Observare

by Jeanne DeVore

Intro:
What Goes Around....

The story you're about to read has had a wide and varied history. It began life as a story on the Buffy-Beta internet mailing list, and was known by the title "Journeys Past and Present". The response on B-Beta was extremely positive, and thanks to comments received through there, and from my other beta readers (Signe, Nea, Linda and Jan), it went on to receive several revisions.

Being an old child of zines, I just couldn't bear the thought of the story ending there, with simply a beta exposure. I like finished products. More than that, I like paper products-zines you can pick up in your hands and read over and over again without having to be chained to a PC. Stories you can (as one of my commenters put it) sprawl in bed munching chips and swigging Diet Cokes and lose yourself in the written word. Like Giles, I like my words to have context. I also like the idea of having illustrations to go with stories, and with my own resident illustrator, I'm that much more motivated to want to produce paper works.

So in November of 1998, I produced the story, with a new title, "Observare", as a fanzine novel, with a limited print run. It was once again very successful, so successful that it sold out in only a few months, and I continued to receive questions about it's availability.

So then I took it to its final destination-a web page. It had always been in the back of my mind that I'd eventually put the story on the web. But as it's now been a year since it's initial publication, and almost six months since it went out of print, I trust those who bought the zine in paper won't feel cheated that they paid money for something that's now available for free. Believe me, the paperzine was a good deal, and the illustrations look far better in person than they do on the web. Not only that, but there are two illos in the paperzine which have not made the transition to web document. I don't know whether they eventually will or not-I don't have one of the originals anymore, as it was sold at auction at MediaWest last year. And it's really up to Linda if she wants the others to be available on the web.

Thanks go, as always, to my roommate and resident illustrator, Linda Fairbanks, for the wonderful cover and interior art. While I was busy working on this story, she was taking a portrait drawing class and considered working on the zine as "homework". Hey, glad to oblige! Thanks also to my beta-readers/editors, Nea Dodson and Signe Hovde who know when to indulge me and when to sit down hard. To Jan Kraft, for additional editing assistance. To Kate Nuernberg, my zine-ish inspiration. If you're into Buffy zines, you HAVE to pick up Kate's zine, Give Blood. (Follow the link for more info-and the good news is that Kate's planning a second issue!) Not only does it have another one of my stories, but it has an absolutely sock-knocking story by Kate. To everyone on the Buffy-Beta, ASH-GASP lists last year who gave me feedback and encouragement, and especially to my cyber-sisters on JYGML. Glad to hang with you, ladies!

If you enjoy this story, let me know. Letters of comment are welcomed and begged for.

Thanks for your support. Enjoy!
***

I

The library was empty when Buffy walked in.

Not that that was unusual, but Giles usually poked his head out from wherever he was hiding to see who had dared enter his sanctuary.

No poking this time. She frowned, heading for his office.

He was sitting at his desk, staring at a piece of paper, his body rigid.

"Hi," she said softly.

He still jumped. "Oh...Buffy. I didn't hear you."

"I figured. What's up?"

"What? Oh...." He turned the paper face down. "Nothing."

"Last time you said that, you'd just read the prophesy that I was gonna die."

He swallowed guiltily. "No, it's...it's nothing like that. It's personal."

"Last time you said that, we wound up battling Eyghon."

He stared at her for a moment, emotions she couldn't understand playing across his face. "It's not like that this time," he said softly.

"Then what?"

His eyes dropped to the paper on his desk and he turned it over slowly. "M-my father...is quite ill."

Buffy felt a shiver go through her. Somehow it never occurred to her that Giles had family. Parents. "I'm sorry," she said. "In England?"

"Yes." He glanced at the paper again. "I...I'm going to have to...make arrangements to go over there."

She frowned. "Is he...?"

He glanced at her before looking away, and she was stunned by the raw pain in his expression. He nodded briefly.

"I'm sorry," she said again, feeling helpless. Of all the awful times for this to happen, this had to be the worst. He was still reeling from the death of Ms. Calendar. And now to have his father dying as well. She didn't know how much more he could take.

He swallowed and went on. "I don't like having to leave you alone...."

"I'll be okay," she soothed. "You go, take care of...stuff. Don't worry about me."

He just smiled sadly. "I...I don't know how long I'll be gone. It rather depends on...."

"I know. Don't worry."

He gazed at her, his expression unfathomable. At least to Buffy.

"Well. I suppose I'd better...see to things." He methodically folded the piece of paper and set it aside.

"Anything I can do?" she asked.

"Yes." He stood up. "Keep your head down. Be careful. I'm taking a risk, leaving you like this. Especially with-" He stopped abruptly. It didn't matter, she knew what he'd meant. And she knew he'd seen the pain as it flickered across her face. Pain reflected in his own.

"I'll be careful," she said simply.

He gazed at her intensely for a moment, then the smallest of smiles played around his mouth. "He would have liked to have met you."

"Your father?" she frowned. "Why?"

"It's always an honor for a watcher to meet a slayer. I'd rather hoped I could take you over after your high school graduation."

She thought about that for a minute. "Did he ever have a slayer?"

He shook his head. "Not every watcher gets the responsibility. It's considered a great honor. I know he always thought he should have. I'm sure he thought he could do it better. He could never understand why...." His voice faltered. "Why they chose me. I think he was, well, envious."

Buffy frowned. Giles was a grown-up. But from the sound of it, it seemed like in his father's eyes he was still a kid-a never-good-enough kid.

"I wish I could come with you," she said softly.

He looked over at her. "You've got school. Not to mention how we could possibly explain it to your mother."

"Spring break's next week," she reminded him. "I'll have a week off."

"I need to leave before then," he said. "I can't take the risk."

"So I'll miss a day."

"It would be more like two days, possibly three. And it's impossible."

She folded her arms. There had to be some way.... "If I figure it out, can I come?"

"Buffy...."

"Can I?"

He just stared at her. "Why is this so important to you?"

"It's not to me, but it is to you," she explained. "I just.... You're always there for me. Every time I need you. I guess I just-wanna return the favor. You shouldn't have to go through this alone. Especially not after...." It was still too new, too raw to talk about easily.

He smiled sadly. "Thank you." The smile faded. "But it's impossible."

The problem was, it might just be impossible. But she had to be sure. "Give me 'til tomorrow morning."

"I was hoping to leave tomorrow afternoon."

"Please?"

He sighed. "All right." He rubbed his forehead wearily. "You know the airfare is going to be astronomical."

As long as she was going, she might as well go whole-hog. "Let me work on that, too. I'll see what I can swing. Don't do anything about a ticket until you hear from me. Tomorrow evening's flight?"

"If possible."

"Cool. I'll be in touch. It'll work out, you'll see." She smiled at him and he reluctantly smiled back.

Then with a touch of his arm, she was gone.

The first step was to find Willow.

Her friend was in the computer lab, working. She seemed to spend most of her free time here lately, either working on lesson plans or.... Buffy swallowed. It still felt weird, not seeing Ms. Calendar here.

"Hey, Will," she greeted.

"Hi, Buffy," Willow smiled. "What's up?"

"What are you doing over Spring Break?"

Willow shrugged. "More of the usual, probably. Hanging out, watching bad TV, getting bored. Though Oz said the band was playing down in Marina on Saturday, so I'm going down there with him. Why?"

Buffy leaned in, speaking softly. "I need a cover for about a week."

Willow frowned. "What for?"

"Going to England with Giles."

Willow's eyes lit up. "He's taking you to England? Cool!"

"Not so cool," she corrected. "His father's dying and he has to go over there, you know, to deal with stuff. I want to go with him, so he doesn't have to be alone. And I wouldn't mind getting out of Sunnydale, either." Getting away from Angel, away from the memories....

"I hear you," Willow nodded. Yes, Willow understood.

"Anyway, my mom's gone 'til Tuesday, but I'll need cover 'til next Friday, at least. Can you do it?"

"Sure. Just tell her you're going with me and my family to, um, Carmel to visit relatives."

"You got relatives in Carmel?"

"Yep."

It was a good plan. Her mother wouldn't question it, and it would be a likely excuse for Buffy to be away. Now all she needed to do was take care of the next couple of days.

"Okay, that's one. Now, how can I rig taking Thursday and Friday off?"

Willow frowned, considering. "He can't wait 'til Friday?"

"He's not sure he's got that much time, if he wants to get there while his father's still alive."

"Whoa," Willow's eyes got bigger. "Poor Giles."

"I know," Buffy agreed. "That's why I want to go with him. What about this week?"

"The safest one is the handwriting program," Willow said. "If you can get a sample of your mother's writing. I can set up this program to copy it. Then we just write a note explaining that she's going out of town and wants you to come with her. Since she's not home, it can't be checked."

"Okay, but what do I do about my mom calling me every day?"

"Call her and tell her you're gonna stay with me for the next couple of nights so we can plan for our trip. Then if she calls, I can answer, say you're in the shower, or out running or something."

Buffy smiled. "You know, Will, you'd really make a great criminal master-mind."

"It gives me something to think about," Willow grinned. "Like puzzles."

"Okay, then here's one more for you. Airfares that won't bankrupt Giles."

Willow whistled low. "With two days' notice? That's tough. By now they'd all be full-fare."

"I know. That's what I want help with. Something cheaper."

"That's stealing." Willow frowned.

"No, it's...it's an extenuating circumstance. Don't they have funeral fares or something?"

Willow chewed her lip. "Hmm. There might be a way. It won't be cheap, but it might be better than full fare. But I'll need Giles's credit card number."

"I'll get it. And thanks." Buffy smiled at her.

"No problem. Tell Giles...." Willow paused, another frown wrinkling her forehead. "What do you say to somebody when someone is dying but hasn't died yet?"

Buffy shrugged. "I just told him I was sorry. You should've seen him, Will. He looked so-sad. Stunned, shocked, and really sorry. I kinda got the impression he and his father weren't close. But it still must be hard. Especially after...you know."

"I know," Willow shook her head. "Poor Giles."

By the following afternoon, the plans were in place. Buffy would be excused from classes Thursday afternoon and all day Friday. Mrs. Summers believed her daughter would be spending her Spring Break in Carmel with Willow and her family. And a flight out was booked for three o'clock the next day. Giles sighed, saying he had hoped to leave today, but Willow explained that the Thursday seats saved him almost $1,000 between the two tickets, so he was resigned to it.

Buffy was worried about how subdued he seemed, going along with her plans almost mechanically, a quiet sadness about him. Even her usual silly-talk and teasing failed to penetrate his melancholy.

"I'm sorry we can't leave 'til tomorrow," she said. He remained silent, filing cards. "I just thought, you know, it would be better." Still nothing.

She took a deep breath. "Giles, do you even

want me to come with you?"

He stopped, gazing at her blankly. "You're the one who begged to go, if I recall."

"I know. Because I want to be there for you. But I can't tell if you want me there or if I'm just being a pest. I don't want you to have go through this by yourself. It's bad enough you're alone because of-"

"Buffy, that's enough!"

She stepped back, startled. She knew he had quite a temper, had seen it a couple of times. But he rarely got angry at her, really angry, so it was always a shock when he did. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "But not talking about something doesn't make it go away."

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "I know you mean well," he looked at her. "But your timing is wretched."

"I'm sorry," she said again, feeling terrible. It seemed no matter what she did or said, she messed up.

He took a deep breath. "So am I. Just...don't push, all right?"

She nodded, swallowing back the tears which threatened. Way to go, Buffy. What else can you wreck while you're at it?

He was still looking at her, another one of those unfathomable expressions on his face: hurt, sorrow, and things she couldn't even explain.

"I've gotta get to class," she mumbled, and

turned to leave the library.

"Buffy." His voice stopped her before she reached the door, and she turned around. "Make sure you're packed in the morning; I'll give you a lift."

Now there was something she could understand in his look, something beyond the pain. Understanding, kindness. Giles. She nodded and gave him a little smile, turning around again. Maybe she hadn't wrecked it as much as she thought.

"Oh, and," he called her back. "Make sure you pack something...appropriate."

"I will," she said softly.
***

II

Buffy stared out the window at the clouds below them reflecting the late-afternoon sun. Next to her, Giles was reading. No news there.

Things had been awkward between them this morning. He'd picked her up, made sure she had her passport and her suitcase, then drove them to school silently. It was like he was still mad at her, but she wasn't sure if he was mad because she'd meddled, or if he was mad because of what had happened to Ms. Calendar. Or if it was something else entirely.

When they got to school, he reminded her to be at the library at noon, and they'd gone their separate ways. When she got to the library, he wordlessly locked his office and escorted her from the building, remaining mostly silent throughout the drive to the airport.

It was only once they'd gone through customs and were waiting at the gate that he seemed to relax.

"I'm sorry this won't be more of a vacation for you," he said quietly. "I doubt we'll even get to London."

"That's okay," she answered. "We can do that next time."

He smiled, and she was grateful for the expression, one of the first she'd seen since he got that letter on Tuesday.

"Where exactly are we going?" she asked.

"The town is called Chalworth; it's quite small, located about three hours west of London."

"I guess I need to study my English geography."

"You're unlikely to have seen Chalworth on any map. But you might have heard of Bath, or Bristol, two of the larger towns nearby."

"All I know about Bath is that the Wife came from there."

"What? Oh, yes," he chuckled. "I don't suppose you've ever read The Canterbury Tales."

"Only the Cliff Notes version," she admitted. "I didn't get the point."

He smiled. "Well, I have some bad news for you, Buffy. My father's house is filled with books, and none of them are the, uh, Cliff Notes version. Not only that, but unless he got radical in his old age, there won't even be a television."

Buffy curled her lip. "Yikes. Well," she sighed, then gave him an innocent smile, "I guess you'll just have to entertain me."

He raised his eyebrows. "Well, that should prove to be a distraction, if nothing else."

"Distraction is good," she smiled. Then her smile faded. "Isn't it?"

He looked at her, the sadness back, but some gentleness in his expression, too. "It is." His gaze was still intense, and it was all Buffy could do to keep from squirming. "I'm sorry for yesterday, Buffy," he said quietly.

"So'm I," she whispered.

"I know you mean well, and I appreciate your concern, honestly. But...but there are things I'm simply not prepared to discuss right now. I can't."

"But I-"

He held up a hand. "Shh. No more." The hand rested on her shoulder. "This week...will be a difficult one. I agreed to your coming along because I...well, I wanted to get you out of Sunnydale for awhile. But I also wanted you with me because you can make me smile. I think I'm going to need that, these next few days. But I need the Buffy full of strength, courage and good humour. Not the one who's afraid, cowering, and slinking around apologizing every other minute. All right?"

She looked at him, wanting more than anything to be everything he needed her to be. "I'll try," she said softly.

He gave her a smile. "Good girl."

They boarded the plane, a cramped 727 which would take them on the first leg to Montreal. Buffy got the window seat with Giles sitting next to her silently. He made sure she had everything she needed: a soda, a pillow, a magazine. But other than that, made no attempt at conversation. It wasn't like he was purposely shutting her out, it was more like he was...preoccupied. It just didn't occur to him that she'd want to talk.

And to be fair, she didn't know what she wanted to talk about anyway. She just wanted to know that she could. But his nose was buried in a book like usual, so it wasn't even an option.

Buffy sighed, looking out the window again, watching as the reflection of the sun faded off the clouds. If this was how it was going to be, it was going to be a long trip.

After a brief layover in Montreal, they boarded a wide-bodied jet for the final leg of the journey. So far, Buffy had been very quiet, but Giles could tell she was watching him uncertainly. As if she wanted to say something, but didn't know what to say. Or how to say it. He felt a little guilty that he'd spent the first leg of the flight reading, or rather, pretending to read, so as not to have to face her and talk to her. Sometimes her dear concern was more than he could handle. He hoped bringing her on this trip wasn't a mistake. They'd be spending a lot of time together, in close quarters. If the present level of tension continued throughout the trip, they'd likely be at each other's throats before too long. They were both capable, if they set their minds to it, of savaging each other quite thoroughly. Some of her flip comments had been too often uncomfortably close to the mark. And he'd had to bite his tongue on more than one occasion before he said something he knew he'd later regret.

Perhaps once they got to England, once he saw for himself exactly how his father was.... Perhaps he'd settle down then. He had to hope so. For both their sakes.

Giles again gave Buffy the window seat, but this time there were only two seats in the row, giving him an aisle seat and a little more room to stretch out. Airplane seats were definitely not made for the long-legged. Buffy sat, as usual, with her legs tucked under her, and he envied her the ability to curl up like that. But she suggested he stretch his legs out in front of her seat, a move which made him feel less cramped.

Following the obligatory drinks run, the flight crew dimmed the lights and passed out pillows and blankets. They also started the movie, some inane comedy even Buffy refused to watch. As it would be after noon before they arrived in London, they would need to get their rest now.

Easier said than done. Giles closed his eyes, thin blanket pulled over him, and willed sleep to come. But it remained stubbornly elusive. He was tired; he hadn't slept well in weeks, not since.... By now, he was so exhausted he ought to just be able to close his eyes and let go. But he was too aware of his surroundings: the soft conversation of the people behind him, the drone of the jet engines, the dim flicker of the film, and most especially of the young woman at his side. She curled on her side, blanket tucked up to her chin, her knees pressing against his thigh. Her proximity wasn't uncomfortable, he was just very aware of her.

He watched her for several moments; observed the dark shadows beneath her closed eyes, the paleness of her complexion. She still wasn't back to full strength after her bout with flu earlier in the month. He probably shouldn't have allowed her to

come with him. But he'd wanted to get her out of

Sunnydale, away from Angel and his insane

obsession.

She sighed and wriggled, tucking the blanket closer to her chin with a sniff.

"Are you all right?" he whispered.

Her eyes opened. "I'm freezing. There's, like, this draft all along the outside wall here."

"Do you want to switch seats?"

She shook her head. "But I could use another blanket."

He pressed the attendant's button, then stood up and reached for his jacket from the overhead bin. When the attendant came by, he asked for a second blanket, then gave Buffy the blazer. "Slip that on, it'll help."

She pulled the jacket on; the sleeves hung down well past her fingertips and she grinned, rolling them back. The second blanket arrived and he used it along the bulkhead, forming a barrier between it and Buffy. She tucked up again and he smoothed the blanket over her. "Better?"

She nodded. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," he smiled.

She settled down again and he watched her for several minutes. She wasn't asleep, he could tell. Perhaps she'd been having as much trouble sleeping lately as he had. Not that that was surprising. Well, with luck, they'd be able to sleep in most days. Their time would be spent visiting his father in the convalescent home until... Until it was over. And then dealing with the house and the arrangements. Stressful, but not really taxing, at least not for Buffy. Perhaps the open spaces and slow pace of Chalworth would do her good.

He closed his eyes again, willing himself to relax.
***

III

It was early evening by the time they arrived in the small town. Chalworth. It seemed to Buffy that they'd been driving forever, and the rental car, while a lot better than Giles's old rattle-trap back home, was still cramped. Between the car and the plane flight, Buffy was feeling so antsy she was ready to run along behind the car, just to keep moving.

She looked out the window curiously at the sights. It wasn't much of a town; a main street with a few shops, and smaller streets with brick houses, one next to another. With all this open space, you'd think they would have used it for the yards, but the houses had only tiny postage stamp yards, usually surrounded by a fence or a wall.

"I know you're tired," Giles said, speaking for the first time since they'd passed the cut-off for Oxford and he'd pointed it out. "I can drop you at the house if you want, but I need to get to the convalescent home."

"No, it's okay, I'll come with you. I mean, I thought that was part of the point-that he wanted to meet me."

"It is," Giles agreed. "But it's been a terribly long trip. It can wait 'til you've rested."

"Except you don't know that. Maybe it can't."

He glanced at her, yet another look she couldn't figure out on his face. Then he looked away and nodded. "You're sure?"

"Yeah. What, now suddenly you don't want your father to meet your slayer?"

"No, it's not that. In fact, I'm sure he'll be happier to see the slayer than the watcher."

"Do I detect some unresolved issues here?" she asked.

He chuckled ruefully. "You could say that."

"So, what's the sitch? Come on, so I don't say something embarrassing."

"It's nothing," he dismissed. "Just your usual case of the son not measuring up to the father's expectations."

"You're a watcher. What other expectations could he have?"

"I think he feels I should be a better watcher. I should be more devoted to my calling."

"How much more devoted? You never take your nose out of a book as it is."

"But for many years I merely went through the motions; my heart wasn't in it. He never understood that. My fits of rebellion were seen as betrayal. Betrayal of all he taught me, all he stood for."

"But you went back. You became the watcher. You've got a slayer, Giles, that's more than he can say."

He glanced at her. "Don't say that to him."

"Duh!" she rolled her eyes. "I'll behave myself, don't worry."

"I'm not," he said, but didn't sound convinced. "I'm sure he'll be charmed by you." Then he sighed. "I'm afraid this will be rather awkward."

"Are you sorry I came?"

"No," he answered immediately. "No, I think I'll be very grateful for your company. But it will still be awkward. He's likely to give you the third-degree."

She shrugged. "I can handle it."

He smiled. "Yes, I believe you can. If anyone could handle my father, it would be you." He returned his attention to the road, pulling into a lane. Back some distance loomed a large manor house. Brick and stone, it sat forbiddingly at the end of a circular drive.

"That's it?" Buffy gawped.

"Yes."

"This is a nursing home? It looks like a great place to have a murder mystery. You know, 'Murder at Moldy Manor' or something."

He chuckled. "You have too vivid an imagination. But actually, it was a manor house, back when I was a lad. The family had to sell up and the county bought it. It was a school for a time, but it's been the home for, oh, ten years or so." He pulled alongside the gravel drive and stopped the car.

She shook her head. "You really did grow up here."

"Yes, I told you that. Until I was nineteen."

"Then what?" she asked as they climbed out of the car.

"Oxford."

