-- is knowing when it is finished). But karabair made a suggestion I couldn't pass up. You should be able to expect two more chapters. Alixtii.