Summer 2/9 - Preparations and farewells
Dec. 8th, 2006 05:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hobgoblinnI'm making final edits to this story and posting it both here and on a couple of yahoo groups. This version is significantly altered from the original, thanks in large part to the challenge by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
antennapedia for me to show a scene I initially skipped over, and by several people a couple of years ago who found everyone just a little too reasonable for the situation. Hope I've rectified it for you. This also differs from the version currently on ODD. Sorry, Dusty, and thanks again. Previous part here:
Summer 1 - Where Do We Go from Here?
Summer
Part 2/9 - Preparations and Farewells
FEEDBACK: Gleefully accepted. Even flames.
DISCLAIMER: See full disclaimer on Part 1 - Short version is, I own Nothing in the Buffyverse. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I mean no harm and intend no copyright infringement. Still want to sue me? Knock yourself out.
***
As they approached the door to Giles' room, Willow suddenly remembered something. She glanced up at Xander. "Oh–did you swing by Giles' house? He'll need a change of clothes…"
Xander raised the paper grocery sack he was carrying, in the hand his girlfriend was not grasping unusually tightly at the moment, and grinned reassuringly. "All over it, Will," he said. "Relax." He squeezed Anya's hand and looked down into her wide eyes, the admonishment as much for her as Willow. "Everything’s gonna be fine."
As they crossed the threshold, Willow released her own girlfriend's hand. A moment later, Tara felt a curious shifting in the mystical energies around them, and looked to Willow with some alarm.
"Oh, no, it's ok." Willow said quickly. "I just set a ward on the room–you know, something to keep him safe overnight…." If Tara sensed the lie in the words, she gave no sign of it. Giles' eyes began to flutter open, and Willow rushed to take his hand as the rest of the gang crowded around the bed.
Giles squinted through the misty blur around him, feeling rather than being able to see that everyone was here, and safe. The gentle smile faded as he sensed the one who was missing, and remembered why. He seemed to wither then, and as the terrible realization washed through him, he burst into sobs that wracked his battered frame. Willow pulled him close and held him like a child.
"Uh… why don't you guys give us a few minutes." Willow motioned with her head towards the open door, and they retreated slowly, Xander pausing to remind her quietly, "We'll be right outside, Will." She merely nodded, continuing to murmur soothingly as her friend clung to her and wept.
At last, Giles quieted. "I couldn't do that last night," he said in a raspy whisper. "Wanted to, but… couldn't remember quite why…."
A guilty look crossed Willow's worried brow, and she held him tighter for a moment before she pulled back to look him directly in the eyes. "It's going to be ok, Giles," she told him. "I promise."
"Yes," he agreed, drawing strength from her conviction. "We will get through this. Together. We always have…." But the reminder that this was not like always, and never would be again, brought another sob to his throat, and Willow steadied him with another embrace.
"She'd want us to stick together," Willow reminded him, smiling through her own tears. After a few moments, Giles released her and began to peer myopically around the room, a little embarrassed.
"Now where the devil did they put my glasses?" he wondered aloud, trying to reclaim his British dignity, and fooling no one.
Willow looked around the room for a moment and shook her head.
"Don't see them," she answered, rising. "I'll go find them for you."
His hand grasped hers as she took a step away, halting her. "Don't go," he begged, quietly. She immediately sat down on the edge of his bed, taking his hand in both her smaller ones, really noticing for the first time the many scars, touching the whiter outline marking the place where he usually wore the familiar black onyx ring on the last finger of his left hand.
After a moment's silence, Willow managed a teasing grin. "I'll have to, eventually." She pointed out the grocery sack Xander had left in the chair by the door. At his puzzled look, she added, "We brought you a change of clothes. This open backed cotton gown look is just so passé this season." He laughed a little, in spite of himself. "That is,” she continued, “if you're ready to get out of here."
A voice from the doorway startled them. "Not so fast, there, little lady. Let's see how that patient of mine is doing this morning, first." Giles rolled his eyes but submitted patiently to the examination, still holding one of Willow's hands as she moved to stand out of the way next to his pillow. The doctor flipped back through the chart and nodded approvingly.
"Remarkable improvement," he said at last. "I do excellent work, I must say." Willow suppressed a grin, glad that Giles' eyes were too weak to catch her expression. "I think, if you can promise your dad will get lot of Rest, he can go home today. How does that sound?"
Neither of them bothered to correct him, and the doctor left, saying a nurse would be around shortly to give him his paperwork and discharge instructions. Xander poked his head around the door as the doctor departed.
"Hey, G-man," he said, and grinned as Willow waved him in.
"Don't call me that," Giles replied, automatically, and Xander's grin grew wider.
"Here, Giles, Xander can help you get dressed. I'll go find your glasses."
Giles gave her hand a last gentle squeeze before releasing it. His green eyes met hers. "Thank you, Willow," he said.
She waved it off modestly. "Forget it. No problem." In that moment she had transformed back to the gawky, shy Willow he had always known, but the competent and mature young woman was there, too. The thought was strangely comforting. She stood for a moment at the door, then turned away, in search of their friends.
Willow found them in the waiting room down the hall. As she approached, Dawn called out, "Willow, will you Please tell Anya that Giles is fine, that he is not going to die of bubonic plague, boils, cholera, or bunny bites…"
"Hey!" Anya protested. "No bunny talk–I never said anything about bunnies, and anyway…."
"He's fine, and they're getting ready to let him out now," Willow quickly interrupted. Dawn gave Anya her most irritating "so there" toss of the head and jumped up to hug Willow. Tara hid her smile behind her hand.
"Oh, that's good to hear," Anya said, and she meant it.
****
Giles sat, mostly reclined, on the couch in the Summers’ living room, his glasses on the table at his head, under the lamp. It was easier for him to be here with them off–when the world was in sharp focus, so were all things that could trigger random memories of Buffy–framed photographs on the walls, notes scribbled in her own unique and quite illegible handwriting, a hair ribbon, a tube of lipstick–the thousand endearing bits of clutter that were all that remained of her life.
He was so dreadfully tired. He listened to the others as they moved through the house, each busying their hands and hearts with chores, preparations, anything. Willow was on the phone, her voice subdued, but steady. Doors opened and shut. Every fiber of his being ached, and he tried more than once to rouse himself to join in the activity, knowing it for what it was, a distraction from even greater pain. But he had to admit, his age was finally catching up with him. That, and everything seemed so pointless, now. She was gone. He wished he were, too.
It was a relief to hear Willow’s calm, rational voice on the phone in the next room. The only thing worse than the realization that Buffy was gone, was the fear that they might be expecting him to lead them now. He was so adrift at the moment, and the thought of taking on any responsibility more strenuous than breathing filled him with an icy horror. As did the thought of continuing on without his Slayer.
Anya appeared in the doorway, a bowl steaming on a small tray in her hands. A bright, desperate smile twisted her features-- the smile she pasted on whenever the realities of this moral coil business overwhelmed her. He replaced his glasses and sat up a little straighter, noting her pale face and red rimmed eyes.
“I’ve brought you some soup,” she announced, loudly, as always. Something of his grief induced nausea must have flickered across his features, because she immediately added, a little more tentatively, “Food is supposed to help, right? At a time like this?”
He gave her a patient smile. “Yes, Anya. How very thoughtful of you.” She relaxed a little as he took the tray from her and contemplated the chicken broth and vegetables in the bowl. It did smell quite good, and he found his appetite recovering ever so slightly. He looked up to see her still watching him anxiously. As if embarrassed to be caught staring, she affected an air of nonchalant competence.
“It’s been a while, but we village women knew how to deal with these things, back in the day,” she said. “I read that people still bring food to the homes of the recently bereaved....”