"And then?"

He sighed. "London. Then I spent a few years in York, then back to London. Then I came to California. And you now know the world travels of Rupert Giles." He took her arm, escorting her up the front steps.

The entry hall was brightly lit; obviously the building, despite its being old, was well kept up. There was a reception desk to one side, which was empty, and an office behind it, with the shadow of someone inside. Giles let go of Buffy's arm and knocked on the door. A middle-aged woman was seated at a desk.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Yes, my name is Rupert Giles," he began. "My father is-"

"Richard Giles," the woman completed. "Yes, of course." She came around the desk and took his hand. "I'm so glad you could come. I'm Miss Wentworth, the administrator. I'm the one who wrote you." She glanced at Buffy. "And is this your daughter?"

"Um..." Giles began.

"Yeah, sort of," Buffy interrupted. "I'm Buffy."

Giles spared her a frowning glance and she smiled in return. It was too impossible to explain their actual relationship and she figured daughter would cause less reaction than "companion" or "friend". She'd already seen him go postal when anything improper between them had been suggested. It was easier-and safer-for people to assume a family tie. If anyone asked, she'd pretend she was his step-daughter or something.

Giles, meanwhile, had turned his attention back to Miss Wentworth. "How is he?"

She frowned. "Not good. It shouldn't be long now. I'm glad you came when you did."

"Can I see him?"

"Yes, of course. This way." She led them up the stairs and down a hallway. "He's in considerable pain, so he's rather heavily medicated. It makes him groggy, so he sleeps a lot, which is probably for the best. At this point all we're trying to do is keep him as comfortable as possible."

Giles nodded, his mouth set in a grim line. Buffy took his arm and squeezed it reassuringly, wanting to give him all the support she could. He looked down at her and managed a feeble smile.

They stopped in front of one room. "He's probably asleep," Miss Wentworth told them, speaking in hushed tones. "We're past visiting hours, but under the circumstances...."

Giles nodded. "We won't stay long. I just want him to know I'm here."

She smiled. "If you need anything, just ask." Then she left them. Giles took a deep breath and headed into the room.

Even though it was a nursing home, it felt too much like a hospital room for Buffy's comfort. She'd never liked hospitals before. After her recent adventures there, she liked them even less now. But she told herself she was just being stupid. She was here for Giles, that was what was important. Taking her own deep breath, she followed him.

The man in the bed was hooked to oxygen to helped him breathe, but the breaths still rattled in his chest. His eyes were closed, their sockets deep and sunken. His shock of silver hair was a little thin at the temples, but still waved on the top and sides. In spite of how thin and frail he looked, Buffy could still see the strong jaw, the angular features she recognized in Giles. But it was eerie, seeing Giles's father like this. It was kind of like seeing Giles, a long time in the future, only Giles as an old man who was dying. She shivered at the thought, blinking away the tears. She couldn't stand the thought of Giles dying. She wanted him to be with her for...for as long as she needed him. Forever sounded about right.

Beside her she heard Giles swallow audibly. She wondered what he saw. He moved away, stepping up to the bed, and gently took the thin hand. "Father," he called softly, and there was a tiny tremor in his voice.

The old man stirred and opened his eyes. They blinked several times before focusing on his son. But Buffy saw the confusion of sleep clear and become the surprise of recognition.

"You came," he said softly. His voice was reed-thin and tremulous.

"As soon as I could," Giles answered.

His father struggled to take a deep breath and coughed. "Good."

And then he stared at his son. Unlike Giles's eyes, which were a gentle green-pretty, if you wanted to think of them like that-Mr. Giles Senior's eyes were steel gray and sharp as glass. Buffy could see, even as sick as he was, how his stare must have intimidated Giles when he was younger. Like he always had to be proving himself. She looked back at Giles, who was glancing at his father, then flicking his gaze away nervously. Like he was still having to prove himself.

"F-father," Giles managed, "I've brought someone to meet you." He let go of his father's hand and gestured to Buffy, inviting her to approach the bed.

Buffy smiled and moved to him, touching his arm as she passed. Mr. Giles was staring at her. She had to admit, it was a very intimidating stare; she had to force herself not to squirm.

"This is Buffy Summers," Giles said and she was astonished to see the change in the old man's expression. From hard skepticism to open awe.

She approached the bed and took his hand. "I'm glad to meet you," she said.

"The honor is mine," he replied, his voice a little stronger. He stared again at his son, who was smiling. But his next words shocked her. "Why did you bring her here?"

Giles flinched as his smile disappeared. "I...I thought...I thought you would like to meet her," he stammered. "And she...."

"So you took her away from her duties? Who is protecting that devilish little town of yours while she's here?"

Giles rubbed at his neck nervously. "I...she...that is...."

"Use your head, Rupert," the old man scolded. "You can't go dragging the slayer off on a whim. She has responsibilities."

Giles ducked his head. "I know that, Father," he said, his tone soft. "But we won't be gone for long and I...I didn't want to leave her on her own, without a watcher." He looked at his father through upturned eyes, like a little boy who thought he was going to be punished even if he did something right. "And I need to be here."

"Then you should have contacted someone to take your place. You know the rules, Rupert. You know how it's supposed to be done, and yet you consistently fly in the face of-"

"There wasn't time," Giles insisted. "I'm sorry. But there wasn't time." His voice dropped to barely a whisper and he lowered his head, not looking at his father.

Buffy looked from one to the other. Even practically dead, Mr. Giles kept putting his son down, telling him he was a failure. Inadequate. Poor Giles, it was like no matter what he said, no matter what he did, his father wouldn't ever think it was good enough. But he didn't know his son, not like she did. He didn't know anything about him.

It was up to her to set him straight.

"Anyway, it wasn't Giles's idea to bring me," she interrupted. "It was mine."

The old man stared at her. "Why?" The steel-gray eyes were piercing.

She returned his stare with one of her own. "I wanted to meet you."

"You wanted to meet a dying old man? Whyever for?"

She frowned. Nothing would ever be easy with old man Giles. "I wanted to tell you...I want to tell you how glad I am that he's my watcher."

Giles looked at her sharply and his father gave out a wheezing chuckle. "So you think he's a good watcher, do you?"

"Yes. I do." Let's see what he made of that.

"And why is that?" It was obvious from his tone that he didn't agree with her.

"Because...."

He raised his hand to stop her. "Just a minute, young lady." He turned his attention to his son again. Giles looked a little embarrassed, but also pleased. At least he didn't look scared anymore. "Clear off, Rupert, I want to speak with your slayer alone."

Giles's mouth opened in surprise, but no sound came out. "Er, yes, all right," he finally said. "I'll...um...I'll be down the corridor." He reached over and gave Buffy's shoulder a reassuring pat, whether reassuring to her or to himself she wasn't sure, and left the room.

She returned her attention to the old man in the bed and for a long time they were silent, looking at each other. Assessing. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her. How many other slayers had he known? Even though he'd never had one of his own, he must have met some of them before. Was he comparing her to them? How did she measure up? She tried not to fidget. "So?" she finally said.

"Why do you think my son is a good watcher?"

Well, at least he got right to the point. Directness was something she could deal with. "Because he is," she answered simply. "Because we've been together for more than a year and I'm still alive. Because he knows things. He teaches me things. And because he's Giles."

She watched his face, looking for a reaction. If there was one, she missed it. All she got was that penetrating look, the one which made her feel like a bug under a microscope. "Merrick was your first watcher," he countered. "Surely he...."

"Merrick is dead," she said flatly. "Giles isn't." There wasn't any comparison between Merrick and Giles, not as far as she was concerned. "Giles understands me better than Merrick ever did. He never tried to understand what my life was like, how I felt. That never mattered to him. It does to Giles. To Merrick, I was just the slayer. To Giles, I'm Buffy."

The old man seemed to think about that for a moment. "And your training?" he asked, as if he didn't believe she could possibly be getting any training at all.

"It's going good. It must be, I mean, I defeated the Master." She smiled. That was something to be proud of, taking out two of the most powerful vampires in history, within a year of each other. It was the sort of thing she would have liked to brag about, if there'd been anyone she could have bragged to.

"And nearly died," he reminded her.

She scowled. Figures he'd want to tarnish her good deed. "Did die," she corrected. If he was gonna be fussy, she might as well make sure he was accurate. "But I wasn't done yet, so I came back," she grinned.

"That was very careless on your watcher's part."

"Are you kidding? He did everything he could to keep me safe. I'm the one who went in against his will."

"He should have stopped you."

"It's pretty hard to stop me when I've made up my mind about something," she told him. "Besides," she looked away guiltily, "I slugged him and knocked him out just so he wouldn't try and stop me." She peered back at him, waiting for his reaction.

There was a snort of laughter from the old man. That wasn't what she was expecting. "At least we don't have to worry about whether you have initiative. But your watcher should never have allowed matters to escalate to the point where it became necessary for you to-"

Buffy sighed, exasperated. "Look, he's made a few mistakes, is that what you want me to say? Well, I've made even more-big ones. Huge, even. And every time I screw up, he's there to bail me out. Without yelling, without scolding, without making me feel worse than I already do. He's there with strength, and support, and that way he has that makes you know it'll be all right. That no matter how stupid I am, no matter what terrible things happen, he'll still be there for me."

She remembered all the times she'd messed up, all the times things had gone wrong. All the times he'd had to smooth things over, make it better. He hadn't always said the right thing, but the intent was never less than genuine, and she always knew what he meant, even if he managed to get the words muddled.

"He's the one I turn to for all the answers," she went on, "not just slayer stuff, but life stuff as well. You think he should be perfect? Well, I don't. Perfect I don't think I could stand him, he'd be too...well, perfect. I like my Giles just the way he is. And since I'm the slayer, I think my opinion here should count for something. I don't want another watcher. I want Giles. And if I don't have Giles, I wouldn't give a rat's..." She caught herself and tried to backpedal. "...um...a...well, a something worthless for my chances out there. He saves my life, and he saves my sanity. And that's good enough for me."

The old man gazed at her for a moment. She gazed right back. He wasn't going to scare her any more.

"I didn't expect such a fervent testimonial," he said.

She shrugged. "You asked."

"Yes, I did," he chuckled. "And you answered me admirably. How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

He shook his head. "Dear God, they get younger all the time. And you've already been the slayer for two years."

"Lucky me," she grimaced. Sometimes it seemed like just yesterday she was happy and carefree, gossiping with her friends after school and trying to make every boy on the basketball team ask her out-mostly so she could tell them no. But then other times, most of the time, actually, it seemed like there wasn't ever a time in her life when she wasn't doing this. When she wasn't creeping out after dark and risking her neck night after night, facing creatures she would never have believed could have existed-if she hadn't seen them herself.

"You don't like it?" he asked.

She frowned. Was he serious? "You're kidding, right?"

"Not at all." His expression was one she didn't understand. Was he testing her?

"No, I don't like it. I don't like knowing I'll probably be dead before I'm old enough to drink. I don't like having no life. I don't like putting my friends in danger. I don't like constantly lying to my mom. I don't like so many things. But ask me if I'll stop and the answer is no."

"Why not?"

Her frown deepened. What did she want from him?

"Because I can't," she said, and realized it didn't matter what he wanted. She'd answer him the best way she knew how. "Because this is who I am. Because somebody I can't even imagine decided that one girl had to be the slayer and I got the short straw. So I'm sorry to disappoint you, but if you don't think Giles is a perfect watcher then you should know I'm not a perfect slayer, either. I don't have that burning dedication that slayers are supposed to have. I'd rather be going to the mall or watching videos or, or painting my toenails. And if the Hellmouth were to swallow every vampire in Sunnydale tomorrow and then seal itself up, nobody would be happier than me. I'm a slayer because I have to, not because I want to. And God, I'm doing it again!" What was it with this guy that she kept baring her soul like that? Was it because he was Giles's father? Or was it because she had a captive audience. Finally, someone, someone who wasn't her watcher or her friends, who she could tell this to.

The old man laughed, but the chuckle turned into a cough and she reached for the glass on the bedside table, holding it for him while he sipped. He settled down again and she put the glass back.

"I'm glad to see your passion," he finally said hoarsely. "But don't sell yourself short."

Okay, so she'd passed his test, whatever it was. But that was only part of it, and not really the part that mattered. "Make a deal with you," she said. "I'll try not to sell myself short if you try to do the same with my watcher."

Mr. Giles's expression changed to weary sadness. "Old habits are hard to break," he said softly. Almost as if he wanted to accept his son, but somehow felt like he couldn't.

"Well, maybe you should take a look at him and realize that he's a grown-up now. Before it's too late."

He stared at her, but the flint in his eyes softened.

"Be honest with an old man, Buffy," he said, his voice still sad. "Do you really feel that you're being guided appropriately? That your watcher is providing you with all of the assistance you need in order to carry out your responsibilities successfully?"

He'd gone from being an angry, bitter old man to being a sad, dying one in the blink of an eye. He was her watcher's father; he deserved the truth. She took a deep breath. "Honestly, I don't think there's anyone on the planet who can give the slayer all of the assistance she needs. I mean, when it comes right down to it, I'm the one who has to go out and do the dirty work. Not the watcher. Me. But Giles gives me all the backup that's humanly possible, sometimes more. He's there for me. And he understands. I know I'm alive today because of him. That's got to count for something, doesn't it?"

"Yes, I suppose it does," he murmured, still sounding sad. He reached for her hand and she took it, holding it gently. "Why don't you go find him, tell him I want to speak with him." The last words came out in a wheeze. The old man seemed to have very little strength left.

"You should rest," she coaxed.

"You said...before it's too late."

Buffy shivered, realizing what he meant. Old Man Giles wasn't sure he'd still be around tomorrow. She blinked rapidly. He was a tough, crotchety old bastard, even sick as he was, but she kind of liked him. Even if he did come down pretty hard on his son.

"I will," she said and set his hand down.

"Thank you for coming to see me, Buffy."

"You're welcome." She realized as she said it that she meant it. She was glad to have met him. She didn't totally understand him or how he could be so hard on Giles, but she was still glad to have had this chance. Maybe it would help her understand Giles better, seeing where he came from, who he came from.

"Tell Rupert to give you the diaries. You should see them."

"Diaries?" she frowned.

"He'll know what I mean."

"Okay, whatever," she nodded. "Good night."

"Goodbye."

She found Giles right outside the door, leaning against the wall, hands shoved deep in his pockets, staring at the floor. He looked up at her approach and she could see the glitter of moisture in his eyes, even behind the glasses. Poor guy, he looked so miserable. And standing here, he had to have heard the whole thing.

"Have a good eavesdrop?" she asked, gently teasing.

"I-uh, that is...." he stammered.

"That's okay. Nothing I wouldn't have said to your face if I could figure out how not to die of embarrassment in the process."

He stopped, momentarily speechless, then put an arm around her, pulling her close. She hugged him tightly. Sometimes they didn't need to say anything because there really was nothing to say.

"He wants to see you."

He let her go, nodding. "I should only be a few minutes."

"Okay. I'll just see if I can find a pop machine or something. Then when we're done here let's find food; I'm starving."

He smiled and turned toward his father's room. He took a deep breath, seemed to steel himself, then stepped inside.

His father was watching him.

"I'll only stay a few minutes," Giles said. "I don't want to tire you."

"What am I saving my strength for?" But before his son could answer, he went on. "So, that's your slayer."

"Uh...yes."

"You've got your hands full."

Giles smiled. "Yes. But for each difficulty, she makes up for it at least twice over. She's extraordinarily gifted. Skilled, clever, resourceful."

"Stubborn," his father suggested.

"Oh, yes," he agreed. "But she's learned she only gets to win the little battles. The big ones are still-"

"A draw?"

Giles hesitated. How to explain the unique relationship he and Buffy had. "She's never refused to do something required. If her methods are unorthodox, it simply means she's found the way which works best for her."

"She seems like quite the girl. What does she need you for?"

Giles felt himself flush. How could a man on his death-bed still manage to intimidate him quite so thoroughly? "Why don't you ask her that?" he finally managed.

"I did. She seems quite enamoured of you."

"Well, then...."

"I'm asking you."

He wouldn't give up. And suddenly, Giles felt less intimidated than exasperated.

"I'm with her because it's where they told me I had to be. I won't start lying to you now and tell you how much I love my calling and how there's no place on earth I'd rather be. But I do take it very seriously. Since it's mine, I do it to the best of my abilities. Since Buffy is my responsibility, I'll do everything in my power to help her, keep her safe. Including dying for her.

"I may not be what you expect me to be, Father. But Buffy is not your typical slayer, either. And if what we have works, if she's still alive and her skills are increasing, I don't see any cause for criticism."

The old man stared at him for a moment, then chuckled, the sound rasping into a cough. "It's about time," he wheezed.

"What is?"

"You've finally developed a spine. Your little slayer must be good for you."

Giles was speechless again, caught between pleasure, embarrassment and anger. "I like to think I'm good for her, too."

His father smiled. "Perhaps you are. She certainly thinks so." Then the smile faded and he sighed. "It's such an important responsibility, Rupert. And I know there's no love lost between you and the watchers. I wanted to be sure you took it seriously."

"Very seriously," he affirmed.

"Especially this time, with this slayer. The circumstances are so exceptional...."

"I know. That's why the way we work is so exceptional. Buffy could never be a traditional slayer, she's had no chance. You can't expect her to be like her predecessors, and you can't expect me to treat her like one. I'm having to make this up as we go along. There is no precedent for an untrained slayer, especially not one who has subsequently survived for almost two years. We forced this on her, with absolutely no preparation. We must allow her to be her own slayer, to do things her way. She's not had the advantages other slayers had. She has to be allowed her shortcuts."

"Even if they mean her death?"

Giles felt his mouth dry. "Her death will come no matter what we do, Father," he said softly. "I'm just trying to prevent that as long as possible."

That's what it always came down to. The slayer's death. The watchers' creed spoke of training and guiding the slayer, to assist her in her calling. But in reality what they mostly did was train the future slayers to take the place of the one who would inevitably die. They couldn't keep her alive, no matter how they tried.

The old man coughed again. "I have the diaries. In my study."

"You do?" Giles was surprised. He didn't need to be told which diaries these were. He had all of the extant Watcher diaries in his possession. But these were something different.

"I was working with them, before I got sick. Show them to her; she deserves to see them."

"That's a bit unorthodox, don't you think?"

"You said yourself she's not a typical slayer. But it might do her good to know she's not all that different, either. That others had doubts and they all had fears."

Giles took a deep breath. How would Buffy react to learning about her predecessors? Thus far she'd barely even asked about them. As for himself, he'd only read a smattering of those journals his father spoke of. Some of them were simply too painful to read. "I'll tell her about them, but it will be up to her if she wants to see them." He paused a moment. "Burkridge doesn't want them back?"

"Just tell him you have them. You know whatever the watcher thinks is best for his slayer is considered acceptable, even if a bit unorthodox."

Giles frowned. Wasn't that what he'd just been saying?

His father continued. "You'll see Burkridge and the others at the funeral, so..."

"Father," Giles started to protest.

"No point denying it, Rupert," the old man interrupted. "It's why you're here, after all."

Giles just stared at him, shivering as the realization hit him again that his father was dying. Would be dead very soon. They hadn't been close, but he'd been there. Giles had known that if things got really rough, his father would always be there for him. Now that was being taken away from him.

"My God," he murmured. "I always figured you'd live forever."

Richard Giles quirked an eyebrow. "Too much a bastard to die?"

"Something like that," Giles smiled, feeling more affection toward this man than he'd felt in the past twenty-five years.

"It's my time," his father said wearily. "I've had enough, Rupert. It's time for me to rest." He sighed heavily. "I only wish I believed in heaven. I'd love to believe that your mother was waiting for me on the other side. I still miss her."

"I know." Giles took his father's hand. "Perhaps she is."

"Don't tell me you've got religion, suddenly."

"No. But there's a lot we don't know. I'm not prepared to discount any possibility."

His father smiled. "When I go and find out, I'll come back and haunt you, tell you all about it."

Giles smiled, too, affectionately, imagining his father doing just that. He jokingly thought that he'd need to pay special attention to the paranormal phenomena during the next few months. Just in case. "I'd like that."

"No you wouldn't, it would scare the pants off you."

"I live on the Hellmouth, Father. It's a lot harder to scare me these days."

The old man chuckled, which turned into a cough again. Giles held his hand, comforted him until the fit passed.

The conversation seemed to have run its course. His father lay still, holding his son's hand in a loose clasp. The fight, the anger and the arrogance seemed to have been drained out of him.

"Um, I'd better go," Giles said, "let you rest. And we've been traveling since..." he glanced at his watch, "sometime yesterday. Buffy is exhausted and hungry, and I'm not much better."

His father opened his eyes again. "Have you been to the house yet?"

"No, not yet."

"It's probably a mess. I wasn't in much shape for housekeeping and Mrs. Peavey's supposed to be looking after it, but...."

"Don't worry, I'll take care of it."

His father squeezed his hand, a weak, feeble gesture. "I'm glad you're here."

"So am I," he answered and realized it was true.

The old man coughed, then sighed, closing his eyes. Giles thought he looked almost contented.

He started for the door when his father's voice called him back.

"Rupert." His father was staring at him, the usual flint gaze boring into him. "The top drawer of my desk has everything you need."

Giles shivered again, realizing what he meant. "I'll take care of everything."

"I know you will, son."

Giles's breath caught in his throat. He couldn't even remember the last time his father had called him "son". "Good night, Father," he said gently. "I'll see you tomorrow."

But the old man's eyes had already closed, sleep claiming him. Giles watched him for a moment, fighting the tearing in his eyes, then turned and left the room.

