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…Despite her best efforts to feign bravery, Buffy Summers had clearly been shaken by the nightmare fiasco that had overtaken Sunnydale the week before. She and her friends had succeeded; they found the kid in a coma, put his abusive Little League coach to rest. But, still, something was off.
In the days that followed, it was in small details of her demeanor where Rupert Giles, the Slayer’s Watcher, noticed. How even when she was bantering with Xander and Willow, her eyes would wander and train on nothing in particular. How the blonde hesitated the smallest bit as she’d recounted how Angel had, on their last stakeout (read: cemetery date), pointed out that the bags under her eyes were much larger than normal.
To that sentiment, as she had recounted it to Giles, Buffy had flipped her hair defiantly with a, “Not like he’s one to talk. He’s been awake for a century. If he were human, he’d probably have bags under his eyes the size of…” Her train of thought sputtered. “IKEA…” Another pause. “...Bags. ”
Giles came to her rescue: “You mean a FRAKTA.”
“Yeah. One of those. Thanks, Encyclopedia Bummer-tanica .”
More impressed at the pun than he’d been offended about being called “a bummer,” off they’d went, planning their next patrol. Still, her delivery had felt jilted; forced.
It was no surprise, then, that the other members of their world-saving squad had noticed.
“I’m kinda worried,” Willow confessed while alone with Giles. It was a Friday afternoon, after class had ended. Willow had gotten out earlier than the others since she had finished her Computer Science homework for the week. And the month. And likely for the rest of the semester, what little of it there was left at this point before Summer.
As for the more general status of the teenaged trio that Giles had reluctantly began to grow fond of, Buffy hadn’t arrived at the library yet, the Rosenberg girl had plans with her family (which, based on how she glowed as she talked about that, was a rare prospect), and Xander was off doing… whatever Xander did. Rupert frankly didn’t want to know, nor did he particularly care.
The redhead took a long sip of the tea that the librarian had made her—chamomile, since she was so absurdly anxious that anything else would likely make her jitter into oblivion. “Like, I know she’s all aloof and all ass-kic—I mean, butt- kick-y and everything, but… Giles, she saw her grave. That had to mess her up.”
He hadn’t forgotten. After all, that had been his nightmare. He’d even been possessed to give a heartfelt speech, like he was on some kind of teen drama, addressing her tombstone. Yet, most of all, the guilt was what lingered; the guilt that he couldn’t even protect a child from that which goes bump in the night.
Her grave haunted him. Buffy Anne Summers. 1981 — 1997. Her nails, bloodied and with dirt caked underneath from digging herself out from six feet under. The fear in her eyes as she realized that she had become a vampire, touching her face, tracing the contours of monstrosity. The disgust. The way her voice sounded so small as she'd said, words cracking, feebly attempting—and failing— to hide herself from him and from her best friends, begging them: "Don't look at me!"
That had been a nightmare. It took a bit longer than he’d hoped to cobble a thought together. The steam from his tea—Earl Grey, since goodness knew he needed at least a bit of caffeine—fogged his glasses. “That would rattle anyone on the best of days.”
“Yeah. Did you see how scared she looked? How…” The ginger trailed off.
“...Ashamed she was?”
“Yeah.” A sigh. She took another sip of her tea. “It hurt when she assumed we’d hate her as a vampire, y’know? What does she take us for? I mean—” Now Willow was riling herself up. “I know we just met a couple months ago, but we’re bonded together through our shared adventures! Like a crew of pirates! Who pay for the things they take!”
He put down his mug to give her a stare that he hoped expressed, What the hell are you on about?
Before he could correct her, Willow gasped. “Oh. Uh… Pirates don’t work like that, do they?”
“They do not.”
“Oh, whoops. Uh…” Rupert could hear her tapping her toe anxiously as it hit against the stand of the table. “Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, instead of treasure bringing us together—which is, in theory, a good thing—it’s vampires. Which are—outside of Angel—a bad thing. I mean… heck, it’s a big enough deal to make you leave your country! I mean, you came to Sunnydale from Britain. That’s not a decision someone makes willy-nilly!”
…It hadn’t been his decision to make, for the record, but after the death of the other Watcher that had been in the area, the Council didn’t really have much of a choice. Even when he’d been in Britain, working for the Watcher Council, he’d heard that this Merrick bloke had been Buffy’s first Watcher, in L.A. He also, in hushed tones, had heard a more concerning rumor from his coworkers: that Buffy had watched Merrick die. But that was just a rumor; fate may be cruel, he reasoned, but not that cruel. Or was it…?