“Ah... have you eaten anything, Anya?” Giles interrupted before she could go on. He knew his limits, and he didn’t have the energy to follow her tactless misunderstandings of the last two millennia of human cultural practices. And she did look very pale and drawn, and fragile.
She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “There’s too much to do. I’m really not hungry, anyway....” She seemed poised to retreat back into the kitchen. Giles cleared his throat.
“Anya.” She stopped. “Please, do join me.” He glanced down at his tray and picked up the fork, examining it from several angles before looking past it at her with one eyebrow raised quizically.
“Oh...” she flushed slightly. “Let me get you a spoon.” She rushed out then, but when she returned, she had a second bowl and spoon for herself, She set hers on the coffee table and handed him his spoon. They ate for a time in companionable silence. Then Anya set her bowl down again, and tried to still her trembling hands. Giles glanced over, and set his own bowl aside, then, after a moment’s hesitation, took both her hands in his. Something he could do. He reached deep within and found the old role, the wise mentor....
“I don’t understand it, Giles,” he heard her whisper brokenly. “How do you all stand it? Knowing this is coming? Knowing it could take anyone, anytime? How?”
The role failed Giles then, just as it had when Buffy had confronted him on the very first day, when he had pompously undertaken to tell he was there to prepare her:. “For what?” she’d shot back. “For getting kicked out of school? For losing all of my friends? For having to spend all of my time fighting for my life and never getting to tell anyone because I might endanger them? Go ahead. Prepare me.” It was Dawn who came to his rescue from the doorway.
“The hardest thing in this world is to live in it,” she repeated, her eyes very far away. Then she looked at Giles. “Buffy said that. Right before....” She caught Giles’ look of horror and shook her head.
“She said to tell you that she... she figured it out.” Dawn paused, as if trying to get the words exactly right. “That... this was the work she had to do. And that... she was okay.” She came over to sit on Giles’ other side, feeling strangely detached and calm. Until she suddenly saw it again in her mind’s eye, her sister disappearing over the edge of the metal platform, leaping to her death.... She had thought she was all cried out, but when Giles wrapped one strong arm around her, she dissolved again. It was several minutes before she recovered herself, accepting a proffered handkerchief gratefully.
Willow, Tara and Xander had gathered in the doorway from the kitchen. Xander cleared his throat, his own eyes suspiciously bright. “Did somebody ring the chow bell?”
Dawn jumped up. “Yeah, I meant to come tell you it was ready.” Before she could disappear back into the kitchen, Anya stopped her with a quiet question.
“What... what did she figure out?” Her tone was genuinely puzzled, but also hopeful. She spent so much of her time trying to figure things out, and just then it was comforting, to think that Buffy had done it, too.
It was Giles who supplied the answer. “She went to the desert and had a vision,” he began, telling their friends how Buffy had been feeling her Slayer powers were changing her into something less... human. He concluded, “The First Slayer appeared to her, and told her that Death....” He took a deep breath, forced himself to continue, “That Death was her Gift.”
Giles tried to take some comfort in the idea, that before she had died, Buffy had made some kind of peace with herself, but the cost of that peace, and the easy way out he was denied, filled him with a tired rage. He glanced up as Xander asked, “What else did she say, Dawn?”
Dawn smiled a little through her tears. “That she loved us all. And that we had to take of each other.”
She stepped into Xander’s brotherly hug.
“And so we shall,” Giles said, reaching deep within himself for the strength to sound sure of himself, comforting, solid. He looked over at Willow, who was smiling through her own tears, Tara’s arms around her from behind as both stood in the doorway. “You’ve been rather hard at work all morning,” he noted, changing the subject.
Willow nodded, and the others moved to join him on the couch, where he accepted hugs from each of them in turn. The talk turned to the mundane details of plans and arrangements. Xander noted a big flaw almost immediately–no way was a casket going to fit through the door of the house. Giles solved that problem, saying in a somewhat distant voice, “The back door to the shop should be sufficiently wide.”
It was decided that Xander would go pick up the casket in one of the construction company’s trucks, and unload it with Spike’s help once the back alley grew shaded enough to be safe for the vampire. Tara and Anya, who both had experience in preparing the dead for burial, would take care of that task and bring her to the shop later that evening. They would have a service of sorts in the training room, and perform the burial very late, after midnight, when hopefully no one would be up and about to see.
Giles said, as everyone began to disperse to attend to their tasks, “Willow.” She stopped and turned back towards him as he asked, “What can I do?”
She saw it in his eyes -- his grief fueled need–to Do something. Anything. “I’ve saved the hardest task of all for you, I’m afraid.”
Giles looked relieved and wary at the same time. “What might that be?” he asked, his eyes locked on hers.
“Someone has to write Buffy’s eulogy,” Willow told him simply. “I think it should be you.”
***
Giles stared at the blank page in front of him, trying to find the words to express his thoughts. He recalled so many things–the flash of Buffy’s warm smile. Her cool courage and sometimes even wit in the face of danger. Her fierce love and loyalty to her family, among whose members he felt honored to be numbered. But as each new thought flashed through his mind, it brought with it the feeling of utter futility, to put any of it into words.
He sighed, removed his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes a moment before rising to move towards the kitchen. Anya and Dawn were bickering at the stove as he looked through the doorway putting his glasses back on, while Xander was completing a phone call and hanging up, calling for Willow through the other doorway. She appeared from the dining room and, catching sight of him, her brow creased in sudden concern.
“Giles–you should be resting,” she admonished, as the others turned to look at him.
“Ah, well. I’m resting quite comfortably here,” he replied mildly, indicating the door jamb on which he was leaning, a little too heavily. He was surprised that walking such a short distance alone had tired him so, but he quickly deflected the others’ concern with a question. “Who was that on the phone?”
Xander traded looks with Willow, then spoke, addressing them all. “Montgomery Casket Company. If I can get over there by 5, I can get them to load it for me.” He glanced back at Willow. “I think I should take off–you’ll be ok for a while?”
Willow nodded. “Yeah, no worries. You’ve got the truck lined up, then?”
“Yep,” Xander replied. “Told Tito it was for salvaging some stuff from that site we’ve been working near the old municipal building. Wanted to leave a little less for the looters.” A worried expression crossed his face. “Which is actually true, now that I think about it.” He started out the back door rapidly, firing over his shoulder, “I’ll call you when we’re ready.”
“Hey, Mr. Giles,” Tara said, as she appeared behind him. He shifted slightly to accept the hug as she came through the doorway. Then she turned to Willow. “I’ve got everything… uh… done, upstairs.”
“I helped earlier,” Anya announced from the stove, swatting at Dawn as the girl tried to dip a spoon into the surprisingly appetizing smelling sauce Anya was fussing over. “Go get something to drain the spaghetti, annoying child,” she ordered. Giles would have smiled, but he was still back at Tara’s “upstairs.” Willow understood the look first.
“C’mon, Giles. We should go see her, don’tcha think?”
He nodded absently as Willow slid under the arm on his good, or at least, less-injured side and supported him on the slow journey upstairs. He didn’t really see anything until he stood with Willow in the doorway to Joyce’s bedroom, where a small figure was lying, clad in a simple black dress, a small silver cross around her neck. Buffy.
“I’ll be right outside if you need me,” Willow whispered, and closed the door behind him as she left him alone.
He knelt beside her, unaware of the tears flowing freely down his face. Tara had brushed her hair back and secured it with a gold clasp. It was the simple elegance of the hairstyle, more suitable for a quiet evening out than for sleep, that told him she was not in fact sleeping. He reached out to touch her cheek, still soft, but now quite cool.
After a time, his sobs eased, and he was aware of the pain in his side again. He traced every feature of her face, marking it indelibly into his memory. All the anguish, the heavy responsibility, the pain of her calling, and her life, were erased, replaced on her face by an angelic peace. He knew then, in the deepest part of his soul, that she was safe, and well, and not in the shell he saw lying before him. He bent forward and kissed her forehead gently. Then he rose and emerged quietly from the room, polishing his tear-stained glasses with the tail of his shirt.
