the pearl


"By 1:37 exactly, Giles," the voice on the phone had said. "By 1:37, it'll all be over."

Giles looked at the clock sitting on the desk. 1:30.

He sloppily poured whiskey into the glass, his hands shaking. He tipped the glass back effortlessly, the alcohol sliding down his throat, burning in his stomach. It was a good burn. It was a necessary burn.


He wondered what would happen afterwards. How they would look at him. How would they live with him.

How he could live with himself.

Would they be able to look at him? Would they turn their eyes away, their bitter accusing eyes, pointedly avoiding him because he was responsible, he should have done something?


But there was nothing to be done. There was nothing he could do.

He tried, God, how he tried. Tried to show them the books, to show them the truth. It was prophesied. It was going to happen.

And no one listened to him. A former Watcher. Broke the rules, turned his back on centuries of tradition, only to save her.


But no one could save her now.

He poured another drink and sipped at this one slowly. He was drunk. He knew he was drunk. He had to be drunk. It was the only way he could survive this, the only way he could stop from breaking down and crying.


He should leave. He should pack everything and leave; get into his car and just drive, driving with a cross in one hand and the wheel in another, driving until it was daylight, driving until it was night again, driving until he was far far away from this place. This place of death, this place of pain, this place where, in three minutes, there'd be nothing left for him, because everything, everyone, would be dead.


Another minute, another drink. Perhaps he'd pass out soon, the minute passing in a drunken slumber. He'd never have to face it, he'd never know. He'd be asleep, the sleep of the drunk, wonderful oblivion.

He knew that would never happen. He could drink, and drink, and drink, drink himself to a pickled liver, and he would never sleep.

He'd never sleep again.


He closed his eyes, and he could see the blood on the walls. He could hear the screams. He could feel death approaching, looming, spreading over Sunnydale like a thick English fog.

After tonight, everyone would die. After tonight, there'd be no one left to save them. After tonight, it'd all be over.


It was over. They were all dead. And he was all that was left.

Giles' head fell into his hands and he gave a quiet, single sob.

This Angel/Buffy the Vampire Slayer story was written by Kate Bolin. If you liked it, there's plenty more at And you can feedback her at