"I met with a few old friends. Almost made a new one, which I think is statistically impossible for a man of my age." – Flooded

October, 2001 – Bath, Somerset

David Ford was at that level of drunkenness where he was having a fine time, thank you very much, and was going to make sure his friend was going to have a fine time, too, even if it killed them both.

Rupert Giles, who hadn't so much as cracked a smile in more than four months, was rather of the opinion that the latter option would be more likely. Not to mention preferable.

Oh, the rational side of him, the trained Watcher side, knew that his life wasn't actually over, that he would keep on breathing, keep on getting up every morning and going about the routine of his day, even if the one person who made it all worthwhile would never do any of that again. Rationally, he knew that one day he would smile again, he would find himself able to breathe without pain, wake up without his very first thought being, "She's really gone," and feeling that accompanying hard lump in the pit of his stomach confirming his worst fears. One day he'd be able to go on with his life without feeling that the best part of him had simply, without warning, ceased to exist.

Someday, he was fairly certain, he would be able to enjoy the sort of night out his old friends were urging on him now. He would stand his rounds of beer, he would laugh and joke and play darts, complain about those idiots at the Council and possibly about the idiots in Whitehall if the conversation went that direction. Perhaps, with his inhibitions sufficiently lowered, he would chat up some likely woman who wasn't less than half his age and maybe, just maybe, even take her home for the night.

But tonight was not that night.

Tonight he was drinking whisky, indifferent to the quality, caring only that the quantity should be sufficient to dull the pain a little.

Tonight was going to be the only night he overdid it. He'd promised himself that at the beginning of the evening and again just a little while ago. He remembered what happened to him in Sunnydale when the pain was fresh and raw and what little strength he had left in him had to go towards looking after the others, getting them through the worst of it. It hadn't really mattered how he was holding up. That's what he'd told himself over and over.

Sometimes he'd even believed it.

Tonight, even with the whisky, he wasn't going to be able to believe the lies he told himself to cope.

And his old friend, who should have been a help, was only making things worse. He meant well, of course; David always meant well. And he honestly believed he could empathise with Giles's plight. After all, he'd grown up knowing his mother's Slayer both before and after she was called. Had thought of the girl almost as another sister, or at least a friendly cousin. He and his family had mourned her when the inevitable happened, and then they had moved on.

"It's a fact of life," he was saying now. "A sad fact of life, granted."

"A sad, cruel, altogether crap fact of life," his wife interjected.

"True, true. But one we grow up with. We all know the reality of what's to come."

Giles set his glass down on the table harder than he intended. "No, we do not," he disagreed vehemently. He wasn't quite slurring his words just yet. "We grow up knowing the idea of it, but we have no concept of the reality until it actually happens. We tell ourselves it will be painful. After all, it's painful to lose anyone one cares for. It's a universal feeling if anything is. Those of us…" His words trailed off as he had to squeeze his eyes hard shut for a moment. When he continued, there was a harsh, bitter edge to his voice. "Those of us foolish enough to get 'overly attached', to develop affection and lose our 'impartiality', well, we use words like 'excruciating' when we think of the future. And then, one day, we learn what those words actually mean."

He blinked back tears which were suddenly stinging his eyes.

David was kind enough to pretend he didn't see. "So, next round's on me, then. Same again, Rupert?"

"Double."

"How 'bout you, Luce?" he asked his wife.

She shook her head. "Nooo. I think one of us needs to be sober enough to get us on the train."

Giles sat there staring at nothing, twisting his empty glass in his hands. He felt a light touch on his wrist and looked around.

"Are you all right?" Lucy asked softly. "Under the circumstances, I mean."

He gave her a sad, twisted approximation of a smile. "Sorry," he said. "It seems my upper lip is somewhat less stiff than it ought to be just now."

"Don't worry about that with me. Don't forget, I didn't grow up in a Watcher family. I don't find it easy to resign myself to the inevitable."

"None of us do, really. We all just pretend that nothing will ever happen, that life will continue exactly as it has."

Lucy nodded. "Oh, I know. That's precisely what I keep saying to myself, but always in the back of my mind there's that awful knowledge of what will happen if Carly is ever called. She's such a sweet little thing, Rupert. You'd like her." She sighed. "I like her," she admitted. "A little too much. And yet I find myself holding back from her when she's about. Telling myself not to get too attached. I suppose you must have done that with your Buffy in the early days."

"Can't remember, now. Too much has happened since." He sat considering the question for a moment. "D'you know, I honestly think I believed it wouldn't be a problem? What mad hubris is that?"

"The same kind you're all born and raised and trained for."

