TITLE: The Watcher: Ghost Story 2/3
AUTHOR: vatwoman
FEEDBACK: Will be gratefully received, at: vatwoman@yahoo.co.uk
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Joss Whedon owns Giles and everything/everyone else `Buffy.' No copyright infringement intended. Anna (and anyone else I invent) is mine.

He gestured her in ahead of him and then lead the way into his flat. They settled in the kitchen.

"I'll just go and take care of this." He indicated the shredded and bloodied shirt underneath his jacket, pulling the material away from his skin with a grimace of pained distaste.

"Do you have a first aid box?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to bring it here?" Giles hesitated for a second and then nodded. He left for the bathroom, returning a few moments later with the box. "Sit on the table." Once he'd settled himself she helped him off with his jacket. The shirt was cut across the left hand side of his back and on, up, under his arm. Blood tinged red the edges of the gaping slashes. "Can you take your shirt off?"

"Anna …" he glanced over his shoulder at her. "… it's fine. Really. I can manage this myself."

"This cut's in an awkward place. It needs to be cleaned properly. Let me help."

He held her eyes for just a few seconds longer before inclining his head in agreement. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt. As he pulled it out of his trousers, he felt her hands on the collar and relaxed his arms so she could strip him of it.

Although she made no sound, he knew, from the hesitation before she dropped the shirt beside him, that she was shocked by the sight in front of her.

"None of it was as painful as it looks." He could feel the heat of her hand as it hovered over each scar, not quite touching him.

The patterns of them were as familiar to him as the features of his face; the designs carved into him by Ethan's knife; the claw and teeth marks of the Ashok beast and other creatures; Angelus's whip that had cut into not only his back but his buttocks as well; the jagged mess of Jenny's crossbow bolt; and the spear that had gone straight through him.

"No …" she contradicted him, "… I imagine it was quite as painful as it looks." He half-turned this time so he could look at her properly. There was a tiny frown furrowing the skin of her brow but other than that, her face was devoid of expression. "What did this?" Anna raised her eyes from his scarred body, to his face – searching it, looking, perhaps, for the scars in his eyes. Then she took a step back.

"Anna?"

"I can't. This …" she gestured at his back, "… this … what it represents … I … it's too much … it's too …" She turned towards the door. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked you to become involved in this. I … I should go …" He was off the table in a heartbeat, catching her as she moved away. He grasped her hands in his and pulled her to him. She looked pale. "I can't …"

"… and neither can I." He moved his hands to her shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. "Do you really think I want to live a life where this happens?"

"No …" she shook her head, " … no, you don't understand. It's people … I can't … I can't care this much!"

He let go of her. Half in the kitchen, half in the darkened hallway, her face, like his, was thrown into shadow. Her eyes held shadows deeper still. He'd been impressed with her this evening; her acceptance, her bright courage, her intelligence - easily a match for his. He had not, however, expected to be matched in this - this desperate need for emotional solitude. "I've tried that."

"And?" She asked. He saw beyond the fragility of her voice that she had regained her equilibrium and found something about her that he both envied and admired.

He shrugged. "Still a work in progress." He touched her elbow. "Will you stay? I really would appreciate some help with this wound. Please?"

It was an odd experience, he decided, watching someone withdraw from you even as they agree to help you. Her eyes shuttered and her face smoothed, showing none of the distress of a few minutes ago ………………

………………her hands, gentle on his body, wiped away the blood, disinfected and dressed the wound. He barely felt the pressure of her fingers ………………

……………… they'd fought over the sleeping arrangements, but she'd stayed. Hours later he woke up, needing to use the toilet, and when he came out of the spare bedroom he saw the door to his own bedroom was open once more. Finishing in the bathroom, he found her in the living-room. She was standing silhouetted against the window, the light from the street lamps below casting her into a pool of inky blackness. He came and stood at her shoulder, his gaze drawn across the street to her house.

