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The library door creaked as Buffy pushed it open, the sound unnaturally loud in the pre-dawn quiet. Her homecoming dress—what was left of it—hung in tatters around her knees, the satin fabric stained with dirt and something darker that might have been blood. Not hers. She’d come straight from checking that Cordelia made it safely home, her body running on the last dregs of adrenaline and the gnawing worry that had taken root when Giles didn’t answer his phone. Three calls. No answer. And Giles always answered, no matter the hour. Always.
“Giles?” Her voice bounced off the stacks, unanswered. The overhead lights were off, but a desk lamp cast a yellow circle across the research table, illuminating an open book and a half-empty mug of tea. Buffy moved deeper into the library, her heels clicking against the linoleum. “Giles, are you here?”
The answering silence pressed against her eardrums. She’d told him she’d call after homecoming, had promised to check in when the dance was over. But homecoming had ended hours ago.
Buffy rounded the corner of the stacks and stopped, her breath catching in her throat. Giles lay sprawled on his back beside the card catalogue, one arm flung out at an awkward angle, the other curled protectively against his chest. His glasses were missing, his face pale beneath the bruise already darkening along his jaw. A thin line of blood traced from his hairline to his collar, dried now to a rusty-brown smear.
“Giles!” She was on her knees beside him in an instant, her hands hovering over his chest, afraid to touch him and somehow make things worse. “Giles, can you hear me? It’s Buffy. You need to wake up, okay? You need to—“
His eyelids fluttered. A low groan escaped his lips, his head rolling to the side as consciousness returned in painful increments. “Buffy?” His voice was thick, uncertain. “What are you—“
“I’m here.” She carefully slipped one arm beneath his shoulders, supporting his weight as he struggled to sit up. “Don’t try to move too fast. You took a pretty good knock to the head.”
Giles blinked up at her, his eyes unfocused in that particular way that meant his vision was swimming. “How did you—“
“Just lucky timing,” she said, keeping her voice deliberately light. “I came to check in after...” She glanced down at her ruined dress, at the dirt under her nails, at the cut on her palm she didn’t remember getting. “After. You weren’t answering your phone, so I thought I’d stop by. Good thing, too.”
Giles’s hand found her wrist, his fingers warm against her skin. “Are you hurt?” he asked, the Watcher emerging even through the fog of concussion. “There’s blood—“
“Not mine,” Buffy assured him, covering his hand with her own before she could think better of it. “Well, not much of it. I’m fine. You’re the one who’s concussed.”
His expression cleared slightly, focus returning by degrees. “Concussed,” he repeated. “Yes, that would... explain things.” He tried to sit up straighter, wincing as the movement pulled at whatever injury had him curled protectively around his ribs. “I was researching when I heard someone come in. I thought it might be you, returning from the dance, but—“
“Who was it?” Buffy asked, though she was fairly certain she already knew the answer.
“Faith,” Giles said, the name falling between them like a stone. “She was... not herself. Agitated. Talking about a bounty, about hunters who’d come to Sunnydale looking for Slayers.” His hand tightened on her wrist. “She said they’d found you. That you were—“
“Dead?” Buffy supplied. “Yeah, that was the plan. Three guys with more weapons than sense thought they’d collect the prize money for killing the Slayer. Didn’t work out so well for them.”
Something flickered across Giles’s face—relief quickly masked by professional concern. “You’re certain you’re not injured? Even minor wounds should be—“
“I’m fine,” Buffy said again, more firmly this time. “Really. A couple of bruises, nothing major. But you...” She gently touched the edge of the cut on his forehead, her fingers coming away smudged with dried blood. “We need to get you cleaned up. And probably to a hospital, for that concussion.”
Giles shook his head, immediately regretting it. “No hospitals,” he said, voice tight with pain. “Too many questions. Too much risk of the Council learning—“ He stopped, visibly gathering himself. “I’ll be fine with some ice and rest. It’s not the first time I’ve been knocked unconscious.”
The casual way he said it—as if being rendered temporarily brain-dead was just another Tuesday—made something in Buffy’s chest twist. “Still,” she said, keeping her voice steady with an effort. “You should probably have someone keep an eye on you. Concussions are serious business.”