“I think I should like to go home for a bit,” he announced quietly, as Willow rose from the chair in the corner of Buffy’s room to join him. “I’d, ah, like to get cleaned up and changed before, you know, tonight.”
Willow’s eyes were red, but she was calm as she nodded. “I thought you might. I sent Xander to stop by your place and bring you some of your dress clothes.” She noted the flicker of surprise on his face at her presumption. “Well, we didn’t want you falling in the shower alone,” she said, with that practicality he had long known and admired. “And that tub of yours is pretty deep for you to be trying to climb in and out of in your condition.”
She waited, watching him impassively, knowing she was right, until he nodded acquiescence. They were silent as she helped him back downstairs to the couch. Then he pulled the paper and pen towards him and began to write.
****
It was late afternoon when Xander came back through his own door. He was carrying a garment bag over one arm, and a couple of packs of blood pilfered from the hospital that morning by the ever-resourceful Dawn. It bugged him that Dawn had remembered Spike’s needs at a time like this, but she was doing that with everyone today. She had spent much of the afternoon with Giles, sometimes talking in low tones to him about things she remembered about her sister, more often just sitting close by, her hand absently rubbing his shoulder, or bringing him a cup of tea. She had helped Anya and Tara by choosing the dress her sister would be buried in, and Willow by cleaning up the kitchen after a lunch none of them had really eaten.
“Spike?” he called, hoping the vampire had decided to take off after all. No such luck. Spike emerged from the bathroom then, naked save for a towel wrapped around his waist and another draped around his shoulders. His injuries had mended somewhat–his broken ribs were now merely badly bruised and horribly discolored, and the knife wound to his left lung had sealed into an angry red scar which probably itched like hell. Xander watched as the vampire froze as he caught sight of him standing in the doorway, before casually recovering and toweling off his wet hair.
“You’ve looked better,” Xander observed, tossing him a packet of blood, before turning to hang up the garment bag on the back of a door and then to place the other bag of blood in his refrigerator.
“Thanks,” Spike said, too surprised by the unexpected gift to come up with a rejoinder. He turned away so Xander would not have to see his face change as he punctured and drained the bag. He did so quickly and felt slightly better as soon as he had finished. He went back into the bathroom, washed the blood from his lips, and returned.
“What now?” Spike asked, as he watched Xander rifling through his dresser drawer. He was surprised again to find a clean t-shirt and some other clothing tossed his way.
“Willow wants us to unload the casket down at the shop in about an hour.” He proceeded to outline the plan for the evening, while Spike listened closely, dressing in the white t-shirt and exchanging his filthy black jeans for an old pair of Xander’s which had always been too long and a little tight. They were a little loose on Spike, but not terribly so.
“Thanks for the loan, but I wish I had somethin’ more proper to wear to a funeral,” Spike said quietly as he finished dressing, pulling on his boots and looking anywhere but towards Xander.
“I don’t think I have anything that would fit you.” Xander replied, his back turned as a opened a closet door. He continued over his shoulder, “I brought something for Giles from his place, but I don’t think anything of his would work for you, either.”
“Yeah. Well, not to worry. I know where I can get something when the sun goes down. There should be time after we finish unloading….” He trailed off and glanced the window, nodding towards the daylight still apparent through the drawn shade. “How am I gonna get to the shop, though?”
Xander was pulling his old sleeping bag from a closet and unfolding it. “I parked in the shade around back–I figure this should keep the stray sunbeams off you on the drive over.”
Spike looked at it dubiously, but nodded. “That should do it. I’m ready when you are, then, Mate.”
****
Giles and Anya were dozing now at opposite ends of the couch, and Dawn was upstairs showering and dressing for the service tonight. Willow was tapping keys on her laptop and frowning as Tara came up to give her a hug from behind. Willow pushed away from the dining room table and turned to give her beloved a hug and kiss. “Hey,” she breathed as they broke apart and she gazed up into Tara’s eyes.
Tara smiled down on her beatifically. “Has anyone ever told you how amazing you are?”
Willow blushed. “Not lately,” she answered. “But, unfortunately, I’m not.” She frowned as she glanced back at the screen of her computer.
Tara smiled. “I seriously doubt that. What’s wrong?”
“I can’t get a gravestone for at least a month, maybe more. Every shop in the area has a backlog you wouldn’t believe.” She turned her dark, sad eyes up to meet Tara’s blue ones. “A lot of people died last night.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Sweetie,” Tara reminded her. “How many more would have if Glory had won? We did all we could. Especially you.”
Willow’s eyes began to brim over then. Before she could protest, Tara kissed her again, then looked deep into her eyes. “Don‘t torture yourself like this. There was nothing more any of us could have done.”
Willow nodded sadly. “I know. It just doesn’t help.” She stood up and wrapped her arms around her love. “And I feel so guilty, that I don’t feel worse. You know? That I have you, and who does Giles have? Or Dawn? Or god help us all, Spike? What does that make me?” She turned her pleading eyes to Tara’s wise ones.
“It makes you human, Willow. And you’re still doing what needs to be done, now. That’s something. I know how hard it is for you. You can do this. I know you can.” They stood resting in each other’s embrace for a long moment.
Then the phone rang, and Willow reluctantly disengaged herself to answer it. Tara watched as Willow listened intently, then sighed. “Thanks, Xander,” she heard her say at last. “I’ll send them over as soon as I can.” She gave her small, elfin smile, as she said her goodbyes. “Yeah, I love you too.” She hung up and turned back to Tara.
“They’re ready. At the shop. Spike’s gone out for a bit, Xander didn’t say why. Can you and Anya…?”
Tara nodded. “Anya was saying she wanted to go home and change. We should both go, and I can pick you up something on my way back. That sound ok?”
Willow nodded. “I’ve missed you so much,” she breathed as she embraced Tara once more. “And I so don’t deserve you.”
Tara smiled through her tears. “Don’t be silly, Love.” They kissed again, slow and lingering, before parting to wake Anya, and to make ready to send Buffy’s body to the shop where her casket, and Xander, awaited them.
****
Xander stood alone at the back door of the shop and watched as the Summers’ SUV pulled up, driven by Tara, accompanied by Anya. He nodded in silent greeting as they parked as close to the door as they could in the narrow alley. Anya climbed down and opened the passenger side rear door, and Xander saw the sheet-wrapped form resting prone across the back seat.
“Hold the door for me, Ahn,” he said softly, as he moved to gather the still figure into his arms. He marveled at how slightly built she was, how despite her superhuman strength, she had been so fragile and delicate. Tara preceded him through the door and went to the casket, working the latch so that both sides of the lid opened. Anya closed the door to the alley behind them, tugging it a little as it stuck.
“Lay her down on the mat for a minute,” Tara instructed quietly, and he did so, then stepped back to place a comforting arm around Anya. Tara unwrapped the body of their friend. Then she nodded at him. “Help me lift her in, and then I’ll fix her hair.”
Xander released Anya and moved as if in a dream to help settle Buffy’s body in the satin-lined casket. He supported her body as Tara arranged her hair one last time, then slowly helped ease her back onto the cream colored pillow. Tara crossed Buffy’s arms across her breast, and, after surveying her work for a moment more, turned and closed the bottom half of the casket. They all stood in silence for a time, Xander rising to return to Anya, whose eyes were wide and sad. He reached out with his other arm and Tara joined them, shaking a little. They had been fighting all manner of demons, monsters and hell gods for what seemed like forever, but this…. This was… real.
After a time, Tara stirred. “I should get over to the dorm, pick up some things for Willow,” she said apologetically. Xander blinked hard and nodded.
