Eight years Xander’s been fighting the Forces of Evil and this, he thinks as he sits in the rather comfy chair, as he shifts his weight and uncrosses his legs, is the hardest thing he’s ever had to do. This waiting, this sitting outside of Giles’ office, in the waiting room that looks to be straight out of Masterpiece Theater, what with it being filled with red leather and dark wood and bookcases holding more leather-bound tomes than Xander wanted to know existed. And also Andrew.

The not-quite-blond-anymore Watcher-In-Training (as he refers to himself) is sitting in the chair across from him, smiling that wide smile of his, his hands clasped serenely in his lap. He looks happy to see Xander, still, even though he gave up trying to engage Xander in conversation a good thirty minutes ago, a full hour after Xander first started waiting for Giles to get back from wherever Giles went in London, on Watcher business.

He shifts in his seat again, then (unconsciously) glances towards Giles’ office, at the paneled double doors, but that just prompts Andrew to say, "He should be back any minute now, Mr. Giles should be. And I know I said that before, but I really mean it this time. Now."

He gives Xander another blinding smile, but Xander looks back down at his hands before the true wattage can register. He knows that Andrew wouldn’t look so happy if he knew Xander’s true reasons for coming to London. If he knew what, exactly, Xander was going to say when he got Giles alone in his office.

"Mr. Giles is a very busy man," Andrew says. For at least the fourth time, although it’s very possible that Xander has repressed a time or two. "But I know that he’ll make time in his schedule to see you. He’ll be just thrilled."

Xander doesn’t quite snort at that—because when has Giles ever been thrilled to see him?—but it does almost make him smile. He might have actually let himself do just that if the words he’s waiting to say weren’t running through his head, an unbearable soundtrack on an endless loop.

"And why will I be thrilled?"

The voice comes from the just opening door to the waiting room, as familiar and British as Xander remembers, and then Giles is there. Staring at him. And he’s not quite the same man that Xander remembers; polar fleece has replaced tweed, blue jeans have replaced pressed slacks. But he’s wearing his glasses still, and he looks the same when he pulls them off and rubs his eyes, as if Xander could be a figment of his imagination. He sounds the same when he says, "Oh good lord. Xander. Xander."

It’s instinct, pure reflex that makes Xander want to say, Hey, G-Man with a cocky grin, but he manages to curb the impulse. "Giles," he says. His voice bumps, not quite cracking, and he wants to stand up and shake his hand, hug him.

Maybe it’s the fact that he doesn’t do either—any—of those things that clues Giles into the fact that all is not right in Xander’s world, because Xander can see him come to that conclusion. He can see the emotions playing across Giles face: a furrowed brow; a too-intent gaze; a smile, which had just started to form, fading in its infancy.

Giles is a smart man, after all, and Xander can see him take that mental step. Watches as the older man’s brain dawns upon conclusions that are just waiting to be dawned upon.

"I, uh. We need to talk," Xander says. He knows that those words will confirm all of Giles suspicions, and yes, he sees that flicker of… something in Giles’ eyes. He knows that Giles will no longer be going into their conversation cold, that they’ll be starting on the same page, and for that, he’s thankful.

Explanations he knows he can do. It’s the actual breaking of the news that he wasn’t so sure about.

"You need to talk badly enough, apparently, that he’s been waiting an hour and a half for you to show up," Andrew says reproachfully. "’A quick run to the library, Andrew,’ you said. ‘I’ll be back in time for tea.’ Well it’s half-past tea now, Mister, and I—"

"Andrew." Giles’ voice is sharp, biting enough that Xander jumps to attention too. It’s instinct again that makes him want to hang his head, to look sheepish even if he hasn’t done anything wrong. Which he hasn’t, no matter what he’s about to tell Giles.

No matter how guilty he already feels.

"Enough," Giles says more softly. "Xander and I need to talk. We are not to be disturbed. For any reason, do you understand?"

Andrew nods, not looking cowed at all, and walks back to the desk on the other side of the room where he was perched when Xander arrived, and sits himself down behind it. He pulls a telephone headset out of a drawer, fits it over his head, and says, "I’ll just order us up some tea, shall I?"

"Not just yet, I don’t think," Giles says, and it’s apparent that his brain has already moved beyond Andrew, beyond the waiting room and into his office. Then, turning to Xander, he says, "Unless you—?"

Xander shakes his head.

"I didn’t think you’d— I didn’t think so." Giles looks back at Andrew, who for the first time since Xander entered, is starting to look a little worried. He looks beyond worried when Giles finishes, "I may need something a little stronger, though, after—" He looks at Xander again. "—this."

Xander hides his wince by looking to the floor as he stands up, although he’s managed to school his face back to impassivity by the time he looks up again, in time to follow Giles into his office, leaving Andrew alone behind them.

Giles’ office looks much less Masterpiece Theater-ish than the waiting room. It’s done in grays and blues and sleek, modern furniture. There are picture windows stretched across one wall, and white bookcases line the other three. More leather bound volumes.