The lights on the upper floors were blinking on and off in a crazy disjointed pattern, one minute bathing the grounds in a blaze of light, the next plunging them into total darkness.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You didn't." Giles reassured her.

"It's angry, isn't it?"

"Yes." At his words she wrapped her arms around herself. "We've summoned it and now it knows that it doesn't have complete control over the house. Or you. Or itself, even. Not anymore."

The lightshow ceased abruptly, leaving only the orange glow from the lights in the street. The house receded into a darkness that seemed to swallow it up. She shivered. "So what now?"

"Plan B."

"I wasn't aware we had a Plan A." she demurred carefully, half turning towards him.

"Oh? Really?" Giles frowned. "I thought we'd covered that. I said, `Let's see what we're dealing with' and you said, `Fine.' Yes?"

"And the ghost-summoning – when did we agree that?"

"I interpreted that as falling into the category of 'seeing.' It was invisible and now it's … well … not." Then he laughed. "I'm sorry, I should've given you some warning …" He stopped. "Anna?"

Her back was to him again and their eyes met in their reflections. She could have been a ghost, a classic one from children's literature, white from head to toe: hair, t-shirt, boxers and skin. He, in contrast, was as dark as she was light, his body, at her side, only suggested by the blues and blacks of his nightwear. It was only in his face that she could see any lightness. Strange that she could only see the depths of night in her own.

"I can't remember the last time that I laughed out loud."

His shock was described in the jump of his heart, as it pounded helplessly against the quiet anguish of her words… and he learned again that trying not to care was such an arrogant conceit.

"Something I will change."

She turned, prepared to lash out at him for his boastfulness but was stopped by the fierce purpose she could see on his face … and felt oddly humbled by it.

"I know." A puzzled frown flashed across her face. "I do know. Why is that?" A small smile touched the corner of her mouth. "Given that I'm wearing your boxers and sleeping in your bed, it seems a little after- the-fact to ask this but what is it, exactly, that you do?"

He smiled in his turn. "I told you, I own a magic shop."

"In California?"

"In California."

"And it doesn't strike you how odd that sounds?"

He pulled a face and laughed softly. "All the time!"

"And the rest of it?" He raised an eyebrow at her, clearly not understanding the question. "The ghost summoning part? Normal people can't do that …"

"… `normal people' don't usually believe in ghosts at all."

"Touché …and you're avoiding the question."

"I know." He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the floor. "I know you need some sort of explanation." He looked up. "But I'm asking you to accept that I can help you and leave it at that."

"And if I can't leave it at that?"

The phone rang, cutting off his reply. The clock on the mantel read twenty past two. Bitter experience had taught him that nothing good ever comes from phone calls at such times of the morning. "Excuse me." He strode across the room and snatched up the receiver.

"Rupert Giles."

<"Giles. Hi, it's Willow.">

"Willow? Is everyone all right? Dawn?"

<"Dawn's good. We're all good.">

"Good. That's good …" His voice trailed off as the initial worry dissipated and a sudden awkwardness settled in him. He sighed. <Bugger!> "So did you just phone for a chat or …?" He deliberately left the question hanging incase this was a call with more purpose than a simple `hello.'

<"Yeah … I mean `yeah,' there's an `or'">

"And it is …?" Willow blew out a deep breath that made a `chuffing' sound in his ear. "Willow?"

<"Buffy's back.">

"From patrol? Gooood …" He smiled. "… not sure that that warrants a phone-call to …"

<"… no, not the `Buffybot': Buffy. Back. Alive.">

His brow pulled tight into stark lines. "What? I don't …"

<"… she's alive, Giles.">

"No!" He shook his head. "Willow, Buffy's dead!"

<"Well … yeah … sure … she was, but now she's not." Willow's laugh was as much about nervousness as it was about happiness. "I kinda did a spell.">

"A spell?"

<"Yeah, a restoration spell.">

"You did what? A restoration spell?"

<"Uh - huh.">

"And she's alive?"

