Chapter Text
Summer, 1998
For such a small town, Sunnydale has always had too many cemeteries. And for someone so young, she's spent far too long in all of them.
This is actually one of the nicer ones. It doesn't house any ancient tombs dating back to before the town was founded. It doesn't have any secret tunnels underground, linking the crypts to musty passageways that lead down to subterranean vampire lairs. It just has graves. Just dead bodies, lying silently under the earth.
And at least she's visiting during daylight hours. No reason to worry about vampires or demons lurking in the shadows. That should make it easier.
(It doesn't. But it should.)
She's been back home for almost a week now. And she's spent most of that time putting off coming here: finding other urgent chores to do around the house, or spending time training or patrolling. She's even tried studying, for whatever good that will do her. School hasn't started up again yet, but senior year's going to be tough, between the slaying on the one hand and Principal Snyder on the other.
It was only when Willow started hinting that maybe she'd like to come out here with her and Ms. Calendar that she knew she had to stop stalling. Sure, Willow means well: she knows that the other girl has been learning a lot about magic from their former teacher in the last few weeks. But things between Buffy and Ms. Calendar are still all kinds of weird, and she's not sure she's ready to handle a conversation with her yet. Certainly not one about … this.
So she came here alone, almost like it wasn't something she'd been dreading. Just casually walked here from her house, strolling along the familiar suburban streets as if she made this trip every day. As if this didn't mark the end of something. As if she wasn't afraid of saying goodbye.
It should be raining, she thinks. The sky should be full of clouds.
But it's not. The sun is shining, the sky is clear and blue and she can hear birds singing quietly in the trees behind her. Sometimes the weather really has no sense of occasion.
"Hey, Giles," she says awkwardly. "It's been a while."
Giles doesn't say anything in reply, of course. He doesn't raise an eyebrow while he waits for her to finish, the way he normally would have done. Doesn't mutter something old-fashioned and British under his breath while he pretends to clean his glasses. Doesn't make that strange clucking sound with his tongue that he always did when he angry or upset.
He's never going to do any of that stuff again. Because of her. Because she let him down.
She's been a Slayer for less than three years and she's already failed two Watchers.
There's so much that she'd wanted to tell him; so much that she'd wished she had a chance to say to him or news that she wanted to pass on.
She'd wanted to tell him how they'd rescued Willow and Ms. Calendar from the abandoned factory where they'd been held hostage. Where they'd been tortured. They'd both needed to spend some time in the hospital, recovering from their more obvious injuries, but they were alive. They were safe. She thinks he'd have liked to know that Ms. Calendar was still doing okay.
She'd wanted to tell him how Spike had turned on Angelus, escaping out of town with Drusilla in tow. She hopes that letting the two vampires live isn't something she's going to regret. She's tried telling herself that she had no choice, that without Spike's help she wouldn't have had a chance to stop Acathla. But she's not convinced. And Giles was always better at telling comforting lies.
She'd wanted to tell him how she and Kendra had worked together to battle Angelus; how even with the two of them they'd almost been outfought. How she'd watched, helplessly, as Angelus broke the younger Slayer's neck. She wished she'd known how to get in touch with Kendra's Watcher, or with her family, to let them know what had happened. Giles would have known.
She'd wanted to tell him how she'd finally stopped him. How she'd slain the vampire, just like she was born to do, driving a sword through his chest to seal Acathla's portal to hell. A part of her had hoped, despite everything, that some remnant of Angel was still in there. Her Angel, not the demon. That she'd have a chance to say goodbye, before the end. But that hadn't happened. Of course it hadn't. That wasn't the way real life worked. It was thinking like that which had got Giles killed.
The vampire had died taunting her, her sword through his heart and a mocking sneer on his face.
And she'd even wanted to tell him how she'd been forced to tell her Mom the truth about being a Slayer; how afterwards she'd been afraid that she didn't have a home to go back to. That - after the fight with Angelus - she'd ended up running away rather than trying to find out.
(Not that she'd been gone for long. Her Dad had seemed put out when she arrived at his house in LA. He'd let her stay, made sure she was okay, but he'd looked increasingly uncomfortable for the few days she'd spent there, before she'd found the nerve to call her Mom and head back home. When she'd said goodbye he'd been a lot more distant than she'd remembered from her last visit a year earlier.)
Yes, she'd wanted to say a lot.
Now, though? It almost seems pointless. All of it. Or worse than pointless. It sounds like she's making excuses. Listing all the things she did as if they could ever make up for the thing she failed to do.
She carefully places the wreath she brought with her on the freshly weeded ground before the grave. She hopes he'd have liked the flowers. It wasn't something they'd ever discussed.
It should be raining, she thinks again. Things shouldn't be ending like this.
"I wanted to say that I'm sorry," she manages, voice trembling just a little. "I let you down. I let everyone down."
"I was distracted," she says, trying to think of how he'd have put it. "I was irresponsible." I was in love, she thinks, and is surprised by how little it hurts.
She takes a breath to steady herself.
"It won't happen again," she promises.