AN: for those of you here at the-site-which-cannot-be-named (ie. this fanfiction site), I thought I should mention this. The PTB here at the-site-which-cannot-be-named are threatening to close accounts of authors who have included any song lyrics in any of their fics. I haven't used lyrics in Midnight Angel, but I have in other fics. And I have absolutely no intention of removing them to suit whatever need the PTB here have. If they delete my account, so be it. So if you come here and find me and my fics missing, that is likely the reason. New fic chapters are always posted immediately on my website, though. There's a link in my user profile. Or you can do a Google search for my site name (Vagabond Soul) and you should find it. I also have an email update group where new chapters go out as soon as they are posted. Anyway, I thought I should mention that.

Warning: this chapter is kinda dark and a little graphic

Chapter 10

The foyer inside Giles' home was deathly silent. Near the entranceway, Spike, Xander, and Angel stood in an abbreviated huddle, unsure of what do to or what to say. They simply held their positions and waited for something to happen. Waited for Giles to respond. At the moment, he was only staring down at the picture, his face tense and pale. In front of him, Willow glared angrily, her body trembling.

Finally, Giles raised his eyes, glanced at the people who'd invaded his home, who threatened to destroy what was left of his family, before his eyes landed on Angel. "You took this?" he asked tightly.

"Yes," Angel said with a nod. There was no reason to deny it.

Removing his glasses, Giles pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd hoped he'd never have to deal with this, never have to tell the truth of what had happened that horrendous night four years prior. His life had already been torn to pieces. Now, what remained was hanging by a thin thread that was already frayed. The four people in front of him had the ability take away all that he had left.

"I'm waiting, Giles," Willow snapped. He looked up at her, opened his mouth to speak, but abruptly closed it again. "Don't you dare lie to me!" she demanded, yanking the picture from his hand. "I know she's not dead!"

"Willow," Spike stated softly, walking over and putting a soothing hand on her shoulder.

She shook off the gesture, shot narrowed eyes in his direction. "I'm not going to let him wiggle out of telling us what the hell's going on!"

"Okay," Spike agreed. He placed his hands back on her shoulders, turned her to face him. "He'll tell us, but why don't we give him a minute? We can go into the living room, sit down, and let him explain."

Willow took a deep breath, tried to calm some of her frustration. It didn't work. "Fine," she bit out and stomped to the room on her right.

Spike ran a hand through his hair, looked at Angel and Xander then back at Giles. "She's not going to leave until you give her answers, and frankly, she's got every right to know them. We all do," he told the unsteady Giles. "So you might as well go sit down and start explaining."

Shoulders slumping minutely, Giles replaced his glasses and walked hesitantly into the room Willow had entered. Behind him, Spike, Xander and Angel followed, sharing unsure glances between them. Inside the room, Willow's pacing abruptly halted when she saw Giles.

"Answer me one question. One," she requested as calmly as possible. "Is Buffy alive."

"Yes," Giles responded dejectedly, not over the fact that his assumed dead daughter was really alive, but that he was going to have to reveal his deepest, darkest secret.

Hand clenched, Willow walked over to the couch, dropped onto it, and stared hard at Giles. "Why have you been hiding her here all this time?"

"Because I had to!" Giles shouted desperately. "They would have taken her away! They would have locked her up in some institution! I couldn't let that happen! She was all I had left!"

"Why the bloody hell would they do that?" Spike challenged, his own anger and frustration growing.

Giles released a shuddering breath, his eyes closed, his head drooped. "Because she killed them."

"She... – NO!" Willow roared, leaping off the couch. "No! You can't believe that!"

"I know what I saw," Giles stated wearily, all but flopping into one of the living room chairs. It would all come out now. Each and every little detail.

Spike grabbed Willow's arm, led her back to the couch. She looked as if she wanted to tear Giles' eyes out. Not that he could blame her. Believing Buffy could kill someone, let alone her own family, was absolutely ridiculous. But for whatever reason, Giles believed his own daughter had committed murder. "Why don't you tell us exactly what happened?" he asked Giles.

In the doorway of the room, Angel hovered between wanting to enter and feeling like he should turn and leave. He was an outsider here. He hadn't been part of this. He'd never met Buffy, barely knew the people in the room. His right to be there was relegated to the fact that he had seen a supposed ghost and then had taken a picture that proved the ghost was indeed a live person, who was believed to be dead. There was no reason for him to be part of this.

He stayed. He had to know. So he listened as Giles told of the events the night his family was murdered.