As the Rosenberg girl continued, Rupert’s thoughts quickly shifted from his deceased predecessor and back to the topic at hand. He let out a non-committal, “Yes, right,” or something to that effect, to show that he was, in fact, listening again.
“Anyway. What I’m trying to say here is that we’re in it for the long haul, Giles.” Willow had, in between breaths, chugged more chamomile tea. “You, me, Xander, and Buffy. Pardon my French, but we’ve seen some stuff . And you don’t just turn on someone who saved you from a vampire trying to make a margarita out of your arteries on a Tuesday night.”
The teen appeared to be trying to divine something from the spare bits of chamomile flower that had settled on the bottom of the mug. There was a small bit of reluctance in her voice as she, after a long pause, asked, “...Giles, did she tell you about the other nightmare she had?”
He shook his head.
“...Oh, yeah. It was right when it all started. The other nightmare was that her dad—not her real dad, but the nightmare version of her real dad—called her a ‘mistake.’”
Rupert took a moment to absorb this. After all, he had seen Buffy’s father. But, it was just before the nightmare mess had begun. What was his—? Ah, yes. Hank, his name was. He didn’t seem like a bad guy; well, other than the “divorced dad” aura that practically screamed from him. The vibe of, I love my daughter and all, but thank god she’s Joyce’s problem now. But was that just the nightmare manifestation of him from Buffy, or was that…?
A pang of something shot through Rupert at that moment. No—he was overanalyzing this. It was likely a non-issue. Hank Summers was probably a perfectly fine bloke. Still, Rupert didn’t have the luxury of acknowledging this in more detail, since Willow barreled on.
“—And then, he never apologized, likely because he didn’t remember it. And, like, how can she even bring it up to him? What would she even say?? Like, ‘Hey dad, remember when you blamed me for your divorce because you were possessed by a nightmare demon projected by an abused child???’ And then, she had to go with him for the weekend right after all that! She said she’s fine and all, but… She looks rattled, Giles. And that’s saying something, coming from me! If I notice something isn’t fine, then she’s probably… probably…” The ginger groaned. “I don’t even want to imagine it.”
“I will check in with her tonight as we prepare for the next stakeout.” He was, truthfully, glad that he wasn’t the only one who was worried about his Slayer. “You have my word.”
“Thanks.” Willow smiled.
As if on cue, Buffy and Xander emerged from the hallway and into the library, with Xander trying—and failing—to convince Buffy to join him and Willow for Rosenberg family Shabbat. Willow had attempted to, albeit to no avail. So, it was his turn to be ambassador for the event. It starts at sundown, so there's plenty of time. He’s not even Jewish, and they invite him sometimes! It’s lots of fun! She’d love it!
Regardless, Buffy tried her best to feign interest, nodding and saying, “Well, uh, actually, Giles and I have plans…”
They didn’t, but clearly, Buffy wanted an out, so he was glad to oblige. “Ah, yes. We have a new stake-out route to map.”
“Homework on a Friday? Come on, Buff. Not even Will’s that much of a stickler.” Xander grimaced, crossing his arms and making his striped oversized button down, which he wore as a sort of loose jacket, poof outward.
Willow got up, handing her now-empty mug to Giles. “Hey! I would, if my parents weren’t home. I have a reputation to hold up.”
“Of being a dork?” The boy narrowed his eyes.
Buffy, snapping out of whatever funk she was in, got in between the two teens and replied, “No! Of being future Valedictorian.” She smiled.
Willow pointed an accusatory finger at Xander. “See? Buffy gets it!”
“Ah, yes, I’d trust the Vampire Slayer dating the enemy.” He rolled his eyes. Still, the girls pointedly ignored him. Rupert, meanwhile, sent a glare Xander’s way. The audacity…
Whirling around, Willow brought Buffy into a hug, whispered something in her ear, and pulled back, rejoining Xander. The blonde then waved half-heartedly at her friends as they departed. Their footsteps against the tiled floor had long stopped piercing the air once Buffy sat down where Willow had been moments before.
The Slayer said nothing. This was strange. Really strange. Even when Buffy was running on two hours of sleep, she always had something to say. Now, granted, what she had to say was often things that Rupert could care less about. Sometimes, it was the latest drama with that Cordelia girl, who was shockingly bright, but in the wrong direction, so to speak. Other times, it was something about celebrities he felt oddly proud of for not recognizing. Most recently, it had been her recommendation for calisthenics background noise; she called it “the newest electro-pop,” but all it was was noise that made his ears bleed.