<"Yeah.">

"Oh …"

The phone seemed to fall in slow motion to land with a clatter on the desk. He could see Anna moving towards him. He tried to wave her away but found that he needed both hands to clutch the desk as the room started spinning around him. Anna caught him as his legs buckled.

<"Giles? Giles!">

She felt furnace-hot against his freezing skin with her hands steadying him, holding him upright.

<"Giles!">

Anna snatched up the phone. "Wait, please." She pressed the secrecy button and dropped it again. "Giles?" Holding him by shoulder and face she could feel him shaking; tremors that coursed through his entire body. He was icy cold.

"Giles?"

"I need a minute." And she gave that to him, standing with him, continuing to hold him, as he had stood with her earlier this evening. The look he gave her was one of pure gratitude. Then he picked up the phone. "Willow?"

<"Giles? Giles, you ok?">

"I've no idea." He ran a distracted hand through his hair. "Buffy's … Buffy's alive?"

<"Yes">

"Is she …" He licked his lips. "…is she alright?"

<"She's back home. Giles, I really think you should come back. We need … she needs you.">

<Buffy'saliveBuffy'saliveBuffy'saliveBuffy'salive!> He pressed the phone to his chest with one hand and with the other, covered his mouth to stop a scream from erupting.

"Willow?"

<"Still here.">

"I don't know what to say."

<"Just say you're coming home.">

"Yes. Yes, of course I am. I'll …" Anna - standing across the room now to give him some measure of privacy. He held her eyes. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

<"Giles?">

"As soon as I can, Willow. I have some things that I need to do here before I come back."

<"When? I'd like to tell the Gang.">

"No!" He sounded strident and immediately softened his tone. "I'm sorry, Willow… just …don't say anything. Please? I'm not sure how quickly I'll be able to get away and I don't want to make you a promise that I'll be forced to break."

<"But soon?" Willow pushed, needing the promise anyway. "Right?">

Giles closed his eyes, wrapped his free arm around his chest and whispered, "Soon."

<"Ok.">

Her voice sounded as sad as his had done; much less sure than when she'd begun this conversation.

"Willow?"

<"Yeah?">

"Buffy?" He breathed deeply, trying to unknot knotted muscles. "Watch her for me? Until I get back?"

<"Sure, Giles." He could hear the smile in her voice. "Willow Rosenberg, `Watcher wannabe'!" Then she coughed delicately. "I guess I should let you get back to whatever it was you were doing.">

"That would probably be best."

<"Ok. Giles?">

"Yes?"

<"Buffy being alive – it's a good thing. Right?">

He heard the question and felt tears pricking his eyes. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision. <God help me, Willow, I have no idea.>

"Goodnight, Willow."

He wondered if she even realised that she'd hesitated before wishing him goodnight and hanging up. He replaced the handset and it settled onto the cradle with a soft click. His hand was shaking – he hadn't noticed. He curled his fingers into his palm, trying to control the tremors. The movement transfixed him. Fingers bending in on themselves, and his thumb resting protectively over them. His hand. This hand - good for smothering innocent young men and tossing dirt into graves.

"Giles?"

He spun around sharply and then relaxed again: Anna. He'd forgotten she was there. As he stared at her the silence drew out between them. Just like her house she carried secrets within her; just as he carried secrets within him. "You could no more forget what you've just heard than I could."

"Do you want to forget it?"

"Some part of me does," he admitted, tensing up inside again. "A surprisingly large part, actually." He wrapped his other arm around his body and swallowed heavily. "This would be the point in the play where the principal players make their confessions." She might have nodded. "I'm just not sure I should."

This time she did nod as a flash of colour bloomed across her cheeks. He saw her jaw clench and watched as she briefly turned her head away, blinking, much as he'd done moments earlier. Her voice, when she answered him, was heavy with fears and admissions.

"And I'm not sure I can."

