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thismazTitle: The Trial
Fandom: BtVS
Prompt: #12 - Semper Fidelis
Warnings: None
Rating: Pg
Summary: Giles in the aftermath. An episode coda to 3.12, Helpless
The Trial
It was half an hour later, when Buffy had finally gone home, eager to check that her mother was still okay, that Giles realised he was actually in a state of shock. While Travers was talking he had registered the words, but the meaning had escaped him. After Travers left, his focus had been totally on Buffy's hurts. Only now was it sinking in - the Council was no longer his home. They had cast him off.
It had been so stupid of him not to realise the true state of affairs. So stupid not to realise that the test would not be confined to the Slayer. So few survived to reach their 18th birthday, in fact, the last he could remember was active in the 70s, so his records contained nothing about the protocols. Travers simply arrived one night, knocking on his door, as if he had every right to order Giles to do... what he had done. And Giles had not refused. The Council had been his life. From earliest childhood it was his fixed destination. Even in his rebellious, late-blossoming puberty, he had always known that it was there, waiting for him. Even when he got sent down and ran off to London rather than face his Father, he had known he would one day go back.
So many years, boy and man, so many years of faithful service and, suddenly, he was cast off with nothing. For a moment bitterness threatened to overwhelm him and he slammed his empty teacup down, before he gave in to the urge to hurl it across the room. Momentarily exhausted, he slumped down into his chair. The whole evening had been a disaster such as he would not previously have been able to contemplate, and he just wanted to crawl into his bed - or into a bottle. Instead, he shook himself - time to sleep later. Now was the time for action. Time to work, to go through his papers, decide what would have to be handed over to his unknown successor, and what he could get away with removing to the safety of the tin box under the floorboards of his bedroom. He wasn't stupid enough to believe that they wouldn't visit soon - men with British accents, oh so politely elbowing their way into his flat to go through his books, taking possession of any that had the smallest claim to being Council property.
He opened the bottom drawer of his desk, intent on starting. The whisky bottle lay on its side, cushioned by his notebooks. Had it been his subconscious choosing to start with that drawer? He slammed it shut and leaned back in his chair, staring sightlessly up at the dirty ceiling. So stupid. But the truth was, he hadn't even considered the possibility that he was also on trial. Hadn't he proved himself over the past two years? Hadn't he shown that his methods worked? Twenty years, for God's sake, since the last slayer reached 18. That wasn't just luck! Those pompous fools didn't have a clue what life was really like in the field. Watcher training was stuck back in the 19th century, when a good classics degree was more important than the ability to think through a problem, or fight. His own double first sat heavily at the back of his mind - he had been the product of that training. Suddenly he realised how much this place, these people, had changed him. His mouth twisted into a grim smile as he honestly faced the truth of his own naiveté, when he first arrived in this godforsaken town - how certain he had been that he knew best, that his books contained all the answers and all he had to do was find the reference and send the Slayer out, armed with his didactic erudition, and she would do her job before coming back to listen gratefully to his measured praise and criticism. He snorted with derision - as if! There had never been a chance that Buffy would play that part. And in truth, it was now the last thing he would want. Kendra had been a product of that school, and skilled though she was, and no matter how refreshing it had been to work with her for a while, he was relieved when she left the first time and saddened, but not surprised, by her early death.
Buffy, with her chaotic speech, the civilians she dragged into the 'gig' with her, her selfish determination to live a life beyond slaying, her frequent downright disobedience and her occasional flashes of brilliance, her reliance on the skills of her friends and on their sanity-granting, irreverent enthusiasm, her absolute trust in him and in his knowledge and intentions, her boundless energy... her big betrayed eyes and her vicious, whispered rejection, before she left to face her challenge and rescue her mother - she was everything he could have wanted his Slayer to be. Another thought struck him cold. How he could face Joyce again? She had so much to blame him for. And selfishly, he dreaded seeing pity in her eyes, almost more than he feared her condemnation. How could she forgive him, once she knew the whole truth about what he had done? He had put her in peril. Like the good watcher he had been educated to be, he had done his duty, obeyed the rules... injected Buffy with poison. Yes, he'd protested, but he'd done it just the same. Guilty by both omission and commission. And as a result, his weakened Slayer's mother had been put in serious danger. Going in to save the day, or to die with her, had been his last and only choice - so he had done that, too.
He paused as that insight processed through his tired mind. Absently he opened the drawer again, reached inside and pulled out the bottle, pouring a large measure, his eyes absently following the movement of his hands, while his brain skittered off in random directions, chasing a thought. He picked up the glass and took a sip, feeling his body relax as the realisation slipped into place. This slayer and her friends... When had they become the focus of his loyalty? It had happened so slowly, so gradually, that it took a crisis like tonight to finally make it clear. He smiled and, at peace at last, put the whiskey down and reached for the first pile of papers. He doubted the Council would be inscribing "Semper Fidelis " on his record, or on his tombstone, but suddenly he knew he didn't care, because in spite of everything - it was true.
