***

Sitting stiffly on the sofa, Giles fiddled with his signet ring. His
features were set in the same hollow expression he had worn almost
every day since Buffy had died six weeks before. There was no focus
to his gaze -- nothing in that room, at any rate.

On the wall the clock ticked, and he imagined it was a metronome,
needle swinging from side to side, always with the same maddening
rhythm. It gave him something to concentrate on, something to occupy
his mind.

Tick, tock, tick tock.

This was the first moment he could remember since before Joyce died
that there wasn't something to do, except wait. No, that wasn't
true -- he did have a thing. Not thinking about anything. Just the
imaginary metronome.

The imaginary needle moved back and forth, back and forth.

He had never felt so lonely. Never been so entirely without
friends. He'd spent so long giving support to others -- Buffy,
mostly, but Dawn and Joyce and Anya and Willow too -- he hadn't
noticed that there was no support for him.

He cared for all of Buffy's friends, of course he did. But that was
just the point; that was what they were when it came down to it:
Buffy's friends. He was a friend of theirs only through Buffy and by
dint of common experience. He wasn't anyone's best friend, and he
certainly wasn't anyone's lover. Dawn looked to Spike as a father
figure more than he -- and that was indeed a terrifying thought, but
Willow hopefully provided an effective counterweight to Spike's
undoubtedly malign influence.

Giles was left on his own, and he realised he could count the friends
he had made in Sunnydale on the fingers of one hand and still have
some to spare.

Jenny's petite figure danced across his memory, and he homed in on
the clock again.

Tick, tock.

Joyce had been a friend, much more so than he had appreciated when
she was still alive. They had overcome both Joyce's anger after
Buffy's status as the Slayer was revealed to her and the unfortunate
incident caused by Ethan's chocolate to actually forge a decent --
platonic -- relationship. It had been good to have someone of his own
age to talk to, a mature voice in what usually seemed to be a
cacophony of inexperience. Joyce was also the only adult he knew in
Sunnydale for whom mention of the supernatural didn't result in
laughter or disbelief. And this was not to mention the fact that
Joyce was both intelligent and cultured, meaning he could have a
conversation that wasn't riddled with pop culture references that
entirely passed him by. He wished he'd taken the opportunity to tell
Joyce just how much he'd appreciated all of that whilst she was still
alive.

Then there was Buffy. She had been his pupil at first: a
responsibility, not a privilege it all too often seemed. Events had
forced her to grow up rapidly however and in a remarkably short
period of time they were on a level footing in many respects. She'd
seen past Giles' buttoned-up exterior to recognise what she meant to
him, and Giles had been proud to be her Watcher and her friend. She
had been his connection to the wider world of the Scooby Gang and
made him feel younger than he actually was. Above all, she had been
his responsibility and his occupation and that had given him a
purpose that had masked the lack of other meaningful personal
relationships in his life.

He did not count Xander or Willow as friends on that level. Though
he was sure that all of the others -- with the exception of Spike --
both liked and respected him, the barrier between the generations
Buffy had been able to knock down still seemed all to tangible for
them. They had never really moved beyond the relationship as it
existed at Sunnydale High -- he was the stuffy Mr. Giles and they were
the pupils. Underneath the fact that they were physically growing up
he knew that fundamentally that was how he was regarded. He was
expected to take care of himself, but be there to support them in
their times of need -- or likely as not, clear up behind them -- but
the support was never truly reciprocated. For that he was not
bitter, but he had to face up to the fact that he did not truly fit
into their world.

He really didn't know where he fitted anymore.

The Council was losing interest now he had sent them the last of his
Watcher's Diaries that detailed the events up to and shortly after
the battle with Glory. They were much more concerned with the
problem of Faith and how they could fight the good fight with the
Slayer incarcerated. Giles had no appetite for arguing with them on
the best course of action; not that he thought Quentin or the rest
would want to hear what he had to say in any case.

It was time to move on.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

On the street outside, his taxi blared its horn. Giles breathed out
slowly, then got to his feet and picked up the suitcase that sat next
to the sofa. He walked to the door, then paused turning back to move
to the ornate clock on the wall. Reaching up, he held the pendulum
still for a few moments, and the ticking ceased.

The door clicked shut behind him.