Giles walks around his desk and sits down in the large, black leather chair and motions for Xander to take the other: small, round and blue. Which he does, only slightly reluctantly, because somehow this actually being in the moment, amazingly enough, is worse than the waiting for it to come.

It’ll be better when it’s over, he reminds himself. Better, yes, but that seems to be a long ways off.

He expects Giles to speak first, to start asking the questions that he knows are on the tip of the Watcher’s tongue, but the older man just stares. He folds his hands across his torso, leaning back in his chair. Too tense-looking to be as comfortable as he’s trying to look. And then Xander can’t look at him anymore, not if he wants his voice to work properly.

"So," he says. The corners of his lips quirk upwards, but he’s not looking at Giles so he doesn’t know how the other man reacts. Maybe he’s thinking that he was wrong about Xander’s motivations. Maybe he’s thinking that Xander just has some news for him, or that he just hasn’t slept in about 48 hours. Which is true, give or take five hours on the flight from Nigeria…

"I need to hear it from you, Xander."

… or maybe not.

Xander closes his eye, rubs the pads of his fingers over the felt of his eye patch, and takes a deep breath. He swallows once, then again, and his chest suddenly feels too small. Small and filled with nervous fluttery things, like butterflies, or itchy things, like ants. He feels cold, and his palms have started to sweat, and when he opens his mouth, he can’t say it.

Not until he coughs, until he swallows for a third time and forces his vocal chords to do what he wants them to.

"I— I just wanted to—" And suddenly he has to look at Giles as he says this, because then and only then will the words be true, so he raises his head, meeting the other man’s eyes. "I’m done, Giles. I’m not, I can’t do this anymore."

He sees a flash of pain cross Giles’ face, and that’s surprising, Xander thinks. But Giles isn’t saying anything, hasn’t even opened his mouth yet, and that’s even more surprising. Not that he was expecting immediate protests or anything, but they would have been nice.

"I’m being selfish, I know. I know I’m selfish, but I—" A sigh, defeated. "I just can’t do this again, not anymore. This is the end of the story for Xander Harris."

His brain wants to start babbling about how he’s not needed, about how its only been a year but already things seem to be pretty much under control, and they are. Somewhat. But he knows it’s not entirely true.

Not yet.

And still Giles is silent.

"You could say something, you know. Before I start babbling on and on and manage to talk myself out of this."

He almost expects Giles to say, yes, that’s exactly what I’m trying to do. There would be a hint of warmth in his eyes, a hint of laughter. But Xander doesn’t see that. If anything, Giles’ gaze gets even colder.

"What do you want me to say, Xander? That you can’t quit? That we can’t do this without you? Or, would you rather that I told you we didn’t need you anymore, because we’re finally getting things under control, with the Council and all of the Potentials. Or, do you want me to ask you why? So that you can give me your reasons, assuage your guilt, and make this, what you’re doing, okay?"

Yes, that is what he wants. And maybe Giles gets that, because he continues, his voice still cold, "Fine. Tell me, Xander. Tell me why."

"Cordelia," Xander says, his voice barely audible. Then, more loudly: "Anya. Tara. Jessie. Ms. Calendar. Larry. Harmony. Jonathon. Kendra." A pause. "Spike. All of them dead because of this life. All of them dead, fighting. And I don’t want that, Giles. I don’t want to die for this life."

His voice cracks for real this time, like it has been threatening to crack, and he realizes it’s a muffled sob. One he’s been repressing since he heard about Cordelia, since Willow called him a month before. And there are the tears, too, unstoppable, burning down his cheek.

It was different when they were all in Sunnydale. When it was him and Buffy, Willow and Giles, and various and sundry significant others. They were a group then, supporting each other, comforting each other, but Xander doesn’t have a group anymore. Buffy and Dawn were in Rome, Willow and Kennedy in South America, Giles and Andrew here in London, and he got shipped off to Africa.

Alone. And it just wasn’t the same. It didn’t feel right anymore.

"I’ve lost two girlfriends to this world, Giles. More than one best friend. " He swallowed convulsively. "I’m only 23. I shouldn’t be feeling as if I’m living on borrowed time." And then, because he’s suddenly angry—he shouldn’t have to be defending himself to Giles, after all. He’s not the chosen one. "Eight years I’ve chosen to do this, chosen to help. And now I’m choosing not to anymore."

Harsh words translating into action, he stands up from his chair, not caring that it wobbles a bit with the force of his movement, and then moves to the door. He’s already got his hand wrapped around the handle when Giles speaks, his voice slow, reluctant.

"I do understand, Xander," the Watcher says softly, "but I’m not sure you do. No one can close their eyes to this world again once they’ve been opened. This isn’t a world that you can just walk away from."

Xander doesn’t turn around. He can’t.

"But I have to, Giles. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to go down fighting. And if I don’t quit now, that’s the only thing I see in my future." He takes a deep breath. "I’m sorry."

With that, he opens the door.

In time to see Andrew step quickly away, a bottle of whisky in his hands, and he’s not smiling anymore, just like Xander knew that he wouldn’t be. Instead, he looks affronted, betrayed.

"I’m sorry," Xander says again, softly.

And then he leaves.