Word count - 1,116
Fandom: BtVS
Prompt: #12 - Semper Fidelis
Warnings: None
Rating: Pg
Summary: Giles in the aftermath. An episode coda to 3.12, Helpless
The Trial
It was half an hour later, when Buffy had finally gone home, eager to check that her mother was still okay, that Giles realised he was actually in a state of shock. While Travers was talking he had registered the words, but the meaning had escaped him. After Travers left, his focus had been totally on Buffy's hurts. Only now was it sinking in - the Council was no longer his home. They had cast him off.
It had been so stupid of him not to realise the true state of affairs. So stupid not to realise that the test would not be confined to the Slayer. So few survived to reach their 18th birthday, in fact, the last he could remember was active in the 70s, so his records contained nothing about the protocols. Travers simply arrived one night, knocking on his door, as if he had every right to order Giles to do... what he had done. And Giles had not refused. The Council had been his life. From earliest childhood it was his fixed destination. Even in his rebellious, late-blossoming puberty, he had always known that it was there, waiting for him. Even when he got sent down and ran off to London rather than face his Father, he had known he would one day go back.
So many years, boy and man, so many years of faithful service and, suddenly, he was cast off with nothing. For a moment bitterness threatened to overwhelm him and he slammed his empty teacup down, before he gave in to the urge to hurl it across the room. Momentarily exhausted, he slumped down into his chair. The whole evening had been a disaster such as he would not previously have been able to contemplate, and he just wanted to crawl into his bed - or into a bottle. Instead, he shook himself - time to sleep later. Now was the time for action. Time to work, to go through his papers, decide what would have to be handed over to his unknown successor, and what he could get away with removing to the safety of the tin box under the floorboards of his bedroom. He wasn't stupid enough to believe that they wouldn't visit soon - men with British accents, oh so politely elbowing their way into his flat to go through his books, taking possession of any that had the smallest claim to being Council property.
He opened the bottom drawer of his desk, intent on starting. The whisky bottle lay on its side, cushioned by his notebooks. Had it been his subconscious choosing to start with that drawer? He slammed it shut and leaned back in his chair, staring sightlessly up at the dirty ceiling. So stupid. But the truth was, he hadn't even considered the possibility that he was also on trial. Hadn't he proved himself over the past two years? Hadn't he shown that his methods worked? Twenty years, for God's sake, since the last slayer reached 18. That wasn't just luck! Those pompous fools didn't have a clue what life was really like in the field. Watcher training was stuck back in the 19th century, when a good classics degree was more important than the ability to think through a problem, or fight. His own double first sat heavily at the back of his mind - he had been the product of that training. Suddenly he realised how much this place, these people, had changed him. His mouth twisted into a grim smile as he honestly faced the truth of his own naiveté, when he first arrived in this godforsaken town - how certain he had been that he knew best, that his books contained all the answers and all he had to do was find the reference and send the Slayer out, armed with his didactic erudition, and she would do her job before coming back to listen gratefully to his measured praise and criticism. He snorted with derision - as if! There had never been a chance that Buffy would play that part. And in truth, it was now the last thing he would want. Kendra had been a product of that school, and skilled though she was, and no matter how refreshing it had been to work with her for a while, he was relieved when she left the first time and saddened, but not surprised, by her early death.
Buffy, with her chaotic speech, the civilians she dragged into the 'gig' with her, her selfish determination to live a life beyond slaying, her frequent downright disobedience and her occasional flashes of brilliance, her reliance on the skills of her friends and on their sanity-granting, irreverent enthusiasm, her absolute trust in him and in his knowledge and intentions, her boundless energy... her big betrayed eyes and her vicious, whispered rejection, before she left to face her challenge and rescue her mother - she was everything he could have wanted his Slayer to be. Another thought struck him cold. How he could face Joyce again? She had so much to blame him for. And selfishly, he dreaded seeing pity in her eyes, almost more than he feared her condemnation. How could she forgive him, once she knew the whole truth about what he had done? He had put her in peril. Like the good watcher he had been educated to be, he had done his duty, obeyed the rules... injected Buffy with poison. Yes, he'd protested, but he'd done it just the same. Guilty by both omission and commission. And as a result, his weakened Slayer's mother had been put in serious danger. Going in to save the day, or to die with her, had been his last and only choice - so he had done that, too.
He paused as that insight processed through his tired mind. Absently he opened the drawer again, reached inside and pulled out the bottle, pouring a large measure, his eyes absently following the movement of his hands, while his brain skittered off in random directions, chasing a thought. He picked up the glass and took a sip, feeling his body relax as the realisation slipped into place. This slayer and her friends... When had they become the focus of his loyalty? It had happened so slowly, so gradually, that it took a crisis like tonight to finally make it clear. He smiled and, at peace at last, put the whiskey down and reached for the first pile of papers. He doubted the Council would be inscribing "Semper Fidelis " on his record, or on his tombstone, but suddenly he knew he didn't care, because in spite of everything - it was true.
Word count - 1,116
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Date: 2006-10-01 03:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-01 06:38 am (UTC)