“Yeah, Ahn and I should be getting back, too,” he said hoarsely. “We need to get ready for… tonight.”
Anya spoke up. “But–we can’t leave her here alone, can we?” They lingered uncertainly. Then a new voice sounded from the doorway to the storefront behind them.
“Don’t worry,” Spike said, his voice low but steady. “I can stay.”
He was dressed in a black suit, a little long in the sleeves, and a crisp white shirt, holding a black tie in one hand. He looked a bit lost, like a small boy dressed up for the first time, uncomfortable in his own skin. He also looked like he was bracing for an argument, and a flicker of surprise crossed his face when Xander merely nodded at him in silent thanks and escorted Tara and Anya out the back door to the alley. Spike moved to the couch and sank heavily down, leaning his head back until it rested against the rough, exposed bricks of the wall.
****
Spike retreated to the relative quiet of the shop when the others came back through the alley door for the service. He wasn’t sure now, that he could do this after all. He couldn’t make up his mind which was worse-- the pain that seemed to burn through his very lack of a soul, or having these wankers witness it. And then, of course, there was Dawn, a walking, breathing reproach, all the worse for the pity in her gentle eyes.
He busied trembling hands several times trying to work a knot he had never quite learned. In his day, the fashion had been much different, and he’d always had someone, a servant or his mum, or later, Drusilla, to do these things for him. After the fourth attempt he was about to rip the offending strip of black silk from around his neck and throw it across the room in frustration, when he heard Willow’s voice from the doorway behind him.
“Hey. Want some help?”
Spike looked towards the heavens and bit back the first three obscene retorts that sprang to mind. Willow moved forward without waiting for a reply, turning him to face her for a moment while she adjusted the length of the two sides of the tie, then motioning for him to sit in the nearest chair while she knotted the tie from behind, with her hands over his shoulders. She moved to face him again, sliding the knot up into place at his throat and adjusting his collar over it. She nodded approvingly at the result. “There you go.”
“Thanks,” Spike said softly. Then, as the silence became uncomfortable, he asked, “Where’d you learn to tie a sodding tie, anyway?”
Willow smiled a little at the memory. “Who do you think helped Xander get ready for my bat mitzvah? Of course,” she continued, indicating the chair, “I was about a foot taller than he was, back then.” She searched his face. “You ready?”
Spike fished nervously around in his pockets for a cigarette, before remembering he’d left them in the pocket of his leather duster, back in his crypt. He inclined his head, motioned for her to precede him through the door. “As I’ll ever be.”
*****
Giles stood beside the open casket, facing the others as Willow and Spike slipped through the door from the shop. “Ah, yes....” He made sure he knew which pocket his handkerchiefs were folded into, pulled out one and brushed quickly at his eyes under his glasses. He sniffed, pulled himself together. “Lets...ah.. get on with it, shall we?”
He began to speak in a low voice, hearing his words as if from very far away. “When I was quite young, I learned that there was a Slayer-- one girl in all the world chosen to stand between this sorry world and the forces of darkness. She never had a choice, of course. No more than I did. Watchers are also Chosen, you see.”
He cleared his throat and continued, “I remember feeling a little sorry for her, then. I was sure she wanted to do and be other things, just as I did. “ He chuckled a little, gave a tight grin which quickly faded. “I was a little angry with her too, wherever she was. Until I met Buffy, I never realized that, with all the pains and burdens of the calling, anyone could do it with such joy, such cheerful abandon.”
He paused, looked at each of them in turn. “She had something few Slayers are allowed to have. She had a loving family, friends. She had you. I believe you all know how much she loved you. She lies there precisely because she loved you. She laid down her very life for you. What you may not realise was just how much you gave her. You were her lifeline, her anchor, you see. You kept her grounded, gave her the strength and the will to fight. You gave her a Life. She was never merely a tool to be ordered about and discarded. You reminded her, of who she was. And I, at least, shall always be grateful for that.”
He pulled a small, well-worn book from the inside pocket of his jacket. Bound in faded brown leather, its pages were marked by thin ribbons dangling from it, one red, one blue, one green. He selected one and opened the volume. “I realise we represent many beliefs, many traditions,” he said, with an apologetic glance towards Willow. “But this one is mine. And since Buffy spent so many sleepless nights fighting the darkness, I think it only fitting that we should pray this, now.”
He began to read, quietly at first. “Lux aeterna....”
Spike joined him, as if in a daze, reciting some long forgotten memory of the altar boy he once had been,“...luceat eis, Domine.” Giles blinked a little in surprise, but continued, his voice growing ever stronger. “Cum sanctis tuis in aeternum: quia pius es. Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.”
Then Giles translated, with the vampire echoing, “May light eternal shine upon her, O Lord, in the company of thy Saints forever, for thou art merciful.” Giles faltered then. This did not feel like mercy. But now was not the time. He had to be strong for these dear children, to offer them a comfort which did not begin to touch him. Nonetheless, he could not find his voice as Spike went on alone.
“Rest eternal grant unto her, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her. Amen.”
Spike wished the hellmouth would swallow him right there. If it took all of them out together, so much the better. He finally got it, then. The woman they mourned was someone he had never really known. Someone who had been part of their world, the world of the living, of light. The Buffy he had known, and yes, had loved, was the creature of the darkness, like him. Something these people could never have accepted or understood. And it filled him with a seething rage, that this should be so. That they had so often blithly ignored that vital, core part of who she had been. That they were continuing to do it now seemed an affront to her memory.
But now was not the time, and Spike pushed his demon away as he and Xander moved forward and closed the casket for the last time. Tara held Dawn close as they both wept helplessly. Giles stood blinking as if he had just been awakened from a nightmare, then accepted a hug from Willow. Spike used his demon’s strength to lift one end of the casket alone, as the others came forward to grasp the handles along the sides to carry it out to the waiting truck in the alley.
At the cemetery, they found a freshly-dug grave, courtesy of Willow’s nocturnal hacking adventures, set up and ready for them. The next day, the work schedule would be altered in their computers to reflect that a crew had completed the burial, and between that and a slight memory altering spell, Willow hoped nobody would notice or question how this grave had come to be filled in overnight.
They used the machine to lower the casket into the grave, and Giles threw the first shovelful of dirt down, intoning the “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” part of the ritual. He broke down then, and Willow pulled him close again while Xander and Spike stripped to their shirtsleeves to finish the grim task.
And then, finally, it was over. Spike thought to walk away, unable to speak or even to see, but Dawn suddenly appeared before him. The look of compassion in her brimming eyes was more than he could bear. But he saw she needed something from him, and after a long moment, he pulled her into a tight embrace. He found himself whispering in her ear, “If you need anything, anything at all, you let me know.” He pulled back to look into her eyes. “Got it?” She nodded, unable to speak, and he kissed the top of her head. “Good girl.” He released her into Tara’s care, nodded curtly at the rest of them, and stalked forth into the night, back towards his crypt on the other side of the cemetery.
Summer 3- Muddling Through
antennapedia for me to show a scene I initially skipped over, and by several people a couple of years ago who found everyone just a little too reasonable for the situation. Hope I've rectified it for you. This also differs from the version currently on ODD. Sorry, Dusty, and thanks again. Previous part here:Summer 1 - Where Do We Go from Here?
Summer
Part 2/9 - Preparations and Farewells
FEEDBACK: Gleefully accepted. Even flames.
DISCLAIMER: See full disclaimer on Part 1 - Short version is, I own Nothing in the Buffyverse. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I mean no harm and intend no copyright infringement. Still want to sue me? Knock yourself out.
***
As they approached the door to Giles' room, Willow suddenly remembered something. She glanced up at Xander. "Oh–did you swing by Giles' house? He'll need a change of clothes…"
Xander raised the paper grocery sack he was carrying, in the hand his girlfriend was not grasping unusually tightly at the moment, and grinned reassuringly. "All over it, Will," he said. "Relax." He squeezed Anya's hand and looked down into her wide eyes, the admonishment as much for her as Willow. "Everything’s gonna be fine."
