DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own the characters of Buffy, Giles, Xander, Willow, or anything else in, from, or related to the Buffy Universe as created by the all mighty man, Joss, and owned in some strange way I don't get by WB. I DO, however, like messing around in other people's universes. And I'm poor. To quote our favorite principle, "Don't sue."
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Part One
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"Buffy..."
He moved towards her, a book slipping forgotten from his hands to the library floor, echoing dully. Willow lay cradled in Buffy's arms. Blood had soaked through Buffy's shirt and smudged onto her face and hands.
"She's....she's dead, Giles."
His throat caught at the sound of stunned surprise in Buffy's voice. As if she didn't half believe the words she herself had spoken.
"I-I tried...I tried, Giles...but I just...I couldn't..."
Buffy half collapsed to the floor, her arms still clinging tightly to her precious burden. She looked down at Willow's face. She didn't know why the face had been unmarred by the attacker. It was whole, but lifeless and pale; a thin mockery of it's previous self. Trembling, Buffy leaned over the face and gently kissed the cool cheek.
"I didn't save you. Forgive me, I didn't save you..."
Buffy gently laid the body on the floor and cringed at the smear of blood her fingers left on Willow's face when she smoothed a stray hair into place. She looked up suddenly at Giles's ashen face, her eyes locking upon his own. He was motionless, a hand tightly gripping the edge of a table, as if to prevent his falling.
"I killed her."
"Buffy-No..."
He moved quickly to her side, not sure what had happened, not sure *he* could deal with what had happened, but knowing that Buffy wasn't responsible. Mustn't believe that she was responsible.
"I know you, Buffy,"
Buffy looked up at Giles, a sick kind of smile on her face.
"Do yah, Giles? I thought I knew who I was. I was Buffy, the Vampire Slayer. Protector of the world. Preventer of Evil, killer of vampires...but I couldn't protect *her*, Giles. "
Her voice broke at the last of her words, and she turned away from his face, suddenly sickened and fascinated with the blood that covered her hands.
"Should be mine, don'tcha think?"
Giles flinched at the conversational tone she employed and the cold, dark stare she directed at him. He stared back at her, as dumbstruck as he had been months ago when she had accused him all to accurately of failing her, of failing to find the magic trick to avoid her death, of failing to tell her that she was going to die.
When he didn't make a move to reply, Buffy let out a muffled laugh, reaching unthinking with her hands to touch her face, an instinctual act of self comfort. She wasn't aware of the dried blood that cracked and flaked under her touch, falling away like powder.
The sight stirred him from his shock, and he reached out to clasp one of her hands. She looked up at him and shrank back, suddenly frightened, as if expecting retribution. For Willow's death, his mind dully contributed. She thinks that I'll...punish her? Hate her? No. Never that. Never, no matter what imagined failure. He wasn't capable of hating her. But she's quite capable of hating herself, his mind added.
He reached out again, more slowly this time, and gently took her hand in his.
"Buffy"
She closed her eyes at the sound of her name, and seemed to moan. He squeezed the hand he held tightly, and her eyes snapped open but they were not seeing. He had to lean towards her to hear the words she spoke...words that weren't intended for him, or anyone else, to hear.
"She called....before....she called it...and smiled....she...she thought she was safe, 'cause I was there! She thought she would be ok. I...I didn't get there soon enough...she was...I should have...should've..."
Giles started to shake the girl. He couldn't stand to listen to the monotony in her voice, the lifeless tone that made her seem half dead, as well. He didn't hear when she started shouting his name, didn't stop until he looked down and realized she was crying while he shook her. Unaware of his own state of shock he looked at her, appalled at his lack of control. Buffy slipped through his now strengthless grip and curled into a ball on the floor, crying and shaking. He stared dumbly at the signs of bruises on her arms. What had happened to him?
* * *
Two Weeks Later
Shock. Denial. Rage. Grief. His mind ticked through the various stages of mourning that all good psychiatrists said a person went through when they lost someone they loved. Loved. Not love anymore. Love was for smiling faces you saw every day, for silly braids, and bouts of computer genius and kindess. Now all they could do is say that they loved her. Loved what she was, had been.
He was constantly amazed at how large a gap Willow had created in her death. How could he have never realized how dear the three of them were to him? How could he have not realized how devastating it would be to his Slayer, to Buffy, to have any of them taken away? Well, he understood now. He had come so close to losing her, too.
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