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Buffy Summers meets the man who should have been her father for the first time when she’s sixteen. She meets him again for the first time again at the age of 20. It’s awkward.
---
The bell above the Magic Shop door rings and all eyes turn towards it. In the doorway the silhouette of a man stands, suitcase in hand. As he steps into the dim light of the shop his features come into focus, the airport tag on his bag fluttering lightly in the wind. The man’s all bent lines. His shoulders droop, he’s slouched and his tie isn’t properly on. The bags under his eyes seem to have multiplied and then some. He looks old.
Giles stiffens when he spots her. Buffy’s standing at the back of the shop, furthest from the door. But in an instant he drops everything, flings himself across the room. Okay, it's Giles so he puts his bags down slightly less gently than normal and covers the shop in a couple long strides, but for him? Well that's practically making a scene. It doesn't matter anyway because Buffy is rushing enough for the both of them because that's her dad and he's going to make sure everything is okay.
They meet in an unholy mix of tears, tweed and workout gear.
Buffy’s not sure who started crying first, but they’re both here now. She presses her face into his blazer and tries to shut out the world. He’s hugging her in that way he was always a bit afraid of before, arms wrapped around her shoulders, cradling her in his arms. She feels his chin on top of her head. She feels how small she actually is for once.
Giles is the same but not. Does that make sense? Not to Buffy, at least not initially. It’s Giles, he smells like tea and old books and when he hugs her for the (second) first time she doesn't want to let go. But he's skinnier, he feels less solid, he's crying. Like something bad happened while she was away. She wants to find whatever made him sad and punch it. “You’re alive. You’re here”, same to you Giles, same to you.. “...and still remarkably strong.” She lets go a fraction. Accidentally killing Giles would probably just add to the zombie jokes, still not funny Xander, and Willow probably doesn't have another miraculous resurrection spell handy.
But it's there. This undercurrent, this little tugging at the back of her head she can't quite put a finger on. Something is off. It's Giles, but it's not the Giles she remembers. Then it hits her. He's not her Giles. Her Giles never lived one hundred and forty-seven days without Buffy. Her Giles never lost his slayer. Sure, it got close a couple of times but there was always a miraculous last minute victory. Buffy was good at those.
She doesn’t know how to look at him. He’s a stranger, in a familiar form. So she just buries her face in his sweater and lets herself be held for once.
---
“Sorry, do you mind the sofa? We’re kinda full up at the moment.”
He doesn’t.
“And the sheets, I know they’re so cute you could die...”
He doesn’t mind the pink sheets either, Giles never was someone to care about something as petty as gendered bedding, he thinks they’re whimsical.
She knows she is going to have to have a proper talk with him later, alone. When she doesn’t have a nosy sister, a slightly over protective vampire, or concerned best friend and equally concerned best friend’s girlfriend. Since when was Buffy running a boarding house? You’d think they’d at least pay rent. Spike offered at one point, but Buffy had just pointed out he doesn’t really live there, just stands outside most nights brooding until one of them eventually notices and pulls him into the movie night, card game or battle strategy session.
It’s a relief to Buffy though, and it scares her. She’s used to being the big, fearless leader. She’s the slayer, shield to her friends and the wider human population of Sunnydale. She’s supposed to be the big sister. Now Buffy has the scoobies taking care of her instead. Dawn pats her cheek when Buffy looks sad, like their mom used to. It should be Buffy doing that, but she just leans into it and closes her eyes. It makes her feel sick. She pushes it down and focuses on the task at hand.
She smooths the sheets down, trying to fold the corner of the sheet around the couch cushion. It’s fiddly and she feels clumsy. She struggles with it, making the mistake of looking at her hands.
They’re still covered in dirt. Grave dirt. She can smell it. Rotten and earthy and bloody.
Her hands have stained the sheets a violent red. They’re covered in the blood that's oozing sluggishly from the splinters of wood in her hands. What's left of her nails are jagged and sharp. Her hands ache, the dirt and blood mixing into a poisonous tincture. She can smell death. She's back in the ground. In a coffin, her coffin. Clawing at the insides like a cat. She's going to scream, but there's no air.
Buffy blinks and her hands are clean again. Her wounds have been scarring nicely in the last week. Little pink strips of skin forming against the slowly returning Calefornian tan. No more blood. Her nails short but filed and painted Dawn’s choice of neon green the last time she manhandled Buffy onto the sofa claiming sister time. It’s nice, in a headache inducing shade.
She breathes in, out, and looks up to Giles. He is watching her, face pinched and concerned. She shakes herself and begins to finish the task of tucking a sheet into the sofa when she realises Giles has already picked up the slack and finished. She must have been out for some time, this keeps happening. She tries a smile, it's watery and thin but she wants to reassure him. Giles still looks worried, he mirrors it though. Neither smile reaches their eyes.