As they crossed the threshold, Willow released her own girlfriend's hand. A moment later, Tara felt a curious shifting in the mystical energies around them, and looked to Willow with some alarm.
"Oh, no, it's ok." Willow said quickly. "I just set a ward on the room–you know, something to keep him safe overnight…." If Tara sensed the lie in the words, she gave no sign of it. Giles' eyes began to flutter open, and Willow rushed to take his hand as the rest of the gang crowded around the bed.
Giles squinted through the misty blur around him, feeling rather than being able to see that everyone was here, and safe. The gentle smile faded as he sensed the one who was missing, and remembered why. He seemed to wither then, and as the terrible realization washed through him, he burst into sobs that wracked his battered frame. Willow pulled him close and held him like a child.
"Uh… why don't you guys give us a few minutes." Willow motioned with her head towards the open door, and they retreated slowly, Xander pausing to remind her quietly, "We'll be right outside, Will." She merely nodded, continuing to murmur soothingly as her friend clung to her and wept.
At last, Giles quieted. "I couldn't do that last night," he said in a raspy whisper. "Wanted to, but… couldn't remember quite why…."
A guilty look crossed Willow's worried brow, and she held him tighter for a moment before she pulled back to look him directly in the eyes. "It's going to be ok, Giles," she told him. "I promise."
"Yes," he agreed, drawing strength from her conviction. "We will get through this. Together. We always have…." But the reminder that this was not like always, and never would be again, brought another sob to his throat, and Willow steadied him with another embrace.
"She'd want us to stick together," Willow reminded him, smiling through her own tears. After a few moments, Giles released her and began to peer myopically around the room, a little embarrassed.
"Now where the devil did they put my glasses?" he wondered aloud, trying to reclaim his British dignity, and fooling no one.
Willow looked around the room for a moment and shook her head.
"Don't see them," she answered, rising. "I'll go find them for you."
His hand grasped hers as she took a step away, halting her. "Don't go," he begged, quietly. She immediately sat down on the edge of his bed, taking his hand in both her smaller ones, really noticing for the first time the many scars, touching the whiter outline marking the place where he usually wore the familiar black onyx ring on the last finger of his left hand.
After a moment's silence, Willow managed a teasing grin. "I'll have to, eventually." She pointed out the grocery sack Xander had left in the chair by the door. At his puzzled look, she added, "We brought you a change of clothes. This open backed cotton gown look is just so passé this season." He laughed a little, in spite of himself. "That is,” she continued, “if you're ready to get out of here."
A voice from the doorway startled them. "Not so fast, there, little lady. Let's see how that patient of mine is doing this morning, first." Giles rolled his eyes but submitted patiently to the examination, still holding one of Willow's hands as she moved to stand out of the way next to his pillow. The doctor flipped back through the chart and nodded approvingly.
"Remarkable improvement," he said at last. "I do excellent work, I must say." Willow suppressed a grin, glad that Giles' eyes were too weak to catch her expression. "I think, if you can promise your dad will get lot of Rest, he can go home today. How does that sound?"
Neither of them bothered to correct him, and the doctor left, saying a nurse would be around shortly to give him his paperwork and discharge instructions. Xander poked his head around the door as the doctor departed.
"Hey, G-man," he said, and grinned as Willow waved him in.
"Don't call me that," Giles replied, automatically, and Xander's grin grew wider.
"Here, Giles, Xander can help you get dressed. I'll go find your glasses."
Giles gave her hand a last gentle squeeze before releasing it. His green eyes met hers. "Thank you, Willow," he said.
She waved it off modestly. "Forget it. No problem." In that moment she had transformed back to the gawky, shy Willow he had always known, but the competent and mature young woman was there, too. The thought was strangely comforting. She stood for a moment at the door, then turned away, in search of their friends.
Willow found them in the waiting room down the hall. As she approached, Dawn called out, "Willow, will you Please tell Anya that Giles is fine, that he is not going to die of bubonic plague, boils, cholera, or bunny bites…"
"Hey!" Anya protested. "No bunny talk–I never said anything about bunnies, and anyway…."
"He's fine, and they're getting ready to let him out now," Willow quickly interrupted. Dawn gave Anya her most irritating "so there" toss of the head and jumped up to hug Willow. Tara hid her smile behind her hand.
"Oh, that's good to hear," Anya said, and she meant it.
****
Giles sat, mostly reclined, on the couch in the Summers’ living room, his glasses on the table at his head, under the lamp. It was easier for him to be here with them off–when the world was in sharp focus, so were all things that could trigger random memories of Buffy–framed photographs on the walls, notes scribbled in her own unique and quite illegible handwriting, a hair ribbon, a tube of lipstick–the thousand endearing bits of clutter that were all that remained of her life.
He was so dreadfully tired. He listened to the others as they moved through the house, each busying their hands and hearts with chores, preparations, anything. Willow was on the phone, her voice subdued, but steady. Doors opened and shut. Every fiber of his being ached, and he tried more than once to rouse himself to join in the activity, knowing it for what it was, a distraction from even greater pain. But he had to admit, his age was finally catching up with him. That, and everything seemed so pointless, now. She was gone. He wished he were, too.
It was a relief to hear Willow’s calm, rational voice on the phone in the next room. The only thing worse than the realization that Buffy was gone, was the fear that they might be expecting him to lead them now. He was so adrift at the moment, and the thought of taking on any responsibility more strenuous than breathing filled him with an icy horror. As did the thought of continuing on without his Slayer.
Anya appeared in the doorway, a bowl steaming on a small tray in her hands. A bright, desperate smile twisted her features-- the smile she pasted on whenever the realities of this moral coil business overwhelmed her. He replaced his glasses and sat up a little straighter, noting her pale face and red rimmed eyes.
“I’ve brought you some soup,” she announced, loudly, as always. Something of his grief induced nausea must have flickered across his features, because she immediately added, a little more tentatively, “Food is supposed to help, right? At a time like this?”
He gave her a patient smile. “Yes, Anya. How very thoughtful of you.” She relaxed a little as he took the tray from her and contemplated the chicken broth and vegetables in the bowl. It did smell quite good, and he found his appetite recovering ever so slightly. He looked up to see her still watching him anxiously. As if embarrassed to be caught staring, she affected an air of nonchalant competence.
“It’s been a while, but we village women knew how to deal with these things, back in the day,” she said. “I read that people still bring food to the homes of the recently bereaved....”
“Ah... have you eaten anything, Anya?” Giles interrupted before she could go on. He knew his limits, and he didn’t have the energy to follow her tactless misunderstandings of the last two millennia of human cultural practices. And she did look very pale and drawn, and fragile.
She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “There’s too much to do. I’m really not hungry, anyway....” She seemed poised to retreat back into the kitchen. Giles cleared his throat.
“Anya.” She stopped. “Please, do join me.” He glanced down at his tray and picked up the fork, examining it from several angles before looking past it at her with one eyebrow raised quizically.
“Oh...” she flushed slightly. “Let me get you a spoon.” She rushed out then, but when she returned, she had a second bowl and spoon for herself, She set hers on the coffee table and handed him his spoon. They ate for a time in companionable silence. Then Anya set her bowl down again, and tried to still her trembling hands. Giles glanced over, and set his own bowl aside, then, after a moment’s hesitation, took both her hands in his. Something he could do. He reached deep within and found the old role, the wise mentor....
“I don’t understand it, Giles,” he heard her whisper brokenly. “How do you all stand it? Knowing this is coming? Knowing it could take anyone, anytime? How?”
