Giles woke to the delicious aroma of freshly brewed coffee. He blinked in the brilliant sunshine. Through the shop shutters, he could see commuters hurrying to their jobs and the beginning of the normal traffic crawl.

"Oh…"

A surprised voice called behind him, Giles looked round and saw Mr. Deacon holding a huge mug of coffee in one hand and his radio magazine in the other.

"Good Morning… Mr. Giles, isn’t it?"

He held his non-scalded hand out in greeting. The magazine dropped from his grasp, spilling glossy ads all over the floor.

"I’m glad to meet you at last, your books sell like hot cakes, and since your publicist arrived…" Mr.Deacon enthused.

"My publicist?" Giles Questioned. Then he realised Spike had had a little joke with the mild eyed man. "Oh, yes… um… you don’t mind that he… Uh… has made himself at home?" Giles struggled to find a convincing cover story.

"Oh no, not at all, glad he’s here. He looks after the place and is a charming member of staff… Sorry… would you like a coffee?"

Giles smirked as he eased himself out of his chair, stretching the kinks from his back…"Thank you, it might wake me up."

Jack paced the kitchen clasping his coffee mug, every now and then he glanced at the clock…ten minutes had passed since the last time he’d checked the driveway. He sighed and shot an accusing look at the timepiece, slammed his mug down on the counter top and made his way down the hall to the front door. He ducked into the weapons room when he heard the long sweeping crunch of gravel as the car pulled into the drive. His stop-out father had returned.

Giles opened the door to his home and rested his shoulders on the studded oak. The drive had been tiring. A new consequence of his illness he suspected. Still, after breakfast…his stomach churned, perhaps not. He put his keys in the marble font at the side of the hall and walked silently past the door to the weapons room.

Jack opened the door after his father’s passage.

He hesitated in calling after him. He looked tired out. His father suddenly looked old in his eyes. He followed him into the kitchen and decided to gee him up a bit. "And what time do you call this, Dad?" He didn’t realise that Giles had rinsed the sink quickly round before his entrance, and now stood sipping a glass of water leaning back against the unit.

His father smiled. "Ten o’clock… the girls kept me back at the brothel, sorry about that son." He grinned wider at jack’s puzzled expression; he was so like his mother.

"What did the doctor say?" Jack needed the information; he’d waited all night for some word so decided on the direct approach. He watched his father’s face change subtly, as he tried to find the best words.

His eyes fixed on Jack’s. "It’s finished, I don’t have to go back anymore." He didn’t quite expect his eyes to heat at that simple statement, but what he’d just told Jack affected him more because he saw vast emotion battling in his son’s eyes. Finally, his arms were full of weeping boy and he cradled his son in a warm hug, he felt his own tears fall because each hug was now precious.

Giles spent the following weeks sorting through his college memorabilia and placing it in the secret room. He moved the rare demonic texts from the main library into that room and used it as a study. Willow’s laptop took pride of place on the polished oak desk; he would open it up and switch it on now and again just to "see" her ghostly form work her magic there. He smiled and caressed the keys, then shut it down before he got too melancholy.

He was in the secret room when he heard Jack calling him. They had a visitor.

Giles walked into the sitting room and saw a tall wiry man sitting in his armchair leafing through his copy of Biggles. Jack’s sharp intake of breath as he noticed where the man sat matched his father’s.

Jack skirted round and placed the tea tray on the table by the sofa. "Dad, this is Mr. Shingle, the manager of the rest home I was telling you about."

The man got up languidly and regarded Giles with an eagle eye, as if he could sense senility. He raised his bony hand in greeting, which Giles blinked at passively then sat in the now vacated armchair and dusted off poor, violated Biggles.

Mr. Shingle, shrugged. And sat down on the sofa and helped himself to tea. He engaged Jack in conversation, totally ignoring Giles. Jack kept on meeting his father’s gaze in a desperate telepathic plea for help.

"…You see Jack, may I call you Jack?" Shingle’s hand on his thigh made Jack shudder. The man was well into his sales pitch, for getting rid of the Old Duffer, his father. "We at Merlin’s Rest appreciate that all our senior residents are individuals, with different needs…"

As Shingles’ voice droned on, Giles pondered what an apt name the man had. He could almost feel Ethan at his shoulder making yapping gestures with his hand and then badmouthing him. He grinned, and glanced suddenly to his left…had he heard correctly? Ethan’s laughter tickled his mind.

"And of course, sadly occasionally we have to restrain the more troublesome residents…"

"Mr. Shingles." Giles couldn’t let that go!

The man turned from his son to him with the slightest hint of irritation in his eyes, they softened to condescending and then suddenly guarded when he met a full on "Ripper" glare. "Um, that’s Shingle, sir." He smiled. "I’m single…"

"Why am I not surprised." Giles Murmured, Jack sniggered. "Mr. Shingle, my son informed me some time ago, that you were going to visit us concerning an absentee. Why do you think we would know anything about it?"

"Well, Ethan has this address in his diary."

"Sir Ethan, did not show his diary to anyone." Giles used the title that he’d given Ethan in his youth; he was chivalrous to a fault, always letting the girls come first. It gave him great satisfaction when Shingle broke out in a cold sweat.