“I’ll call—“
“I’ll do it,” Buffy said, the words out before she could stop them. “I mean, I’m already here. And it’s not like I have anywhere else to be.” She gestured to her ruined dress, to the dirt still clinging to her arms. “Homecoming’s over for me anyway.”
Something complicated passed across Giles’s face. “You shouldn’t have to—“
“I want to,” Buffy cut in. “Really. Besides, what kind of Slayer would I be if I left my Watcher bleeding on the library floor?” She offered a smile she hoped reached her eyes. “Not a very good one, that’s for sure.”
For a moment, Giles didn’t respond. He just looked at her, his eyes—slightly unfocused but no less intent—taking in her face with a careful attention that made her skin warm. Then he nodded, a single, decisive movement. “Very well,” he said. “But at my flat, not here. The library’s hardly conducive to proper medical care.”
Buffy helped him to his feet, her arm around his waist, his weight leaning into her side with a trust that made her throat tight. He was warm—warmer than he should have been, a fever already brewing beneath his skin. She’d missed this—the simple reality of him, solid and present beside her. The careful distance they’d maintained since his return suddenly seemed both necessary and impossible, a wall built of good intentions and worse outcomes.
“I’ve got you,” she said, steadying him when he swayed. “Just lean on me. I’m stronger than I look.”
“That,” Giles said, a hint of his dry humour breaking through the pain, “was never in question.”
They made it to the parking lot in fits and starts, Giles’s coordination coming and going with each step. By the time they reached his car, he was pale and sweating, his breathing shallow with the effort of staying upright. Buffy helped him into the passenger seat, buckling him in with careful hands, then slid behind the wheel with only a moment’s hesitation. She’d driven exactly twice before—Joyce’s station wagon around an empty parking lot, Giles’s sedan to the hospital when he’d been poisoned—but desperate times called for desperate measures.
The drive to Giles’s flat passed in a blur of careful turns and red lights that seemed to last forever. Beside her, Giles drifted in and out of consciousness, his head lolling against the window, his hand curled loosely in his lap. Each time his eyes closed, Buffy’s stomach dropped—fear, irrational and overwhelming, rising in her throat like bile. She’d lost too much already—Angel, Jenny, Kendra, and nearly Giles himself when he’d left for England. The thought of adding him to that list made her hands shake on the wheel.
She parked crookedly in front of his building, killing the engine with more force than necessary. Giles stirred at the sudden silence, his eyes opening with visible effort. “We’re here,” Buffy said, keeping her voice deliberately light. “Home sweet home. Or flat, anyway. You know what I mean.”
Getting him upstairs was even harder than getting him to the car. The stairs—narrow and poorly lit—seemed to go on forever, each step requiring careful negotiation. By the time they reached his door, both of them were sweating, Giles from pain and exertion, Buffy from the effort of keeping him upright. She fished his keys from his pocket, trying not to notice how close they were standing, how his breath warmed the side of her neck as she worked the lock.
Inside, she helped him to the sofa, supporting his weight until he was safely seated. “Stay,” she said, the word coming out more forcefully than she’d intended. “I mean, don’t move. I’ll get the first aid kit and some ice.”
And though this was only her fourth visit to his flat, she had only used the bathroom once, it was exactly as she remembered—white tile and blue towels, the soap in the dish the same clean-sharp scent that clung to Giles’s skin. The first aid kit was under the sink, right where it had always been. Buffy grabbed it and a hand towel, running cool water over the cloth before heading back to the living room.
Giles hadn’t moved—was, in fact, exactly where she’d left him, his head tipped back against the cushions, his eyes closed. For a moment, Buffy allowed herself to look at him—really look at him—without the mask of careful neutrality she’d been wearing since his return. He looked exhausted, the lines around his eyes deeper than they’d been a month ago, his face thinner beneath the day’s stubble. The bruise along his jaw was already darkening, a smear of purple against his skin. He’d been hurt because of her—because he’d been worried, because he’d tried to help. The knowledge sat like a stone in her stomach, heavy with guilt and something deeper, more complicated.