Still, he would have even taken that rubbish over the uncanny silence, the lack of the teen’s chatter filling the air. Rupert knew that it was probably best not to launch into questions about things that Buffy didn’t want to talk about anyway, much less be asked by her Watcher. So, he decided to fill the noise by making some tea. After all, she probably also needed some chamomile tea, considering what Willow had said about her sleep schedule.
The electric kettle bubbled, filling the air, which was oddly cool for a day in late April. Or, perhaps it was the air conditioning; the library was the only area in the school outfitted with it. After all, the books needed climate control; the students didn’t. As Principal Snyder had once informed complaining students, the lack of air conditioning in the classrooms “built character.”
Giles waited. Then, tea steeper in hand and filled with loose leaf chamomile tea, he brought the mug over, I’m A Librarian: Don’t Make Me Shush You! emblazoned on its side. Normally, the juxtaposition would have made them both chuckle. Today, it just made him sad.
As he set down the tea, he saw the girl shiver. Made sense; after all, she had dressed for sweltering classrooms, wearing a short-sleeved shirt. “Do you have a cardigan, Buffy? You must be cold.”
Rupert, even from a distance, noticed the smallest of trembles as she replied, “No; I forgot it at home. On that note, Mom’s working late today, so… Could I have a ride home later?”
“Of course.” Then, after a pause, he finally asked: “Are you all right?”
He heard her breath catch. “...Do you really want to know?
“Yes.” This had tumbled out from his mouth before he could even stop himself.
Buffy, meanwhile, appeared surprised. Still, she clearly wouldn’t complain about a willing listener. “It’s stupid. And, it’s no big deal, honestly. I’m probably overreacting. But…”
As the girl spoke, he walked toward his office, grabbing a box of tissues, dropping them off at the table. (Better safe than sorry.) “Stupid or not, if it is impacting your sleep schedule, as Willow told me, then that is a problem.”
Her head shot up at that, with a look less of betrayal and more of relief that she hadn’t been the one who had to tell him. “As your Watcher, I am responsible for your well-being. While there are some things which are out of my power, it is my duty to make sure that you are cared for to the best of my ability.”
In a voice that sounded as if it were about to shatter, Buffy responded: “...That’s what he used to say.”
“Who?” However, Rupert already knew the answer.
“My old Watcher.” The way she said this absolutely cut him to his core. “But… that’s a whole other can of worms.”
“...Do you need to borrow a jacket? I do have one.”
“Yes, please.” She sounded grateful at the prospect of a distraction.
He returned to his office, finding one of the backup jackets he had. He'd learned after fighting demons that shot blood out of their mouths that it was best to err on the side of having backups. It was tweed; the model of British academic sensibility.
The Slayer’s eyes were damp as she met his gaze, taking the jacket. “Thanks.”
“It’s no problem.”
As she wrapped the tweed around her, she relented. “Okay, fine. It’s… Pretty messed-up.” She didn’t put her arms in the arms; she wore the jacket more as if it were a cape or a blanket.
“You don’t become a Watcher without being prepared for hearing about things that are ‘messed-up.’ It’s an occupational hazard.” He offered her a light smile. “I’ll be fine; don’t worry.”
She squinted at him, skeptical, but soon relented: “...All right then. It’s your funeral.” No sooner had the words left her mouth that the implication of that phrase appeared to hit her with the weight of a truck. Buffy took a shuddering breath. “Yeah, it’s… the nightmare thing. And also…” The way she spoke implied that this confession felt like pulling teeth for the poor kid. “I keep on seeing him. In my dreams.”
“Who? The Master?”
“No. Merrick. My first Watcher. You, too. You guys just won’t stop dying.” Buffy’s words were distant. Still, her words were hard with feigned bravery as she went on. “Outside of that totally-not-traumatizing blast of a nightmare, I also keep on having nightmares about… Willow told you about the thing with my Dad, right?” Rupert nodded. “Yeah. That.”
The Watcher weighed his words carefully before responding: “That is not stupid. Not the flashing back, not the fear you have, not the awful things your nightmare—Dad said—none of it.”
Her voice sounded small. “It isn’t?”
“No. Of course not. As the Slayer, you take on more than most people could ever fathom, all on top of being a teenage girl. You’ve said so yourself. I know I push you quite a bit, Buffy, but it is only because you have the fortitude to handle it.”
“Fortitude?”
“Right. Sorry. Strength.” He couldn’t help but move closer, taking one of the chairs at the study table and leaning forward, hands in his lap. He still left a sizable distance between the two of them: space, if needed.
Buffy was, he gleaned, quite flattered by the compliment. So, he felt his guts rending as he knew that he was about to have to ask her about… that.
“...It’s funny you mention it; I was going to ask about that.”
