He was waiting. He hated waiting. It was, he was sure, one of the worst feelings in the world. Waiting, and not knowing.
And then there was guilt, yet another shining example of hell on earth.
And humiliation. That one was good, too.
He’d watched her, how she was, after Tara had fled. How panicked, how desperate. How she hadn’t even looked at him on her way out the door.
And, yes, he realized, as he trudged up the stairs, found his slacks, his shirt, that she hadn’t had much time. That she had to go to her, had to say something... but at the same time... he almost wished she hadn’t. Had a fantasy, somewhere in her mind, that she’d let her go. Sort things out later, maybe, but that she’d be...
Relieved, on some level.
Like he had been.
Horrid as it was, taking comfort in another’s agony... when he’d seen her there in his doorway, when he’d realized there was no way around this one, he’d felt... something almost like joy. Like a heavy burden had been lifted.
He’d had no idea how heavy it had been, until it was gone.
Now Tara knew.
But...
Where would that lead?
He sat down on the couch, dressed now, and waiting.
The silence was thick around him, and seemed like a blanket, cutting him off from the rest of the world. There, on his couch, in the comfort of his home, he felt more completely alone than he’d ever felt before. It brought back, suddenly, the dream he’d had a few weeks earlier, of embracing darkness, and cold, and distances far too long, separations far too great.
He thought of scotch, of the warmth of it, artificial though it was, and for a moment, he ached for it, like it was the embrace of a lost lover. Shut his eyes, bowed his head. Remembered the life inside of him, and resisted, though one drink probably wouldn’t hurt it. One thing lead to another. Always did. Remained on the couch, instead, in the silence.
Until the door opened softly behind him, and he could breathe again. Twisted around and saw her there. And she was smiling.
The twist of hope in his heart was by far more painful than anything else, and even as he stood crossed the room to her, saw the tear tracks dried on her cheeks...
He was still alone.
She was still smiling. Reached for him and touched his cheek. Smiling, with salt crystals in her eyelashes.
“That’s settled,” she said.
Crushing pressure of not-enough-air in his lungs, world still slightly off-base. Half-convinced that maybe this truly was just a dream, or a fantasy, come a little too close to life. His heart hammered, ready for when the other shoe would drop.
“Oh?” he said, because it was all he could manage.
Touching her, so lightly, like she was fine china, his fingertips just skating over her arms.
“Yup. All better now,” she said.
She tugged on his hair, pulled him down and kissed him, and he felt it to his toes, even that phantom brush of pink lips. He pushed in closer, kissed her back, harder, deeper, feeling the pressure of teeth, tasting her breath. Tasting the salt of tears.
He pulled back, just enough. Saw her, her heart shining in her eyes.
And knew. Knew something wasn’t right.
“Giles?” she said, and her brow drew in just a bit, a flicker of doubt moved behind her eyes.
“You told her?” he said. But even as he spoke, each word grew harder to force out, like watching a horror movie, every instinct screaming not to open that door. “About us?”
Then he didn’t need to hear her words. Didn’t want to. Couldn’t stand to. Reeling was the only term to describe what he felt. Falling, freefall, no bottom in sight. Staggering back away, suddenly needing space, suddenly, again, still, unable to breathe.
Words--excuses, ridiculous excuses--echoing in his mind. And with them, rage. And this time he couldn’t hold that rage on himself. Never again wanted to hear her say:
“Well, not exactly. I mean... not at all... Giles, what--”
And then, then...
“But it’s better. I mean, I fixed things! I just, I just did this little, teeny-weeny memory charm--”
Time didn’t stop. The clock on the desk was ticking. Steady. Slow.
But they didn’t move. She didn’t speak, didn’t finish the sentence.
He couldn’t speak either. Could hardly think, anything beyond: memory charm.
Then, she did speak. Foolish child.
Foolish child speaking to a far more foolish man.
“I’m still gonna tell her...”
And he had to laugh. Because that was so utterly incidental to the true issue as to be meaningless. So he laughed. Half-hysterical, he knew, could see the fear and confusion written across her face, and wasn’t that priceless? Didn’t even know what she’d done.