She settled beside him on the sofa, close enough that their thighs touched, the heat of him seeping through the thin fabric of her dress. “Hey,” she said softly, touching his shoulder. “I need you to stay awake for a bit, okay? Concussion rules.”
Giles’s eyes opened, focusing on her face with visible effort. “I’m awake,” he said, his voice rough. “Though I must admit, this isn’t how I envisioned spending my evening.”
Buffy’s mouth quirked. “Yeah, well, me neither. I was supposed to be slow dancing with some guy whose name I can’t remember, not playing nurse to my concussed Watcher.” She reached for the first aid kit, pulling out antiseptic and gauze with practiced efficiency. “This might sting a bit.”
She cleaned the cut on his forehead with careful hands, mindful of his occasional winces. Up close, his skin was warm beneath her fingers, the pulse in his temple strong and steady. He watched her as she worked, his eyes—slightly unfocused but no less intent—following her movements with a concentration that made her stomach flip.
“You should have gone to homecoming,” he said suddenly, breaking the careful silence between them. “You’ve earned a night of normalcy, after everything.”
Buffy shrugged, focusing on the cut rather than his face. “Normal’s overrated,” she said. “Besides, I’d rather be here. Making sure you don’t slip into a coma or whatever.”
“I’m hardly at risk of—“
“Giles.” Buffy set the gauze aside, meeting his eyes with deliberate directness. “Let me do this, okay? It’s important to me.”
Something shifted in his expression—surprise, quickly masked, then something warmer, more complicated. “Very well,” he said, his voice softer now. “Though I reserve the right to complain if your medical techniques prove unnecessarily medieval.”
That startled a laugh out of her—a real one, not the careful, measured thing she’d been offering since his return. “I promise to be gentle,” she said, reaching for the ice pack she’d prepared. “Cross my heart.”
She pressed the pack to his jaw, her hand resting lightly against his temple. They sat like that until the ice had melted, neither speaking, the only sound the soft tick of the clock on the mantel and the occasional creak of the building settling around them.
“You should get some rest,” Buffy said finally, breaking the silence. “Doctor’s orders.”
Giles nodded, his eyes already beginning to drift closed. “And you?” he asked, voice thick with approaching sleep. “Will you be...?”
“I’ll be right here,” Buffy promised, pulling the melted ice pack away from his face. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His hand found hers in the space between them, fingers curling around her wrist with unexpected strength. “Thank you,” he said simply.
Buffy turned her hand, letting their palms meet in the half-light. “Anytime,” she said, and meant it.
Buffy woke to the smell of coffee and something sweeter, richer—a scent that made her stomach clench with sudden hunger. The cushion of his armchair beneath her had acquired a permanent dent where her hip had pressed into the foam all night, and her neck ached from the awkward angle she’d finally dozed off in. She’d meant to stay awake, to keep watch over Giles as he slept on the sofa, but sometime around three her body had given up the fight, consciousness slipping away between one worried thought and the next. Now morning light spilled through the half-drawn curtains, painting the living room in stripes of gold, and from the kitchen came the soft, domestic sounds of someone moving with careful purpose.
She sat up, wincing as her muscles protested the movement. The blanket—Giles’s blanket, the soft blue one that usually lived at the foot of his bed—slid to her waist, and she realised with a start that someone had covered her after she’d fallen asleep. Giles, presumably. Which meant he’d been up, moving around, checking on her—all while he was supposed to be resting.
Buffy pushed the blanket aside and stood, smoothing her ruined dress with hands that weren’t quite steady. She’d need to call home soon, make up some story about spending the night at Willow’s to explain her absence. Joyce would worry, otherwise. Another lie to add to the mountain of them, another piece of her normal life sacrificed to the weight of her calling.
The kitchen light created a rectangle of warmer light in the dim living room. Buffy walked towards it quietly, not wanting to startle Giles if he was still feeling the effects of his concussion. He stood at the stove, his back to her, a spatula in one hand and a mug of what smelled like coffee in the other. He’d changed—the bloodstained shirt replaced by a clean green sweater, the bruise on his jaw already fading at the edges to an ugly yellow-green—and moved with the careful precision of someone still finding his balance. But he was upright, functional, a far cry from the broken figure she’d half-carried up the stairs the night before.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” Buffy said, leaning against the alcove. “Doctor’s orders. My doctor’s orders, specifically.”