“About what?”
He gulped. “Well, I don’t know how to put this delicately, but… I heard about what happened. In L.A. With Merrick.”
She was silent, seeming to buffer for a moment. Then, voice distant: “From who? Not from my Mom; she doesn’t know about it.” A moment of panic. “...Does she?”
“No, from the Watcher Council. It was part of the briefing for this position.”
“Ah.”
“And even before that, well…” He pinched the bridge of his nose, then readjusted his glasses. “Rumors spread.”
Her gaze hardened. Buffy clutched the jacket even tighter. “What did they say?”
“Nothing you don’t know already.”
“No, they… they weren’t there. They don’t know. They—they don’t know.”
It seemed like Rupert was on the precipice of helping Buffy have a breakthrough, so he took his chance: “Then, tell me.”
Buffy appeared to struggle, but, taking a deep breath, she eventually pushed through. “Merrick was staked when trying to save me. By the vampire. He died in my arms.” Her confession lingered in the air.
“I’m so sorry.”
Buffy seemed to ignore the sympathy, barreling on. “...I couldn’t even save my first Watcher.” A bitter laugh followed. “Some Slayer I am.”
“No!”
At Giles' exclamation, Buffy practically jumped in her seat, eyes wide. That had been louder than he’d intended.... His voice was the tiniest bit quieter after clearing his throat: “No. Buffy, listen.”
He leaned toward her, moving slowly, giving the girl plenty of time to move away. She watched, her green gaze trained on him. But… she stayed. So, he followed through, giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. The tension in her frame was palpable, but at the sympathetic gesture, he noticed it begin to melt away.
“It is part of our vows as Watchers. We are there to protect the Slayer, no matter the cost. Sometimes, that cost is our lives. Merrick knew that when he took up the mantle of being your Watcher; I knew that as well.”
“Why?” A shuddering breath.
“You’re called to be a Slayer. We're called to be Watchers. I was ten, when it happened for me. It is fate. A legacy, inherited through the ages, by those who devote their lives to the battle against the darkness.” He leaned forward a bit more, removing his hand from her shoulder. “It is our duty to watch over you, Buffy. That is not your fault.”
“...It sure feels like my fault.” The blonde sniffled, voice cracking. “I’m supposed to be the Chosen One, Giles. How can I call myself that when I can’t even save the people I love?” With that, the girl let out a sob; a pitiful, sad noise.
God, he felt so useless. Looking for something to keep his hands busy, Giles grabbed a tissue before pushing the tissue box toward her, exchanging it with the chamomile tea. He folded the tissue neatly, then placed the tea and strainer atop it. He let her cry for a bit, consuming tissues at a breakneck pace. Her eyes, red-rimmed and puffy, had closed. After a few minutes of silence from Rupert—who, frankly, had been at a loss for words anyway—she took a sip of the tea, which had cooled down.
“Feeling better?”
A nod.
“Good. I hope the tea is helping.”
Another nod, followed by another sip. She’d managed to steady her breaths and regain a bit of composure,
Buffy then set the mug down. She wrapped Giles' jacket around her even more, clutching it tight. The scratchy fabric from the lapels brushed against her cheek. She looked her age at that moment, the weight of the world removed from her shoulders for only a moment, replaced by the jacket of an ally. But, wait. There was something about the motion that alarmed him.
He soon realized. Buffy was hugging herself.
Loud enough to drown out the sound of his shattering heart, Rupert heard himself say, “I know that it may be overstepping for me to say this, but…” He trailed off. Then with renewed conviction: “Ah, hell with it. It isn't stupid to ask for a hug either, you know."
“...I’m not a ch-child.” Her petulance betrayed her immaturity as she pursed her lip and pointedly glared at her cup of tea. Shakily, yet with a measured attempt at pride: “Anyway, that wouldn't be very Slayer-y of me.”
After a very long pause, she finally admitted, voice small: "But. I think I'd like that. A hug."
At that, he stood up, going toward her. She stood up in kind. With a bit more protective gusto than he would have liked to admit, the Watcher enveloped his Slayer in a hug. To his surprise, Buffy hugged back, and hugged back tight.
Giles wanted to unspool his skeleton, to make a shield of himself. To wrap himself around his Slayer and guard her with his life. To, for just a moment, put himself between her and the things that go bump in the night. She didn't need him to do so; he was acutely aware. But for now, what Buffy needed wasn’t any of that; she needed a hug and a sympathetic ear. So, for that, he was glad to provide.
He did let go, eventually, giving her shoulder—which still had his jacket draped over it—a light pat. “Feeling better?”