He found Buffy down the corridor in the lounge. An ancient telly was on, its picture flickering wildly. Buffy stared at the set as if mesmerized, her head resting on her hand. She looked absolutely exhausted and he smiled fondly. He was grateful to have her here. Someone to share the difficulties with. They'd already shared so much in their short acquaintance, it somehow felt right that they should share this as well. And if it meant that she learned more about him, including things he wouldn't have ordinarily shared, well then, so be it. He'd learned better than to try and keep things from her.

"You ready to go?" he asked softly, not wanting to startle her.

She blinked and looked up at him. "Is he...?"

"Sleeping," he answered. "I told him I'd be back in the morning." He extended a hand to her.

She levered herself up off the lumpy sofa, still with one eye on the telly. "Giles, what am I watching?"

He stared at it for a moment. There appeared to be animated figures doing some sort of dance. "I haven't a clue."

"Oh, good. I thought I was hallucinating."

He smiled and took her arm, escorting her down the hall.

Back in the car, he set them again toward town. "No one's been at the house in over a month, so there won't be anything edible there," he explained. "I'm not sure where else to go, but we'll see what we can find."

"I don't suppose there's anything like Denny's here."

He chuckled. "No, not hardly."

"Where did you go as a kid? To hang out? I mean, this place doesn't look like it has a Bronze."

"Well, there weren't that many children my age here in town when I was growing up. But we didn't do a lot of 'hanging' the way you kids do. There was the cinema, and once you were older there was the pub. Beyond that, if you were home, you were doing things with your family-chores or...or other things." Things like studying to be a watcher.

"Yawn," Buffy said.

"It was a different life then. I don't know what the young people today do."

"And I thought Sunnydale was boring."

He chuckled. "Well, you'll notice I left home when I was nineteen and never returned."

She glanced at him. "Not ever?"

"For visits. I didn't really live here again once I started at Oxford. By that time my mother was gone and my father and I fought. We were both happier away from each other. I spent about two months back here, after the troubles. But then I went straight back to school."

He pulled up in front of a stone building on the main street with a hanging sign which proclaimed "The Maiden".

"The kitchen's probably closed, this late, but I'm hoping we can cadge something from them. Especially if I explain the situation. My father's quite well known in this town, hopefully, we can use that to our advantage."

"Do you think they'll remember you?" she asked as they got out of the car and he took her arm again, escorting her into the dim interior of the pub.

"I doubt it. I was never a regular here." He showed her to a table in the corner and went to the bar. The familiarity of the place, the comfort of a small "local" washed over him. So much like so many other small pubs in so many towns throughout England. There wasn't anything comparable in the States. Even the small bars there had a totally different ambience. No, this was the sort of establishment which was thoroughly English, and it, almost more than anything else, reminded him that he was home.

"Evening, sir. What can I get you?" the bartender asked.

"Good evening," he smiled. "I don't suppose the kitchen is still open."

"Sorry. Closes at six."

"Ah. I was afraid of that. Do you know anywhere else we can get a meal? We've just come over from America to visit my sick father and we haven't eaten since early this morning."

The bartender grinned. "You don't sound like an American."

Giles smiled. "I grew up here."

"Oh, well, let me see what we can do for a local boy. It'll probably be something cold."

"Anything at all would be appreciated," Giles affirmed. "It's been a terribly long day."

"I'm sure. Hang on, let me check." He disappeared into the back, reappearing a minute later with an older woman, who looked Giles over critically.

"You must be Richard Giles's son," she said.

Giles flushed a little. "Yes, I am." By now he ought to be used to this reaction; he'd certainly gotten it enough in his youth. Anyone who saw the two of them would never doubt they were related.

"I'm sorry to hear about your Da," the woman went on. "He's a good man."

"Thank you," he nodded, accepting the condolence. He imagined he'd hear a lot more of that in the coming days, too.

"I can make you a sandwich and some salad, if that'll do you," she said.

"That will suit us just fine, thank you."

"Us?"

Giles indicated Buffy, who was sitting at the table, her head once again resting in her hand as she struggled valiantly to stay awake.

"Your daughter?" the woman asked.

"Um-yes, that's right," he said, suddenly understanding why Buffy had said the same thing earlier. It was easier to say that than to try and explain things. While the watchers and slayers weren't unknown here in Chalworth, as the years went on, there were fewer and fewer of them, so not everyone knew or understood about the clandestine organization. And most would certainly not understand why a forty-three year old man was traveling with a seventeen year old girl who was not a relative.

"All right, then, two sandwiches coming up," she said, and headed back to the kitchen.

"What can I get you to drink?" the bartender asked.

"I'll take a pint of bitter, and she'll have, um, a Coke?"

"Right," he nodded and poured the two drinks. "Can you get bitter in America?"

"You can barely get drinkable beer in America," Giles commented. "Most of it's that insipid light stuff."

"Gad, I've tried that-you might as well be drinkin' piss!" the bartender exclaimed and Giles laughed. He paid for the drinks and the sandwiches and took the two glasses over to the table.

Buffy jerked awake when he set her glass in front of her. "What...? Oh, sorry."

"That's all right, you've every reason to be tired. The kitchen's closed but they're making us sandwiches. It seems being a native son has won me points."

Buffy smiled. "Yay us." She sipped at her Coke. "Eww, it's not diet! And it's warm."

"That's the way soft drinks are served here," he explained. "And I didn't ask for diet, I'm sorry."

"What are you drinking?"

"Beer."

"What kind?"

"It's their house draught, called bitter."

She raised her eyes at him imploringly and he sighed, sliding the glass over to her. "Just a sip."

She took the sip and immediately made a face. "Yuck!"

"That's what you get," he chuckled.

"Suddenly warm regular Coke tastes a lot better than it did before."

Just then the woman came out with their food. "Here you go, dears, get yourself around that. I just wish we could give you more."

"This will be fine," Giles said. "We're grateful."

"Yeah, thanks a lot," Buffy said.

"Oh, your daughter's American!" the woman commented.

"Um, yes, she's-" Giles began.

"I'm his step-daughter, actually," Buffy interrupted. "My mom's American."

"Oh, and where's she?"

"She had to work," Buffy said sadly. "But I had the week off from school anyway, so...." She reached over and put her hand over Giles's. "I wanted to come with him. He should have a member of the family here." She smiled sweetly at him and he was impressed again at how shamelessly she could lie.

"That's very sweet, dear. I'm sure he's grateful that you're here," the woman said kindly.

"Um, oh, yes, I am. Very grateful," he answered, unable to look Buffy in the face for fear he'd start laughing at this little game they were suddenly playing.

"Well, you eat up now, and if there's anything we can do for you, you let us know."

"Thank you," Giles said, and the woman went back to the bar.

Giles gazed at her, and she smiled. "How'd I do, Dad?"

"Next time you pull something like that, do you mind telling me beforehand?"

"I thought I did, at the nursing home."

"Yes, and you caught me off guard there, too."

"You wanna explain this?"

"No. You did well." He squeezed her hand. "And I am very grateful you're here." He let her go. "Now eat up."

The sandwiches were ham, on homemade bread, with mustard, tomatoes and lettuce, and homemade pickles on the side. They were wonderful, and quite hit the spot. Their conversation was kept to a minimum; food was more important.

Eventually, they'd eaten their fill and their glasses were empty.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

She nodded and he stood, extending his hand to her. They said their goodbyes to the bartender and his wife, and left the pub, climbing back into the car.

"How much farther 'til we get to your house?" Buffy asked.

"Not far. Nothing here is too far from anything else. The house and the nursing home are probably less than three K apart, and they're on opposite sides of town."

"Do you live here in town?"

"It's within the city limits, but it's more out in the country."

"Like that manor house?"

He smiled. "You'll see."

He turned down the lane that led toward home. Then he turned again, stopping and opening the gate at the bottom of the hedge. He drove through, stopped and re-latched the gate.

Buffy, meanwhile, was staring at the house in awe.

"Giles! It's a cottage!"

"That's right," he said, smiling. The house hadn't changed much since his last visit here, almost two years ago. At least, he couldn't see if much had changed in the dark. It looked a little more run-down, a little neglected. But it still stood, whitewashed walls, thatch roof, trellises around the door, shutters on the windows.

He parked on the gravel area to the side of the garden and they climbed out. Buffy started heading straight for the house but he called her back for her suitcase. He was too tired to be playing beast of burden tonight.

They walked up the flagstone path to the front door and he dug out the key. "It's bound to be a mess," he warned. "He was living here by himself and he wasn't in good health. And the neighbor who's been looking after the place isn't any younger than he is."

He opened the door and fumbled for the light switch. I hope the electricity is still on, he suddenly thought. But his fingers finally found the button and he pushed. The overhead light in the foyer went on and he breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever else, they had power.

He ushered her inside, closing the door behind her, then moved past her into the parlour, finding a table lamp and turning it on, bathing the room in a warm glow.

Buffy, meanwhile, was gazing around the room in awe.

"This is so cool!" she gushed. "You never said you lived in a cottage!"

"You never asked," he answered, smiling. It was interesting, seeing the house through her eyes. He'd grown up here; he'd stopped appreciating its uniqueness and its charm. It had been home for many years, and then it had been a place of sadness. Seeing it again, he felt nostalgic, but a bit sad, too, knowing that their task this week was to close up the place and dispose of its goods.

He gave the parlour a critical eye. It was mostly in order, except for the ubiquitous stacks of books and papers which were his father's love and life. But there was a thin coating of dust over every surface. It looked...neglected.

It was also cold, having been closed and empty for a month. "I hope there's coal," he muttered, heading toward the big stove in the kitchen with its coal burner. The behemoth stove served as food cooker, water heater and furnace for the old cottage, and it was fueled by shovelsful of coal, kept in the scuttle to the side and stored in the shed out back. The scuttle, alas, was practically empty.

"Damn." He sighed and opened the side door on the stove, dumping in what coal remained. Buffy had followed him into the kitchen, still looking around curiously. "If there's no coal, this could be a chilly evening," he told her. "Go ahead, look around, get comfortable. I'll be back."

He headed out the back door with the scuttle, walking down the path to the coalshed. It was practically empty, though he did manage to scrape together most of a bucket's worth, enough to last through the night and into the morning, if they weren't too over-enthusiastic about their hot water. But he'd need to arrange for a small amount of coal to be delivered tomorrow.

Back inside, he filled the hopper and lit the fire, the great stove roaring to life.

He went in search of Buffy, finding her again in the parlour, looking at the photos on the mantelpiece.

"Oh, my God, Giles, that's you!" she exclaimed.

He squinted, examining the photo she pointed to. Sure enough, it was a photo of himself and some of his classmates in their Oxford robes, sitting in one of the quads, smiling. God, had he really ever been that young?

"If I remember, that was taken my final year at Oxford. Which would have made me, um, twenty-three, I think."

"Wow," she gushed.

He smiled, pleased, for some silly reason, with her delight. "We should have heat soon, but it won't last long. We'll have to lay in some more fuel tomorrow."

She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. "Good. I haven't been warm since we left home."

"I did warn you," he said with a teasing scold. Her thin California blood was no match for the chill of England in March.

"How did you stand it?" she asked.

"Stand what?"

"The cold."

"You get used to it. It's actually what I'm more comfortable with. And the reason I cannot abide the heat in California." But because he was a gentleman, he removed his jacket, placing it over her shoulders again. "Did you pack warmer clothes like I told you?"

"I didn't pack my winter woolies. You should have told me I'd need them."

"I told you it gets chilly here."

"Yeah, but you didn't tell me it would be winter."

He sighed. She really had no idea what a true winter was like. "Buffy, have you ever even seen snow?"

"Of course. I went skiing a couple of years ago."

Of course. Skiing. He should have figured. "Never mind. It will warm up soon."

"Good," she stifled a yawn behind her hand. "I'm wiped."

"Yes, I'm tired, too," he agreed. "Here, let me show you where you'll be sleeping." He led her out of the parlour and down the hall. "You've seen the kitchen," he pointed behind her, "and that's the bathroom. And here's where you'll stay." He flipped on the light.

The room was at least as dusty as the parlour, if not more so. The heavy wooden furniture he remembered from his childhood was elegant, despite the neglect. His mother's dresser was still arranged neatly. He didn't think his father ever touched it, except perhaps to occasionally dust it. It remained a shrine to a long-dead wife. His father's own chest was piled with an assortment of things-cufflinks, a broken watch, a nail clipper, and even more papers. He smiled, thinking how much like each of them their dressers were, his mother's neat and tidy, his father's in chaos. The wooden bedstead had a thick duvet pulled up over the bare mattress. He hoped he would be able to find the sheets.

Buffy was looking around the room curiously. "This is your parents' room?"

"That's right."

"Is that your mother?" she asked, looking at a photo on the wall.

Breath caught in his throat; he'd forgotten that picture, taken when his mother was barely twenty, when she was being courted by his father. A pretty woman with bobbed hair and a bright smile, she looked down on the room like a blessed angel, keeping watch over the men in her life. "Yes," he finally whispered.

"She's beautiful," Buffy said softly.

"Yes, yes she was," he agreed. It always surprised him how much he could still miss her, even after more than twenty-five years.

Buffy turned and looked at him, her expression one of gentle sympathy. "When did she die?"

"A long time ago. When I was about your age."

"Oh," she commented, surprised. "She wasn't very old, then."

"No, she wasn't. Not even forty."

"How did she die?" she asked, her voice soft, tentative, as if afraid to ask the question.

"Cancer. Ovarian cancer. It was less than three months from the diagnosis."

She frowned. "That doesn't sound very good for you, both parents getting cancer."

"I live on the Hellmouth," he said gently. "Cancer is the least of my worries."

"I just don't want anything to happen to you," she said, a note of real fear in her voice.

Her concern for him touched him like nothing else possibly could. "Don't worry, I'll be around. For a long time."

He reached a hand to her and she moved into his arms, hugging him tightly. He held her close, a hand stroking her hair soothingly. A month ago, he would never have dared to hold her like this. But a lot had changed in a month. They had both changed.

She sniffed and he eased the hug, looking down at her, surprised by the tears in her eyes. "Hey," he soothed, "what's brought this on, then?" She just shook her head helplessly, resting against his chest and sighing shakily. "I think you're over-tired. Let's get the bed made up, and then you can get some sleep."

She nodded and moved out of his arms, sniffing away the emotion. "Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for. This week is going to be full of memories and strong emotions. We'd better get used to it."

She looked at him and he smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way. It must have been good enough, because she answered with a smile of her own.

"Where are you sleeping?"

"Oh, my old room. It's upstairs."

"Upstairs?" she frowned. "What upstairs?"

"There's a...well, it's an attic room, upstairs. I'll show you." He led her back into the hall and to the doorway which led up the steep narrow steps to his old bedroom. He flipped on the light but nothing happened. "Damn. Bulb's probably out. He never came up here; it's probably been burned out for years and he's never noticed. Mind the stairs, they're fairly steep," he cautioned and led the way up, feeling his way in the dark over familiar territory.

At the top, he opened the low door and ducked into the room, crossing to the dresser and turning on the lamp. Good to know some things hadn't changed. Buffy stepped into the room, barely having to duck at all, and stood in the middle of the floor, looking around her.

It was even dustier up here; Giles knew that his sinuses would be giving him fits after a night in here, but there wasn't anything to be done about it. He could hardly let Buffy stay up here. Besides, he didn't think he could sleep in that other room. Not in their room, with its memories and sorrows.

"This is so cool!" she exclaimed. "You grew up here?"

"Um-hmm," he nodded.

"And you even fit in that bed?" She looked at the narrow bed along one wall.

"More or less," he conceded. In truth, his feet hung over the end; he got used to sleeping curled up. Since the heat rarely made it this far, curled up was the best way to sleep anyway.

She laughed. "Why don't I sleep up here? At least I'll fit in the bed."

He shook his head. "There's no heat in this room. You'd never survive."

"How will you?"

"I'm used to it."

"Not anymore you're not."

"You'd be surprised how quickly one can adapt," he dismissed. "Come on, let's get your bed made up."

He escorted her back down the stairs, guiding her through the dark, and put lightbulbs as yet another item on his mental checklist.

The sheets were stacked neatly in a chair in the bedroom. Mrs. Peavey must have done them after he'd gone in, and not knowing what else to do with them, she'd set them where they'd be found.

Together, they made up the bed. The linens were worn but clean, and by the time they'd finished, the bed looked warm and cozy.

With a smile, Buffy grabbed her suitcase and went to get ready for bed while Giles headed for the kitchen in search of a cup of tea. Thankfully, there were still teabags, but that was about all that was left in the pantry. Any food which had been there had probably gone off, or Mrs. Peavey had taken it. The refrigerator contained an open bottle of flat beer and a moldy hunk of cheese. The mental list now included groceries.

"Giles?" Buffy called from the hallway.

"Yes?"

"No shower?"

He shook his head, then realized she couldn't see him. "No, there's a tub."

"How do I wash my hair?"

"You'll manage. There used to be a little spray thing that attached to the tap. Is that still there?"

There was a pause as she went to look for it. "I think this is it. How does it work?"

He sighed and headed down the hall. "Are you decent?"

"Sort of."

"What do you mean sort of?"

She peeked out of the bathroom, clad in a towel. "It's more than at the beach," she shrugged.

He shook his head, exasperated. Sometimes he was certain he would never understand her. He stepped into the bathroom found the spray hose, and showed her how to hook it up to the tap. "We don't have a lot of hot water, so use it sparingly," he cautioned. "And don't discount the pleasure of a deep, old tub like this." He tapped the side of the big footed tub.

She grinned coyly at him. "Why, Giles, you hedonist, you," she teased and he laughed. He was extremely fond of taking long soaks, but the tiny bathroom in his apartment came equipped only with a shower. He hoped he'd have the chance to take advantage of the tub while he was here.

"Are there any bubbles?" Buffy asked, bringing him back to the present.

"I have no idea," he replied. "You're free to use anything you find." With that he left her to her bath and returned to his cup of tea.

Cup in hand, he wandered into the parlour once more, gazing around the room, feeling his throat constrict with the realization once again that he was going to have to go through all of this and deal with it. Most of it was old furniture and household items he had no use for, or else had no sentimental attachment to, certainly not enough to warrant shipping them to the States. But the books and papers would have to be gone through. He knew somewhere were albums of family photographs. And personal property: his father's clothes and, for all he knew, some of his mother's things as well.

To the one side of the room was the archway into the dining area. He didn't bother to turn the light on in there, figuring he'd deal with that room later. To the other side, tucked in a corner, was a tiny room which served as his father's study. It was here he went next, finding the desklamp and turning it on. The glass-fronted bookshelves went from floor to ceiling and covered one wall. The large desk was buried in books and papers. He unearthed the telephone and picked up the receiver, not too surprised to hear dead air on the other end. No doubt his father had the phone service cut off when he realized he wouldn't be coming home again.

Not coming home again. He shivered. It was beginning to be real. Seeing his father tonight, how frail he'd become, how... diminished...made it real. His father was dying.

He sniffed, blinking away the emotions. There would be time for those later.

On one side of the desk he saw the diaries his father had mentioned. He ran his hand over the stack. There were only nine of them, some with nice leather bindings, others in cheap cloth or cardboard. All written in a girlish hand.

All stopping abruptly.

He sighed. His father told him to give them to Buffy. But would Buffy want to see these very painful records of the girls that had gone before? Would she want to see exactly what her destiny was?

He shivered, and not just from the chill in the old house. Whenever he thought about what would happen to her-what would happen, not what might happen-Giles felt vaguely ill. He knew, knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she would die. Violently, most likely painfully. Certainly messily. She would die doing the job that only she could do. Eventually, she'd meet an opponent who was stronger, faster, more clever. Or perhaps they'd just catch her when her guard was down, or when she was in a weak moment.

And she would be dead. All his training and all his planning and all his watching wouldn't make a damned bit of difference. She would still die.

And a part of him would die as well.

This was why he'd been so opposed to this calling of his. Not because he hadn't wanted to sacrifice his life to it. But because he hadn't wanted to sacrifice hers, whoever she might be. It was cruel to ask it of anyone. Crueler still to ask it of a young girl with the blush of womanhood just upon her, who ought to have her entire life ahead of her. Cruelest to insist that he watch it, knowing that ultimately, he was powerless to stop it.

"I'm sorry, Father," he whispered. "I'll never be the watcher you want me to be. But if I can keep her alive, any way I can, I will. Because that's the watcher I want to be."

He looked at the pile of books again. That beautiful, delightful woman/child who was in the bathroom right now, in search of shampoo and bubble bath, was really no different from the young women in these volumes. He knew she kept a diary as well. He bit his lip in impotent fury, vowing that he would never let her become some nameless, anonymous statistic to future watchers, her journal a curious artifact to be examined and analyzed. She deserved more dignity than that.

He would make sure that she got it.

With a sigh, he turned away from the books, opening the top drawer of the desk. In a file folder lay a sheaf of papers: a copy of the will, bank accounts and insurance policies, the solicitor's business card, phone numbers of everyone who would need to be contacted, as well as a hand-written note containing personal, specific instructions spelling out not only his father's preferences regarding interment, but also regarding the disposition of his material goods.

Giles closed his eyes in relief. As dread-making as this task ahead of him would be, his father's meticulous planning would make the entire process easier. He tucked the folder back into the drawer, not yet ready to face those details. Not while his father was still alive, anyway.

Back in the parlour, a book was lying face down and open on the arm of the couch. Giles inspected the spine, smiling to see a copy of Dumas' The Man in the Iron Mask. He remembered being a young boy and having his father read to him from this book, every night for weeks. First, The Three Musketeers, then this one, and finally The Count of Monte Cristo. Filling his head with deeds of daring do. Filling his heart with a love of words. He picked the book up, skimming the page to see where his father had left off. Before he knew it, he was once again absorbed in the story of the king of France and his brother.

"Giles?" Buffy called.