Giles laughed – a desperate, hollow, sound, but laughter nonetheless. "God, aren't we a pair!" He scrubbed his hands up and down his face and blew out a deep breath. "I don't think I'm going to be able sleep. I'll go and make some tea." He started towards the kitchen then stopped and looked down at his boxer-clad legs. "Trousers, then tea."

Anna watched him go, wondering where he found the reserves within him to be so alive. Only minutes before he'd looked white with shock, completely drained, and yet he'd strode out of the room as if nothing had happened.

Her head was still spinning with what she'd heard. What she thought she'd heard. Buffy was dead. Buffy was alive. A restoration spell? She couldn't believe the intensity of the pain that had lanced through her heart when he'd said those words. It had taken all her willpower not to gasp out loud, and for an instant she'd been giddy with the possibilities of it all. Until reality had come rushing in. Magic? She shook her head. <Magic? Get a grip of yourself!> But wasn't that what she'd seen him do when he'd summoned the ghost? Hadn't he admitted using it? Doesn't he own a bloody magic shop! <Oh, my loves!>

He returned from putting on a pair of sweatpants to find her in the kitchen making tea. "I thought you might appreciate this." Anna took his robe with a nod of thanks and slipped it on. "Here, let me finish that."

She shrugged. "It's fine. It's just about ready to pour. I haven't put any cups out; I didn't want to go raiding the cupboards."

Giles smiled and stepped around her, opened the cupboard above her head and fetched out cups and saucers.

"Milk?"

"Please. No sugar for me, though."

He laid the table and then picked up the teapot. "Ok?"

"Yes."

They settled at the old oak table and he poured the tea. Anna took a sip and closed her eyes, savouring the fragrant flavour. When she opened her eyes again she found him staring at her over the rim of his cup.

"If I said I needed to talk would you be prepared to listen?"

"And the `quid pro quo'?" Anna asked.

"There doesn't have to be one …" He hesitated for a moment. "… although …"

"… you'll do your amateur psychologist on me? Like everyone else in this damn city!" Giles took another mouthful of tea, not responding. "I'm sorry, that was rude."

"No," he shook his head, "It's alright. I was going to say that you might find it helps to talk to someone who can imagine what it feels like to lose someone in unimaginable circumstances."

<How does he know? How does he know?> There was no sound, except in her head and there it was a great, roaring, rush of noise. She fought her way out of it to say something to him. "I thought you said you shouldn't do this."

"And I shouldn't, but then I realised that perhaps I should get all this out; just once." He pulled a face. "I think I need to get all this out."

Anna wrapped her hands around her cup, glad of its warmth.

"I wouldn't be my choice of audience for you."

"I know." Giles cocked his head to one side, regarding her with a quizzical look on his face. "But I think you'd be mine for me."

Another long silence, hardly more comfortable than the last had been.

"I'm still not sure I can tell you anything." She raised her eyes to meet his. "It's too hard."

"I know that too." His voice, so soft, rumbled out from somewhere deep inside him. "Then let me talk. God knows, what I have to say is probably enough for both of us."

Anna nodded and took a deep breath, preparing herself, and because he was asking her to witness something of him, she spoke first. "The phonecall?" she asked. "Who's Buffy?"

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

"I don't know what to say."

Giles turned around from the window and leaned back against the sink, hands in his pockets.

"That's alright, I'm not sure what I'd find to say if I was in your position."

Anna shook her head, knowing that there should be something she could say to this man. She rested her elbows on the table and her chin on her upraised, clasped, hands.

"The phone call?" Giles nodded at her question. "Buffy's alive? Again?"

"Yes."

"How can that be?"

Giles pulled off his glasses and rubbed gritty eyes. He stepped across the room and sat down beside her again, tossing his glasses onto the table as he did so.

"Willow performed a restoration spell."

"And the fact that she's alive is a good thing, surely?"

