***************************************

The house was quiet now. Giles stood in the kitchen, straining to hear any sounds from upstairs. But Buffy and Dawn were, for the moment, silent. Sleeping, he hoped. He knew already that Willow, the home’s last remaining lodger, would not be returning to disturb them.

He sighed and turned his attention to the dusty, cluttered countertop. There were few sights more melancholy, he thought, than a neglected kitchen. Granted, even when the girls were in residence the room had been a trifle underused. But now it showed the unmistakable signs of hasty abandonment: foul water that had yet to drain from the sink; spoiling food in the refrigerator; a wooden knife rack that seemed to have been abruptly upended…

“There’s nothing to eat,” Buffy said dully. Giles very nearly jumped.

“Buffy. I thought perhaps you were resting.”

“Dawn is. I sat with her for a while. I can’t…I can’t.”

“Of course.” He led her to a chair and she sat obediently. He took a seat beside her. “Buffy, despite this tragedy – it’s so good to see you. Safe, and well. I was…” Now he looked away, out the spotted window. “I was terribly worried. Terribly, terribly worried. But you’re here now.”

“And Tara’s gone.”

“Yes.” He took her hand, small and cold in his. “Buffy, you must know that you’re not to blame for her death. This man, Kehoe, who instigated all this – responsibility for Tara lies solely at his feet.”

She gave a short, pained laugh. “Really? Because I seem to remember stabbing her and setting a fire where she fell.”

Giles’ other hand moved to cover hers. “Buffy, it was not you –“

“It was me!” The words burst out of her, choked and desperate. Giles stiffened.

“It wasn’t – it wasn’t like some demon or – or something was walking around in my body. It was me, and I saw everything and there was nothing I could do to stop it! It was me.”

“I’ve researched the magic Kehoe used against you, Buffy. You weren’t possessed, true, but you were most certainly not in control of your actions. The ritual –"

“I don’t care about the ritual! I don’t care how he did it, or why. Don’t you get it? Whatever he did, he found something in me that was already there. That – that thing I’ve been for the last month – she liked the same food I like, Giles, and she slept on her stomach like I do, and she was pissed at her friends and tired of working minimum wage just like I am!”

“Buffy! I understand your concerns, and I believe that I can allay them if you’ll just listen to me. Calm down and listen to me, Buffy.”

“Giles…” She refused to hear any more. Blindly, she stood and walked jerkily to the back door. “I have to tell the police. They have to know it was me, Giles, they have to punish me –"

He was immediately next to her, and his arm was like steel where it gripped her elbow and stayed her. His voice grated harshly against her ears. “You will do no such thing.”

“God! You and Spike -- why can’t either of you ever understand? I have to do this!”

“There is nothing to tell them. Tara has been put to rest and the case has been closed.”

She shook her head. “No. The Magic Box – even the Sunnydale police could figure out that what happened there was no accident.”

“Mr. Maclay informed the authorities that he had no interest in pursuing…resolution. He stated quite clearly that Tara associated with degenerate and dangerous individuals, and that this ending was nothing less than he expected.”

Buffy gasped in horror and disgust, but Giles remained stony.

“Xander and Willow already claimed that they have no memory of the events that night. Anya, after conferring with me, determined that insurance will cover the damage to the shop. The police have no reason to move forward, Buffy, and no motivation to do so.”

“No. No. I refuse to accept that. If not the police, then the Council –"

“The Council of Watchers must know nothing of this. Buffy? Do you understand me?” His grip on her arm tightened. Every so often in their relationship he had startled her like this, matched her in a show of strength comparable to her own.

“Why?”

“They have been looking for an opportunity to retire you. Do you know what I mean when I say that? Do you know how they ‘retire’ Slayers?”

“Yes,” she answered numbly.

“Right now, even our good friend Faith is more of a known variable than you are, Buffy. They’d prefer to have her take up the Slayer line. Rather, they’d prefer that you both are extinguished and a new Slayer is called.” He gave her a little shake. “I will not let that happen. I will not lose you again – not to some fool with a spellbook and not to your own misplaced sense of guilt!”

She stumbled away from him, grabbing at the countertop for support but finally sliding down, until her body curled against the cabinets. Giles knelt beside her.

“It’s never going to be the same, is it?” she whispered, almost to herself. “It’s touched me this time. There’s this…stain, on my soul. Mine. It wasn’t Glory, or Adam, or the Master or even one of my vampire boyfriends.” She didn’t notice Giles flinch slightly at that. “I’ll never be able to start a sentence with ‘I could never…’ because I could.

“My hands aren’t clean any more, Giles.”

And he couldn’t argue with her, because it was true. Her hands had wrought the death of one friend, and shattered the rest. There would be mornings when she awoke and the knowledge would slam into her like a fist to her solar plexus, yet she would still have to get up, go on.

He felt his hatred for Rodger Kehoe spiral and surge. It was Kehoe who had left her tainted and smothered; who had unwittingly found a pain different from the death of a parent and the loss of eternity. For the first time Giles cursed Spike’s chip, that it prevented him from the natural recourse of bloody and violent revenge on this human.

"I'm sorry, Tara," Buffy was murmuring. "So sorry, so sorry..."

“Buffy…it will get better. That I promise. Let yourself be comforted, by –" he swallowed, Spike’s face flashing through his mind again. “Let yourself be comforted. Don’t deny yourself, or others – Xander, Dawn, Will-Willow…they all need to share this with you.”

She nodded, closing her eyes and trying to calm her ragged breathing. They stayed there for a long time, their bodies made leaden by mourning. Giles thought that this might be why Slayers died so young -- not from the final wound, but the ones that came before.