“Y-yeah.” She smiled. “Thanks.”
Rupert smiled in turn. “It’s the least I can do. Oh—you need a lift back to your house, don’t you?”
“...What happened to strategizing?”
“You need sleep. Strategizing while sleep deprived and emotionally distraught would be a lost cause. You need to be at top operational capacity if we’re gonna take on—”
Buffy laughed. “You can just say, ‘you had a rough day,’ you know.” A sly look shone in her eyes.
She—she couldn’t just parrot his words back to him! Not especially when she was right! It was Rupert’s turn to roll his eyes. “Fine. You had an emotionally taxing day. You deserve a reprieve.”
“You know what I also deserve? A frappuccino. Can we go to Starbucks? It’s on the way back.”
“We are not going to that sad excuse for a coffee shop. They incinerate the beans, Buffy. Incinerate them. They really should call themselves Hellmouth Roasters.”
“So you're a coffee snob too? I always took you for a tea kinda guy.” The girl was smiling again. “Because, you know.”
“I’m English? No.” He huffed indignantly. As he went on, he went back into his office, the volume of his voice ebbing and flowing. “I do prefer tea, but that is primarily because of the taste. It’s much harder to muck up tea than it is to destroy the nuance in the flavor notes of coffee.”
“...Please explain in English.”
“I have standards, Buffy. On a more pressing note, caffeine is the worst possible choice for you to consume at this moment. It’s a stimulant. You also have been crying; since caffeine is a diuretic, that means you will become even more dehydrated—”
“—But Giles, they have tea! Chamomile!”
“You haven’t finished your mug of chamomile yet! And anyway. We have perfectly good tea here, at hom—” He cut himself off. “I mean, here, in our home base, the library!” Had… had he just called the Library home?!
He handed her an unopened plastic water bottle, the bag of loose leaf chamomile tea, and a clean infuser, trying his damndest to blow past his fumble. “You’ll need these.”
The Slayer clearly caught that too, despite his clumsy attempt at a save. She opened the bottle and took a long sip before asking, “...Home?”
“Hush.” His cheeks flushed as the girl laughed at his expense. “...How does ice cream sound instead.”
Buffy shrugged. “Good enough for me.”
Ice cream acquired and the mission to drop the Slayer off accomplished, Rupert returned home. He wrote down the number for his office and his landline at Buffy’s house on an outdated library call number card, in case of emergencies. While he expected a ring from time to time, when he got a call that night, he practically fell out of his chair in surprise when he heard who was on the other end:
“Mrs. Summers?”
“Yes! You can call me ‘Joyce.’ Is this Mr. Giles?”
“It is. But, you are free to call me ‘Rupert,’ if you prefer.”
“Fair enough… Rupert.” She sounded as if she were so used to hearing Buffy use his last name when she talked about him, that this first name would take a bit of getting used to. “Anyway, Buffy told me that you dropped her off, and that you talked with her today about how things have been tough for her since the move.”
More or less. He presumed the vampires were conveniently excised from Buffy’s summary. “Ah, yes. I’ve been worried about her as of late. Sorry, I apologize if I overst—”
“Thank you.”
He froze. Her tone was so warm, so… grateful. It was strange to hear. She took the silence as a cue to continue. “She hasn’t been sleeping well lately. I think some of it is because of the divorce. It’s been tough, without her father here. Still… she never wants to talk to me about it. ” (Was it just Rupert, or did she actually seem a bit hurt?) “Anyway, she’s sleeping now. Thanks again for the chamomile tea.”
“It’s no problem.” He let out a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. ”
“Yes. Anyway, I know she can be a bit difficult, but…” Joyce trailed off.
“Isn’t every teenager?”
The mother let out an exasperated noise. “Not burning-down-a-gym level. If only you knew the half of it…!”
—If only she knew the half of it! If only Joyce knew just how hard her daughter worked. How many late nights the girl spent trying to keep Sunnydale safe. How she languished, trying to balance so much. How she kept on seeing the first person she could trust in her slaying career die in front of her. How she faces nightmares in every waking moment, beyond any average person’s wildest dreams. Joyce didn’t know. But, that was for her own safety. She cared, and that was more than could be said about her father.
“Thanks for giving her a chance, Rupert. Especially with her record.”
“Why wouldn’t I? You have a brilliant daughter, Joyce. Hopefully she’ll recognize her own potential someday.”
“With a teacher like you at her side, watching over her… I know she will.” He could practically see Joyce leaning against the counter, twirling her finger in the cord of the phone, smiling.
Giles found himself smiling as well, for many hours after the phone call with Joyce had ended.