"For who?" He raised an eyebrow, an expression of mockery that he immediately thought the better of. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." She touched him, just her fingertips to his forearm, there and then gone. Giles stared down at his arm, touched his hand to where she'd touched him, looked back up at her and knew from her eyes, mirror of his own, that they were both having to struggle so hard to maintain this façade of unconcern.

"It's a dangerous spell." Giles sighed out. "In many ways, a terrible one."

"What do you mean?"

"It's like the one I used earlier. At face value it's simple enough. The ingredients, the incantation; they're not difficult. And that's the spell's seduction … it looks so tantalisingly easy." He picked up his glasses and twirled them between his fingers. "But it's not. The spell needs blood …" He looked at her and watched her eyes widen. "… which the spell-caster has to take from a living creature. And it must be drawn ritually – a cut throat is the preferred method. The blood, the other ingredients, the incantation – they draw on huge amounts of power and all of it comes from places and beings that generally don't like giving it up … at least not without demanding a heavy price."

"I don't understand." Anna's brow wrinkled. "A heavy price from whom?" "The spell-caster: Willow's in a great deal of danger from the fall- out of this spell. At best it's corrupting, at worst? Well …"

Neither of them spoke for a long while. The room gradually lightened around them with the rising sun; she'd forgotten that they'd been sitting in near darkness.

"So if that's the danger, why is the spell a terrible one?"

Giles sat back in his chair, slumped, his hands in his lap, limp and lifeless. "Because the person always comes back changed - wrong - in some way or another." He looked at his upturned palms, at the patterns of lines in the skin. Head, Heart, Life: a Watcher's concerns. "They come back wrong physically, or emotionally, or … or psychically." He looked back up at her. "Just …" He shrugged, not knowing exactly how to say this. "… wrong. *Always*." He leaned forward and rested his arms on the old wooden table. "If I'd been there I would've stopped Willow doing this." His voice hardened. "She probably knows that."

"But you've got your slayer back." There was caution in her voice now. It was like walking through a minefield – no idea which step would cause the explosion.

"So it would seem." His voice, dry and hot, ripped across her nerves; but still, one more step negotiated safely.

"You're going back to Sunnydale?"

"Yes, after we've finished here."

"This can wait … it's not necessary …"

"… yes, it bloody well is!" He pushed away and stood, toppling his chair as he did so. He leaned onto the table, flat-handed, shoulders slumped, head hanging. "I'm too tired for this." He whirled around, picked up the chair and stood it back on its legs before retreating to the remaining shadows in the corner of the room.

"Part of me was glad that she'd died." His voice, whispering out of the darkness, was eerily deep and rough, and she realised that he was weeping. "Slayers are supposed to be taken into the care of the Council at an early age. They're not supposed to have mothers, or sisters, or friends or … or even bloody enemies! They're supposed to be weapons; nothing more, nothing less." Anna heard him swallow heavily. "They're not supposed to make their watchers love them like … like …"

The barrage of explosions was terrible in her ears.

"Giles …"

"… you know what a Slayer's Watcher is supposed to do? Hmm?" He stepped back up to the table, tears staining his face. "Train her to kill. Point her at the things she has to kill. Catalogue the kills. Record the thing that kills her. I've read the diaries of watcher after watcher who've done just that for hundreds of years and do you know what I used to think? That those men and women were sad, pathetic, bastards who had no idea what being the watcher to a slayer was all about!" He was panting now with the effort of trying to keep some semblance of control. "But do you know what? After their slayers died they trained other slayers, or became resources for the Council, or slotted back into their pre-slayer occupations… whatever they did, they got on with their lives. And me?" he laughed bitterly. "I'm not even sure I have a life: so who's the sad, pathetic, bastard now?"

He sat back down and wiped off his face. He took a moment to examine the glistening dampness on his fingers before drying his hand on his t-shirt.

