Her hand poised to knock on Giles’ door, Buffy hesitated one last time. If she did this, and if he helped her, it would truly change everything. She had been called a bit more than three years ago and every step she had taken since had shaped the Slayer she now was. Going through with this was the same as starting from scratch again, and she wasn’t sure she could do it. She wasn’t sure she wouldn’t end up running away again, and if she did it would all have been for nothing. But she had to at least try, she reminded herself. The only other choice was to die, and that route had not proved foolproof either, far from it.

The same hand she had raised to knock came back to her neck and she touched the two wounds there, as she had done more than a dozen times on her way to Giles’. They had stopped bleeding, but were still prominent, and probably extremely obvious. The fleeting question ran through her mind of where Spike was now, and why he hadn’t killed her. She pushed it away even as she pulled up the collar of her jacket, covering the bite as well as she could. She didn’t want it to be the first thing Giles would see. She wasn’t sure she wanted him to see it at all.

Taking a deep breath in, she smoothed her features and finally knocked. When Giles opened the door, she was as composed as she could possibly be when, not an hour earlier, a vampire’s fangs had sunk into her neck. The Watcher’s face reflected surprise, and a touch of something that looked like worry.

“Miss Summers? Can I help you?”

She noted how he stood aside, leaving enough room for her to walk in, but did not actually invite her to enter. She doubted someone who didn’t know about vampires would have noticed, but to her, through the eyes of her training, it was as glaring as though he had sprinkled holy water over her to check that she was still human. Stepping in, she waited until he had closed the door before saying what she had practiced on her way.

“There’s still a lot to do in Cleveland and I should go back.”

Giles had taken off his glasses and he motioned for her to walk further in, but she remained where she was. If he refused to help, she would need to leave fast, before he did anything that would force her to hurt him.

“Would you like me to contact your Watcher?” His eyebrows shot up as though in sudden understanding. “I can help you go back, of course. The Council will pay for your return ticket…”

She interrupted him with a whisper. It was hard for her to admit to any weakness as she was about to do, but there was no other way that she could see.

“I can’t go back.”

His eyebrow fell down, knotting in confusion. It was easier to focus on those involuntary signs of his emotions than to meet his gaze.

“I don’t understand. You just said…”

“I should go back,” she repeated, “but I can’t. If I do, I will be dead soon. And I’m not sure anymore I’m ready to die.”

She hid a wince at her poor choice of words. This wasn’t what she had wanted to say, not at all, but now that she had she knew that Giles was going to drag more out of her. He would make her say all of it, even if she didn’t want to, the same way Spencer had done so often in the past.

Her body tensed as he took a step closer to her, and when his hand came toward her shoulder she instinctively blocked it, closing her fingers around his wrist. It had to hurt; she was holding tight. But he didn’t flinch or show any sign of pain. Instead, he used his free hand and gently pried her fingers off before once more reaching for her. He eased his hand under the straps of her crossbow and duffel bag and lifted them off her shoulder in a swift motion, then deposited them on the floor.

“Come over here and sit down,” he said, his voice quiet but leaving no room for protest.

She followed him to the living-room area and sat on the sofa, on the edge of the seat, ready to bolt.

“Would you like something to drink?” he offered. “Tea? Water? I’m afraid I don’t have much more to offer.”

Her eyes strayed toward a nearby staircase and the golden bottle on top of it. She had drunk only once before, on one particularly bleak night, and a part of her craved the warmth and oblivion a couple of glasses of liquor might bring her. Giles followed her gaze and clucked his tongue reprovingly.

“Tea, I think. I was just about to make some.”

Indeed, a faint whistling was coming from the direction of the kitchen. As Giles went to his preparations, Buffy looked down at her hands, clasped in front of her. Only a few days earlier, she had been in another city, with another Watcher, waiting for the same cup of tea while wondering how he would react to what she had to say. All she could hope was that Giles would listen better than Spencer knew how.

When he returned with two steaming cups, Giles set one in front of Buffy on the coffee table and sat across from her in an armchair. He didn’t say a word, and for a long moment they were both silent. Buffy eventually shook herself from her contemplation of the dark tea and picked up her cup. She raised a surprised look toward Giles after taking a small sip. There had to be another liquor bottle in the kitchen. The flavor was practically hidden by the tea, but it added a touch of fire to it that settled gently in her belly and loosened her tongue.

“I almost died tonight.”

The words weren’t as difficult to let out as she had thought they would be. Giles didn’t say anything, but he placed his cup on the coffee table and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. Buffy could practically feel his eyes on her neck.