"No!" he barely managed to whisper before he fell to his knees, heavy sobs shaking his body, as he knew deep in his heart that it was already too late, that there was nothing he could do. Everything he loved was gone.

He could do nothing but stare at it all. The blood. The bodies. It was too much. His stomach churned and he retched violently. The stench went unnoticed, the bile in his mouth untasted. The only thing he was aware of was the scene graphically displayed before his eyes.

Dawn. Little Dawnie. His baby, her body half sprawled across the couch, a jagged wound torn across her throat. And the blood, spilling down her skin, staining her pale pink shirt a violent red.

Owen. His only son, his body draped across the floor. Gouges dotted his arms, thin trails of red flowed from them. But they were nicks compared to the deep, penetrating wound Giles could see over the heart, surrounding by a circle of life's essence. A killing blow.

And Joyce, his lovely wife, laying only a few away, but so far out of reach. Her glassy eyes staring unseeingly, her face beautiful even in death. The body he'd loved and stood faithfully next to for twenty-five years was unmarked, except for the twin slashes at her wrists.

He crawled to wife's body, lowered his forehead to hers. "Oh God, Joyce," he choked out brokenly.

Tears ran down his face, falling unheeded into his wife's hair. A sob echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls and ringing in his ears. He fell back on his heels, his mind blank except for the searing grief.

He didn't want to see it. Couldn't help but see it. Joyce and Dawn and Owen and – Buffy! Where was Buffy?

Giles scrambled to his feet, his eyes darting around the room in search of his eldest child. Knees weak, he almost fell, his hand grasping at the end table by the couch. That was when he saw it, saw the knife, dripping with red, stabbed into the wood of the table. Pinned beneath it, scribbled on a stained piece of paper, was a note.

"I'm sorry

I'm sorry

I'm sorry"

"No," he whispered in denial. "No!" This time louder. "Buffy!" he shouted, stumbling away from the table.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the door to the little closet open and dashed toward it. Relief warred with fear, with anger, with denial, when he found Buffy curled inside the closet. The pretty blue top and khaki shorts she wore were splashed with red, her fingers stained with it.

Kneeling, he pressed his fingers to her throat, felt her pulse beating beneath them. The fingers dropped away, his eyes closed. "Dear God," he breathed out, the sound of his own voice startling him.

His eyes blinked open again, focused on his daughter. He remembered the note, and his shoulders shook under the heavy sobs that rose in his throat.

Buffy. His precious little girl. The one who'd sat on his knee and asked him to tell her stories, fairytales, with knights on chargers, and long-haired princesses. The one who'd spilled grape juice on one of his white shirts and then claimed it was a new fashion statement.

The one who'd been violated, tormented, harassed, and shunned.

The one who'd snapped and broken.

Giles wiped the tears from his eyes. He wouldn't let them take her. No matter what she'd done. She was his daughter. She was all he had left. He would NOT allow them to lock her up in some little room. He would protect her.

Any doubts he may have had ceased to exist when he scooped up her body, felt her press herself unconsciously closer, heard the merest of whimpers reach his ears. No, he wouldn't let them take her.

He held her close, carried her out of the room and away from the life he no longer had.


"I hid her and then...I don't know why I did it, but I took one of her shoes and tossed it down on the path leading out onto the cliffs," Giles continued on, his hands lifting helplessly in his lap.

"So the cops would think she'd tossed herself off the cliffs," Spike concluded, dazed by all that he'd heard. It couldn't be true, could it?

"I don't know," Giles responded, sighing heavily. He shook his head, still trying to makes sense of it all even now, four years later. "I guess I just wanted them to think she'd left the house. I don't really know what I wanted them to think. If I'd been thinking more clearly, I would have gotten rid of the knife and the note as well but..." He shrugged. He hadn't been thinking too clearly at the time. "I came in and called the police."

"Didn't they search the house?" Angel spoke up, wondering how the police could have come in, studied a crime scene and not found the girl, the supposed murderer, hidden somewhere inside.

Giles gave him a pitying look, Xander snorted. "They conducted only a cursory investigation, I can assure you," Giles answered, his eyes darkening.

"And they were only to happy to deem Buffy a murderer," Spike pointed out.

"You can't really believe that – that she did it!" Willow said harshly, the first time she'd made any sound or movement since Giles had begun his story.

"There was a note. She was covered with blood, but unharmed," Giles reminded her. "It's not what I'd wanted to believe." And he hadn't. Nothing in the world had been worse than finding his family dead, and by the hand of his own daughter. But there was nothing else for him to believe.