Where the hell had he been? What the hell had he been thinking? How had he never bothered to teach her the slightest thing about magic? About *ethics*? Maybe he’d truly been fool enough to think she’d understood them already.
He stumbled onto control of himself unexpectedly, and was suddenly straight-faced, dead serious.
“Undo it.”
“What?” she said, and looked honestly surprised.
He repeated his statement, slowly, for her benefit, feeling the rage swell again, and just barely battling it back, even as he found, preemptively, the closest inanimate object for if the need to hit something became a little too powerful.
“Why? Come on, Giles, it’s better this way.”
Impressed himself with his control when he said: “You can’t just erase someone’s memory because it’s convenient, Willow.”
“Well, I didn’t, like, completely erase--”
“That isn’t the point! Willow, you altered her *mind.* Without her knowledge or consent--”
And suddenly, like a spark, his anger seemed to jump to her, and she shoved close to him, shouting, “It’s not hurting her! Seeing us like *that* was hurting her!”
Trembling now, fists clenched, just a moment away from an act he’d regret, hating the feeling but hating this whole damned situation more. Felt his control slipping even as he ground out the words:
“Undo it. Now.”
She pulled back sharply, and glared up at him, a petulant, child’s glare. Spoke with the quick, sharp tones of annoyance. Mere annoyance, so entirely missing the point, as she said:
“Ok. We’ve been sleeping together for, like, two weeks now, Giles. Doncha think it’s about time you stopped actin’ like my father?”
One breath, and then, he lost it.
“*Damn it,* Willow, do you not understand? What you did--what you did to *Tara,* whom you claim to love--it’s like rape, Willow.”
She recoiled, sharply enough that she bumped back against the door, eyes wider than he’d seen them in a long time. And he pulled away, horrified. Turned away, had to reach out to touch the desk, something solid, anything solid.
“Wha- *What?* Giles-- it-- I-- It’s *nothing* like... like... *that.* What the heck are you--”
He could speak calmly now, like the calm in the eye of a hurricane, staring down at the floor, feeling the words pour out like a recitation of memorized texts, “It is an assault on one’s body and mind against their will. It’s very much like--”
“Oh, fer crying out loud!” were the last words he heard before the door slammed shut behind her.
***
She came back, hours later. It was late, and the night was well and truly dead, but he was still awake, still sitting, quietly, in his living room, letting music wash over him in lieu of the alcohol he was craving. He heard the door open. Stood up and turned around in place, let her come to him. Shifted restlessly when she got closer, silently warned her to keep her distance. Then waited.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and he knew she meant it.
She really was beautiful. He hadn’t cried since Jenny died. But he could feel tears now, hot and roiling just below the surface.
“You undid the spell,” he said, but couldn’t find the energy in him at all to give the words intonation or feeling, not even enough to put a questioning rise at the end of the sentence. The words fell flat from his lips, only given texture by the roughness of his voice.
He saw her answer on her face a moment before she spoke, saying, “Um. No, not yet, but--”
Something stirred tiredly inside of him, that may have once been an emotion, and he said, drily, “You know, those are rapidly becoming my least favorite words.”
Her protests drifted past him unnoticed, and he responded, automatically, “When will you?”
Couldn’t look at her, could barely stand to hear her, saying she’d undo the spell once she figured out what to say. He ached, all over, and deep inside.
So beautiful, but not his. Never truly his.
He sat down again.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he said, because it was only the truth.
She questioned him, he knew she would.
“I just can’t, Willow. This-- this was never meant to be to begin with.”
“But... but it is, it was...”
She sat down beside him, and he felt the couch dip beneath her weight, felt himself shift towards her an infinitesimal inch. And so he edged a little farther away. Kept looking down at his hands and feeling vertigo.
“Go back to Tara, Willow.”
“But, Giles... Giles, I... I know I haven’t-- I’ll do better, I swear, I just... I love you, I want to be with you--”
He shut his eyes.
“Willow, I’m not offering. I’m telling. This is over.”
“Giles-- Rupert...”
He listened to the sound of his own breath, one in, one out, steady, slow.
“Go.”
Ten more breaths. And then.
She went.
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