The role failed Giles then, just as it had when Buffy had confronted him on the very first day, when he had pompously undertaken to tell he was there to prepare her:. “For what?” she’d shot back. “For getting kicked out of school? For losing all of my friends? For having to spend all of my time fighting for my life and never getting to tell anyone because I might endanger them? Go ahead. Prepare me.” It was Dawn who came to his rescue from the doorway.
“The hardest thing in this world is to live in it,” she repeated, her eyes very far away. Then she looked at Giles. “Buffy said that. Right before....” She caught Giles’ look of horror and shook her head.
“She said to tell you that she... she figured it out.” Dawn paused, as if trying to get the words exactly right. “That... this was the work she had to do. And that... she was okay.” She came over to sit on Giles’ other side, feeling strangely detached and calm. Until she suddenly saw it again in her mind’s eye, her sister disappearing over the edge of the metal platform, leaping to her death.... She had thought she was all cried out, but when Giles wrapped one strong arm around her, she dissolved again. It was several minutes before she recovered herself, accepting a proffered handkerchief gratefully.
Willow, Tara and Xander had gathered in the doorway from the kitchen. Xander cleared his throat, his own eyes suspiciously bright. “Did somebody ring the chow bell?”
Dawn jumped up. “Yeah, I meant to come tell you it was ready.” Before she could disappear back into the kitchen, Anya stopped her with a quiet question.
“What... what did she figure out?” Her tone was genuinely puzzled, but also hopeful. She spent so much of her time trying to figure things out, and just then it was comforting, to think that Buffy had done it, too.
It was Giles who supplied the answer. “She went to the desert and had a vision,” he began, telling their friends how Buffy had been feeling her Slayer powers were changing her into something less... human. He concluded, “The First Slayer appeared to her, and told her that Death....” He took a deep breath, forced himself to continue, “That Death was her Gift.”
Giles tried to take some comfort in the idea, that before she had died, Buffy had made some kind of peace with herself, but the cost of that peace, and the easy way out he was denied, filled him with a tired rage. He glanced up as Xander asked, “What else did she say, Dawn?”
Dawn smiled a little through her tears. “That she loved us all. And that we had to take of each other.”
She stepped into Xander’s brotherly hug.
“And so we shall,” Giles said, reaching deep within himself for the strength to sound sure of himself, comforting, solid. He looked over at Willow, who was smiling through her own tears, Tara’s arms around her from behind as both stood in the doorway. “You’ve been rather hard at work all morning,” he noted, changing the subject.
Willow nodded, and the others moved to join him on the couch, where he accepted hugs from each of them in turn. The talk turned to the mundane details of plans and arrangements. Xander noted a big flaw almost immediately–no way was a casket going to fit through the door of the house. Giles solved that problem, saying in a somewhat distant voice, “The back door to the shop should be sufficiently wide.”
It was decided that Xander would go pick up the casket in one of the construction company’s trucks, and unload it with Spike’s help once the back alley grew shaded enough to be safe for the vampire. Tara and Anya, who both had experience in preparing the dead for burial, would take care of that task and bring her to the shop later that evening. They would have a service of sorts in the training room, and perform the burial very late, after midnight, when hopefully no one would be up and about to see.
Giles said, as everyone began to disperse to attend to their tasks, “Willow.” She stopped and turned back towards him as he asked, “What can I do?”
She saw it in his eyes -- his grief fueled need–to Do something. Anything. “I’ve saved the hardest task of all for you, I’m afraid.”
Giles looked relieved and wary at the same time. “What might that be?” he asked, his eyes locked on hers.
“Someone has to write Buffy’s eulogy,” Willow told him simply. “I think it should be you.”
***
Giles stared at the blank page in front of him, trying to find the words to express his thoughts. He recalled so many things–the flash of Buffy’s warm smile. Her cool courage and sometimes even wit in the face of danger. Her fierce love and loyalty to her family, among whose members he felt honored to be numbered. But as each new thought flashed through his mind, it brought with it the feeling of utter futility, to put any of it into words.
He sighed, removed his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes a moment before rising to move towards the kitchen. Anya and Dawn were bickering at the stove as he looked through the doorway putting his glasses back on, while Xander was completing a phone call and hanging up, calling for Willow through the other doorway. She appeared from the dining room and, catching sight of him, her brow creased in sudden concern.
“Giles–you should be resting,” she admonished, as the others turned to look at him.
“Ah, well. I’m resting quite comfortably here,” he replied mildly, indicating the door jamb on which he was leaning, a little too heavily. He was surprised that walking such a short distance alone had tired him so, but he quickly deflected the others’ concern with a question. “Who was that on the phone?”
Xander traded looks with Willow, then spoke, addressing them all. “Montgomery Casket Company. If I can get over there by 5, I can get them to load it for me.” He glanced back at Willow. “I think I should take off–you’ll be ok for a while?”
Willow nodded. “Yeah, no worries. You’ve got the truck lined up, then?”
“Yep,” Xander replied. “Told Tito it was for salvaging some stuff from that site we’ve been working near the old municipal building. Wanted to leave a little less for the looters.” A worried expression crossed his face. “Which is actually true, now that I think about it.” He started out the back door rapidly, firing over his shoulder, “I’ll call you when we’re ready.”
“Hey, Mr. Giles,” Tara said, as she appeared behind him. He shifted slightly to accept the hug as she came through the doorway. Then she turned to Willow. “I’ve got everything… uh… done, upstairs.”
“I helped earlier,” Anya announced from the stove, swatting at Dawn as the girl tried to dip a spoon into the surprisingly appetizing smelling sauce Anya was fussing over. “Go get something to drain the spaghetti, annoying child,” she ordered. Giles would have smiled, but he was still back at Tara’s “upstairs.” Willow understood the look first.
“C’mon, Giles. We should go see her, don’tcha think?”
He nodded absently as Willow slid under the arm on his good, or at least, less-injured side and supported him on the slow journey upstairs. He didn’t really see anything until he stood with Willow in the doorway to Joyce’s bedroom, where a small figure was lying, clad in a simple black dress, a small silver cross around her neck. Buffy.
“I’ll be right outside if you need me,” Willow whispered, and closed the door behind him as she left him alone.
He knelt beside her, unaware of the tears flowing freely down his face. Tara had brushed her hair back and secured it with a gold clasp. It was the simple elegance of the hairstyle, more suitable for a quiet evening out than for sleep, that told him she was not in fact sleeping. He reached out to touch her cheek, still soft, but now quite cool.
After a time, his sobs eased, and he was aware of the pain in his side again. He traced every feature of her face, marking it indelibly into his memory. All the anguish, the heavy responsibility, the pain of her calling, and her life, were erased, replaced on her face by an angelic peace. He knew then, in the deepest part of his soul, that she was safe, and well, and not in the shell he saw lying before him. He bent forward and kissed her forehead gently. Then he rose and emerged quietly from the room, polishing his tear-stained glasses with the tail of his shirt.
“I think I should like to go home for a bit,” he announced quietly, as Willow rose from the chair in the corner of Buffy’s room to join him. “I’d, ah, like to get cleaned up and changed before, you know, tonight.”
Willow’s eyes were red, but she was calm as she nodded. “I thought you might. I sent Xander to stop by your place and bring you some of your dress clothes.” She noted the flicker of surprise on his face at her presumption. “Well, we didn’t want you falling in the shower alone,” she said, with that practicality he had long known and admired. “And that tub of yours is pretty deep for you to be trying to climb in and out of in your condition.”
She waited, watching him impassively, knowing she was right, until he nodded acquiescence. They were silent as she helped him back downstairs to the couch. Then he pulled the paper and pen towards him and began to write.