"I didn’t know…" he stuttered.

"Mmm, well he never used his title, got in the way of his work. I would like to have all his effects. I am his oldest friend… Should he come by to collect them of course." Giles stood and glared at Shingle, who stood and gathered his papers together. The man seemed not to be quite as tall now.

"I’ll get them over to you by special messenger this afternoon." He muttered.

Giles strode to the front door and yanked it open. "See that you do Mr. Shingles." Giles chanced a spell to conjure lightening that struck Shingle’s car out of a clear evening sky. The man jumped almost out of his skin.

Jack hurried out and saw the aftermath of the strike.

Shingle hugged his briefcase tightly to his chest, as Giles looked over the damaged car like the cat who got the cream.

"What happened?" Jack gasped.

"My, my car…" Shingle wailed.

Jack looked at his father accusingly. Who placed a hand on his chest and assumed a look of innocence…

"Pity you weren’t in it." He announced and turned on his heel. He left Jack to explain to the dishevelled Shingle.

The weather turned colder and winter gripped the countryside. Giles wrapped himself up in warm clothes and walked around the garden; the holly and fire thorn were heavy with berries this year, indicating a bitter winter. He was glad he wouldn’t see the New Year.

He had asked Jack to move Willow’s portrait from the bedroom to the Sitting room so he could see her while he read. He took most of his meals in that room and often dozed in front of the fire when the pain got too bad to withstand awake.

He was sleeping when Jack came in one day a couple of weeks before Christmas. He picked up the pile of letters his father had left for posting and noticed that all but one had U.S addresses. He kissed his father on the forehead and left the house.

Giles jolted awake with the slam of the front door. He felt the familiar constriction in his stomach and toppled from the chair. The sudden pain had caught him off guard. The room tilted as he tried to raise himself from the floor but another bolt rocked him and he cried out in pain and collapsed unconscious at the foot of his chair.

Snow began to fall outside, soft and silent out of a grey velvet sky. The sitting room clock stopped ticking and the world revolved around a forlorn fallen figure.

"Rupert."

He stirred at the sound of Willow’s voice. He sat up wearily and gazed at her portrait. She smiled at him and his heart leapt. He still had the pain but it was bearable now.

"Darling, hang on just a couple of weeks longer, please. You need to finish your painting; you need to finish a great many things. I’ll be here."

He could hear the sunshine in her voice and remembered long warm nights spent in the walled garden. "Willow, It hurts…" He swallowed all his pain. "So much…like a never ending tunnel and it’s so dark!" He moaned, and swept away bitter tears.

Willow stepped from the painting and a soft glow suffused the room. "Rupert, I will hold a beacon to light the tunnel, for eternity, if need be."

Rupert’s hands left his eyes and he saw Willow for the first time since her death. He smiled and reached for her. Her spectral lips touched his and then she vanished as Jack slammed the front door. The clock stuttered and started once more.

Jack called out "Dad!" When he heard no answer, he went into the Sitting room and saw his father struggling to get up from the floor. "Dad…" Jack gasped and helped him onto his chair.

Giles gripped his son’s arm fiercely as if convincing himself he was real. "I just slipped, that’s all. Jack, did you post the letters?" He glanced at the coffee table. "Good boy, will you bring me some tea into the conservatory? I feel like painting this afternoon."

Jack smiled as his father walked into the conservatory. He began to hope that the doctor’s were wrong. He seemed to be coping with his illness so well. He brought tea into the room and sat as his father painted; his brush quickly covered the canvas and figures appeared as if by magic. He slowly became aware of a heavy atmosphere in the room that sent tingles along his spine. He’d been aware of it as a child whenever his parents had been "cuddling" in rooms. Magic, his father was using magic. It flowed out of him, covering the canvas and sinking into the walls of the house. His father was making it safe for him to live in.

Tears stung at his eyes as he watched his father work. He wanted to keep this time, capture it, and lock it away in his heart forever.

As if hearing Jack’s wish Giles stopped and peered over the canvas. "I love you Jack."

The tears did come then, silently and Giles ducked behind the canvas to give his son privacy in his grief.

Giles was no longer lost and mourning, he knew he had a purpose and he would soon be with his love again. She was his light at the end of the tunnel.

Giles heard the doorbell sound and then Jack’s voice, "I’ll get it!" They were here. He wiped his mouth and rinsed water around his sink, washing away the traces of blood. He popped a piece of fudge in his mouth. Fudge was something he adored and for some odd reason, his stomach tolerated it.

He took one last glance at his reflection in the mirror and went downstairs to greet his old friends. Willow stood silently, invisibly by his side, guiding his step until he entered the sitting room and saw them all, waiting. Xander stood apart from the others, by Willow’s portrait, Giles smiled and found he couldn’t resist… "She always does that y’know. I think she bewitched the canvas as I painted her."

Everyone turned around and he found himself bathed in love.

The End.

Site Disclaimer: Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc. own the Buffy characters.
All products, movies, books, songs, etc. are owned by their respective owners.
No copyright infringement is intended.
All ORIGINAL plots and characters on this site are owned by their respective authors.