Title:...And Never Give Up (part 2/4)
Author: Mel
Rating: FRC-ish, a little angst warning for suffering
Summary: The will to survive cannot be defeated so easily
Spoilers: none
Feedback: yes, please, I love it
Disclaimer: Joss owns them and I'll return them unharmed when I'm done.
Notes: Sequel to Different Kind of Monster.
Unbeta'd, so feedback always welcome.
It was heart-wrenching to see someone undergo the changes the disease had wrought in Giles in just a few months time. Buffy had seen him in the beginning; he had asked her to come to him so that he could talk with her in person about what was wrong. And now, despite his protests that he could manage on his own, she was staying with him for a while, helping out as best she could while still doing her job with the slayers. He had very much resisted her desire to help for some time, which really wasn't surprising. He had always been fiercely independent and accepting help, even from her, was a difficult thing for him. But once or twice he had confided that, deep inside, he appreciated the help very much.
He barely resembled anymore the watcher she'd known for so long. Part of this came from the ravages of the disease and more from the very drugs intended to fight the cancer. Because of the stage the disease had advanced to, there was nothing that could be done surgically, but there was still a chance the chemotherapy could do the trick. Giles had known of the risks and inevitable consequences associated with it, and had balked, but eventually, with coaxing from Buffy, he had reluctantly agreed to receive the treatment.
He was gaunt and thin, his pale, bruise-dotted skin hanging from him like the fronds of a willow tree now that the constant nausea and exhaustion had robbed him of much of his appetite and he had lost so much weight. His face was swollen, due to the Prednisone he took. His eyes were sunken and dark and most of his hair had fallen out long ago, leaving him bald. And even now, Buffy could detect the beginnings of an all to familiar smell, a smell she knew from experience with her line of work: The smell of death. There was still a chance of his survival, but she found it hard to believe, seeing him grow weaker by the day.
He still retained, though, the fighting spirit Buffy knew so well. He had insisted on doing his job of running the Council, even if it meant working from his bed via telephone and computer and taking on assistants. Sadly, it meant he was usually totally exhausted by the end of the day. Still, he was pleased with himself, and Buffy reasoned that it gave him something to fight for and to keep his beleaguered mind clear.
The slayer realized that even though his physical form was failing, his spirit was still strong and willing to keep fighting. And, every now and then, Buffy would catch a glimpse of his eyes, would see the determination and strength they still held despite their tiredness and fear, and would let herself hope that maybe, just maybe, he might somehow make it through.