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Buffy lays before Giles, dead. At peace. Content.
He lets the others go to her. Gives them their time. Eventually, the sea parts, and his compatriots let him have his turn.
Giles trembles.
"I don't know how to live in this world," Buffy had confessed to him, voice weighed down with enough sorrow that it shattered his heart. He knew that feeling; after all, she'd stopped him from suicide, four years ago. He'd been bereft at Jenny's loss. Buffy had knocked some sense into him before collapsing into a hug and he collapsed into grief, fire blazing beside them.
But… even so, he can't fault her. Not for this. He'd given everything; even killed a man for her, but it wasn't enough. He is never enough. Not when it matters.
He is not like Buffy.
Giles lies to himself, hopes beyond hope that she'll wake up. But... She doesn't.
He picks the girl up. He cradles her so softly, so tenderly, he regrets ever having been afraid to do so when she was still breathing. One hand braces her cheek. Giles leans forward, kisses Buffy's forehead.
The world will never know that its savior—his savior—rests in his arms.