Giles paid no attention. "Funny, I used to be the great rebel, yet at some point I'd swallowed their nonsense whole. I was fond enough of Briony in my own reserved sort of way. And Yasmine, I suppose, the girl I looked after for Rodger Hammond when he was ill. But I felt no real attachment for either of them. Strange as it may seem, at that time I was more or less the ideal Watcher. I made the mistake of assuming that the only difference between those girls and Buffy was that she was actually the Slayer." He chuckled in fond remembrance. "I soon learned that approach would never work. She was too much of an original, a, a free thinker."

It was taking David rather a long time at the bar. Giles talked about his Slayer the entire time, as Lucy Ford listened sympathetically. He had had just enough alcohol to loosen his tongue, but not yet enough to tangle it. He spoke of his deep admiration for her, both as the Slayer and as a person.

"She sounds extraordinary," said Lucy.

His green eyes were dark with inexpressible grief. "She was. She was the most extraordinary person I've ever been privileged to know. And God help me, I loved her."

David returned with the round of drinks just in time to hear the last part. "Careful you don't say something like that in front of Quentin Travers."

Giles curled his lip with disgust. "Travers, the unspeakable, filthy-minded old bastard, believes that we were lovers. Not that he comes right out and says that, of course."

"Certainly not. Just makes any number of snide implications, if I know him. Anyway, don't let it bother you, old boy. Even if it were true – and knowing you it's a dead cert it isn't – he can't give you the sack for it now that she's … no longer with us."

"I know. I shouldn't. He can't do anything to me. And Buffy's beyond his reach now; there's not a single thing he could do or say ever again which could hurt her. And yet, I quite wanted to knock him through the wall of his office for daring to even think anything unsavoury about her."

"I daresay a great number of us would pay good money to see that," said David, and all three of them laughed drunkenly.

When Giles woke up the next day, with his head pounding and his mouth dry and disgusting, he couldn't for the life of him remember how he'd managed to make it back to his flat. He hoped the Fords had made their train to Plymouth with similar good luck.

The flat was bare and lifeless and there was a bit of an unpleasant funk to it, as was only to be expected after sitting empty for a few years. Those possessions which he had sent on ahead from Sunnydale were sitting in crates in the front room, ready to be unpacked. The rest of his things were presumably in the middle of the Atlantic at the moment, or quite possibly lost someplace between here and continental Europe.

Well, no time like the present, he thought. He dug out a pry bar and opened the first of the crates. Books, of course. Most of his crates would contain books. He sighed as he realised how little use many of them were to him now. What the hell did it matter what some ancient prophecy said might or might not happen half a world away. Little enough to do with him at this point.

But he cleaned the bookcases with an old bottle of Dettol he found under the sink anyway, then carefully shelved the volumes.

His mood was already glum and unhappy, so of course it would have to be that book he dropped on the floor. The one where he'd stashed the two pictures Dawn had given him as a keepsake. One was a candid snapshot of the two girls in their back yard, taken by their mother. The other one, the one that broke his heart to even glance at just now, was a smiling 8x10 of Buffy. It was so very like her, the open-mouthed grin, the shining green eyes. He even thought he remembered the sleeveless blue shirt she was wearing.

It was such a good likeness that it felt almost like looking at the distilled essence of the girl he adored, the girl who had not too long ago lived and breathed and been Buffy Summers.

Giles groped blindly behind him with one hand, still holding on to the picture with the other. He found the chair and dropped into it heavily. Yanking off his glasses, he wiped the back of his hand across his tear-filled eyes. His chest ached and his jaw worked silently, unable to form sounds. Somehow he was still able to keep on breathing, but he didn't understand how such a thing was possible.

In fact, he still didn't understand why such a travesty was even possible. The whole time he'd been in London with the Council, people had kept coming up to him with their insincere condolences. People he considered friends. They'd actually had the nerve to tell him how lucky he was. He'd survived his tenure, kept his Slayer alive for several years, and now, lucky bastard that he was, he could come home and enjoy himself. He had his life back, and wasn't that just splendid?

And he'd wanted to shout bitterly that he didn't give a damn about having his life back. The only life he ever wanted back was hers.

Some time later, he found he had recovered enough to get up. He placed the photograph between the pages of the book and slotted it into the bookcase. Just for a moment, he leaned his head against the leather-covered spines and took in a deep, shuddering breath.

Then he turned abruptly, grabbed his keys and left the flat.

There was – or at least there had been, back in '97, an off-licence just down the road. He sincerely hoped it was still there.