Tomorrow he promises he will help her with her financial troubles, see if they can't make some sense of it together. She wishes him goodnight and goes up to her own room that has sheets that actually fit.
She lies down, listens to the house settle, her friends, her family, go about their little bedtime routines. Dawn’s calling goodnight to everyone, she’s done that since she was a kid, and she can just make out the quiet chat of Willow and Tara before they fall asleep. Downstairs she knows Giles is curling up on the sofa, glasses folded up neatly on the coffee table. It's comforting in a way, knowing everyone she loves is under one roof. Where she can protect them. Where they’re safe. She slips into a deep sleep.
---
Buffy wakes up late the next morning. She’s slept through the night for once, no nightmares or insomnia, and looks over to her alarm clock swearing. It’s reads 11:30, fuck.
Morning is normally pure chaos in the Summers-Rosenberg-Maclay household. Between the four of them there’s always a queue for the bathroom and a fight over who gets to finish the milk. Getting Dawn up alone requires bribes and Tara couldn’t tell time if it bit her on the ass. So it's a wonder that none of the normal chaos woke her up today.
She doesn’t technically have to get up early. She’s been back, what just over a week now? Besides, she doesn’t have a job, apparently slaying is not an official profession, or university to get to anymore so she could sleep away the mornings. But she prefers getting up, likes the chaos of the early morning. She puts herself on breakfast duty, scrambling eggs, brewing coffee or making pancakes. She packs lunches for the three of them, she’s not trying to be her mom, who never packed her luck anyway, but she knows that Willow forgets to eat when she gets caught up in everything and the cafeteria isn’t vegetarian enough for Tara. Some mornings she’ll drive Dawn to school, when she’s running late or it's raining hard. She likes the routine. Likes being busy.
It’s eerily quiet now though.
Buffy rolls over and considers staying in bed longer. With a jolt she remembers that Giles is downstairs though. He’s really back. For a second she wants to pinch herself, make sure it's real. She gets out of bed though and stretches, sighing when her spine cracks. She feels rested, but she’s pissed she slept so long. Buffy pulls on an old cardigan over her pajamas and shuffles out of her room.
Giles is sitting at the counter with a newspaper when she finally gets down the stairs. His hair’s a little rumpled and he's still in his pjs with a grey wool sweater. He gently smiles at her as she sits down across from him. Reaching for an empty mug she hadn’t noticed, he pours her a cup of coffee. Buffy takes it happily and inhales the steam.
“I thought you’d be more, ya know jet laggy today,” she offers a little wave of her hand, to emphasise how out of it she thinks he should be, once she's woken up a bit more.
“Oh no, I’m still on your American time,” his voice goes a little soft, “ I wasn’t exactly there long enough to adjust.” Buffy looks down at her mug. He sounds sad. She doesn’t like it when Giles is sad.
He swallows, and here it is. The “talk” she’s been dreading.
“Buffy, you know” god, his voice is so careful. It's gentle. She can’t stand it. She’s not some wounded beast.
“I know!” She has to shout before Giles says it, she can’t bear to hear him say out loud that she’s failed him, that he's disappointed in her. “I wasn’t fast enough! If I’d just run a little quicker Dawn wouldn’t have been tied up and I wouldn’t have had to-” a sudden break to breathe.
“Buffy, what-”
“- I should have paid more attention when you were training me. I should have worked harder. Dawn nearly died and it’s my fault” it comes out in a horrific confession, a rush of breath. She’s empty. It’s what she's been carrying around. She feels her eyes prickle.
“You didn’t need to do that. Buffy, the world is not your responsibility.” He takes his glasses off and pinches at his nose. “Really Buffy,” a sad little chuckle, “I am the one who failed you.” Giles turns away from her and stares intently at a spot on the wall. “I spent so many hours teaching you, training you, to be the hero. That your life was somehow worth less than any of ours. No, don’t interrupt. I know what I did.” He shudders in a breath and turns back to her. “Buffy I am sorry. I made you believe you believe your life was a fair price for our safety, and that was grossly unfair of me.” His gaze is too much.
“I-I stopped it, because I had to!” She's full on sobbing now. “That's what you raised me, what everyone raised me for! I’m only good to save the world, and now it's saved and I don't know what to do!” He’s already up and out of his chair, holding her. She sounds gross, feels gross, but he's there. Apparently her death was the one thing to burn the squeamish englishness out of him for good. “All I’m good for is death, and now I don’t know what to do” He’s rocking her, petting her hair.
“That’s okay. We can figure it out together. I’m not going anywhere.” He swallows. “It was cowardly…” he sounds ashamed,” for me to run away before. I don’t really know what I was thinking.” He collects himself a little, “but I am sorry. And I am here now. I’m not going anywhere.”