"She was so tired, sick, of it all. She said that she no idea why she was doing it anymore. She said that all her certainty had gone: too many shades of grey." He rolled his head onto his shoulder so that he could look at her. "Far too many shades of grey. Recently, I've had a hard time remembering which side I'm fighting on." He smiled; a sad thing. "And then are the days when I've wondered why I'm fighting at all … and with what. I've given everything … not sure I've got anything left to give." He closed his eyes. "Just so bloody tired."

"It's a symptom of grief." He looked at her. "The tiredness." She explained.

Standing on the edge of the precipice, caught between telling him and not telling him, Anna felt her whole body shaking. She'd held on to this for so long now … she had no idea if she really wanted to say anything: or even if she could manage to say anything. She knew it would be unfair, somehow, to start and then not be able to finish. Her gut clenched <What if I start and find that I can't stop?>

The look on his face … expectation? <No, that's not right. He doesn't expect you to do anything> Waiting? <Is that what we've both been doing? Waiting to meet that one person we can confide everything in? Is he that for me … and if he is, do I want him to be? Am I ready for this?>

She remembered when she'd first seen him, just half a day ago. She'd thought him uncaring – with his blank, emotionless, face turned towards the grave of his parents – and could have laughed at her own stupidity and her own blindness; but then no-one ever sees in others what they've been studiously ignoring in themselves. The blank look spoke not of too little emotion, but, rather, too much. So much that it required an iron control. So much that when it leaked out, in the form of a smile, or a laugh, or a tear, it felt like your whole heart was being torn apart. And still she reached for that control … so she rarely smiled and didn't laugh and didn't cry and knew that the cool, blank, look on her face was as much a lie as his.

<He's right … this needs to be said … all of it … just once …>

"I'd been in the States … " It came out in a rush, startling her. The shaking was back and he took her hand. She held on tight … a lifeline … and fell from the edge. "… a photo-shoot. I'd been away a month or so. It was an early morning landing at Heathrow. I'd left my car there, so I wasn't expecting anyone to meet me. Drove down the motorway." She frowned, remembering. "It was foggy – really thick – traffic was crawling along. There was a bad accident, on the other carriageway, maybe half way home?" She shook her head. "Perhaps not so far as halfway." She looked up at him. "You'd think I'd remember the details, wouldn't you?" Anna licked her lips, hesitating, suddenly nervous about continuing. "I'm not sure I can …"

"It's alright." Giles squeezed her fingers and prompted, "The accident?"

She nodded on a deeply drawn breath. "The police and firemen were just starting to screen it off, but I could still see the vehicles … there looked like there were dozens of them … mangled and crushed and burned out …and there were so many ambulances … I got home and there was no-one there. I called my parents, but there was no reply." She looked, unblinking, deep into his eyes. "Then the police arrived … and I knew … the accident … on the motorway?"

Giles nodded.

"They'd decided to surprise me … to come and meet me …" A haunted smile flashed across her face. "… they'd never done that before … what were they thinking of, it would have been such an early start for them … I don't know why they …" She stopped and frowned. "No, that's not important." Again her gaze was solid and steady. "They'd died. Every single member of my family had died in that crash. I knew it, but the policewoman just kept saying their names … on and on … my mother, my father, my brother, my nieces, my husband …"

His fingers closed ever more tightly around hers.

"… and I just fell to pieces in front of them … fell to the floor in my hallway and just never got up again …" She turned her head away and closed her eyes. "Shock, obviously … they called an ambulance. Took me to hospital." Her eyes sought his again. <The truth - we're only ever going to tell each other the truth> "I lost the baby I was carrying …"

"… Anna …" There was anguish in his voice.

"… no, please, let me finish, there's not much more."

The controlled, blank, looks of earlier. As if they both knew that what they'd said to each other, what they were saying to each other, was too important to waste any energy on that wasn't to be consumed in the maintenance of utter concentration.

"I fell into this sort of strange fugue state. Not a coma, exactly, because I was quite aware and could still experience everything around me, sights, sounds, smells – I just couldn't understand it and couldn't bring myself to care about any of it. I ate when they told me to, walked when they told me to, slept when they told me to, but otherwise I just lay in bed with my blankets pulled over my head. My hair fell out and when it grew back in, it was white." She glanced upwards at the hairs just visible on her brow. "It used to be black, believe it or not."