Halfway, his steps began to slow. What the hell did he think he was doing? Did he really want to be one of those old Watchers who turned into a slobbering drunken wreck when he lost his Slayer? Then again, he hadn't just lost his Slayer, he had lost Buffy. What the hell did it matter what he did? Now that Sunnydale was behind him, he had no responsibilities, no one to rely on him, no one he had to be strong for. And there was no Tara this time to tell him in that gentle way of hers that maybe he should get some help.

The off-licence was still in the same spot it had been when he'd left, looking unchanged and eternal. He grabbed the handle of the door and suddenly heard Buffy's voice in his head, speaking to him from four years in the past, the day Eyghon had come back for him.

"I care from you lost-weekending it in your apartment!" she'd said. And, "Don't be sorry, be Giles!"

He made one last attempt to tell himself that he no longer had anyone he had to be Giles for, but it didn't work. All he could see in his mind's eye was that beautiful, expressive face of hers, full of worry and disappointment. In his view, he had already failed her in the ultimate fashion. How dare he go on failing her?

He let go of the door and walked on. When he was tired out from walking, he returned to his flat and picked up the telephone directory. It was years out of date, of course, but some numbers never changed. He found the one he wanted and placed the call.

At the meeting, he listened to a few people tell their stories. He hadn't intended to speak, especially after having been so drunkenly voluble last night. Yet somehow he found himself getting to his feet.

"My name is Rupert," he began, "and I'm an alcoholic."

Later, feeling wrung out and embarrassed, as he always did after these things, he stopped at the tea urn for another cup of that bleak, bitter muck that passed as tea. With a return of his old sarcasm, he found himself thinking that it probably drove more people to the bottle than the meetings helped.

A big man with a flat head and a flat nose, who looked like a lifetime footballer, stopped in front of him. "Hey," he said affably. Giles nodded in greeting. "Rupert, didn't you say?"

"That's right."

"Stuart. Was hoping I'd catch you up. Story of yours felt a bit relatable."

Giles's smile was pleasant enough, but didn't go anywhere near his eyes. He knew no one could really relate except for the rest of the Scoobies, but he had never been self-absorbed enough to think he (or they) held a monopoly on pain.

"Didn't speak tonight, but I sometimes do," Stuart told him. "Lost my son six years ago. Had to be the strong one, hold everything together for my wife and daughter. Held it together so long everything just fell apart one day."

Giles felt a sudden sympathy for the man. "I'm so sorry."

"S'alright. This girl you mentioned. Got the feeling she was like a daughter to you."

"She was," said Giles. "And she wasn't. She was … everything." Desiring to change the subject, he said, "Things have changed a bit while I've been away. Is there still any place to get a decent cup of tea around here?"

Stuart laughed. "Patel's, round the corner. Beats Ange's three-day-old engine cleaner. Fancy a cup myself."

The two men walked to the café together in silence and sat down at the same table.

"Those kids, the ones you had to be strong for. How old?"

"All about twenty. Except for the little sister. She's fifteen."

Stuart nodded. "Yeah. Wouldn't blame 'em if I were you. Selfish brutes at that age. All of 'em. Can't help it. Don't notice anybody else."

"True," agreed Giles. "And I don't blame them. They're all quite good-hearted when you get right down to it."

They talked for a while about Stuart's family and his years in the army, because Giles couldn't bear to talk about Buffy anymore just yet.

"Need a sponsor, you think?" the other man asked abruptly, catching Giles off-guard.

"Oh. Well, honestly I hadn't even thought of it."

No one at the AA meetings in Sunnydale had ever mentioned sponsoring him, although they'd all been generally encouraging and full of congratulations when he earned his chip for thirty days of sobriety. Strange to think that had only been two or three weeks ago. Even time itself seemed strange and wrong these days.

"Give you my number if you want. Up to you. Tell you one thing, some folks get put off by blokes like you. 'Situational alcoholism', you said; that'll get 'em brassed off every time. Saw some of it tonight. Then all the big words, posh accent. All they hear."

"I know that," Giles admitted. With a sudden twinkle of humour, he added, "But one can't help how one is brought up, after all."

Stuart, to his credit, got the joke. His shoulders shook in a silent laugh.

"I suppose making fun of them won't help my case at all?"

The silent laugh turned into a throaty chuckle, and Giles, to his great surprise, actually felt a bit like joining in.

When he left, Stuart pushed across a card with his name, address, and two telephone numbers stamped on it. "Call if you need," he said. "No pressure either way."

The very next morning, before Giles had a chance to think about wanting a drink or a cup of tea or much of anything else, Willow phoned to tell him that Buffy had been resurrected.

Author's Note: Crossposted to AO3 as part of a larger work.