Chapter Text
You wish you'd never have to bother with goodbyes ; especially when you were about to leave behind a young Slayer in need of guidance ; especially when the words "see you soon", slipping on the edge of your tongue, might as well have meant "farewell". But there's a time for everything, for beginnings and for endings, and Giles had known that since the very first day. He'd known that the teaching would come to an end, that, someday, soon, he would not be the trustworthy mentor here to fix it all anymore, but an old quirky guy you were used to seeing roaming the halls, with a book in his hands. A familiar, oddly comforting presence – much like an outgrown sweater or a rickety chair. There was no denying it: he'd become part of the furniture.
His flat, on the other hand, suddenly felt very empty. He did not care about most of the trinkets adorning the shelves nor would he take them with him on his trip back home. Without fail, his gaze fell onto the boarding pass lying idly on the kitchen counter – he hadn't moved it in a while. One-way ticket to London, flight boarding at 8:00 on the following morning. One. Way. Ticket. Giles sighed and dropped his suitcase on the floor where it landed softly. Forcing his eyes to dart away from the ticket – from the departure –, he filled a kettle with water and put a teabag into his cup. Better that than whiskey – had to get up early in the morrow.
Still, he worried about Buffy. She was one of a kind and able to defeat all the vampires and demons that the Hellmouth would inevitably conjure, that was for a fact ; but what about her? What about her feelings? What about her well-being? Ever since she came back from the dead, she'd been different. Colder, angrier, aloof. Less... humane. And their little musical adventure from the previous week confirmed what Giles was already dreading: Buffy never wanted to come back. Buffy never wanted to be resurrected in the first place. She couldn't endure life anymore. Of course, he envisioned this possibility before but hearing it from Buffy herself devastated him. What kind of Watcher was he, failing to notice this before, to talk to her, simply talk? He couldn't help but ponder over his own behavior towards her, his relentless expectations, his inflexibility, his rigor. Now he understood their recent falling-outs and the extent of his blame ; he had wanted to turn her into a weapon. Sharpen her to excess. And now he pretended to be worried about her, afraid she might crumble under the pressure? Little late for that, he thought to himself.
With a click, the kettle warned him the water was hot. Without thinking, he poured it into his cup and twirled the teabag until everything turned brown. Buffy had her friends, there was no cause for worry. They'd help her stay the course, keep a cool head. They'd support her, above all, better than he – the useless teacher who had nothing to teach anymore – could.
Yes. But.
Alexander was completely absorbed in wedding preparations – what time had he left for his friend? Dawn had her own issues to deal with, as a young girl propelled into an adult world, full of dangers and hard choices. And Willow... Giles had to admit the young witch was also a subject of worry. This obsession with magic, this amnesia spell debacle... it was certainly not boding well. Giles hoped Tara would help reason her. She was much apter than him to do so. He was not apt for much.
Truth be told, leaving for England would not help him keep the situation under control, far from it, but it was not his goal. His goal was to let Buffy breathe, to encourage her – without actually, actively encouraging her – to grow and evolve. At her own rhythm. Still, Giles intended to keep an eye on her.
He took a thick tome out of his shelves, and opened it to reveal a tiny box in which were stored various talismans and amulets. He delicately grasped a small oval mirror, the size of a coaster, which he raised to his eye as it shimmered in the dim lamp light. Was it the bright shine of the glass? The fatigue he accumulated over the course of the past few weeks? Or a mere fit of clumsiness as even Ruper Giles could be the victim of? Hard to exactly say, but in a split second – or less – the mirror slipped through his fingers and shattered onto the floor. The sound – glass breaking onto floorboards creaking – left no room for doubt yet Giles crouched down nonetheless, taking off his glasses with one hand, running the other over his eyes and his forehead and his hair until he was forced to face reality: his extrasight mirror was completely broken.
Irreparable.
Oh, Giles was not bothered by the dreadful perspective of seven years of unhappiness while cleaning his mess, nope, he had had his lot and more, to the point where such a curse would surely pity him and choose another soul to pester! No, the truth is: he might as well have deluded himself into thinking that he had to leave, it was this mirror who helped him come to terms with that decision. With it, he would not have to stay near Buffy, standing in the way, to watch as she'd act and make her own choices – without interfering, because she would not see him. It was the perfect plan for a Watcher: staying behind, merely controlling everything went its intended way. But he had ruined it all, destroyed his own means of surveillance.
Having cleaned up the mess, Rupert started to pace around the narrow apartment, gaze fixed upon the ticket taunting him from the countertop. Could he really leave with no way to keep on watching over Buffy? Wouldn't that be some kind of treason? Suddenly, as his eyes peered through the dark night behind his windows, a bright sign flickered below, catching his attention.
— I should be mad, muttered Giles for himself, his gaze still and glazed.
A moment later, he had put his coat on and picked up his suitcase and was slamming the door to his apartment. The tea didn't even cool down.