He looked up, suddenly realizing that she'd called his name several times. "What? Sorry." She was standing in front of him, her wet hair brushed away from her forehead, arms wrapped around her torso, her t-shirt and sweatpants no match for the cool air. She looked very tiny, very vulnerable-a word he seldom thought of in reference to Buffy. "Didn't you bring anything warmer than that?"

"Not to sleep in," she moaned.

He sighed. Warm clothes for Buffy got added to his mental list. "Go crawl into bed, you'll warm up soon enough."

She nodded, but just stood in front of him, frowning, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

"Is there something you need?" he asked, concerned at her reticence.

"Your father said something about some diaries?"

He felt a shiver go down his spine. He hadn't realized he'd mentioned them to her. "Um, yes. Let's talk about those tomorrow, all right? Right now, you need your sleep."

"What are they?"

"Tomorrow, Buffy, there's a good girl."

"Giles," she protested. "Come on, don't get all over-protective on me."

"I'm not. It's just...well, they're going to require some thought, and I don't want you to have to think about them tonight. For tonight, just rest, close your eyes, clear your mind and get some sleep. There's plenty of time to talk about them tomorrow." He escorted her, gently but firmly, back to the bedroom. "We can sleep in if we want, though I do have to go back to the convalescent home. And we need to get some supplies in. But part of the reason I brought you here was so that you could relax-away from the Hellmouth, away from... er, other influences." He cringed. He hadn't wanted to bring that up, especially hadn't wanted to bring him up. But Buffy knew, without his name ever being said.

She swallowed and looked a little paler. "I know. I guess I'm just so tired I'm edgy, you know?"

"Mmm," he nodded, understanding. He was almost at that point himself. "But try and

get some sleep, you'll feel better in the morning." She crawled into the big bed and lay down, pulling the thick duvet up. He tucked it around her, brushing her long bangs away from her face with a gentle touch. "Sleep well," he said softly. Then he left her side, turning off the light and closing the door behind him.

He sighed wearily, the exhaustion of the past day-or was it two-finally catching up with him. Suddenly, the idea of reading, even Dumas, was too fatiguing. He moved through the house, turning off lights and locking the doors. It wasn't necessary to lock the doors here in Chalworth, but city habits were hard to break. He simply felt more comfortable knowing he was behind locked doors. He re-stoked the stove, then dragged his suitcase up the narrow stairs to get ready for bed.

The bed was smaller and lumpier than he'd remembered. It would make for interesting nights. He could only hope that he was tired enough to sleep anywhere. And hope that his year in California hadn't thinned his blood too much, because it was much colder in the room than he was used to.

Not that he'd ever admit that to Buffy.

With a sigh, he turned over, tucking the thick duvet up to his chin, feeling his muscles relax one by one. There was so much to be done. But it could wait.
***

IV

The band at the Bronze was terrible; they had this awful, pounding rhythm. A moment ago, they'd been pretty good, and everybody had been dancing and stuff. But now there was this awful noise and everyone stopped dancing. And then everyone left and she was alone.

And then the Bronze was gone and Buffy opened her eyes, disoriented for a moment by the strange room she found herself in. The heavy wooden bed, the large chest and dresser, the tiny nightstand....

The terrible pounding rhythm from her dream kept up and she slowly realized it was someone knocking. About the same time she remembered where she was.

She slid out of bed, shivering as her feet touched cold wood, and she pulled the knitted throw off the end of the bed, wrapping it around herself as she stumbled out of the bedroom and through the house to the front door.

She fumbled with the lock and opened the door a crack, peering out. A man in a blue uniform and an older lady stood there.

"Good morning, Miss," the uniformed man, a police officer, she assumed, said. "May I ask what you're doing here?"

"Huh?" she mumbled, still more asleep than awake.

"This isn't your house, Miss," the officer said. "What are you doing here?"

"What? Oh, no, I...." She shook her head. No way she was going to be able to explain this. "Hang on." She doubled back to the hallway and opened the bottom door to the stairs. "Giles!" she called up. "Giles!"

"That's right, this is Mr. Giles's home," the officer said and she jumped. He'd followed her into the house.

"I know." She turned to the stairs again. "Giles, come down. There's a cop here!"

"Wha...?" she heard, and then he opened the upstairs door, blinking down at her owlishly. "What's going on?"

"There's a cop wants to know what we're doing here."

He sighed. "Be right there." He disappeared from view and she turned back to her unwelcome visitors.

"He'll be right down." She moved past the cop and into the parlour.

In a minute, Giles appeared, sleep-tousled, tugging a bathrobe around himself. "What's this?"

"Rupert!" the old lady exclaimed.

He blinked, taken aback by her exclamation.

"You know this man, ma'am?" the officer asked.

"Why, yes, it's...."

"I'm Rupert Giles," Giles interrupted. "Richard Giles's son."

"I had no idea you were here!" the woman said.

"We got in rather late last night."

"I saw the smoke from the chimney and then I came by and saw the car, well, I just thought the worst, especially with the poor man on his...."

"Yes, of course," Giles nodded. "I'm sorry we alarmed you."

The officer looked from one to the other of them. "Well, if there's no problem here," he began.

"No, no problem," Giles assured him.

"I'm sorry, Mick," the old lady added.

"That's quite all right, missus. Better to be safe." He tipped his hat. "Good morning, folks."

"Good morning," Giles nodded and the officer left.

"I'm sorry about all that, Rupert," the old lady said. "But I had no idea you'd be coming in."

"They sent me a telegram earlier in the week. I got here as soon as I could," Giles said. Buffy hung back and watched him with the old woman. They obviously knew each other, but while Giles was being friendly and everything, she could tell he wished she'd go away.

"Have you been to see him yet?" the old lady asked.

"Yes, last night."

"Poor man," she clucked. "Still, you're here now, that's a blessing." She glanced at Buffy, as if seeing her for the first time. "And this is?"

"I'm his-" Buffy began, but Giles silenced her with a shake of his head.

"This is Buffy Summers," he said simply.

The woman stared a moment, then her eyes widened in surprise. "Ooh! Oh my! It's an honor to meet you, my dear!" she exclaimed.

"Thanks." Buffy forced a smile and looked at Giles in confusion.

"How lovely that you've come with him," the old lady went on. "Did you meet Mr. Giles?"

"Yeah, last night."

"I'm sure he was delighted to meet you. He always...."

Giles coughed. "You'll excuse us, Mrs. Peavey, but this rousted us out of bed. We're a tad jet-lagged." Buffy smiled. That was Giles, always the diplomat.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Rupert, of course. I'll be on my way, then. I'm glad you're here, and I know Richard is, too. If there's anything I can do for you...."

"Actually, there is," he said. "The coal shed's practically empty. Do you know where I can get fuel for a short time? And right away?"

"Of course," she waved her hand. "I'll have Bill bring some round for you. How long do you reckon on staying?"

"I'm not sure. A week or two, at a guess."

"Right, we can take care of that."

"Thank you."

"How are you provisioned otherwise?"

"Rather poorly, I'm afraid. We need just about everything. A trip to Lesters is on our list of things to do today. Er, Lesters is still there, aren't they?"

"Of course," she laughed. "If Lesters ever folded up we all might as well do the same.

"Look, why don't you two get cleaned up, then come up to the house. I'll fix you a nice breakfast, get you off to a good start."

"Oh, we wouldn't want to..." Giles started to protest.

"Nonsense. You need to eat. And we can get caught up."

Giles smiled resignedly. "Yes, all right, that would be nice."

"Good. Then I'll let you go and I'll see you shortly."

With a wave, she was out the door, a seventy-year-old tornado on stubby legs.

Giles and Buffy exchanged glances.

"Welcome to Chalworth," he said with a slightly embarrassed little smile.

"Who was that?" Buffy asked.

"Mrs. Peavey, our neighbor. She's lived here as long as I can remember." He said it like they'd just met that one relative everyone has who always embarrasses everybody.

Buffy smiled, then her expression changed to concern. "Why did you just introduce me as Buffy? Why did she seem to know who I was?"

"Mrs. Peavey's late husband was a watcher," he said. "As was her daughter."

"Oh." Buffy frowned and thought about that. "How many other watchers am I gonna meet here?"

"I'm not sure anymore. Not many. There aren't too many left, especially not here. They all leave, like me and Elizabeth."

"Who's Elizabeth?"

"Mrs. Peavey's daughter."

Buffy mulled this information. This was something she hadn't considered: multiple watchers. When he'd told her the watcher's council was located here, somehow that hadn't translated in her head to watchers being neighbors and friends. Too weird.

"Sorry about the early wake-up call," he went on. "I'd hoped you could sleep in this morning."

"That's okay," she dismissed.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Ehh," she shrugged. "Weird dreams."

"Oh?" He looked concerned and she quickly tried to reassure him.

"Not important ones, just...strange, whacked-out images. Nothing specific."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I'm getting good at figuring out the ones which mean something and the ones which mean I ate pizza too late."

He smiled. "Yes, well you were over-tired and then with the strange bed, strange surroundings, I suppose it's not surprising."

"How'd you manage in the arctic north up there?"

His expression was rueful. "It's very odd, being here. Especially under these circumstances."

"Didn't sleep too well, either, huh?"

"Still," he dismissed, "I expect we'll settle in." He took a deep breath. "Well, we'd better get dressed; breakfast is waiting for us."

Mrs. Peavey had prepared for them a traditional English breakfast: eggs, bacon, tomatoes, toast, tea. It was more than Buffy ever ate in the morning and she was pretty overwhelmed. She didn't want to seem ungrateful, but she just couldn't handle that much food first thing in the morning.

"I'm sure this is different from your usual fare-coffee and a biscuit or whatever it is American kids eat these days," Mrs. Peavey said.

"I'm a toast and juice person myself," Buffy agreed.

"Ah, juice," Giles said and pulled a small notepad out of his pocket, jotting on it.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Shopping list. We need just about everything. Tea, juice, bread...loo paper." He stopped, considering. "Mrs. Peavey, I hate to impose even more, but...."

"Anything, Rupert, you know that," the old lady reassured him.

"I was wondering if you could run Buffy to Lesters and then back home."

Buffy frowned. "I thought I was going with you."

"I don't know when else we can get the shopping done. Besides," he said gently, "I imagine he'll sleep much of the day. It's bound to be crashingly dull. I have to be there, you don't. And I could use your help in this."

She sighed. When had he learned how to manipulate her so well? "Yeah, okay. But if it's as small around here as you say, I don't need a ride, I can walk it."

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Peavey chimed in, "you can't carry those sacks of groceries back by yourself. I'd be happy to take you."

"Good. That's settled then," Giles smiled. Buffy gave him a dirty look and mentally promised retribution later.

Mrs. Peavey went into the kitchen and Giles reached over, patting her hand. "Thank you."

"Thanks a bunch," she muttered. "She's worse than my grandmother."

"Oh, it'll be all right. Besides," he leaned in conspiratorially, "she's a famous gossip. She'll give you all the dirt and more."

"Giles!" Buffy laughed. On the other hand, the old lady had known him since he was a boy. The stories she could tell.... "Okay, I guess it won't be so bad."

"Good."

Mrs. Peavey came back in with the teapot and filled Giles's cup again.

"How's Elizabeth?" he asked.

"Oh, wonderful!" she beamed. "She's in Doncaster now, happy as can be. Brian's just started at York University. She's thrilled."

"Really? York's a good school. I enjoyed my time there. What's he studying?"

"That's right, I'd forgot you were there. Oh, Lord, I can never remember what he's studying. Something high-minded, no doubt. And probably something totally inappropriate." She sounded disapproving.

Giles frowned. "He's still not interested?"

"Not a bit of it. He won't even discuss it. And it doesn't matter how much his mother talks to him, or Burkridge talks to him...."

"Well, Burkridge talking to you would put anyone right off," Giles dismissed. "And given what happened with Liz, it's understandable he's not interested." He took a sip of his tea. "If she thinks it would do any good, I can try with him, but I don't know if I'm the best example."

"You're doing what you have to do, and successfully, too, if this young lady is anything to go by." She smiled at Buffy. "And you had your rebellion at about the same age. It could well do the trick."

"Or scare him off completely."

"I'll can phone her up and ask. Perhaps she'll be able to come down. For the funeral, I mean."

He nodded, and Buffy felt the mood at the table darken at the mention of funeral. It was weird, planning for something like that, and yet not planning for it, because Mr. Giles was still alive. They knew there would be a funeral some time, but....

"I hope she can," Giles said. "It would be good to see her again."

"She'd love to see you, too, I'm sure."

"Well, we'd better get going," Giles said, getting up from the table. "We'll just stop back at the house and get a few things, then Buffy can come back here."

"Fine," Mrs. Peavey answered. "Give me a chance to put away the breakfast things."

"We do appreciate all your help," he told her. "About the coal...."

"Oh, I'll send Bill round with it later. He'll just put it right in the shed."

"Thanks. We'll be back soon." They left the little house, walking across the grass and through a break in the hedge between the two backyards.

That had been interesting, seeing Giles talking with an old neighbor

lady like he'd known her all his... Oh. That's because he probably had known her all his life.

"So-" Buffy began.

"Yes?"

"Elizabeth is Mrs. Peavey's daughter?"

"That's right."

"She an old girlfriend?"

Giles laughed. "Where did you get that idea?"

"Just...something. In your voice. Your face. When you were talking about her. I just thought...."

"Well, for most of the time when we were growing up, she thought of me rather as a pest, if she thought of me at all. Liz is a little older than me. But she went through a rough patch and came home around the same time I was here before going back to school. After London. We became close then, but I'm not sure it ever quite qualified as...that is, we never...went out."

Buffy grinned, wondering if he even realized how much he'd just told her by trying not to tell her anything.

"Did her problems have to do with her being a watcher?" she asked.

"What made you think that?"

"A guess?"

He sighed. "Yes, it did. But I don't want to go into it. It's rather personal."

"For her or for you?"

"For her."

Buffy nodded, thinking about it. Maybe she could get Mrs. Peavey to spill. "And Brian that you were talking about, that's Elizabeth's son?"

"Yes, he's...oh, he must be twenty or so."

"And they want him to be a watcher and he doesn't want to."

He stared at her, shaking his head. "You never cease to amaze me."

"Why? Cause I can figure stuff out? You taught me that."

"I never realized you paid attention."

"I pay attention to more than you think I do."

He just gazed at her. "I'm beginning to see that."

They shared a smile as they got back home.

"All right," he scribbled some notes on a piece of paper. "This is the grocery list, at least what I could think of. Go ahead and get anything else you want-within reason, of course. And lightbulbs so I don't break my neck on those stairs. And see if you can't get these traveler's checks cashed at the bank." He handed her the paper and several travelers checks, which he signed over to her.

"I'll probably be at the home all day. If you want, once you get back from the market, you can start going through things here. Anything that's obviously junk-old junk mail, newspapers and the lot-can be thrown out. Correspondence that looks like it might be important put on his desk."

"How will I know what's good stuff and what's not?"

"Take your best guess. Look at the wardrobes in the bedroom. I'm not sure he ever got rid of any of her clothes. That sort of thing."

"Okay, I'll try."

"Thank you." He sighed. "I wish we were still on the telephone, I'd call you. If you get stuck, or really bored, you're welcome to come out to the home, though I'll warn you, it's apt to be awfully dull. Mrs. Peavey can drive you. Feel free to take a walk, get to know the area. It's quite safe here, and fairly difficult to get lost. The stable out back is ours. It's probably empty now, but you can have a look."

"Stable?" She hadn't expected that.

"We had horses, when I was growing up. I haven't been out there in years. You can check it out for me. If there are any tools or such out there, just make a note of them and leave them there. We'll probably get an appraiser and an auction house to handle most of it."

He stopped and shook his head. "I can't believe I'm doing this."

She touched his arm sympathetically. "You're doing what you have to do, Giles."

"He's not even dead yet!" he said bitterly, "and I'm so anxious to make an end of it."

She stepped in front of him, forcing him to face her. "Is there a chance he'll ever come home again? Is there a possibility he'll suddenly get better?"

He stared at her for a moment, then lowered his eyes. "No."

"Then you're only doing what has to be done. It's what he'd want you to do. He wouldn't want some stranger coming in and getting rid of everything, would he?"

Giles took a deep breath. "I suppose not."

"So?"

He smiled his thanks and put a hand on her shoulder, as if the touch gave him comfort. Maybe it did. It was weird. They'd spent the first year they knew each other never touching, except in training. Sometimes she thought he wanted to, but something, probably that stuffy Englishness, kept him from reaching out. But after Angel.... And after Ms. Calendar. Now it was like the touches-the hands on arms or shoulders, or the touch of a back in passing, maybe the occasional hug-it was like they were necessary reassurances that despite everything that had happened, they were still there for each other.

"Well," he went on, withdrawing his hand, "I'd best be off. If you need anything, I'm sure Mrs. Peavey would be more than happy to provide."

"Yeah," she agreed, following him out of the house. "I'd better get over there."

"See you later, then," he said, and he climbed into his car and pulled down the drive.

Buffy watched Giles drive off, waving, her bright smile fading as soon as he passed through the gate.

"Oh, Giles, you are so gonna owe me," she muttered, closing the door behind her and heading back through the hedge to Mrs. Peavey's. The idea of having to spend the entire morning with the old lady was enough to set Buffy's teeth on edge.

Oh, it wasn't that there was anything wrong with her. She was very sweet, very helpful. But maybe that was the problem. She made Buffy feel like she was even more of a fish out of water than she was. And there was a sort of...awe...the old woman seemed to feel toward her which made her nervous. As if a slayer couldn't also be a normal girl.

Mrs. Peavey was warming up the car when she arrived, and with little more than a cursory word, they took off into town.

Giles was right; nothing was very far from anything else here. The grocery store, called Lesters, was no more than a five minute drive. The store was kind of strange, like a Super-K-Mart except a lot smaller. It contained not only groceries but also household items, clothing, and other stuff. So in addition to everything on their shopping list, plus all the things she thought they could use which hadn't been on the list, she bought for herself a baggy sweatshirt to sleep in, an extra pair of sweatpants, and a couple of pairs of warmer socks. The stuff was Woolworth quality, but at least it was pretty cheap.

They stopped at a bank so Buffy could cash the travelers checks. And while in line, they got to talking again.

"How long have you known Giles?" Buffy asked.

"You mean Rupert? Most of his life. They moved here when Rupert was a baby. His father grew up here, then moved away when he went to school and got married. But when Rupert was born they came back and never left."

"Did...I mean does he have any other family? Like brothers and sisters?"

"Who, Rupert? No, he's an only child. I don't know if Richard had any brothers and sisters. Catherine, that's Rupert's mother, she did. But after she died, I don't think Richard stayed in touch with them."

Buffy frowned. Mr. Giles sounded like he was sort of a...recluse. No family. No friends. "What did Mr. Giles do?" she asked.

"He was a solicitor. A lawyer."

"Really?" She was surprised, but didn't know why she should be. It just hadn't ever occurred to her what else watchers might be. Librarian seemed to fit so well.

"Oh, yes. And a good one. Most everybody in town went to Richard Giles at one time or another. For awhile he had a practice in Bristol, but he always lived here. He retired, oh, five or six years ago. Still kept his hand in; people always calling him, asking for his advice."

Buffy tried to reconcile the image of a shrewd lawyer with the sight of that poor, sick man last night. "I wish I could have known him before he got sick," she said. "Was he always so...crotchety?"

Mrs. Peavey laughed. "I suppose that's one way of putting it. Yes, he never had time for fools."

Buffy looked down. "Seems like he never had time for his son, either."

"What makes you say that?"

"Just some things he said."

"Did he give Rupert a hard time?" she asked as if she already knew.

"I don't know what he said to him. But he gave me a hard time, trying to make me think Giles wasn't good enough."

"That's just Richard's way. It's easier to scold or correct than to praise. But he loves Rupert, don't let him convince you otherwise. Whenever he would get a letter from Rupert, telling him how it was going, telling him about you, he'd come right over and show it to me. Oh, he was so proud. He'd read the whole thing to me out loud."

Buffy stared at her. That was so different from the way he'd acted last night, making Giles think that everything he was doing was wrong. "Really? 'Cause Giles thinks...."

"Richard Giles always ruled by intimidation. But all it took was Rupert's standing up for himself, for something he believed in, and he gained Richard's respect. That's why he was so proud of him. Because even though he knew Rupert didn't relish his calling, he did it, and from all reports, he's doing it well. I haven't been to see Richard since last Tuesday. But he told me they'd sent a note to Rupert, and how he hoped he'd be able to come. I think he really wanted to see him again before he died. I know he's pleased Rupert's here."

She sighed. "He's been a very sad man, ever since...since Catherine died."

"I saw her picture. She was very pretty."

"Oh, Lord, yes, she was beautiful. And a beautiful temperament to go with it. She was the balm for all of Richard's fire and bombast. He missed her fiercely when she died. I think he still does."

"Do you think that's why he and Giles fought so much? Because they both missed her."

"Possibly. Sometimes loss strengthens people. For the Giles men, used to relying on Catherine's strength, it weakened them. Richard became bitter and Rupert became rebellious. Oh, and I shouldn't be telling you that."

"It's okay, I know all about his wild days."

The older lady looked surprised. "Well! He believes in being honest with you, doesn't he?"

She shrugged. "He wants me to be honest with him. He learned it worked better if it went both ways. I know he hasn't told me everything, but he told me enough. I got the idea." Of course, she'd practically had to drag those details out of him. But at least he'd trusted her enough with his secrets.

"Yes, well it was a very difficult time for both of them. And they're both very stubborn, I'm sure you've realized that. They ended up causing each other a lot of pain because neither of them would bend. But that never meant they didn't love each other. Sometimes love can hurt."

Buffy felt that terrible fist close around her heart. "Yeah, I know," she whispered. She'd loved Angel. She probably still did love Angel, or at least the Angel he'd been. That was what hurt the most.