“I think…” Her hands were beginning to shake, so she put her cup down too. “I could have fought harder. Better. But I didn’t care enough to really fight. I don’t even know anymore why I fight.”

She hated the hint of hysteria that was creeping up in her voice. She had always prided herself on her strength, on how well she could react to almost any situation. To break down now was mortifying. But it was also necessary.

“Miss Summers…” Giles’ voice was quiet where she had feared shouting; caring where she had expected scorn. “Buffy… What can I do to help you?”

When Giles asked the right question, a weight she hadn’t realized she carried was lifted. Maybe he did care. Maybe he would truly help.

“Tonight you said…” Had it only been a couple of hours earlier that she had met him by accident on her way to confronting Spike? It felt as though it had been months ago. “You said I could have a more normal life, here. That you could help me do that.”

He nodded.

“I still don’t think I can have a normal life,” she continued, a little more easily. “But if you could show me, maybe…just remind me what it was like before. What I’m fighting for?”

“Of course.”

Two words, and it was settled.

Giles said more after that, laying out a plan as thorough as though he had been preparing for battle. He babbled for a while about living arrangements before finally suggesting that she could live with him rather than in a motel room. When Buffy shrugged her agreement, he insisted that she take his bedroom while he would sleep on the sofa until he could arrange for a larger apartment. He would enroll her at the school he worked at and she would attend it regularly. He would train with her, accompany her on patrol, but also help her with her class work and prepare dinners for them so she could have one more element of a normal life.

He had just started mentioning shared chores when Buffy yawned. That brought forth the idea of curfew, and a small part of Buffy started wondering what she had gotten herself into.

Another part felt incredibly warm when Giles led her to the bathroom, instructed her to remove her jacket, and cleaned and bandaged the two puncture wounds on her neck. His attention was entirely clinical, but his movements were gentler that she could have expected.

“Was it Spike?” he asked, his voice taking for the first time that night the detached interest of a Watcher.

Buffy nodded.

“You said you weren’t fighting hard enough,” he said, more gently, “but you still managed to get away. That’s…”

“He let me go,” she interrupted him. “He just stopped and let me go. I don’t know why. But I do know I didn’t do anything to stop him.”

It was clear that Giles didn’t know what to reply to that.

He showed her where the towels were piled up, and while she was cleaning up for the night he went to get his room – her room, now – ready.

It was only when she slid between the crisp sheets of the too big bed that Buffy realized just what she was doing. She barely knew Giles, and there she was, in his bed, while he was shuffling on the sofa downstairs, the only thing separating them being a staircase. Without a door to close, she felt exposed, vulnerable, more so than she had in the graveyard earlier that night.  She hated this feeling.

She was so exhausted however, that even her worrying could not keep sleep at bay. It wasn’t long before she started dreaming, strange dreams in which Giles invited Spike in for tea while Spencer dragged Buffy back to Cleveland kicking and screaming.

By morning, she felt as tired as she had been when going to bed, but the delicious scent wafting from the kitchen was too good to resist investigating. Barefoot and clad in her pajamas, she tiptoed downstairs to find that Giles was already making good on his promises.

“Good morning, Buffy. I didn’t know what you would want for breakfast so I cooked a little of everything. Please, help yourself. I have to get ready for work.”

She nibbled on a bit of toast then sipped a glass of orange juice before finally trying the eggs. The bacon, she left alone, but the three marmalade jars were too tempting to resist. She hadn’t realized she had been so hungry.

“This is the library number.” Having reappeared dressed and groomed, Giles placed a slip of paper in front of her. “I’ll be there until four, just give me a call if you need anything. I’ll arrange everything today, and hopefully you’ll be able to start school on Monday.”

He paused then and looked at her expectantly. Unsure what he wanted to hear, Buffy managed an unconvincing “OK” that seemed to satisfy him.

“Feel free to fix your lunch as you want. You can go out, of course, but I think you ought to rest.”

His eyes lingering a second too long on her neck made it clear what he meant by that. With a few more recommendations, he left, and the sudden silence of the apartment was soothing.

Buffy walked around the living room for a little while, trailing a finger on the spines of ancient books before flicking idly through the too few channels of Giles’ cable-less television. She ought to have cleaned the kitchen, she supposed, yet she didn’t touch the dishes before returning to the mezzanine.

She was only going to take a short nap, she told herself, but she was asleep as soon as her cheek touched the pillow, and only woke up when the front door announced Giles’ return.

She hadn’t feel this refreshed in weeks. Maybe it hadn’t been a too bad idea, after all, even if Giles rolled his eyes at the remains of her breakfast she had never cleared away.