"When did they let you out of hospital?"

"I had to see counsellors." A small shrug. "Four months later … I have a distant cousin, my mother's cousin; she'd arranged everything, the funerals, the wills. She'd tidied up three houses. Dealt with my brother's ex-wife. All I had to do was walk out of hospital and get on with my life." <What had he said? `I'm not sure I have a life'> The parallels struck her: for both of them, everything gone in the blink of an eye. "Five years ago … I'm aware that since then I've been doing nothing more than simply existing – melodramatic, but true. And, rightly or wrongly, I've found a comfort in that." She sat back, pulled away from him, and clasped her hands before her on the table. "The house became a refuge … at least I thought of it that way… my best friend told me that I was wrong, that it was a prison."

"And is it?"

"I … I don't know …I don't go out much …" Her face clouded. "Maybe it is … I seem to be …" She shook herself. "I moved my studio out of London so that I wouldn't have to go there to work – told my agent that I could do well enough down here, but I haven't worked since I came out of hospital. And my friends? I … I pushed them away … I didn't want … I don't want … I don't want to care about anyone that much anymore."

"It's hard, isn't it?" <'For both of us'> his eyes said

"Yes."

"Did you ever think about selling the house?"

"No."

"Alright ... then we'd better save it, hadn't we?" Giles turned around and glanced at the clock on the wall. 7.30am – they'd been talking for over five hours. "The library will be a good enough place to start, it'll be open in an hour or so."

"The library?"

"The Family History section – we'll start with the census records and work our way out from there."

"Why the census?"

"A hunch."

When she realised that he wasn't going to add anything, she stood up. "Then maybe we should do something about getting dressed." She frowned, as a sudden realisation hit her. "And I need an ocean of coffee."

Giles pushed his way to his feet. "Coffee is very bad for you."

"And tea's any better?" She retorted, determined to respond positively to his attempt to lighten the atmosphere.

He reached for the kettle and over the noise of filling it, said, "I'll get breakfast started. Do you want a shower? There are spare towels in the cupboard in the bathroom."

She nodded, "Yes, that would nice. Are you sure you don't want me to …" She gestured at the kettle and the crockery he was now getting out.

"No, go on." As she turned away, he called her back. "Anna?"

"Yes?"

"Just before she died, Buffy told Dawn that the hardest thing in this world is to live in it. And it is hard – she was right about that, but she was also right about the `living in it' part. Life is for living: simply existing isn't enough. I can see that now." He managed a gentle smile to take away any sting that his words might have caused.

"So you think I've wasted away years of my life?"

"No, I think you've been doing the best that you can, but … but perhaps it's time to move on?"

"And you? What about you?" Her voice sounded rough, a little harsh. "Buffy's back. Makes moving on just a little easier for you."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Again, a small, gentle, smile. "It's odd, but to me it feels less like moving on and more like standing still and I've been standing still for a long time now; the inertia's pretty strong, I might need a pull." When she didn't respond his face grew serious. "Perhaps we could pull each other?"

Thinking back to the moment when she'd challenged him about demons – was it really only yesterday – she wondered if she'd seen this coming because there was nothing about this that either surprised or frightened her. Instead, she was struck by the feeling of utter inevitability about this; every word, every step, leading to this moment.

And maybe, finally, this was how things were meant to be. But still …

"Yes, we could …" The room brightened suddenly as the sun came over the trees behind his house. "You haven't told me how sorry you are for my loss." Her voice was cool and laced with irony.

"I know." He nodded. "What would be the point?"

A ghost of a smile hovered momentarily around her lips and was gone. "I'll go and take my shower."

"I'll have the coffee brewed by the time you get back."

Anna took one more second to just look at him and left.

NEXT