It was Buffy's turn and she took care of her banking. Then back in the car, the conversation continued.

"Can I ask you a question?" Buffy began.

"Of course, dear."

"Giles said something earlier about Elizabeth, and some problem. But he wouldn't tell me about it when I asked. Which usually means it's slayer stuff and he doesn't want to tell me something he thinks might upset me."

The old lady took a deep breath. "Well, if he doesn't want you to know...."

"He said he didn't want to tell me because he didn't think it was his place. But she's your daughter. So it would be your place. But if you don't want to tell me...."

"It's not that I don't want to, dear. But I can understand Rupert's concern. It is, as you say, slayer stuff. And it's neither an easy story to tell nor, I imagine, easy to hear."

"I want to know," Buffy said softly. After all, if she was the slayer, then she should know what sort of things she was up against. Shouldn't she?

"Well, this was all over twenty years ago. Lizzie got the call to go to Ireland and name a new slayer-designate. She was a sweet child, about twelve years old, but already strong. They trained together for several years, and then the current slayer died and Bethany-that was her name-Bethany became the active slayer. Lizzie, meanwhile, met a nice Irish lad and married, and they had a son, Kenneth. Bethany was like an adopted daughter to them.

"It was only a few months after that-Bethany was barely sixteen. I don't know the details, Lizzie would never say. But somehow, Bethany and Kenneth were out together and they got cornered. They killed Kenneth and...and they turned Bethany."

Buffy felt her stomach drop down to her toes. It had to be every slayer's worst nightmare. It was certainly hers. "They turned her into a vamp?"

The old lady nodded. They pulled into the drive and stopped in front of the house.

"What happened?" she asked, her voice soft. It was hard to breathe over her horror.

"Lizzie...Lizzie had to destroy her. And it shattered her. Her son and her slayer, both taken from her. She fell apart, had a complete breakdown. She left her husband, came back here, and bit by bit, she started putting her life back together again. But it was a long, hard climb. She and Rupert spent a lot of time together then. He was here

after his problems in London, trying to put his own life back together. They used to go out to the stable and sit together for hours.

"Eventually, they both recovered. Lizzie called John, her husband, and he came over and they started over again. Rupert went back up to Oxford to complete his schooling.

"And Lizzie officially retired as a watcher."

Breathing returned to normal and Buffy frowned as she climbed out of the car and gathered her parcels. "What does that mean, officially retired?" she asked.

"A watcher who loses a slayer can be given another one, depending on the circumstances surrounding the slayer's, um...."

"I get the picture," Buffy interrupted. She really didn't want to hear the details.

"In Lizzie's case, because what happened was so traumatic, there would have been no way she could have effectively trained another slayer. So she retired and a new watcher and slayer pair was activated. In this case, it was the first American watcher in almost fifty years. Merrick."

Buffy blinked. "And Merrick was the watcher until...."

"That's right," the old lady nodded. "He had quite a number of slayers in his time. He was a legend among the watchers. Most of them knew him only by reputation because he kept very much to himself. But he was highly regarded."

Buffy frowned as she and the old woman headed to the kitchen to put the groceries away. She thought about Merrick, how stern he'd been, how insistent. How he'd told her that he should have been there sooner. "There's a lot about watchers and slayers I don't get," she said, putting a jar of jam in the pantry. "I mean, some slayers know they're slayers before they ever...become slayers, right? I mean, before the other slayer dies and they become The Chosen One. They're supposed to be trained for it, from an early age. Right?"

"That's the way it's supposed to work, yes."

"So why doesn't it? Or didn't it? I mean, I was fifteen before anyone told me I was a slayer."

"Well, as I understand it, we'd been almost two years without a slayer. The previous one had been in France, and Merrick had been injured in the attack which had killed her. He'd been so good, so strong, the watchers had grown complacent, assuming he'd go on forever. But his injury made everyone realize how lax they'd grown. Though several girls were found who clearly had slayer potential, none of them had actually received the call-received the Slayer's gifts. Once Merrick recovered, he began searching for her, the new slayer. And he found her, in you."

"How come it was left to Merrick to find her? I mean, me?" The sight of the stern man with the mustache, insisting that she had a sacred destiny, was one she'd never forget.

"It wasn't so much left as he took it. He was a bit of a maverick-went his own way as opposed to doing what the council expected. He took it upon himself to find the new slayer. He thought he was invincible, and in fact, so did most of the watchers, who'd settled down into fairly routine lives in the interim. His death was a terrible shock to all of them."

"It was no party for me, either," Buffy muttered. She shivered when she remembered holding him in her arms while he told her that she would have to be strong without him. Then his eyes closed, and she was alone. "I didn't have a clue what I was doing. I still don't know how I did what I did."

"But you did, and everyone was very impressed." The old lady smiled. "After my husband died and Lizzie moved away, I stopped paying much attention to what the watchers and slayers were doing. Until Rupert went to America and Richard started telling me the news."

Together, they put the last of the groceries away. "Well, thanks for your help," Buffy said, wondering if there was some polite way to get rid of the old lady. Not that she didn't like her, but Mrs. Peavey's story had given her a lot to think about. She wanted to be alone to think.

"You're very welcome, dear," Mrs. Peavey answered. "If there's anything else I can do...."

"Um, well, can you tell me how to get to the nursing home?"

"Oh, I can drive you over."

"I'd rather go myself, if that's all right. It feels like all I've done for the past two days has been sit. It'll feel good to walk."

"All right. You just go up to the main road and turn left, and keep going through town until you see the sign for St. Joseph's, then turn down the lane. It's about a twenty minute walk or so. Not bad at all."

"Great, thanks."

"That's all right, dear. Anything else you need, you just let me know."

"I will. Thanks."

After a bit more dithering, she finally managed to get Mrs. Peavey out the door and back down the lane. She shut the door behind her, sighing.

"So here I am, playing house in a cottage in the middle of no-man's-land England. How fun!"

Actually, it was kind of fun, in a weird sort of way. A house to explore, maybe cool, incriminating pictures of Giles to be found. Then there was that stable out back. Buffy had never ridden a horse. When other girls were into horses, she'd been into ice skating. Other girls had taken riding lessons and collected books about Black Beauty and Misty of Chincoteague; she'd taken ice skating lessons, watched the Olympics, and read everything she could about Dorothy Hamill and Katerina Witt. But she'd always admired the strength and beauty of horses, even while being a little afraid of them-after all, they were so big and she was so little....

She went out the back door, heading to the stable. The building was old and run-down, not very big, and mostly empty. There were some old leather straps hanging on one wall, and a broom and a bucket in one corner. The old barn still smelled, though, the smell of someplace that was once alive, and now was abandoned. There was a small loft and she climbed the ladder, looking around, but it was empty.

She climbed back down. It was kind of sad, thinking about what this place must have been like when Giles was a boy, trying to imagine him coming out here, taking one of the horses and riding across the countryside. Even though she'd never thought of it before, it was kind of neat, and kind of fit, to think of him on a horse. Like some knight errant. She smiled, wondering if he used to have fantasies about rescuing damsels in distress.

Now he got to watch her beat the crap out of vampires and had to bail her out when she screwed up yet again.

With a sigh, she left the stable, walking back up to the house. A man was coming down the slope into the back yard, pushing a heavy looking cart.

"Hi. Looking for Giles?" she asked.

The man, who looked very narrow between the eyes and none-too-swift, muttered something in an accent she didn't understand, but she caught the words "Peavey" and "coal" and figured this was the guy Mrs. Peavey was sending over to deliver coal.

"Oh, just put it...I don't know, wherever coal goes." What did they call the place where coal was stored? She didn't think coal storage was right.

It didn't seem to matter what she knew, because he appeared to know exactly where it went. He pushed his big cart toward the little hut and started unloading it. So she left him to it and went back inside.

She stood in the middle of the living room, or parlor, as Giles called it, trying to decide where to start. The place was a mess. Before they could get things sorted, they'd probably need to clean up. Dust at least. And it was so dark and gloomy in here. At night it looked cozy, but by day it was dank and dreary. She couldn't imagine living in a place like this.

Then she realized that there were shutters closed over all the windows, and she opened the casements, pushing the shutters out of the way. Immediately, the room flooded with soft, warm daylight. It changed the whole room, turning it from depressing to cozy again. The kind of place she could imagine Giles's mother living. Or at least, the woman Buffy imagined her to be.

She moved from room to room, flinging open the shutters, until the whole house brightened. Then she found a dust rag and a feather duster, and set about tidying up the place. She wiped off every surface, including the stacks of papers and books, since they were all dusty. The dust flew and she opened the parlor windows to air the place out, letting in the chilly spring air. Tugging her new sweatshirt over her head took care of her being cold, and the fresh air felt good.

In the small study, while straightening the desk, Buffy saw them. They were sitting on a corner of the desk, a stack of small books. The one on top was a small, thick volume with a locking strap and a key. A diary. Its pink cover and heart design told her it was the diary of a girl, probably a young girl. Mrs. Peavey said Giles didn't have a sister....

It wasn't locked, so she opened it. The front page said it belonged to Tamara Weigel, May 26th, 1969. Buffy frowned. Who was Tamara Weigel and why did Mr. Giles have her diary....

Diary!

She moved the book aside and checked out the volumes beneath. They were each diaries or journals. The oldest one was dated 1908, Tamara Weigel's was the newest. These must be the diaries Mr. Giles mentioned to her last night, the ones Giles hadn't wanted to talk about. Diaries, but not of watchers. Of slayers.

Buffy stared at the books in shock. Slayers' diaries. Diaries just like hers, written by girls just like her. Slayers. With slayer strengths, slayer fears.

She bit her lip in confusion. It wasn't like Giles had told her she couldn't see them. And Mr. Giles said she should. But did she want to? Did she want to see what had happened to her predecessors? After all, she knew how they'd all end....

She swallowed, fingering the cover of Tamara Weigel's diary. If she'd been Tamara Weigel, would she want someone, someone she didn't even know, reading her diary?

Resolutely, Buffy moved the stack and dusted around it, moving on to the shelves and the single chair. From the study she moved on to the bedroom, but found her mind drifting back to those books.

She went back to the study, sitting in the chair and staring at them, letting her hand drift over their spines. It stopped on one of the books in the middle of the stack, a thin volume with a cardboard cover. She pulled it out of the stack, opening it. According to the first page, the book had belonged to Louise Kiefer, who was seventeen years old in 1937.

She skimmed the pages quickly. Louise had been a high school student, living with her "uncle" (her watcher) named David. In the entries she read, Buffy saw no reference to Louise's parents. Louise talked about her training, the vampires she fought, her fears. But she also wrote about her high school friends, a favorite cat, and her crush on Clark Gable.

Very nearly normal.

Dismayed by her own morbid curiosity, Buffy flipped to the last entry in the book, an entry which occurred about two-thirds of the way through the thin volume. Louise wrote of a boy in school, one who had asked her to the homecoming dance, and how she was hoping to be able to convince her uncle to let her go.

"He's such a sweet boy," Louise wrote, "not the most popular or the best looking, but he seems to like me, and I know I like him. Uncle David doesn't approve of my being friends with the kids in school, but sometimes I just want to be a normal girl.

"Well, it's time for my nightly tour. Uncle wants to come with me tonight. If it goes well, if he's pleased, then maybe afterwards I can talk to him. Maybe he'll be feeling kind and let me go to the dance with Ben.

"More later."

But, of course, there was no more.

Buffy swallowed back the tightness which threatened to close her throat. Louise Kiefer didn't get to go to her homecoming dance. Some vampire killed her instead. And Ben, the boy in school, never knew why the girl he liked had suddenly disappeared.

She wiped at her eyes. There wasn't anything in what she'd just read that she didn't already know; there had been slayers before her, those slayers had died. But they'd never had faces, they'd never had names. They'd never been people.

She picked up the next book on the stack, this one dated from the '20s. The location was different, and the setup. But the story was the same.

And the next and the next. Until Buffy couldn't look at them anymore. She'd stopped seeing various slayers writing in their journals. Instead she saw herself. Her words, her life.

Her death.

She jumped up from the chair, pacing away from the desk. Now she knew why Giles had wanted her to think about them, why he hadn't let her see them last night. He was trying to protect her. Sometimes his protection annoyed her, but this time she understood it. Reading

those books bothered her more than she thought it would; she wished he were here to talk to about them.

"Well, hey, brainless, it's not like he's so far away," she chided herself. It was a short walk through town to the nursing home. And he had said that if she got bored she could come over. She wasn't exactly bored, just the opposite, in fact, but she did want to talk to him. Maybe he could

tell her why the diaries had freaked her out so much.

Interesting how, when they first met, Giles's lecturing and his stuffy "watcherness" had bugged her. Sometimes still did bug her. But mostly now she was grateful for it, wanted his advice and his knowledge. And she wanted his support, that way he had that said that no matter what it was, no matter how bad it got, somehow he'd find a way to make it okay.

She shrugged into her coat and locked the door behind her, heading down the lane to find her watcher.
***

V

The first thing Buffy noticed was the silence.

Giles sat in a chair next to the bed, still like a statue, elbows resting on knees, face leaning against his steepled hands, eyes staring into some middle-ground. His glasses were nowhere to be seen.

The man in the bed lay still, his eyes closed and his mouth partway opened and lax. There was no gentle hiss from the oxygen, no rasp of struggled breaths.

One look at this scenario and everything Buffy had wanted to say, every question, every concern vanished and she found herself crossing the room in an instant. Giles glanced up and that was all she saw before her arms went around him, hugging him tight. He held onto her for a long time, his whole body trembling.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

He pulled away, at least as far as she would let him. "I didn't expect you here," he said, his voice shaky.

"I got bored by myself." It was as good a reason as any. She touched his hair gently. "When...?"

He simply shook his head, looking away bleakly. "He wanted me to read to him. I'd brought the Dumas, but...but he...he wanted me to read from my journal. About you. About us.

"So I did. I read for a long time. Then I suddenly realized I couldn't hear him anymore. Couldn't hear his breaths. I don't know how much earlier they'd stopped before I'd noticed."

He took his own shaky breath. "I know...there was nothing that could have been done. It was his time. But I feel like...like I should have done more."

She hugged him close again. "I'll bet he didn't. Mrs. Peavey told me he used to talk about you all the time. Everything you were doing, how proud he was of you being a watcher."

He gazed at her as if not believing her words. "I tried...."

"Giles, his last memory was of his son sitting at his side, being with him. Telling him things to make him proud. You did more than try."

He didn't answer, simply looked down again, his head resting against her shoulder in an interesting reversal of situations. Usually it was him, offering her comfort or encouragement after something had gone disastrously wrong yet again. That night, the one after everything had gone so wrong with Angel, she'd been heartsick and devastated. And he'd said just the right words to her, gave just the right support. Just before she got out of the car, he'd reached over and put a hand on her shoulder.

She'd fallen apart and went into his arms, weeping bitterly. He'd held her gently, a little awkwardly, but securely, simply being there for her. Until she'd calmed enough to be able to go inside.

Since then, things had changed between them. They'd been less tentative with each other. As if he wasn't afraid anymore to offer comfort to her if she needed it, and she was more comfortable not only accepting it but also offering her own.

A noise down the hall made him raise his head and by the time the ambulance guys came into the room, Giles was on his feet, his chair pushed back from the bed.

Miss Wentworth was with them and she escorted Giles and Buffy out of the room, allowing the workers to get on with their task.

"I know you don't want to be thinking about these matters," she said, "so we'll gather up his personal affects for you. You can pick them up tomorrow or the next day."

"What? Oh, yes, thank you. Is...is there an account which needs to be settled?"

She shook her head. "It's all been taken care of. I want to offer my condolences. Mr. Giles was a good man. I know he'll be missed."

"Thank you," Giles replied mechanically.

The coroner, or whoever it was, came out. "You're Mr. Giles's relatives?" he asked.

"Y..yes," Giles nodded.

"Are you going to use Larkin Brothers?"

"Uh, yes, I believe so."

"All right." He dug in his pocket. "You can call them tomorrow morning. They'll take care of everything for you." He handed Giles a card. "Condolences."

"Thank you," Giles repeated. Buffy could see he was just going through the motions, that none of this was registering.

The ambulance guy went back into the room and in a few minutes brought the wheeled gurney out. The bundle on top of it seemed oddly small. Buffy glanced at Giles, but he had turned his head away, not wanting to look at the cart and its occupant.

She watched until the cart disappeared from view, then she touched Giles's arm.

"Come on," she said gently, "let's go home."

He looked up and blinked, but she still hadn't seen any tears.

"I need my..my books," he indicated the room.

They went back inside; the bed had already been stripped. She heard him swallow audibly. Then he turned toward the small table. In a moment, the books were under his arm and his glasses appeared on his face just like normal. With a simple nod he gave her his arm and she took it, accompanying him out of the building.

"Will you be okay to drive?" she asked when they got to the car.

"Yes, I'm fine," he dismissed, but she could see the terrible tightness in him. He was repressing-big-time.

They were silent as he started the car and pulled off down the lane. She didn't know what to say to him, how to make it easier.

"H..how was your day?" he finally broke the silence.

"Okay," she shrugged, deciding that now was not the time to tell him about Mrs. Peavey's revelations or the diaries. "We have food. I have something warm to sleep in. And some guy named Bill, who looked like the product of too much in-breeding, if you know what I mean, delivered a load of coal. It's in the shed."

"Oh. Good. Any problems at the bank?"

"Nope. Piece of cake."

"Good," he repeated. She got the feeling she could have said, "Mrs. Peavey got run down by an elephant" and he'd still have nodded and said "good".

"Did you have lunch?" she asked.

"What? Oh, no."

"You must be hungry. I can make a Buffy Summers special. Which means opening a can of soup." She grinned.

It failed to get a laugh.

"I'm not very hungry. You go ahead."

"You have to eat, Giles. I mean, sorry if I'm sounding like a nag, but you do."

"Perhaps later."

"Yeah, okay." She looked at him, saw the tightness in his jaw, the sadness in his eyes. Her heart ached for him. "I wish there was something I could do," she said softly.

He swallowed convulsively. "I'll be all right," he said. "It's...it was a long day."

"I know." Again she looked at him. "Well, you can go to bed early if you want. And there shouldn't be a Mrs. Peavey waking us up early." Still no reaction, so she tried again. "I found bubble bath last night."

"Buffy, please!" He took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "I'm sorry. I know you mean well."

The rest of the short drive was conducted in silence. Buffy had never felt so helpless in her life. He was hurting so much, but she didn't know what to do. That damned British reserve of his kept getting in the way!

They arrived home and he headed into the house, leaving her to follow. His books and jacket got dropped on the end of the couch and he headed to the kitchen to put the kettle on. From there he went into the bathroom and was still in there when the kettle whistled, so she turned it off and called to him that his water was ready.

He came out a minute later, minus tie and glasses, the edges of his hair and collar damp. He fixed his tea, setting the cup to steep. Then he ignored it and walked into the study where he sat at the desk, staring into space for a long time.

She checked on his tea; it was about the color of dark coffee and smelled bitter. She tossed the teabag and took it to him.

"Did you want your tea?" she asked.

He blinked, startled by her presence. "What? Oh. Thank you." He took it, took a sip, grimaced at the taste, and set it down, walking out of the room. She followed and saw him go upstairs.

She sighed, flopping on the couch in frustration. Great. Giles's dad was dead and Giles was going zombie king on her. Swell way to spend a vacation.

And there wasn't even a TV to pass the time. What was she gonna do with herself while Giles was moping?

Several minutes later, he came back downstairs, wearing a fresh shirt and sweater, glasses back on his face, his expression absolutely impenetrable.

He scooped up his jacket from the couch. "I'm going for a walk," he announced, heading for the door.

She got up. "I'll come with you."

"No." He put his hand up, stopping her. "I need to be by myself for a bit, Buffy. I'll be back shortly."

He turned his back on her, heading out the door and closing it behind him.

She pulled it open again, but his long legs had already taken him to the edge of the drive where he went through the gate, letting it bang shut.

"Giles," she whined softly, "don't."

But he had.

Not that she begrudged him the time to himself, not really. She understood that sometimes dealing with people, even if they had the best intentions, took more energy than you had. Sometimes you needed to be by yourself. But when Giles shut down on her, it always made her nervous. Memories of Eyghon, and of the warehouse, were still too clear.

She sighed, closing the door again.

So here she was, stuck in this house, just like this morning, bored. She couldn't read any more of those diaries; they'd wigged her out too much. And with all the books in the house, none of them were the sort she could just "lose herself" in. Not a cheap, trashy romance in the bunch.

Well, maybe she'd start going through the stuff in the bedroom like he'd asked her to this morning. Maybe it would give her something to focus

on.

Something besides Giles.

For the second time that day, Buffy walked to town. Only this time, instead of going through, she stopped at The Maiden. There were a few cars out front, the only place still open at this hour on a Saturday night. Which was why it was her best bet.

He hadn't come home. Four hours later and she still hadn't seen him. Just to make sure, she'd checked the stable, remembering Mrs. Peavey saying that he and Elizabeth used to go out there when he was recovering, and thinking that maybe he'd gone to his old "thinking place". But he wasn't there, either.

But he had to be somewhere. And The Maiden was the next logical choice.

She went in, wondering what English rules about minors in bars were. The interior was as dark as she'd remembered it last night (was it really only last night? It seemed so long ago), but it was smokier now, with more people.

She looked around cautiously and saw the bartender from last night, who looked up at her entrance and smiled. She waved but before she could say anything, he pointed to the far corner. She followed his direction and there was Giles, sitting hunched over a glass, staring morosely. She nodded her thanks to the bartender and went to where Giles sat, sliding in next to him.

Her hand on his arm stopped him from raising the glass to his lips. He looked up, startled.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his words slightly slurred. He was drunk, not that that was surprising. It seemed to be something he did when he wanted to "hide out". He got drunk.