The day dragged on in silence that was only occasionally punctuated by the sound of low voices and stifled weeping. At six Buffy succumbed to exhaustion and joined her sister upstairs. Giles called Xander, who arrived fifteen minutes later. He then excused himself briefly, leaving the younger man standing alone in the middle of the living room.

***************************************

Spike slept like the dead.

Ha, ha, he thought groggily upon waking. But it was true, and damn if it didn’t feel good. He’d wondered, as he’d collapsed in his ruined bed, whether sleeping alone for the first time in weeks would be difficult. He’d become oddly accustomed to Dawn’s warm, noisy human presence.

His body answered that question with a resounding Hell, no. The crypt was blessedly quiet; no uneven snoring three feet away and no skinny fingers poking various tender places on his carcass as a declaration that it was time to get up and buy her a Mega Meal at the diner across the road.

Okay, so maybe he missed her. Slightly. And that last night – with Buffy at his side as well! That had been his Elysium; the only one he’d ever see at any rate.

His crypt seemed desolate in comparison, although to be fair it had never had much of a welcoming atmosphere. Now, though – now he felt like he was not only returning to his digs but to his old life: solitary, rejected, reviled.

And that’s why you’ll never be a poet, William. He heaved himself off the bed and surveyed the place. Thanks to the Great Potato’s bombing action, his home now was as dank as depressing as Harris’ basement. Still, the blackened walls and inside-out furnishings lent a sense of chaos that Spike could appreciate. He studied a hollowed-out lampshade thoughtfully.

Too bad he couldn’t redecorate before company came, he thought. Human, and he felt an automatic stab of anxiety before he remembered – no worries. He could defend himself, now. Maybe do a bit more than that. He smiled. Yeah, maybe do.

“Spike?”

His grin faded. Where was a genuine pillock when you needed one?

“Down here,” he called back, and grimaced at his complaisance. He should start offering crumpets, next.

Giles stepped carefully down the ladder. “Good evening,” he said, and Spike raised an eyebrow.

“Er, right,” Giles muttered. “Your hovel has become more…hovel-like since I saw it last, hasn’t it?”

Spike shrugged. “So much for my spread in Town and Country.” He gave Giles a pointed once-over. “That a stake in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

“What? Oh – oh.” Giles removed it, placing it on the remains of Spike's beloved television. “Anya gave it to me. She suspected I might forget to use precautions.”

Spike snickered. “It’s a twig, Rupert, not a rubber.” But the humor died quickly. “You seen Buffy?”

“Yes. I’ve spent the day there. They weren’t expecting me, I don’t think.”

“Wasn’t for me to tell. ‘Sides, didn’t want her getting all nervous and shamefaced about seeing you.” He frowned. “You left her there alone?”

“No. Xander’s there now. He wanted very much to see her. They – they need each other right now.”

“Yep. The Scooby Gang, back together again.”

Giles sighed heavily. “Not exactly.” He seemed to want to say more, but the weariness etched across his face stayed the words. The two men looked at each other for a long moment, before Giles spoke again. “I don’t suppose there’s anything to drink underneath all this rubble?”

“’Fraid I don’t have any tea, Watcher.”

“Good.”

Spike gave him one last look, then motioned him to the only-slightly-worse-for-wear armchair. Giles sat, smiling joylessly at the tufts of cotton erupting from the cushion. Spike thrust a glass at him, then hopped up on a nearby sarcophagus. “Here.”

Giles took a long, smooth swallow, while Spike swigged straight from the bottle, eyeing him over the rim.

“Tara’s dead. Buffy killed her. The other – oh, bloody hell. You know what I mean.”

Spike let the whiskey burn a path along his throat, down into his belly, and with it this news. “When?”

“The evening Buffy was spotted at the airport. Services have been conducted, although I’m sure Buffy will want to visit her plot. The memorial park is about ninety miles away. High desert country. And…I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

Spike leaned over to refill his tumbler. “Police?”

“They won’t be involved. Small mercies, I suppose.”

Spike closed his eyes and let Tara fill his mind. Soft, shy, luminous. Blood began to seep around the edges of the image, rendering it rosy and liquid.

“How’s Buffy taking it?”

“As can be expected. She was intent on turning herself in, until I talked her out of it.”

“Bully for you. That’s more than I was able to do.”

Giles’ gaze sharpened. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothin’.” Spike gestured with the bottle. “The kid?”

“Distraught, of course. Tara was a very strong presence in Dawn’s life. She and Buffy both will need all the support we can provide.”

“We? Since when am I part of your merry band?” He was aware of his own churlishness; heard it in his monosyllabic replies. Somehow, he just couldn’t work up the usual snark.

“You’ve protected Dawn for weeks. Buffy would not have been restored without your help. And I know that you have some sort of relationship with her.”

Well, no one ever said Rupert Giles was an idiot. Spike’s lips quirked. “Not any more, so you can rest easy.” He flicked a bit of lint off his jeans. “So what do you want me to do? Sit with the little one while you all try and conjure Tara back from the ether?”

“You know I had nothing to do with that.” Giles’ voice was hard. “And there’s no risk of such absurdity being repeated – if for no other reason than that Willow has disappeared.”

Spike raised both eyebrows now. “That right? I don’t find that thought too cheering.”

“Nor do I. Willow has already demonstrated a troubling disregard for the consequences of magic. That, combined with her lover’s death…” Giles trailed off.

“We might be looking at a bit more calamity,” Spike finished.

“It’s a possibility, yes.”

Spike chuckled lowly. “Here’s to the Hellmouth.”

The men raised their drinks, and then silence reigned again.

Part 16: Detritus

Author's Note: I realize these last two chapters were heavy. It will get better, but Tara earned her mourning.

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