****
It was late afternoon when Xander came back through his own door. He was carrying a garment bag over one arm, and a couple of packs of blood pilfered from the hospital that morning by the ever-resourceful Dawn. It bugged him that Dawn had remembered Spike’s needs at a time like this, but she was doing that with everyone today. She had spent much of the afternoon with Giles, sometimes talking in low tones to him about things she remembered about her sister, more often just sitting close by, her hand absently rubbing his shoulder, or bringing him a cup of tea. She had helped Anya and Tara by choosing the dress her sister would be buried in, and Willow by cleaning up the kitchen after a lunch none of them had really eaten.
“Spike?” he called, hoping the vampire had decided to take off after all. No such luck. Spike emerged from the bathroom then, naked save for a towel wrapped around his waist and another draped around his shoulders. His injuries had mended somewhat–his broken ribs were now merely badly bruised and horribly discolored, and the knife wound to his left lung had sealed into an angry red scar which probably itched like hell. Xander watched as the vampire froze as he caught sight of him standing in the doorway, before casually recovering and toweling off his wet hair.
“You’ve looked better,” Xander observed, tossing him a packet of blood, before turning to hang up the garment bag on the back of a door and then to place the other bag of blood in his refrigerator.
“Thanks,” Spike said, too surprised by the unexpected gift to come up with a rejoinder. He turned away so Xander would not have to see his face change as he punctured and drained the bag. He did so quickly and felt slightly better as soon as he had finished. He went back into the bathroom, washed the blood from his lips, and returned.
“What now?” Spike asked, as he watched Xander rifling through his dresser drawer. He was surprised again to find a clean t-shirt and some other clothing tossed his way.
“Willow wants us to unload the casket down at the shop in about an hour.” He proceeded to outline the plan for the evening, while Spike listened closely, dressing in the white t-shirt and exchanging his filthy black jeans for an old pair of Xander’s which had always been too long and a little tight. They were a little loose on Spike, but not terribly so.
“Thanks for the loan, but I wish I had somethin’ more proper to wear to a funeral,” Spike said quietly as he finished dressing, pulling on his boots and looking anywhere but towards Xander.
“I don’t think I have anything that would fit you.” Xander replied, his back turned as a opened a closet door. He continued over his shoulder, “I brought something for Giles from his place, but I don’t think anything of his would work for you, either.”
“Yeah. Well, not to worry. I know where I can get something when the sun goes down. There should be time after we finish unloading….” He trailed off and glanced the window, nodding towards the daylight still apparent through the drawn shade. “How am I gonna get to the shop, though?”
Xander was pulling his old sleeping bag from a closet and unfolding it. “I parked in the shade around back–I figure this should keep the stray sunbeams off you on the drive over.”
Spike looked at it dubiously, but nodded. “That should do it. I’m ready when you are, then, Mate.”
****
Giles and Anya were dozing now at opposite ends of the couch, and Dawn was upstairs showering and dressing for the service tonight. Willow was tapping keys on her laptop and frowning as Tara came up to give her a hug from behind. Willow pushed away from the dining room table and turned to give her beloved a hug and kiss. “Hey,” she breathed as they broke apart and she gazed up into Tara’s eyes.
Tara smiled down on her beatifically. “Has anyone ever told you how amazing you are?”
Willow blushed. “Not lately,” she answered. “But, unfortunately, I’m not.” She frowned as she glanced back at the screen of her computer.
Tara smiled. “I seriously doubt that. What’s wrong?”
“I can’t get a gravestone for at least a month, maybe more. Every shop in the area has a backlog you wouldn’t believe.” She turned her dark, sad eyes up to meet Tara’s blue ones. “A lot of people died last night.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Sweetie,” Tara reminded her. “How many more would have if Glory had won? We did all we could. Especially you.”
Willow’s eyes began to brim over then. Before she could protest, Tara kissed her again, then looked deep into her eyes. “Don‘t torture yourself like this. There was nothing more any of us could have done.”
Willow nodded sadly. “I know. It just doesn’t help.” She stood up and wrapped her arms around her love. “And I feel so guilty, that I don’t feel worse. You know? That I have you, and who does Giles have? Or Dawn? Or god help us all, Spike? What does that make me?” She turned her pleading eyes to Tara’s wise ones.
“It makes you human, Willow. And you’re still doing what needs to be done, now. That’s something. I know how hard it is for you. You can do this. I know you can.” They stood resting in each other’s embrace for a long moment.
Then the phone rang, and Willow reluctantly disengaged herself to answer it. Tara watched as Willow listened intently, then sighed. “Thanks, Xander,” she heard her say at last. “I’ll send them over as soon as I can.” She gave her small, elfin smile, as she said her goodbyes. “Yeah, I love you too.” She hung up and turned back to Tara.
“They’re ready. At the shop. Spike’s gone out for a bit, Xander didn’t say why. Can you and Anya…?”
Tara nodded. “Anya was saying she wanted to go home and change. We should both go, and I can pick you up something on my way back. That sound ok?”
Willow nodded. “I’ve missed you so much,” she breathed as she embraced Tara once more. “And I so don’t deserve you.”
Tara smiled through her tears. “Don’t be silly, Love.” They kissed again, slow and lingering, before parting to wake Anya, and to make ready to send Buffy’s body to the shop where her casket, and Xander, awaited them.
****
Xander stood alone at the back door of the shop and watched as the Summers’ SUV pulled up, driven by Tara, accompanied by Anya. He nodded in silent greeting as they parked as close to the door as they could in the narrow alley. Anya climbed down and opened the passenger side rear door, and Xander saw the sheet-wrapped form resting prone across the back seat.
“Hold the door for me, Ahn,” he said softly, as he moved to gather the still figure into his arms. He marveled at how slightly built she was, how despite her superhuman strength, she had been so fragile and delicate. Tara preceded him through the door and went to the casket, working the latch so that both sides of the lid opened. Anya closed the door to the alley behind them, tugging it a little as it stuck.
“Lay her down on the mat for a minute,” Tara instructed quietly, and he did so, then stepped back to place a comforting arm around Anya. Tara unwrapped the body of their friend. Then she nodded at him. “Help me lift her in, and then I’ll fix her hair.”
Xander released Anya and moved as if in a dream to help settle Buffy’s body in the satin-lined casket. He supported her body as Tara arranged her hair one last time, then slowly helped ease her back onto the cream colored pillow. Tara crossed Buffy’s arms across her breast, and, after surveying her work for a moment more, turned and closed the bottom half of the casket. They all stood in silence for a time, Xander rising to return to Anya, whose eyes were wide and sad. He reached out with his other arm and Tara joined them, shaking a little. They had been fighting all manner of demons, monsters and hell gods for what seemed like forever, but this…. This was… real.
After a time, Tara stirred. “I should get over to the dorm, pick up some things for Willow,” she said apologetically. Xander blinked hard and nodded.
“Yeah, Ahn and I should be getting back, too,” he said hoarsely. “We need to get ready for… tonight.”
Anya spoke up. “But–we can’t leave her here alone, can we?” They lingered uncertainly. Then a new voice sounded from the doorway to the storefront behind them.
“Don’t worry,” Spike said, his voice low but steady. “I can stay.”
He was dressed in a black suit, a little long in the sleeves, and a crisp white shirt, holding a black tie in one hand. He looked a bit lost, like a small boy dressed up for the first time, uncomfortable in his own skin. He also looked like he was bracing for an argument, and a flicker of surprise crossed his face when Xander merely nodded at him in silent thanks and escorted Tara and Anya out the back door to the alley. Spike moved to the couch and sank heavily down, leaning his head back until it rested against the rough, exposed bricks of the wall.
****
Spike retreated to the relative quiet of the shop when the others came back through the alley door for the service. He wasn’t sure now, that he could do this after all. He couldn’t make up his mind which was worse-- the pain that seemed to burn through his very lack of a soul, or having these wankers witness it. And then, of course, there was Dawn, a walking, breathing reproach, all the worse for the pity in her gentle eyes.