"Looking for you," she said simply. "When you didn't come back, I got worried. It's a good thing there aren't too many places to go around here."

"I'm all right, Buffy," he said sadly. "Go home, there's a good girl."

"Yeah. With you."

"Buffy...."

"Come on, Giles, don't do this," she pleaded, both hands on his arm now as she tried desperately to figure out how to get through to him. "I know you're upset. You're supposed to be. But don't-don't crawl away like this."

"What I do is my concern, not yours," he muttered bitterly.

"Says who? I'm out of my element here, Giles. I...."

"I never asked you to come."

"Yeah, but you didn't say no, either, so here I am. I need you. Don't do this. Please."

He didn't say anything, just stared into his glass, his face so sad, so devastated....

She sighed. She might be strong enough to knock him unconscious, but throwing him over her shoulder and dragging him home was out of the question. She needed him mobile and cooperative. And in his present state, he was unlikely to be either.

"Giles..."

"Buffy, I just need to..." he interrupted. They both paused. He stared at her blearily. "Just go home."

"Not without you."

He opened his mouth to protest.

"Look," she stopped him. "If you want to go to your room and sulk, or throw things, or find a bottle and finish drinking yourself into a stupor, I don't care. But come home first, where I'll know where you are. Where I'll know you're safe."

Again he stared at her, as if trying to sort out what she was telling him. But before he could reply, the bartender appeared at their table.

"Missy? Would you like someone to drive you and your Da home?" he asked.

She almost refused, not wanting to involve anyone else in their "family feud". But then she remembered the problems with getting him home, so she agreed. "That would be great, thanks. He's a little upset," she explained. "His father...."

"Yes, I know. He has our condolences. Mr. Giles was a good man."

Giles looked at the bartender, blinking to focus. "Thank you," he said quietly.

"I'll get Tim to take you. Hang on a minute." The bartender left, returning momentarily with a young man, probably in his twenties, probably his son. "Take them to the Giles place."

"Come on," Buffy coaxed, helping her watcher up. "Let's go home."

Together she and Tim got Giles vertical, and with a glance of thanks to the bartender, together they got him to the car. Within a few minutes they were pulling into the drive. Tim helped Giles out of the car while Buffy dug out the key Giles had given her this morning.

"We'll be fine from here," she said. Tim seemed nice enough, but she really didn't want anybody else here. She just wanted to get Giles inside.

Wordlessly, Tim climbed back into his car and drove off. Buffy let them into the house, flipping on lights as she went.

"Do you want tea?" she asked.

Giles stood in the middle of the parlor, looking confused and sad. She put a hand on his arm. "Giles?"

He didn't answer, but she saw his jaw tighten. Then he swallowed audibly, pushed past her and stumbled for the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. A moment later, she heard the sound of retching.

Her throat constricted in sympathy and she forced back the bile. It wouldn't do any good if she got sick, too. She only hoped he'd managed to make it to the toilet. Either that or he was gonna have to clean up his own mess.

Her face wrinkled at the thought and she went to the kitchen, putting the kettle on and pouring herself a glass of soda, anything to wash away the disgusting taste in her mouth.

Giles was still coughing in the bathroom. She briefly thought about going to him, but decided that barfing was a very private thing. She certainly wouldn't want to do it in front of him; she was pretty sure he wouldn't want to be doing it in front of her.

The kettle boiled and she fixed a cup of tea. At least she'd learned to do that much in their brief association. And then she carried it out to the parlor and sat it on an end table.

In a few minutes, she heard the toilet flush and the tap run. Then Giles came out. The sweater was gone, as were the glasses, and his hair was damp. He looked a little gray. And his eyes were so weary, so sad. He stood in the doorway, looking lost.

"I made you a cup of tea," she said gently, taking his hand and leading him to the couch. She sat next to him and handed him his cup, and he sipped gratefully. Then with shaking hands, he put it down.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Appropriately wretched," he answered quietly. He glanced at her. The pain in his eyes made her throat tighten in sympathy. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," she said softly. "But you scare me when you go off like that. I didn't know what to do."

"I'm sorry," he whispered again.

She took his hand, holding it against its tremors. Her thumb gently stroked the back of his hand, and a finger traced the line of his ring. It was a distinctive piece, the only jewelry he wore, except for a watch, but he wore it constantly. Silver, with a black stone in the center and some very faint engraving on the edges.

"What's the ring say?" she asked, hoping to distract him.

His breath caught and he turned his hand, looking at the piece. He slid it from his finger, turning it over, examining it in the light. "Observare. To watch. My father gave it to me.... When I got the call."

He held it out and she picked it up. Around the inside was the date of December 11, 1996. "Was that the date you got the call?" she asked.

He nodded. "I only had the chance to see him briefly before I left. He came up to London to bring me some books. And he gave me this." She slipped it back on his finger. He chuckled, a sound that was almost more of a sob. "He told me not to make a cock-up of it and for God's sake to write occasionally because the council would want to know what was happening. Never said a word about his wanting to know. That wasn't his way."

He took a deep, shuddering breath. "It seemed as if...as if I was finally doing something he approved of. I was doing what I was always destined to do. And doing it well. He seemed to think so...at least I think he did. He wanted to hear everything. All about you, about what we did, the demons we've encountered. At first I thought it was so he could live vicariously through my experiences. But then it seemed like he wanted to know because he...he was proud that I was doing well. He was happy with me.... For the first time. We were actually getting along, for the first time in...in...."

The words faded, caught by emotion as his eyes slid closed and his jaw tightened again. "There wasn't enough time," he whispered harshly. "There's never enough time...."

Buffy acted purely on instinct, pulling him into her arms. He turned his head into her shoulder, choking on a sob and held on, trembling, letting the grief finally overtake him. Her eyes filled, too, in sympathy. It hurt, to see him in such pain. To finally be making it up with his father, only to have his father die. God, that must hurt terribly.

There was nothing she could say, nothing she could do. Except what she was doing. And it wasn't enough. It was never enough.

In a few minutes, he straightened from the embrace, wiping his hand across his eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"It's okay."

He sniffed, trying to pull together the battered remnants of his reserve. The look on his face was heartbreaking. It went deeper than grief. It was the expression of a man who had lost too much, who had no reserves left.

He refused to look at her, kept his head bent, eyes downcast. She didn't know what to do for him. She felt so helpless.

They sat like that for a long time, not speaking. Sometimes, no matter how much you wanted them to, the words just wouldn't come. This was one of those times. Eventually, his eyes closed and his chin dropped to his chest. He must be exhausted.

"Why don't you go to bed?" she suggested softly.

He sat up with a jerk, blinking and looking around blearily, as if trying to remember where he was. Then he let his breath out, his shoulders slumping once more. He nodded mutely, but made no move.

She stood and extended her hands to him. He stared at them for a moment, then looked up at her, gratitude and apology on his face. She reached down, helping him up, and he staggered against her.

"You know," she said as she steadied him and put an arm around his waist to guide him out of the parlor, "you'll never make it up those stairs tonight without breaking your neck. And I can't carry you.

So why don't you take the bedroom tonight and I'll sleep upstairs?"

He seemed to consider it for a moment. "I...my...upstairs I have...."

She thought about that for a bit before she figured out what he was trying to say. "I'll get your stuff. It'll be easier than trying to get you up those stairs." And before he could protest, she steered him down the hall and into the bedroom.

She lowered him to a seat on the bed. "I'll be right back." He didn't say anything, just sat there looking sad and sort of...empty.

With a sigh, she ran upstairs, cursing that she hadn't changed the lightbulb in the stairway yet. She found his pajamas, crumpled on the end of his unmade bed, and smiled, shaking her head in wonder. Somehow she'd always assumed Giles would be a "make your bed and fold your pajamas" sort of guy. You learn something new every day.

She thought about the sad, hurting man downstairs and her smile faded. She'd learned a lot today, about Giles, about herself....

"Oh, good, now I'm going all weird and gloomy. Get a grip, Summers." She grabbed the pajamas and headed back downstairs.

What she found in the bedroom made her smile again.

Giles was asleep. He looked like he'd simply...tipped sideways. His feet were still on the floor, but his face was buried in the pillow, his body lax. Buffy shook her head. So much for getting his pajamas. She knelt down and removed his shoes, lifting his feet onto the bed. He never stirred.

She surveyed him critically. "Sorry, that's it for me." He could just sleep in his clothes. She pulled the blanket over him, making sure he was all right. His breaths were soft and even; he hadn't passed out or anything, he'd simply fallen fast asleep.

She smiled, smoothing his ruffled hair with gentle fingers. Sleep would be the best thing for

him.

"Sweet dreams," she whispered, and left his side, turning off the bedroom light and closing the door.
***

VI

When awareness first tickled the edges of Giles's consciousness, he held his breath, dreading what was to come. But a slight movement of his head didn't bring the expected headache crashing against his skull. He hesitantly opened his eyes, waiting for the pain, surprised when there was none. He felt slightly...disconnected, as if his reality wasn't quite real. And the inside of his mouth was gummy and pasty. But considering what he'd done to himself last night, he really felt surprisingly decent.

Of course, he hadn't actually tried to get up yet, either.

He sat up cautiously, wary of any sudden movement. On the nightstand was a glass of water and he drank it gratefully, wondering where Buffy had learned about the treatment for hangovers. For it was certainly Buffy who had left it for him, just as it was Buffy who had left his pajamas, now crumpled at the foot of the bed. He glanced down at himself in disgust. He always felt so grubby when he slept in his clothes. But he hadn't been in any shape to get undressed last night. He'd been lucky to have made it to bed, and he knew he had Buffy to thank for that as well.

He rubbed a hand over his stubbly face. He couldn't see the bedside clock clearly without his glasses, but from the quality of the light, it was probably some time after seven. He needed to get cleaned up and go next door to use the phone. There were people who needed to be contacted.

At the memory of yesterday, a chasm yawned open in his chest, making his breath catch. His father was dead. It still didn't seem real, hadn't sunk in. Perhaps today, dealing with all the arrangements, would bring it home. Only he didn't know if that would make the ache in his heart worse or better.

He swung carefully out of bed. While he didn't feel too bad, all things considered, he also didn't feel like pushing it. He shuffled off to the bathroom. He'd let Buffy sleep in. Poor thing, she probably needed it. She hadn't been sleeping well before this, and then to have to pick up the pieces yesterday when he self-destructed.... She deserved better than that.

There was no hot water. Giles realized the fire had probably gone out in the stove and Buffy hadn't known how to re-stoke it. A trip to the kitchen confirmed his suspicions, and it was the work of just a few minutes to fill the hopper and get the fire going again. He'd need to show Buffy how to tend the stove.

While waiting for the water to heat, he went upstairs, hoping he could get his clean clothes without disturbing her. The stairway doors were open, probably to let as much heat as possible filter up from downstairs, not that it did much good last night. Poor Buffy, how had she fared all night up there?

A glance at the empty bed told him that she hadn't and he frowned. Where could she be? He grabbed his clothes and headed downstairs again, worried now, his imagination working overtime. Chalworth was an exceptionally safe place, especially for a slayer. But there were always dangers.

When he entered the parlour, he let his breath out in relief. She was curled up on the couch, fast asleep, a blanket pulled up to her nose. She must have been freezing last night. He smiled affectionately; she looked so young in sleep, so innocent.

Guessing there would be hot water by now, he went back to the bathroom to clean up and get dressed. Simply washing the previous day's grunge away made him feel considerably more human, and a shave went a long way toward improving his appearance. If his complexion still looked a little gray, if there were still shadows under his eyes, they could be easily dismissed as being caused by grief, rather than by far too much whiskey.

Back in the parlour, Giles noticed that the room was beginning to warm up. Buffy was still asleep, though she sniffled and shifted slightly, pushing the blanket down to her chin. He frowned; he didn't want to wake her, but if she woke on her own and found him gone....

"Buffy?" he called softly. He bent close and touched her shoulder and she slowly opened her eyes, blinking to focus. "Why are you sleeping down here?"

She rubbed at sleepy eyes. "Too cold up there. And the couch isn't that much lumpier."

"I'm sorry. The fire went out. We've got heat again, it'll warm up soon."

They gazed at each other for a long moment, awkwardly.

"You okay?" she asked, her voice still small from sleep.

He nodded. "Better than I have any right to be, actually." He gazed at her again. "I'm sorry about last night."

"'S okay," she said with a tiny shrug. "I understand."

"But you shouldn't have to...."

"This week will be full of strong emotions, you said. We'd better get used to it."

He smiled, hearing his words repeated back at him. "I-I have to go next door, use the phone. People I need to call. If...if you want to get some more sleep, the bedroom is free again."

She smiled and tried to cover up a yawn. "What time's it?"

"A little after eight. You can go back to bed if you want. I just didn't want you to wake up and not find me here."

A look flashed across Buffy's face, too quickly for him to catch it. "Thanks."

Another look passed between them: still awkward, getting better. "I'd better go." He reached down and brushed a lock of hair from her face, a gesture that turned into a gentle caress of her cheek. "Back in a few." She didn't say anything, just gazed at him with those wide, wonderful accepting eyes, the ones which seemed to comfort him by their mere glance. "I'm very grateful you're here."

"So'm I," she whispered and they shared a smile.

Then he left her side, heading for Mrs. Peavey's.

He was back within half an hour, expecting to find Buffy still asleep, or rather, back asleep, and was surprised to hear splashing and off-key singing coming from the bathroom. He smiled. Ah, the resilience of youth. Had he ever had that much energy? He went to the kitchen and put the kettle on, fixing a cup of tea. A quick check of the larder revealed scones and jam as well as milk, bread, cheese, cookies, juice, ham, pickles, plus other essentials: paper towels, toilet paper, soda, teabags. He smiled. She'd done well. It wasn't much, but it was enough to live on for a few days. He found the package of lightbulbs and took one, changing the bulb in the stairway, pleased to be able to see the stairs again.

His tea was done and he took it and a scone through to the dining room, shaking his head at the mound of books and papers which covered the small table. More things to be gone through. Rather than clearing a spot, he went into the parlour, sitting on the couch instead. It was still warm from Buffy's presence and he smiled. He felt bad about what he'd put her through last night and vowed to make it up to her. He'd had his wallow; now it was time to act responsibly.

He heard the bathroom door open. "I'm back," he called.

"Hi," she called back. "Be there in a minute."

"Take your time." He got up, heading into the hallway. "Do you want toast or a scone?"

"Scone."

"Tea, milk or juice?"

"Juice." She poked her head out of the bedroom, tugging a sweater over her head. "What, are you playing stewardess?"

He chuckled. "I just figured as long as I was out here...."

She laughed and ducked back into the bedroom and he went into the kitchen, finding a glass and pouring her juice. He set out a scone and the jam jar, then went back to the parlour, sitting down and thumbing through the magazine on the top of the nearest stack.

She came out a few minutes later, her damp hair pulled back in one of those atrocious clips all the girls were so fond of, a long-sleeved sweater and jeans, and thick socks. He briefly wondered if she was the type to go in for those awful fuzzy animal slippers he'd seen in the shops.

She flopped onto the couch next to him, drinking her juice and munching on her scone. He smiled. She'd been so responsible, so adult last night. Today she was just a teenager, a bright, energetic spot of delight in his life.

"So how'd it go?" she asked.

"What?"

"Next door. Whoever you had to call."

"Oh, fine. Mrs. Peavey will take care of the friends and neighbors. I think she's pleased to do it-gives her something to do."

"Knowing Mrs. Peavey, she'll probably call the whole town," Buffy grinned.

"Buffy, the whole town is the friends and neighbors. It's not that big a place and everybody knew my father. You don't live your whole life in a place like this without people getting to know you."

She looked a little stunned. "Oh."

He went on. "I've got an appointment with the funeral home first thing tomorrow morning to go over everything."

She nodded. "If everybody knew him, then we should expect a big elaborate funeral thing?"

"Not at all." Giles shook his head. "He wasn't big on ceremony, especially for himself. He left very specific instructions regarding what he did and did not want. I haven't read them carefully, but I don't doubt he wanted it to be simple. He wasn't a flashy man."

Talking about his father made him melancholy again and he sighed. He wished he could cheer up, for Buffy's sake especially. She didn't deserve to have him shuffling around glumly for the next week.

But Buffy, displaying that streak of maturity which always surprised him, simply nodded as if she understood. "For what it's worth," she said softly, "I liked him. I mean, he was kind of...ornery, but he was, I don't know. Sharp. Nothing fake. It was...nice, kind of, meeting someone where there was no BS. He was just who he was, no apologies. I wish..." She swallowed and glanced away, then tried again. "I wish I could have gotten to know him better."

He felt his throat constrict. "So do I."

Suddenly, she looked sad. "I'm sorry, I..I shouldn't have brought it up. Made you think about it."

"It's all right," he said, hoping to reassure her that it wasn't anything she said, it was him. "He liked you, too. He was very impressed with you, with your skill, your courage.... The way you stood up to him, didn't back down when he challenged you. That won you more points than anything else you could have done, could have said. And," he looked away, unable to take in her dear, earnest expression any longer, "and you defended his son. It was very important to him that the slayer have proper support, that the watcher in her life be a strong guide for her. Especially after your losing Merrick. What you said to him went further to reassure him than anything I could have said." He looked at her again. There were tears in her eyes. "Thank you."

She smiled and didn't say anything, simply leaned over and put her arms around his neck, kissing his cheek. His arms went around her and he hugged her tight, reveling in her sweet spirit, the love which was Buffy. He clung to that, used her strength when he had none of his own.

Eventually, the hug eased. He rested his cheek against her hair briefly, then lifted his head. Her tears were drying, though her eyes still glittered with them. He knew from the stinging that his did, too.

He sighed, letting her go. "I'm sorry, I hadn't meant to get so...emotional."

"That's okay," she said in a small voice, sniffing away her own emotions.

He rubbed a hand over his face, banishing the last of his tears and stood up. "Well, we should probably start to work sorting some of this mess out."

She nodded and stood with him, carrying their empty cups to the kitchen. "I did some cleaning up yesterday," she said. "Dusting, mostly. You were right, it doesn't look like he got rid of any of her stuff."

"Why am I not surprised? He never threw anything out. There's forty plus years of detritus in this little house. And I'll have to deal with all of it. God!" He shook his head.

"You don't actually have to do something with all of it, do you? I mean, isn't that what you were going to get the auction people or whatever they are to do?"

"Yes, but I need to know what's here first. To know whether any of it is worth keeping, or if it can all be disposed of. I know he's got some books I want, and there may be...other things. It all has to be gone through."

She made a face. "Okay, where do you want me to start?"

He sighed again. "Why don't you take the bedroom?"

"And I'm doing what with it?"

"Going through it, seeing what's there. Any books and papers, bring out to me. Anything else...." He shook his head. The whole idea of doing this now was oppressive. She was right; he didn't have a clue what to do with most of it. He didn't want to deal with any of it. "No."

She stared at him blankly. "Huh?"

"No," he repeated. "I can't deal with this right now. I can't bear the thought of spending the next week cooped up in this miserable little house sorting through God only knows what." He felt like spending a minute more here would make him go mad.

"It's gotta be done, Giles, you said so yourself."

"I know. But it doesn't have to be done today. Let's go out."

Another blank stare. "Out?"

"Out. Away."

"You mean...together?"

"What? Oh, yes." He smiled, chagrined.

He had no intention of running out on her again. "I just can't face this right now, I need to clear my head. Let's go out, I can show you around, let you see a bit of England. Then tomorrow, we can tackle this mess. What do you say?"

Her confusion turned to delight. "I say let's go! Where to?"

"I don't know, perhaps we could.... No, I do know. How'd you like to see Oxford?"

"Where you went to college? What's there?"

"You mean besides the best university in the world? Oh, there are churches, museums, libraries...." He smiled, teasing. "Shops.... College students...."

"Boys?" Her answering grin widened.

"Quite a number of them, yes."

"Cool!"

He chuckled. "Why don't you get changed and then we'll go."

She just smiled at him and headed to the bedroom, pleased to do what he said. He watched her go, smiling to himself. He was probably just running away. All of this mess would still be here when they got back. But perhaps, with a little chance to relax first, he'd be able to face it all later. Besides, it would be good to see Oxford again. He cleaned up the last of the breakfast things, then waited for Buffy to get ready.
***

VII

It took almost two hours to get to Oxford, but the time seemed to go quickly. It was a bright, early spring day and the earlier fog and chill had burned off into the bluest sky Buffy had ever seen. As a native Angelino, blue sky was one of those things she'd thought was a myth. And while the sky in Sunnydale was frequently blue, it was never as crystalline as the blueness above Oxford.

Giles seemed to get happier as they neared his old stomping grounds. And if he still looked a little pale and buggy-eyed as a result of his binge last night, at least his eyes themselves no longer looked so sad and haunted. There was a sparkle in them, just as there was an ease to his smile. He was taking a walk down memory lane; she could tell he was looking forward to it.

"Will anything be open on Sunday?" she asked.

"Enough," he answered. "It is a college town, so it supports its students all year round. The classroom buildings won't be open, but the quads always are and the Bodleian will be open this afternoon."

"What's the Bodleian?"

"The Bodleian Library, one of the pre-eminent academic libraries in the world."

"Library," she muttered. "What a surprise."

He chuckled. "Oh, I'm sure you'll find the Bodleian to be quite different from our little library back home. Besides, could you possibly go back home and tell Willow you'd been to Oxford but hadn't seen the Bodleian?"

"Good point," she conceded. "I wish I had a camera, we could capture the moment for posterity."

He smiled. "You'll just have to remember and tell her all about it when you get home."

The conversation ceased for several more miles until they got to the Oxford city limits.

"It's been about five years since I was last here," Giles said, driving through the town. "I don't doubt things will have changed." He pulled

into a large parking lot near the train station. "Are you up to doing some walking?"