Giles turned, a smile—quick and genuine—touching his mouth before he could suppress it. “And good morning to you too,” he said. “Though I should point out that you’re hardly in a position to lecture me on following medical advice. When was the last time you actually stayed in bed after being knocked unconscious?”
Buffy shrugged, stepping into the kitchen proper. “Different rules for Slayers,” she said. “Super healing, remember? Besides, I’ve had plenty of practice.”
“Indeed.” Giles turned back to the stove, flipping whatever was in the pan with a practiced flick of his wrist. “Which is why, rather than point out the obvious flaws in your argument, I’ve taken the liberty of preparing breakfast. Eggy bread and coffee, if you’re interested.”
The domesticity of it—Giles in his kitchen, making breakfast like it was any normal morning—made Buffy’s chest tight with an emotion she didn’t want to name. This was what she’d given up when she’d agreed to maintain their distance—these quiet moments, these glimpses of what might have been. “Eggy bread?” she repeated, moving to stand beside him at the stove. “You mean French toast?”
“I mean eggy bread,” Giles said firmly. “A perfectly respectable British breakfast that requires no assistance from our colonial neighbours.” He slid the finished piece onto a waiting plate, already stacked with three others. “Though I’ve taken the liberty of adding a touch of hot sauce. An American innovation I’m rather fond of.”
He turned, plate in hand, and nearly collided with Buffy—they were standing closer than she’d realised, the kitchen suddenly too small for the careful distance they’d been maintaining. For a moment, neither of them moved. Giles’s eyes—clearer this morning, the concussion apparently mild—met hers with a directness that made her stomach flip. Then he stepped back, careful and deliberate, and the moment passed.
“Coffee’s on the counter,” he said, his voice carefully even. “Milk in the fridge, if you take it. I’m afraid I’m out of that abominable flavoured creamer you’re so fond of.”
They settled at the small breakfast bar between the kitchen and his lounge, plates arranged with what Buffy had come to recognise as Giles’s particular brand of careful precision. The eggy bread—which was, admittedly, not French toast by another name—was perfect, golden brown and dripped with just enough hot sauce to make the dish hot on her taste buds. The coffee was strong enough to stand a spoon in, exactly the way she liked it. Another thing he’d remembered.
“I should apologize,” Giles said suddenly, setting his fork down with careful precision. “For last night. For keeping you from homecoming. It was never my intention to—“
“Giles.” Buffy cut him off with a wave of her hand. “It’s fine. Really. Homecoming was... it was just a dance. Not exactly a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
Something flickered across his face—too fast to identify, there and gone before she could be sure she’d seen it. “Still,” he said. “You deserved a night of normalcy. After everything.”
The word hung between them—normalcy—weighted with all the things they weren’t saying. What was normal for them, anyway? Watcher and Slayer, circling each other with careful distance, too aware of the damage they could do? Or something else—something that had begun in a moment of shared grief and grown into whatever this was, too big to name and too dangerous to acknowledge?
“I’d rather be here,” Buffy said finally, the truth of it sitting uncomfortably in her chest. “Making sure you’re okay. That’s... that’s what matters.”
Giles nodded, apparently accepting her answer despite the careful distance it maintained. “Well,” he said, changing the subject with visible relief, “at least the concussion appears to be mild. No nausea, no confusion beyond the expected—“ He stopped, his expression shifting. “Faith,” he said, the name falling between them like a stone. “We should discuss what happened. What she said.”
Buffy set her fork down, appetite suddenly gone. “She attacked you,” she said, not a question but a confirmation. “Because she thought I was dead. Because those hunters told her they’d killed me.”
Giles nodded, a single, precise movement. “She was... not herself. Agitated. Speaking of bounties, of a contest to kill the Slayer.” His hand tightened on his coffee mug, knuckles whitening with the force of his grip. “She seemed genuinely upset when she realised her error. Almost... frightened.”