He busied trembling hands several times trying to work a knot he had never quite learned. In his day, the fashion had been much different, and he’d always had someone, a servant or his mum, or later, Drusilla, to do these things for him. After the fourth attempt he was about to rip the offending strip of black silk from around his neck and throw it across the room in frustration, when he heard Willow’s voice from the doorway behind him.
“Hey. Want some help?”
Spike looked towards the heavens and bit back the first three obscene retorts that sprang to mind. Willow moved forward without waiting for a reply, turning him to face her for a moment while she adjusted the length of the two sides of the tie, then motioning for him to sit in the nearest chair while she knotted the tie from behind, with her hands over his shoulders. She moved to face him again, sliding the knot up into place at his throat and adjusting his collar over it. She nodded approvingly at the result. “There you go.”
“Thanks,” Spike said softly. Then, as the silence became uncomfortable, he asked, “Where’d you learn to tie a sodding tie, anyway?”
Willow smiled a little at the memory. “Who do you think helped Xander get ready for my bat mitzvah? Of course,” she continued, indicating the chair, “I was about a foot taller than he was, back then.” She searched his face. “You ready?”
Spike fished nervously around in his pockets for a cigarette, before remembering he’d left them in the pocket of his leather duster, back in his crypt. He inclined his head, motioned for her to precede him through the door. “As I’ll ever be.”
*****
Giles stood beside the open casket, facing the others as Willow and Spike slipped through the door from the shop. “Ah, yes....” He made sure he knew which pocket his handkerchiefs were folded into, pulled out one and brushed quickly at his eyes under his glasses. He sniffed, pulled himself together. “Lets...ah.. get on with it, shall we?”
He began to speak in a low voice, hearing his words as if from very far away. “When I was quite young, I learned that there was a Slayer-- one girl in all the world chosen to stand between this sorry world and the forces of darkness. She never had a choice, of course. No more than I did. Watchers are also Chosen, you see.”
He cleared his throat and continued, “I remember feeling a little sorry for her, then. I was sure she wanted to do and be other things, just as I did. “ He chuckled a little, gave a tight grin which quickly faded. “I was a little angry with her too, wherever she was. Until I met Buffy, I never realized that, with all the pains and burdens of the calling, anyone could do it with such joy, such cheerful abandon.”
He paused, looked at each of them in turn. “She had something few Slayers are allowed to have. She had a loving family, friends. She had you. I believe you all know how much she loved you. She lies there precisely because she loved you. She laid down her very life for you. What you may not realise was just how much you gave her. You were her lifeline, her anchor, you see. You kept her grounded, gave her the strength and the will to fight. You gave her a Life. She was never merely a tool to be ordered about and discarded. You reminded her, of who she was. And I, at least, shall always be grateful for that.”
He pulled a small, well-worn book from the inside pocket of his jacket. Bound in faded brown leather, its pages were marked by thin ribbons dangling from it, one red, one blue, one green. He selected one and opened the volume. “I realise we represent many beliefs, many traditions,” he said, with an apologetic glance towards Willow. “But this one is mine. And since Buffy spent so many sleepless nights fighting the darkness, I think it only fitting that we should pray this, now.”
He began to read, quietly at first. “Lux aeterna....”
Spike joined him, as if in a daze, reciting some long forgotten memory of the altar boy he once had been,“...luceat eis, Domine.” Giles blinked a little in surprise, but continued, his voice growing ever stronger. “Cum sanctis tuis in aeternum: quia pius es. Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.”
Then Giles translated, with the vampire echoing, “May light eternal shine upon her, O Lord, in the company of thy Saints forever, for thou art merciful.” Giles faltered then. This did not feel like mercy. But now was not the time. He had to be strong for these dear children, to offer them a comfort which did not begin to touch him. Nonetheless, he could not find his voice as Spike went on alone.
“Rest eternal grant unto her, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her. Amen.”
Spike wished the hellmouth would swallow him right there. If it took all of them out together, so much the better. He finally got it, then. The woman they mourned was someone he had never really known. Someone who had been part of their world, the world of the living, of light. The Buffy he had known, and yes, had loved, was the creature of the darkness, like him. Something these people could never have accepted or understood. And it filled him with a seething rage, that this should be so. That they had so often blithly ignored that vital, core part of who she had been. That they were continuing to do it now seemed an affront to her memory.
But now was not the time, and Spike pushed his demon away as he and Xander moved forward and closed the casket for the last time. Tara held Dawn close as they both wept helplessly. Giles stood blinking as if he had just been awakened from a nightmare, then accepted a hug from Willow. Spike used his demon’s strength to lift one end of the casket alone, as the others came forward to grasp the handles along the sides to carry it out to the waiting truck in the alley.
At the cemetery, they found a freshly-dug grave, courtesy of Willow’s nocturnal hacking adventures, set up and ready for them. The next day, the work schedule would be altered in their computers to reflect that a crew had completed the burial, and between that and a slight memory altering spell, Willow hoped nobody would notice or question how this grave had come to be filled in overnight.
They used the machine to lower the casket into the grave, and Giles threw the first shovelful of dirt down, intoning the “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” part of the ritual. He broke down then, and Willow pulled him close again while Xander and Spike stripped to their shirtsleeves to finish the grim task.
And then, finally, it was over. Spike thought to walk away, unable to speak or even to see, but Dawn suddenly appeared before him. The look of compassion in her brimming eyes was more than he could bear. But he saw she needed something from him, and after a long moment, he pulled her into a tight embrace. He found himself whispering in her ear, “If you need anything, anything at all, you let me know.” He pulled back to look into her eyes. “Got it?” She nodded, unable to speak, and he kissed the top of her head. “Good girl.” He released her into Tara’s care, nodded curtly at the rest of them, and stalked forth into the night, back towards his crypt on the other side of the cemetery.
Summer 3- Muddling Through
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-09 04:34 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-09 01:28 pm (UTC)Hob
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-09 10:46 am (UTC)Anyway, am loving this story. It seems very well thought out and is a bit tear-jerking. Reckognized the mention of Lux Aeterna and remembered I had downloaded the song, so went to listen after reading the fic. It was a nice accompanament.
Can't wait to read more.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-12-09 01:25 pm (UTC)And since this is my first and pretty much only fic (until the nano thing I'm working on now) you wouldn't have seen anything else of mine. I'm honored you're reading it now. Thanks for the comment. I'll try to get the rest edited and up this weekend.
And I've found the Lauridsen to be fantastic writing music-- sound just washes past you without distracting you with words-- unless you're fluent in Latin or French (i.e. the Dirait-on which you so kindly provided the text for, as I recall...)
Hob
(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-03 10:15 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-03 10:39 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-06 11:18 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-06 01:12 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-13 10:04 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-14 12:41 am (UTC)Parts are sad, but it's not all unremitting angst. I hope you'll find time to get through the rest. And thanks again for taking the time to comment.
Hob
ps-- I joined your Riters R Us community when I noticed it on your profile-- look forward to seeing someone strike a blow for fanfic literacy. And maybe to help.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-14 04:05 am (UTC)ps-- I joined your Riters R Us community when I noticed it on your profile-- look forward to seeing someone strike a blow for fanfic literacy. And maybe to help. Yay1 Welcome. We try, but our blows seem to miss quite a few people. lol Help is always appreciated and welcome. Feel free to post something anytime you get the itch.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-14 08:27 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-01-14 08:46 pm (UTC)However, as the Council is way older than the English split from Rome, it's not impossible that the Council retained Roman Catholic traditions and practices. Certainly it has a certain patriarchal viewpoint a medieval abbot would be quite at home with.... And Giles does say, "Whatever happened to Latin? At least when that made no sense, the Church approved...."
Again, thanks for taking the time. Glad you're liking it.
Hob