She made a face. "How far?"

"A few blocks to the high street, a few more to the Colleges. But we can park here all day for free."

"Free's good," she agreed and they climbed out.

They strolled through town to the main shopping district, Giles pointing out this place or that. He took her to a little fish and chip stand he remembered from when he was a student here, and bought for her the traditional greasy fish wrapped in newspaper. Buffy was less than impressed, though at least she could get a diet Coke here. Giles, on the other hand, ate his fish with relish, and even ate her fries. Except he called them chips. And he put vinegar on them, which she tried but thought was really gross.

It was weird, seeing Giles here. He was almost bubbling with energy as he talked, telling her of the time he'd spent here. It was like she was seeing the real man, not the watcher, and not during a time of crisis, either. She decided she liked it.

"Of course, a lot has changed," he was saying. "I've been back for visits since then, but it's been more than ten years since I lived here."

"What year did you graduate?"

"1980, but then I went on for my advanced degree."

"What's your degree in?" she asked, realizing she had no idea.

He looked down briefly, as if embarrassed. "Actually, I have three. History, languages and Library Science. Plus a certificate which qualifies me to teach up to the undergrad level."

"Wow, really? Did you ever want to be a teacher?"

"Briefly," he grimaced. "Until I did some student teaching and realized I hated it."

"'Cause I think you'd be a good teacher. You always explain things so people can understand them."

"I wouldn't mind doing seminars or tutoring-small groups," he agreed, eating the last of her fries. "It's the classroom work I don't care for. That sort of structure. And high school teaching is, if you'll forgive me, more babysitting than anything else."

Mostly, she thought high school was more like punishment, with teachers who didn't care and work that was boring or pointless or both. But occasionally, she'd had a teacher who cared, who actually encouraged her and made her think. Then it could be fun.

They finished lunch and headed out into the sunshine, strolling down the high street toward the Colleges.

"Have you given much thought to what you'll do after high school?" he asked.

"That assumes I'll graduate," Buffy said with a grimace.

"Do you think that'll be a problem?"

"It will be if Snyder has anything to do with it. He's just begging for the chance to kick me out."

"I mean besides Snyder."

"If he kicks me out, there is no besides Snyder."

"I don't doubt he goes out of his way to antagonize you, but I suspect that's just how Herr Snyder gets his jollies."

She couldn't help snickering.

"No," he went on, "I think if he'd been serious about expelling you he'd have done it before now. But the fact is, he has no proof of anything. You're frequently in the wrong place at the wrong time, but he's never actually seen you do any of the so-called crimes he's accused you of."

"Gee, lucky me," Buffy scowled.

He reached for her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. "If push ever came to shove, we'd find a way to deal with Snyder, don't worry."

"I don't know," she sighed. "It's hard to think about the future sometimes. I know Willow's starting to look at colleges, but I just can't. I mean, what would be the point? I'm stuck in Sunnydale, doing slayage."

"Perhaps, perhaps not," he said. "Right now Sunnydale's going through an, um, active phase. But that hasn't always been the case, and there's no reason to assume that the present level of activity will last forever. The slayer goes where she's most needed. Right now that's Sunnydale. In the future, who knows?"

"But meaning that wherever I go, it'll be because I have to, not because I want to."

He didn't have an answer to that and they walked in silence for several minutes.

Buffy always got depressed whenever she considered her future, or lack thereof. Maybe she should have let Kendra take over earlier this year when she'd had the chance. But the truth was, the slayer wasn't just what she did, it was who she was. And it took the risk of losing it to Kendra to realize how much it meant to her, how much she defined herself by that one thing.

Besides, giving it up would have meant giving up Giles, and she didn't want to do that. If she quit, he'd be so disappointed in her, even more than he already....

She bit off that thought before it could fully form. He said he didn't blame her, that it wasn't her fault.

But it was.

She sighed wearily and he squeezed her hand again reassuringly.

"I'm sorry, I hadn't intended to stir up muddy waters," he said gently.

She attempted to smile. "Doesn't take much these days."

He stopped, his hands on her shoulders gently. "This is supposed to be our day off. No depressing thoughts, for either of us."

"So," she gazed up at him, "cheer me up."

He paused for a moment, then smiled. "All right." He took her hand, leading her through the streets.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"You'll see."

A few blocks off the center of town, he turned and ducked down an alley. Then through a covered walkway. And finally into a doorway into what looked like a garage.

Once inside, he stopped, smiling. "Here we are."

Buffy stared. "Oh, wow!" The interior of the garage had been transformed into a kind of flea-market. Booths selling everything from books to jewelry to meats and cheeses, fruit, clothing, and, of course, souvenirs and trinkets which ranged from wonderful to sincerely scary. Perfect.

"I do want to get over to the Bodleian, but we have some time to wander in here if you'd like," he told her. "A lot of the students shop here because you can get just about anything, and usually fairly cheap."

Buffy grinned and together they started down one of the labyrinthian aisles. Some of the booths, she noticed, were permanent, with doors and windows and lights and everything.

"Is this always here?" she asked.

"Has been for over two hundred years. The city fathers set it up as a place for small sellers, because they didn't want pushcarts in the streets. But as you see, it's far more than pushcarts now."

She shook her head. "I'm still hung up on the two hundred years thing. I mean, nothing back home is that old."

He smiled. "In England one gets used to things being old. Just as in America one gets used to things being...large."

Buffy smiled. Leave it to Giles to sum things up so well.

They stopped at one booth, Buffy admiring some earrings. She saw one pair she especially liked, but when she reached for her wallet, she stopped.

"Oh, rats."

"What?"

"I never got any money changed."

He frowned. "What about those traveler's checks I gave you?"

"That's your money."

He smiled kindly. "That's ours for the trip, Buffy. If you'd like to buy those earrings, you may."

She opened her mouth in surprise, then closed it again. She didn't want to spend all his money. "We should save that in case we need it."

He sighed, exasperated. "You pick now to suddenly become frugal?" He took the earrings out of her hand, gave them to the clerk, along with the money to cover them. "There's a time for watching pennies, Buffy. This isn't one of them. Within reason, if you want to do some shopping, you may. We can swing it."

"Yeah, but with what this trip is costing you...."

"I can manage a few trinkets. Besides, I'll be getting the proceeds from the house and contents, eventually. It'll all work out." He got his change back, and held the earrings out to her. "There. These will look very nice."

She smiled up at him, touched by his thoughtfulness. She knew what the airfare alone had cost him, and though she didn't know what he made, she was pretty sure he had to be feeling the pinch. "Thanks," she said softly, "you're so sweet."

"You're welcome," he smiled in return and offered her his arm, leading her on to the next booth.

They strolled arm in arm through the market for over an hour. Buffy bought a very cool Oxford t-shirt for Xander, but didn't see anything she especially wanted for Willow.

"Wait 'til we get to the Bodleian," Giles suggested.

She made a face. "A library has a store?"

"It's a very famous library," he insisted as they left the market, turning back toward the Colleges. Since it was Sunday, none of the buildings were open, but they still spent several minutes sitting in the quad of University College, silently at first, then Giles talking softly about his time here. He'd been very happy here, she could tell. Once he'd returned to Oxford, after his rebellion, he'd thrown himself wholeheartedly into academia, finally taking his studies-and his calling-to heart.

She suddenly realized he'd stopped talking and she looked up. He was gazing at her.

"I'm boring you; I'm sorry," he said. "I suppose... The memories are very strong here."

"It's okay. It makes me wonder if I could have gone to college someplace like this."

"You can."

"You're assuming again that I'll actually graduate from high school."

"Yes, I am. And you will." He stood up and offered her his hand. "Come on, I want to get to the Bodleian before it closes."

The Bodleian Library was huge-a great gothic building with an impressive facade. Inside was, as Giles had promised, a small gift shop, and Buffy bought for Willow a little blank book with famous quotations in the corners of the pages, and an old sketch of the library on the cover.

Purchase made, Giles led her to the main desk, pulling out a card and showing it to the man seated there.

"This is my step-daughter, from America," he said, and she was surprised, but pleased, at how easily the lie came to him. "It's her first trip to England and I'd like to show her the library."

"Oh?" the attendant asked, "are you interested in libraries, miss?"

"Oh yeah, I spend a lot of time in libraries back home," Buffy answered. Well, it was the truth. She did spend a lot of time in libraries. She just didn't do the book thing.

"Well, sir, this is a bit unusual. We have set tours during the week, but ordinarily we don't allow tourists in the reading room."

"Yes, I know. But I do need to get a little work done, and I can't just let her wander on her own. Not in an unfamiliar city."

"Of course, sir." The attendant then extracted from Giles a visitor's fee, which Buffy thought was pretty steep for a quick peek around a library, and after signing the book, they were allowed to enter the main reading room.

It was huge-large wooden tables with green-shaded lamps, wooden shelves, paneling and railings, a balcony which went all the way around. There were quite a number of people studying. Buffy had assumed they'd all be college-aged, but there was everybody-from college guys to old guys. There were girls, too, but more guys.

It was impressive, but.... But it was really just another library.

Giles, meanwhile, was standing next to her, breathing deeply, as if he could absorb the library "vibes". Finally, he looked at her. "I really do want to look up a couple of sources. Will you be all right?"

"Don't suppose they've got magazines," she wondered hopefully.

"Actually, yes, there is a recreational reading room. I'll take you there."

The room in question was quite a bit smaller than the main room, but was equipped with large overstuffed leather chairs and sofas.

"I doubt they'll have Vogue," Giles said, "but I'm sure you can find something to...."

"I'll be fine," she interrupted. "Just don't get so involved you'll forget to come back for me."

"Never," he smiled. "Hopefully, this won't take too long."

She smiled and he left her.

Buffy glanced around the room, sighing. It looked like that was going to be the theme of the week; Giles goes off to deal with things, and Buffy gets left behind. Not that she really wanted to go digging through dusty old books with him. It's just that.... She smiled, remembering the look in his face when he'd walked back into the library. That feeling of coming home. She couldn't blame him, really she couldn't. He probably felt more at home here than he did in his father's house. But, of course, there was still the problem with what to do with her while he was off communing with the dusty pages....

The center of the room had shelves filled with magazines. All around the edges were chairs and couches. In a little room were vending machines offering sodas, coffee, and snacks, but Buffy had no change, even if she'd wanted anything, which she really didn't. But she found a styrofoam cup and filled it with water, then cruised through the stacks of magazines, looking for something to distract her.

Surprisingly, they did have Vogue; and the British version at that. She grinned. She always liked looking at foreign fashion mags. The stuff in them always looked much cooler than the stuff in the magazines at home. So with her cup and her magazine, she found an overstuffed leather chair in the corner and curled up.

The chair was next to a large window overlooking the street below. She opened her magazine, but found her attention drifting out the window to the scene outside, trying to imagine what it must be like to be a student here. Imagining Giles here. What did he do? Where did he live? How did he occupy his time?

The thoughts were so absorbing, Buffy never noticed when her eyes slid closed....

She woke suddenly to a hand on her shoulder and looked around, taking a minute to remember where she was. Giles was smiling at her. "Huh? Oh." She hadn't thought she was that tired, but the deep leather chair had been so inviting....

"You couldn't have slept very well last night," he commented.

"It was okay," she stifled a yawn. She never even looked at her magazine. Darn.

"Are you ready to go?"

She nodded. "You find what you were looking for?"

"Some," he answered simply, extending a hand.

"What were you looking up?" she asked, putting her magazine away and throwing out her cup. "Anything I have to know about?"

"Uh, no. No, just doing some personal research-something I was curious about." His furtive expression meant he didn't want to discuss it. Which made her think it might have had something to do with Ms. Calendar. Maybe about gypsies and curses.

So she accepted it with a nod and took his arm, following him out of the library, which was closing anyway.

"Let's get some dinner before we head back," he said. "That way we won't have to think about cooking at home. I'm afraid I've been rather cavalier about your missing meals."

"I haven't missed any meals," she protested. "I had a sandwich yesterday."

He smiled. "Teen metabolism. Once upon a time I could survive on just a sandwich, too."

"It's that cooking thing I don't do," she said. "I mean, well, I could try, but I'm not very good at it. But we can do sandwiches at home, if you want. Of course, if you want to buy me dinner, that's even better."

He chuckled. "All right. Do you like Indian food?"

"I don't think I've ever had it."

"There are several good Tandoori shops in Oxford."

"I'm game."

He smiled and led her to the high street again, to a little upstairs restaurant decorated in red velvet and bad Indian art. Giles recommended she start with something mild, though as a native Californian she'd practically been raised on jalapenos and salsa. But he insisted that the spices were different, so she got something with chicken and pineapple and rice. Giles got something that actually made him sweat. But the food was good, even if Buffy did drink a lot of water to go with it.

It was after dark by the time they'd finished dinner and headed back to the car. They didn't talk, but they didn't need to, either. It was really weird. She and Giles had absolutely nothing in common-except that watcher/slayer thing. And yet, it always felt like they "fit" together. Like they belonged. That must have been what Giles's father saw the other night, why he was finally willing to give his son the benefit of the doubt. If seeing her had convinced him, then Buffy was especially glad she'd come. It had been hard, some of it, especially seeing Giles so upset, seeing him self-destructive like he was last night. Not that she hadn't known he was capable of that before. But other parts had been good. Today was one of the high points. Seeing Giles relaxed, not worrying about her, or whatever was lurking around the next...corner....

Buffy stopped, her "spider sense" tingling, that old familiar ache in her stomach.

"What is it?" Giles asked.

"I am not in the mood," she grumbled to herself.

"Buffy-?"

"Stay here." She put a hand out to stop him. Only after she did so did she remember she was completely unarmed.

"What...?" Giles began. The vampire she'd "felt" came around the corner. "Oh-!"

He was big. Really big. And mean looking. Buffy had to hope that the usual case of brains and brawn in inverse proportion would apply.

"I thought I left all you guys back home," she said. "Boy, I'll tell you, you try to take a vacation and work just follows you wherever you go."

The vampire stared at her, confused. Then he snarled, expecting to scare her.

"Yeah, yeah," she dismissed with a wave of her hand. "Seen it before." She glanced at Giles. "Does Oxford have a vampire problem?"

"N...not to my knowledge," he replied, his eyes darting furtively in search of some way out. Looking for a plan.

"Well then, that means you're in the wrong neighborhood, fella," she said.

"No, you are," he answered and lunged for her.

"'Fraid not," she sidestepped, grabbing an arm and twisting it behind him. She pushed him away and he went sprawling, but was back on his feet more quickly than she would have expected.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw Giles disappear into the shadows and she had to hope he was trying to come up with a weapon for her. The vamp came at her again, this time managing to grab hold of her. His grip was fierce as he squeezed his arms around her, forcing out air, bruising her ribs. It was a good thing she couldn't breathe, though, because his breath was really gross.

She was too far down to be able to head-butt him; her head simply bounced ineffectively against his massive chest. And her feet were no longer touching the ground, so she couldn't smash his instep. But her knees and feet were in position for other mayhem. She brought one knee up between his legs while the opposite foot hammered into his kneecap. The big vamp grunted and collapsed, practically pinning Buffy beneath him as he fell. She scrambled to her hands and knees, coughing as she sucked air back into her lungs.

"Come on!" She felt arms go around her, lifting her to her feet. "Run!" Supporting her, Giles hurried on toward the car. "We don't have a weapon, but we can try to outrun him."

Buffy pulled away. "No. I'm the slayer; I have to take care of him."

"You're not prepared," he protested.

"If I don't get him now, there's no doing it tomorrow," she insisted. "I'll try to hold him off; find me something to use."

"Buffy...."

But she turned away from his protests, waiting for the monster she was certain would follow.

He didn't disappoint. Moments later, he came lurching up the street toward her, his ugly face even uglier in rage.

"Go!" she yelled and hoped that this once, Giles would actually listen to her.

Then she didn't have time for any more thinking. It was all instinct of the battle. He knocked her down, she knocked him down. He throttled her, she throttled him. Her punches landed harmlessly, his knocked her flat. She sailed into a wall and sat there for a moment, shaking her head to banish the stars. She staggered to her feet, just as the vampire reached her, squeezing the air out of her lungs again as he prepared to turn her into dinner.

There was a shout, and a kind of thudding, squishing sound. The vampire grunted, going wide-eyed. Then he was dust.

Behind where he'd been stood Giles, holding a 2x4 with a jagged end. She didn't know how the hell he'd managed to use something like that as a stake, but as she coughed from vampire dust and lack of air, she was grateful he had.

"Y-you all right?" he asked.

She nodded, still coughing.

"That was too bloody close."

"They're always too bloody close," she coughed. "It's just that usually...I'm armed." She straightened, catching her breath.

"I've never known of vampires in Oxford. I didn't think...."

"You think it followed me?"

"It can't imagine that. I suspect it was just an unfortunate coincidence. But thank God you're all right."

Buffy nodded, thinking that herself. She looked up at him. "You saved my life."

He smiled. "That's what I'm here for." Then he gently brushed some vampire dust off her cheek. "Let's go home." He put an arm around her shoulders, giving her a brief hug before escorting her toward the car.

They left Oxford without further incident, traveling silently for several miles. Buffy coughed and Giles glanced over at her. "You're sure you're all right?"

She nodded. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"I know there are vampires all over the planet. But there's only one slayer, me. Well, except for Kendra. And I'm in Sunnydale. So what does everybody else do? Vampire buffet?"

Giles grimaced. "The slayer goes where the need is greatest," he said, sounding like he was quoting. "Vampire activity ebbs and flows. It may seem like there are millions of them, simply because we encounter them so frequently. But in truth, there are probably only a couple thousand. There are always vampire communities in large cities, but they are careful not to draw attention to themselves. Too many bloodless corpses lead to too many questions by the authorities. And strong as they are, vampires are really quite vulnerable. I'll mention it to the watchers, of course, but I can't help but feel this vampire tonight was an exception."

Buffy frowned. "Why are there so few of them? I mean, if every vamp feeds once a night and...."

"But they don't. For nutrition, a vampire only needs blood once every couple of weeks. Any other killing is purely...recreation. And as you know, animal blood will serve just as well as human.

"And, of course, everyone who is fed upon is not turned into a vampire."

"Why not? I mean, why don't they?"

"Competition for the food source, I assume. Population control."

Buffy considered that. There was so much about vampires she really didn't know, didn't understand. She supposed she should have asked Angel when things were good. But when things were good, she didn't want to think about it.

Now she couldn't think about anything else.

They rode in silence for several minutes before Buffy spoke again.

"Are the watchers headquartered in Chalworth?"

"It is their ancestral home, yes," he said, "though most of them are scattered throughout the world. There are other pockets of watchers: one in Russia, one in China, one in Africa. But Chalworth has, or had, the largest concentration of watchers. At one time more than a dozen watcher families lived there."

"How many watchers are there, total?"

Giles sighed. "I don't know anymore. Some die. Some retire. Many of the new generation refuse their calling. So the numbers are dwindling. Around a hundred, I'd guess, worldwide. Perhaps less."

"But there are a bunch of them, like the watcher pooh-bahs and stuff, in Chalworth. Right?"

He chuckled. "I wouldn't exactly call them pooh-bahs, but Chalworth is historically the oldest conclave of the watchers, yes."

"So you'd think there must be some vampire somewhere who's figured that out. I mean, they know there's a slayer and they know the slayer has a watcher. So some of them probably know where the watchers come from."

Giles frowned. "What are you getting at?"

"Well, how come every vamp in England hasn't swept into Chalworth to take them out? I mean, it's just strategy. If I were a vampire and I wanted to hurt the slayers, I'd take out the watchers. No watcher, no slayer."

"Very good," Giles smiled.

"Huh?"

"You're thinking. And you raise an excellent point. Which is why the town has been, er, blessed, if you will."

"Blessed?"

"Consecrated. Chalworth, the town itself has been blessed."

Buffy frowned. "Is that possible?"

"With difficulty," Giles admitted. "It's similar in concept to the Orthodox Jewish custom of eruv, which is a physical boundary around a town which signifies that the area inside is, literally, 'home'. You see," he continued and Buffy grinned to herself. He was in full "lecture" mode. "Orthodox Jewish law forbids anyone from carrying anything outside of the home on the Sabbath. This means anything from groceries to one's prayer book. However, by constructing an eruv around a town, they're basically saying that the entire town is a single dwelling. Thus circumnavigating the commandment. In this case, the boundary around Chalworth is used to signify that the town is a private home. And since a vampire may not enter a private dwelling without being invited, the entire village is protected."

Buffy frowned. "Yeah, but it's not a private dwelling. I mean, how do they keep them out? Why don't they just walk through the barrier? It's not like it's a physical door or anything."

"The boundary is real," Giles countered. "You probably didn't notice the wires strung up on poles around town. They look quite a bit like telephone lines. And they are as effective as any other door or portal to any private residence. There was a...a spell, much like the one we used to keep Angel out of our houses. It was cast at the boundary. It must be meticulously maintained; that's one of the other things the watchers do here. But as long as the barrier stands, no vampire may enter within the village limits. Of course, its residents are as vulnerable as anyone else outside the village, but within the town, we're safe."

Buffy thought about that. "Cool. But then why does anyone ever leave?"

He smiled. "You've seen it. Would you stay your whole life, even if you knew you'd be safe?"

"Probably not. I mean, no offense, but there's nothing there."

"That's also part of its safety. Vampires go where the feeding is easy and plentiful. It's neither in Chalworth."

"But as long as we're there, we're safe."

"Yes."

"Which is why you let me come along. Because you knew I needed a break and you knew I'd be safe there."

Giles glanced at her. "It was a consideration," he admitted.

She thought about that for another moment.

Giles would protect her even when he left home. That was cool. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"Pretty clever, putting up that boundary like that. Don't suppose we can do that to Sunnydale."