The description didn’t match the Faith Buffy had met—confident, cocky, with a casual disregard for the rules that had made even Giles look twice. “You think she was telling the truth?” she asked. “About the hunters, about being worried?”
“I think,” Giles said carefully, “that Faith is more complicated than either of us initially believed. The Council’s file suggested a history of violence, of callous disregard for human life. What I saw last night was...” He paused, searching for the right word. “Human. Flawed, certainly. Dangerous, undoubtedly. But human nonetheless.”
It was exactly the kind of careful, measured assessment Buffy had come to expect from him—seeing the person beneath the monster, even when the monster was doing its best to hide that fact. It was what had drawn her to him in the first place, this capacity for compassion in a world that offered little in return.
“I should talk to her,” she said, the decision forming even as she spoke. “Slayer to Slayer. Properly, see if I can get through where the Council couldn’t.”
Giles’s expression didn’t change, but something in his posture shifted—a subtle straightening of the spine, a tightening around the eyes. “I’m not certain that’s wise,” he said, voice level. “Given what we know about her—“
“We know she’s scared,” Buffy cut in. “We know she’s alone. We know the Council failed her, just like they’ve failed every Slayer before her.” She reached across the table without thinking, her hand covering his where it rested beside his plate. “She needs someone, Giles. Someone who understands what it means to carry this weight.”
For a moment, Giles didn’t respond. He just looked at their hands—hers small and tanned against his larger, paler one—with an expression Buffy couldn’t quite read. Then he nodded, a single, decisive movement. “Very well,” he said. “Though I’d appreciate it if you’d allow me to accompany you. For... research purposes, if nothing else.”
The careful distance—maintained even in concession—made Buffy’s chest ache. “Deal,” she said, withdrawing her hand with careful deliberation. “Watcher and Slayer, united against the forces of darkness. Just like old times.”
Something flickered across Giles’s face—there and gone before she could name it. “Just so,” he said, voice carefully even.
They finished breakfast in a silence that wasn’t quite comfortable, clearing the table with the easy coordination of people who had done this a hundred times before. Buffy washed while Giles dried, their movements falling into the familiar rhythm of shared domesticity. It should have been awkward—this pantomime of normal life with the weight of everything unsaid between them—but there was something almost peaceful about it, a reminder of what they had been before duty and desire had forced them apart.
“We should get to school,” Giles said finally, hanging the dish towel on its hook with careful precision. “I’ve a meeting with Snyder at nine regarding the library budget.”
Buffy glanced at the clock—8:17, later than she’d realised. “Yeah,” she agreed. “Mom’s probably wondering where I am. I should call, let her know I’m okay.” Another lie to add to the collection.
They gathered their things in the particular silence of the morning after—careful, measured, aware of each other in a way that made Buffy’s skin prickle with awareness. At the door, Giles paused, hand on the knob, and turned to face her with an expression that made her heart skip a beat.
“Thank you,” he said simply. “For staying. For...” He gestured vaguely, encompassing the night, the morning, the careful distance they’d maintained. “Everything.”
Buffy nodded, not trusting herself to speak. What was there to say, really? That she’d have stayed regardless? That homecoming had meant nothing compared to the certainty that he was safe? That the space between them—carefully maintained, precisely measured—was both necessary and impossible, a wall built of good intentions and worse outcomes?
“I’ll see you at school,” she said finally, the words inadequate to the weight of what lay between them. “After your meeting with Snyder. We can... figure out what to do about Faith then.”
Giles nodded, a single, precise movement. “After,” he agreed. Then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that seemed to echo in the empty flat.
Buffy stood in the sudden silence, conscious of the weight of the ghost of his hand beneath hers on the tabletop. Outside, the day was beginning—students heading to class, teachers preparing lessons, the ordinary machinery of Sunnydale High grinding into motion. And somewhere in that maze of hallways and classrooms, Giles would be moving through his day, Watcher and librarian, friend and something more complicated besides.
She would find him there. Would sit across from him in the library, would discuss Faith and demons and the latest threat to their perpetually threatened town. Would maintain the careful distance they’d agreed upon, would pretend that the space between them was exactly what they both wanted.