"She couldn't have done it. Couldn't! And you...you!" she spat out, pointing an accusing finger at Giles. "You should be ashamed for even thinking she could!"

"Willow-"

She didn't let him continue as she jumped up from the couch, shrugging off Spike's hand. "And you've kept her locked up here for four years! All this time and she's been there!"

"You've kept her locked up here for that long?" Xander asked, steel underlying the quiet tone of his voice. "What? Do you have her shut up in some dingy room in the basement?"

"Of course not!" Giles denied, offended the boy would think such a thing. "She uses the third floor. We had it redone about six years ago and made into an apartment of sorts in case family or friends ever came to stay for more than a few days. She rarely leaves there, of her own choice. I knew she was sneaking out at night, what with the ghost stories and all, and I asked her not to. It was too risky, but she still does it anyway."

"So you just live here with someone you believe murdered the rest of your family?" Willow questioned hotly.

Giles looked down, ashamed. "I keep my door locked at night," he mumbled.

Willow walked over, stood directly in front of Giles. "I want to see her."

"Willow-"

"Don't tell me no!" she demanded forcefully. "I'll tear this house apart until I find her!"

"S-she's up on the third floor, like I said," Giles replied hesitantly.

Turning quickly on her heels, Willow darted out of the room. "Willow! Wait!" Giles pleaded, but her footsteps were already echoing on the stairs. The others hurried after her, desperate to see Buffy for themselves.

Spike caught up with her as she started up the last flight of stairs, grabbing her arm to halt her. "Willow, you can't just barge in there like an elephant. You don't know how she'll react. You might scare her."

Willow started to speak, took a deep breath released it slowly. He was right, of course. "It's okay. I'm fine," she assured him.

Slowly, she climbed the remaining stairs, stopping when she reached the door at the top. Her hand trembled as she lifted it toward the knob. She hesitated, then gripped the metal tightly, and opened the door. Stepping into the room, she paused, taking in only the smallest details of the room lit only by a floor lamp in one corner. Her eyes drifted until they landed on Buffy, seated on a small window seat with her knees pulled up to her chest. Willow steeled her suddenly jumping nerves and walked over to her friend, stopping a few feet away from her, unaware that the others were right behind her.

"Buffy?" she said ever so softly.

For a long minute, there was no response, not even the slightest twitch of muscle from the small blonde seated on the cushion to signal recognition. Then, just as Willow was about to speak her name again, she saw Buffy's arms tighten on her knees, and her head begin to slowly turn towards the group.

Buffy's blank gaze roved over the intruders – from Willow, to Spike, to Xander, to her father – and landed steadily on Angel. He fought the urge to shuffle his feet and instead met her stare, losing himself in the sad, haunted eyes that shone a dull green.

"You live on the beach," she stated faintly, fragilely.

Angel gave her a small smile. "Yeah," he confirmed.

"I've seen you," she told him then turned her head to stare back out the window.

For the rest of their time on the third floor, Buffy failed to acknowledge their presences any further, not even when Willow sat beside her. After five minutes of trying, Spike took her arm and led her out of the room, knowing she'd sit there for hours if allowed. He didn't think that would do Buffy any good. She appeared to be locked in her own little world.

The group reconvened in the living room. Spike held Willow in his arms as she sobbed against his chest. He tried to soothe her, but she was heartbroken, a feeling he could understand. It hadn't been easy to see Buffy that way.

"She almost never speaks," Giles finally said. "Sometimes if you talk to her, she'll say a few words, but most of the time, she acts as if you're not there."

"Didn't-didn't you ever ask her if...if she did it," Willow choked out, her voice muffled against Spike's chest.

Giles looked pained, turned away. "She won't speak of that night. I've tried, but I haven't ever been able to get anything out of her, not what happened, or why, or anything."

"I...I c-can't be here," Willow sobbed, tore herself out of Spike's arms and ran out of the house before anyone could stop her.

"I'll go after her," offered Xander wearily, swiftly leaving.

Giles turned back, looked hard at Spike. "You won't tell anyone? At least not until I can move her somewhere else? I won't allow her to be taken away."

"If you believe I'd say anything, like you believe she actually did it, then you really are a bloody flaming idiot," Spike snarled at him before taking Willow's lead and leaving.

Finding himself in the awkward position of being the only one left with Giles, Angel shifted on his feet, stuffed his hands in his pockets. What was he supposed to do now? "We won't tell anyone she's here or alive, Giles. She'll be safe," he settled on saying.

Nodding once, Giles sank tiredly into a chair as Angel left. She would be protected. At least for a while, he told himself.

TBC