Buffy picked up a small stone, one with a sharp edge and began tapping against the rock interior. The repeated collisions chipped away pieces of the wall.

Giles had been watching her surreptitiously for some time but his gaze became obvious now. The tapping, followed by screeches that made his skin shiver as she scored the wall, rock against rock, pushed him to say something. It occurred to him she might think she could signal someone outside the cave, if there were someone. "Buffy, there's no one other than us to hear."

She held her breath for an instant wanting to ignore him, and leaned her head sullenly against the wall as she continued her quiet attack on the rock face. "I know that," she said, finally letting out her breath.

"Then what are you trying to accomplish? Or are you just whiling away the hours making noises reminiscent of fingernails on a chalkboard?"

"I'm scratching our names and today's date into the rock."

Giles suddenly found this comforting, in an odd way. She was doing something very human and almost adolescent, a 'we were here' type moment.

Buffy continued in a monotone voice. "And I'm going to put a slash for each day we're stuck here. That way when someone eventually finds our lifeless, decayed, dried up corpses they'll know who we were and they'll be able to figure out the day we died so they can get it right on our tombstones."

Comfort turned to a shudder. He rose and moved to her side where he rested his hand over hers, stilling her movement. Her hand was cold. "I think you may be overreacting, don't you?"

Her eyes flicked to him and back to the wall. She pulled her hand from his and resumed her work.

Giles leaned against the cool surface, closed his eyes and listened, although in reality, he didn't have to listen because the sound vibrated through his head like a slow drill. The internal debate that engaged him didn't persuade him one way or the other. Which was worse: the noise she was making or her abject silence without it?

&&&&&&&&&&&&

A knife-edged shaft of light beamed through the skylight creating an oval spotlight on the ground. The light spilled further into the room with a diffuse effect. The distinct oval moved slowly throughout the afternoon as the earth drifted toward evening. They both knew that eventually the sun would sink lower than the mountain and the oval would disappear.

The lines around his eyes were accentuated by embedded dust and dirt. The compassion in his eyes pained her most of all. She watched him sitting quietly in her tomb: with her, for her, like an oasis, a caring, living, breathing respite. If she took refuge with him how could she possibly survive this desert of grief again? She knew she'd have to return to it alone.

He stood and moved toward her ignoring her obvious wish to be left alone.

"Buffy...?"

"Giles, don't be nice to me. I can't take you being nice to me right now." He quietly stepped back, never taking his eyes from her.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this. I didn't mean for this to happen." He wasn't certain if she was speaking to him or herself; her voice was quiet and her face turned away. "I just wanted to get out of the light for a little while…just wanted to…"

"Escape?" He considered his words carefully. "It's not my intent to hurt you. I only want to help. Acknowledging your pain is an important step in the grieving process."

"So you think forcing the issue is going to help?"

"I'm not trying to force you to feel things you aren't ready to feel. I was just hoping to present you with a safe place to…"

"Safe?"

"Well, by safe I meant a place where you didn't feel the pressures of being the Slayer or a protective big sister, where no demands would be placed upon you. Somewhere you could just slow down and be…at least for a few hours."

"That's sort of what I was trying to say when I told you I wanted to step back from Slaying. Then you came up with that whole quest thing."

"Yes, I know. And I'm sorry it didn't work out as we'd hoped."

Suddenly, as if someone had flipped a switch, she threw her shoulders back and took a deep breath, bolstering herself and forced a false aura of resolve. "Not your fault. I'm the Slayer. Can't exactly take a sabbatical, especially now with Glory sniffing around." She met his eyes directly. "So what's the plan? I mean what is it I'm supposed to do that will help?"

No response from Giles urged her on. "See…you're clueless too."

"Not clueless…just…"

"British."

A hint of a sad smile crossed his lips as he looked at her. "I do actually have a thought, it's just…difficult."

"Cause it's me."

"No, because of me. Years of training, generations of time-honored tradition of non-expression."

"That old repression thing again."

"Yes, that."

"Well, you better take your shot, Giles. I don't know how long I can hold onto this fake 'let's go for it' attitude. Look at it this way; we're on a mountain, in a cave in the middle of nowhere. Nobody's here, nobody cares what we do. That's what you wanted wasn't it? You wanted me to get a break from being the Slayer. Well, now you can take a break from being British." Surprise flashed through him. She continued, "So what do I do? You said you know…so tell me what to do."

He hesitated for a moment, then said, "Cry?" He knew that was what he wanted to say but it came out more as a question, more of a suggestion to offer her.

She stared at him for a long moment, sorting through the confusion, before asking, "And while I'm doing that what do you do?"

He shoved his dusty hands into his equally dusty pockets and shrugged slightly. "Hold you?"

Buffy raised her eyebrows in surprise; this wasn't what she'd expected from him. "And that's supposed to be productive? I've got this evil thing chasing down my sister and you want me to take time out to cry like a little girl? Phff."

"Buffy, it won't fix everything but it might help you to feel better, more settled and able to focus on Glory."

Buffy studied him. "One problem." Giles raised his brow in a familiar questioning look. "I don't feel like crying. I don't feel much of anything, except irritation at being stuck in this cave. And anyway, crying isn't for me. I don't think Slayers are supposed to cry. It's probably written somewhere in that handbook I never got."

She moved away and he watched her shoulders drop, weary from the effort of the past few minutes.