"No, I don't think so," he agreed. "For starts, Sunnydale is much larger and not nearly so isolated as Chalworth. The barrier is a bit tricky to maintain even in a small town. And for another...."

"The demons are already in Sunnydale, 'cause of the Hellmouth," Buffy reasoned. "It wouldn't work to keep them out."

"Uh...quite."

She sighed. "Oh well, it was a thought." Then she yawned.

"Tired?"

"Mmm," she nodded. "I guess my nap wore off." She looked at him, the slightest of smiles on his face, so different from the tension and pain that had been there yesterday. Oxford had been a good idea, in spite of their "fiendly"

neighborhood vampire. She wrinkled her nose at her own unintentional pun. "Thanks for taking me to see Oxford."

"You're very welcome," he said. "Thank you for accompanying me. It was...good...to see it again."

"I can see you going to school there. Kind of like I could see Willow in a place like that."

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Has she expressed any interest in Oxford?"

"I dunno. Just that I could see her there.

Cordy's more the UCLA type. And me 'n Xander, if we go anywhere, it'll be Sunnydale Community College."

"At least you're not discounting the idea out of hand anymore."

"I said if."

He conceded the point and they traveled the rest of the way home in silence.
***

VIII

Reflexes were wonderful things. They enabled Giles to go from a deep sleep to full wakefulness at the first scream, and halfway down the stairs by the second one. He grabbed the walking stick propped in the corner of the hall as he dashed into Buffy's bedroom.

She was sitting bolt upright in bed, and as he punched the light switch, she screamed again and scrambled into a defensive crouch against the headboard. Her eyes were wild and terrified.

"Buffy-"

"Go ahead and kill me..." she gasped.

"What...?" He approached the bed.

"...Before I kill you."

Giles froze in mid-step. She stared directly at him, but seemed not to actually be seeing him.

"Buffy, you were dreaming," he soothed, moving slowly to set the walking stick down. He approached the bed and she shrank away, hissing.

"Get out or I'll kill you!" she cried, more in sorrow than anger.

"It's all right, you had a dream. No one is going to harm you."

"No, I have to...."

"Yes," he interrupted. "A dream. A nightmare. But it's over now."

She stared at him, the first glimmerings of doubt crossing her small features. Slowly, she brought a hand to her face, feeling for what she must have believed would be there. As realization dawned, reality returned and Buffy collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. She slid down the headboard and curled in on herself as she dissolved into tears.

This time when Giles moved toward her, there was no protest, nor none when he gathered her into his arms and held her against her bitter weeping.

"Shh, it's all right," he whispered, "it's over, you're safe. Shh."

"Oh, God," she sobbed. "Oh, God...."

"Shh, shh." He rocked with her, stroking her hair.

Suddenly, she sat up with a gasp. "Oh God, Giles! What if it's true?"

"It was just a dream, Buffy," he soothed.

"Dreams come true, sometimes! Especially my dreams."

"You're not a vampire, if that's what's worrying you," he said, surmising from her reaction that that had been the substance of her nightmare.

"Not that, the rest. Angel, he...I wasn't there. And he...he...the others. He got the others. And...and...I wasn't there...to stop him. And...and..." she gulped.

"And then he caught you and turned you into a vampire," Giles guessed. "But it didn't happen."

"But the rest of it might have," she insisted. "And I'm not there to stop him. Oh, God...." She grabbed Giles's arms, wild-eyed. "I have to go home. I have to see...."

"Shh, easy, Buffy," he steadied her gently. "We can call them if you'd like. There are such things as telephones in England, you know."

"But not here."

"No, but we'll find one. If calling them will put your mind at ease, then that's what we'll do."

She gazed at him with huge, tear-filled eyes. "You sure?"

"Of course. Just put your coat over your pajamas."

Buffy sniffed and wiped at her eyes. "It's the middle of the night," she said softly. "Where can we find a phone?"

"There are public phones at the post office."

"Will it be open?"

"The phones are always accessible. Now you put your shoes on and I'll be right back." He squeezed her shoulder and hurried upstairs to find his own shoes. When he got back downstairs, Buffy was standing in the hall, hunched into her coat.

"If everybody's all right I'm gonna feel pretty stupid," she mumbled, letting him lead her to the car.

"No you won't, Giles said, "you'll feel relieved."

She sniffed. "What time is it there, anyway?"

He glanced at his watch and did the quick subtraction. "Um, around 7:30."

Buffy simply acknowledged that fact with a nod and got into the car, slumped miserably against the door. They drove in silence into town and pulled up in front of the post office. Unsurprisingly, they were the only ones there.

Giles led Buffy into the red kiosk, sliding in behind her. He picked up the receiver and entered his credit card number, followed by the international access code. Then he handed her the receiver. "You can dial now, whomever you wish."

She nodded and punched in a number he recognized to be Willow's.

"Please be there," she whispered, chanting. "Please be there, please be...Willow? Hi, it's me. Is everyone all right? What? No, I...I just got a feeling, so I wanted to check and see if.... Oh. Oh, well that's good. Yeah."

Giles smiled, reassured that all was well on the home front. He squeezed Buffy's shoulder, preparing to ease out of the booth and give her some privacy, but she grabbed hold of his wrist and wouldn't let go.

She was still talking. "No, I'm.... What? Um, I don't know, the middle of the night some time. No, well see, there's no phone at the house-oh, Will, you've gotta see Giles's house. It's a cottage, with a straw roof and everything! Yeah. What? No, we're standing on a street corner in our pajamas, if you can believe that. Yeah." She laughed. "Is...is Xander okay? Yeah. What about my mom? Oh. Oh, yeah, that's right. Well, did she call? Oh, good. Thanks. No, I'm okay, it's just...it's been kind of weird. Yeah, yesterday. When we got in, and he spent all day yesterday with him. I will."

Buffy lowered the phone. "Willow says she's sorry about your father."

Giles smiled. "Tell her thank you."

"Here," Buffy spoke into the phone again, "why don't you talk to him yourself?" She handed him the receiver. He had to squeeze even farther into the booth in order to talk comfortably, and he wound up with Buffy tucked firmly against his side, his arm around her shoulders where he held her securely. She put an arm around his waist and rested her head against his chest.

"Hello, Willow," he said.

"Hi, Giles. I'm sorry about your father."

"Thank you."

"Did he know you were there?"

"Yes, and he met Buffy, too."

"Good." There was a pause. "Giles, what's going on? Is Buffy all right?"

He smiled. Of course Willow wouldn't be fooled by Buffy's casual, "I just had a feeling" comment. But he said, "Yes, we're both fine." He

tightened his arm around Buffy, his hand stroking lightly up and down her arm. "Had a bit of a bad dream, but we're all right now. Better with knowing that everything's all right at home."

"Good," Willow said. "We're all fine here, nothing new and exciting, or scary, or anything. Just...kind of normal."

"Well, that's good."

"Are you still coming home on Thursday?" she asked.

"Buffy will, definitely," he said. "If all goes as planned, so will I. But I haven't been able to make all the arrangements yet, so we'll have to see."

"Anything I can do to help?"

"Yes, be careful and keep your head down. We don't want to take any unnecessary chances."

"I will," she said. "Well, um, take care. And take care of Buffy."

"Of course. Here, let me put her back on. We'll see you when we get back."

"Okay, 'bye." He handed the receiver back to Buffy, who stayed tucked in his arms while she talked.

"Me again," she began. "Did Giles tell you we went to Oxford today? Or is that yesterday? Whatever. Anyway, it was really cool, you'd love it. There was this gift shop in the library, this great big library I can't remember the name of-Bodacious or something...."

"Bodleian," Giles corrected with a smile. He could just imagine his professors reactions at hearing their beloved Bodleian referred to as "the Bodacious Library".

"Yeah, that," Buffy said, and Giles realized Willow had corrected her, too. "Anyway, I got you something at the gift shop. I hope you like it." She lowered the receiver again, looking back at him. "Willow says she's jealous." He smiled again, picturing Willow's reaction.

"Listen, Will, I gotta go. It's the middle of the night and we're freezing here. It's really cold, like winter. I had to buy a sweatshirt so I didn't freeze at night, and the house is heated with this giant stove and coal. It's so cool. No, actually, it's cold, really cold. Anyway.... I wish there was a phone at the house, I'd call every night. Nah. Yeah, I think so. Okay. And say hi to everybody for me. And if you see my mom, hide! Okay, g'night. 'Bye."

Almost reluctantly, Buffy hung up the phone. She looked at Giles. "Everybody's okay," she said in a small voice.

"Good," he said. "I'm glad. Ready to go?"

She nodded and he moved out of the booth, bringing her with him. She was silent during the drive back, and it was obvious that though she was no longer terrified, the dream still disturbed her. When they got home, she went into the parlour and sat hunched into the corner of the sofa, still huddled in her coat. He watched her for a moment, saw the fear, the sadness.

"Not going back to bed?" he asked gently.

She just shook her head. "I couldn't."

She was afraid of the nightmare coming back. He couldn't blame her. I'm going to put the kettle on. Do you want some tea?"

She didn't look at him, but nodded, and with a last glance at her dejected figure, he headed into the kitchen.

When he came back a few minutes later, cups of tea in his hands, she had shrugged out of her coat, but sat shivering with equal parts chill and reaction. He handed her the tea and sat next to her, tugging the old knitted afghan off the back of the sofa and draping it over her shoulders.

She moved slightly, so subtly he almost missed it. But she gradually leaned against him as she cupped both hands around her hot cup. He kept his arm around her shoulders as he sipped his own tea. He wished he could hold her in his arms, protected against the fears and the terrors which filled her young life. But he knew that no matter how tightly he held on, she was the slayer. She would never be free of the evil and the horror. Not until it finally destroyed her.

She sniffed and set her cup down. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"What for? For wanting to check on your friends? That's nothing to apologize for."

"For freaking."

"You had a dream which frightened you. Given the things which have happened recently, it's not surprising you're having difficulties. I'd hoped bringing you here would give you a respite, but our vampire friend tonight seemed to have other plans."

"It wasn't just him. At least, I don't think so. I mean," she swallowed, "he really wasn't any different from any other vamp. Well, maybe a little bigger. But between him and that stuff about Mrs. Peavey's daughter, and...."

He sat up straight, the blood rushing to his stomach. "You know about Elizabeth?"

Buffy blinked up at him. "You said I could ask." Her voice was small, uncertain.

"When?"

"Yesterday, when she took me shopping."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I was going to. That's why I went to the nursing home yesterday afternoon, to talk to you, about that and the slayer's diaries. But...."

"Slayer's diaries!" The lump in Giles's stomach solidified.

"I...I found them, when I was cleaning up yesterday. And I figured they're what your father was talking about. I..I hadn't meant to read them, but...."

"Oh, Buffy, you should have told me," he gasped, thinking about her going through those books by herself, the things they revealed.

"I wanted to, but once I got to the nursing home, well...I kind of forgot, what with everything else."

"Oh, Buffy," he said again, cupping the side of her face with his hand. "I'm so sorry."

She frowned. "Sorry? What for?"

"You should have told me. You are the slayer, your needs must always come first."

"Not when your father's lying there dead," she denied vehemently, her words harsher than perhaps she'd intended. "Sometimes you have to be human first, and a watcher second."

He didn't know what to say. He'd intended to comfort her, but somehow it wound up being the other way around. "I wish I had known," he said instead. "You shouldn't have had to go through that alone."

She shrugged. "I guess it all freaked me more than I realized."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. You know now." Her voice was soft again. She sounded so young.

He brushed her hair away from her face. "Did you want to talk about it? Do you have any questions?"

"I did. When I first read them. But now I can't remember. And I really don't want to look at them again to remind myself."

He nodded, smoothing her hair, and she sighed, leaning her head against his shoulder. They were silent for a time, sitting together. Buffy snuggled closer and he held her securely, a little surprised by her continued neediness. Most of the time she was so strong, so brave, one forgot her youth, her vulnerability. She was still just a child, for all her skill and experience.

"Giles?" Buffy's voice was small.

"Yes?"

"Will you do something for me?"

"Of course."

"When something happens to me...."

"Buffy...."

"No, we both know what will happen, eventually. Even if I hadn't figured it out before, those diaries would have told me. But when something finally happens.... I..I don't want the watchers to get my diary."

Giles went cold. It was the thing he least wanted to talk about, what would happen after. He simply couldn't contemplate that time, when she would be taken from him, when she would no longer be a part of his life.

"I..I'll see it's destroyed," he promised.

"It...it's okay if you see it," she said softly. "I wouldn't mind that. But I...I don't want the watchers to get it. I couldn't stand the thought of all these weird old men reading my diary. I don't even want other slayers to see it. It's too private."

He placed a gentle finger under her chin, tipping her head up to look at him. The imploring expression in her eyes, the tears she couldn't hide.... How could he ever deny her anything? "I promise. No one shall ever read your diary."

"Thanks," she sighed and settled her head against his shoulder again.

He wanted to tell her that it wasn't anything she needed to worry about, that it wouldn't ever come to that. But he wouldn't lie to her. She was too intelligent for fairy stories and he respected her too much to try. So he sat there, holding her in his arms, hoping against hope that she would be with him a long, long time. But knowing, in that part of his heart he seldom examined, that she probably wouldn't.

Eventually, he realized she'd fallen asleep. He was touched. The girl who'd been too frightened to go to bed for fear of nightmares felt safe enough n his arms to relax and let go.

He smiled, thinking that it was yet one more way he could prove that he was "doing it right". She trusted him, trusted him completely. He was honored by her faith in him, only hoping he was equal to it.

He stroked a hand over her tangled hair. He would have just let her sleep here like this, except that he wanted to get some sleep himself and knew if he tried to sleep sitting on the couch, he'd be very sorry in the morning.

So he gently nudged her awake. "Buffy? Let's get you to bed."

Buffy mumbled a protest and snuggled closer to his chest.

"No, come on, you'll sleep better in bed."

"Mmm," she moaned, but allowed him to help her up. He didn't think she even bothered to open her eyes, simply let him lead her to the bedroom where she obediently crawled beneath the covers and fell back asleep almost immediately. He smiled as he pulled the blanket up over her, tucking it in gently. She was strong, she was brave, she was clever.... But she was also only seventeen, and barely seventeen at that. She was at that interesting, intriguing, maddening age suspended between girl and woman, swinging almost breath by breath from one to the other. She drove him crazy. Almost as often as she kept him awed.

Right now she was all little girl, curled up in the big bed, sound asleep. He smoothed her hair and bent to kiss her forehead. "Sleep well, my sweet," he whispered.

Then he turned off the light and closed the door.
***

IX

Buffy came awake gradually and stretched. She didn't open her eyes, enjoying instead that peaceful feeling of being not quite awake and knowing there's nothing you have to get up for. Despite the nightmare of last night, once she'd fallen back to sleep, she'd slept remarkably soundly, no more dreams to mar her rest. She smiled when she thought about why.

Giles.

She didn't remember going back to bed last night. The last thing she remembered was sitting on the couch in the parlor, his arms around her protectively. She must have fallen asleep there and he'd put her back to bed. Poor Giles. Having to take care of her like she was a baby.

Not that he seemed to mind. No matter what else was going on in his life, no matter how many other things he had to worry about, or how much he was hurting, she always came first with him. Her needs, her wants. He was upset last night, not because she'd read the slayer's diaries, but because she hadn't told him. Because, in his words, 'you shouldn't have to go through that alone'. Here she was, thinking she'd come to England to be with him during a difficult time. And turned out he wound up looking after her. Again.

Oh well, she guessed they looked after each other. It was what they did best. She stretched again and finally opened her eyes, looking at the clock on the bedside table. Its face was obscured by a folded sheet of paper with her name on it. She picked it up.

Buffy: I've gone into town for appointments with the funeral home and such. I should be back by noon. Feel free to sleep in. I didn't want you to find me gone and start worrying again. Back soon. G.

Buffy smiled. Always thinking of her, even when he had to be thinking about his father's funeral. He was the sweetest man....

She rolled over, stretched again and sighed. Well, she could simply go back to sleep. Or she could see what she could do about getting this dumb little house in order so when he came back she would have already made a start on it, made it easier for him.

Besides, she was hungry!

She swung out of bed, decided. Time to start the day.

When the front door opened, a few minutes before noon, Buffy had most of the windows in the cottage open, and was blasting the only decent radio station she could find from the small portable radio in the kitchen. Times like this she could really go for her boom box and a stack of CDs, but this would do for now.

"Hello," a voice called.

"Hi!" She came into the parlor from the bedroom, to see Giles tugging off his raincoat. It had been drizzling most of the morning and didn't show any sign of stopping. "How'd it go?"

"All right. We've got the wake set up for tomorrow afternoon, and I have to go back to the bank tomorrow morning to finish up some business." He slipped out of his wet shoes and into a pair of slippers he'd left by the door. "Oh, and I spoke to Thomas Martin. He's a watcher, one of my father's oldest friends here in town. I told him about our encounter last night in Oxford. He said there had been a suspicious death there about six months ago, but they could never get confirmation. In a large university town, people were too willing to chalk it up to some youthful prank gone bad. He said now that they know, they may pursue the matter further."

"And do what?" she asked. "I mean, what do they do if they do find more of them?" She was in Sunnydale and Kendra was in...wherever it was Kendra lived. She realized she didn't know.

Giles shrugged. "Depends on what they find and how serious they deem the problem. One death in six months is relatively minor in the ultimate scheme of things."

"So they'd just let it go?" Buffy frowned. She didn't like the sound of that.

"We're a little short on resources," he explained. "The watchers can do what they can to prevent attacks, but they're ill-equipped to actually slay vampires. They lack the skills, the...innate abilities which the slayer has." He looked at her seriously. "We can't stop every vampire in every community, Buffy. No matter how much we wish we could. We can only pursue those areas where the danger is the greatest."

"And everybody else gets to fend for themselves."

"They've been doing it that way for millennia now." He handed her a damp paper sack. "Here. I got some fruit, and the paper."

"Yeah, that's exactly what this house needs, more papers." She made a face, still thinking about the situation in Oxford. She knew that there were vampires all over the globe, and she knew she was by herself. But it still bothered her to let them go unchecked. Anywhere.

Giles was taking his coat to the back "mud" room off the kitchen, hanging it up to dry. "Don't suppose you picked up any moving boxes, did you?" she asked. They'd realized yesterday that they would need boxes to put the "keepers" in.

He grinned. "I most certainly did. They're in the car, I'll bring them in after lunch."

"Yay Giles!"

He glanced around the parlour. "Looks like you've been busy. Dare I ask where all the stacks of papers went?"

"Well, the magazines and newspapers are in garbage bags. Do you guys recycle?"

"Afraid not-such innovations haven't reached Chalworth yet."

"Then they can be thrown out. Anything I wasn't sure about is on the dining room table for you to go through."

"Good. I'll start with that after lunch."

"And then there are some things in the bedroom I need your help with."

"Such as?"

"Her jewelry box. I don't know what's good and what's not."

"I don't recall her having much of any great value. Except her wedding ring. But I'll take a look. He should have had some jewelry, too."

"Yeah. You can go through that, too."

Suddenly, he smiled at her. "Thank you."

She grinned back. "No prob. Woke up feeling pretty good. Figured I might as well get to work."

"No more nightmares?"

"Nope. Slept like a baby."

"Good." His smile broadened. "All right, let's see about lunch."

Lunch was sandwiches and fruit, and while they ate, Giles told Buffy what would be forthcoming: the wake tomorrow afternoon, the funeral the following morning. Mr. Giles, like his wife, would be cremated, so they didn't have to mess with cemeteries. Cremation, she learned, was the customary way to deal with the watchers who died.

And with the slayers.

She shivered. Not that she really cared what would happen to her body once she was no longer in it. But thinking about being.... Well, thinking about dying in general always gave her the wiggins. Still, she supposed it was good, knowing that there wasn't any chance some demon could move into her body after she died, because there wouldn't be a body to move into.

It wasn't much comfort. But it was better than nothing.

Giles was still telling her about the arrangements. The wake tomorrow and the funeral on Wednesday. Then the auction house appraisers would be coming Thursday morning early, and then with luck, they'd be able to catch their scheduled Thursday afternoon flight out, arriving back in LA quite late Thursday evening.

And in the mean time, they had to go through everything in the house to see if any of it was worth saving.

"Did you say if anything's still in the stable?" he asked, clearing away their lunch things.

"I didn't say, and no, nothing's there. A couple of leather leash-things on a hook, lots of dirt. That's about it."

"The leather leash-things are called reins," he explained patiently. "If they have a series of buckles attaching several pieces together, that's a bridle. If there's a big thing in the middle with straps, that's probably a saddle."

"Ha ha," she made a face at him.

He chuckled. "I take it you've never ridden a horse?"

"I was into ice-skating instead. Horses...kinda scare me."

He smiled kindly. "If I'd known, we could have gone riding yesterday. Show you there's nothing to be afraid of. It's been years since I've been on a horse and I miss it terribly."

She gazed at him. "Did you ride a lot?"

"We always had at least a couple of horses until my mother died," he explained. "Once she was gone, my father kept the stable up for a few years, but when the last one died, let it go. They were always her great love. I learned to ride quite young and for a time was riding nearly every day. And I certainly cared for the horses every day. That's a discipline in and of itself. When I was twelve, my mother gave me one of the horses, a wonderful chestnut mare I named Nimue." He stopped, flushing a little. "A bit melodramatic, I suppose, but I was only twelve. Anyway, Nimue was fully my responsibility. I had to groom her, feed her, exercise her, take care of her totally. It taught me a lot about responsibility."

"How'd she do?" Buffy asked, trying to imagine Giles at twelve, probably tall and gawky, tending a beautiful horse.

"She lived to a ripe old age and died peacefully one night while I was away at Oxford. Simply keeled over in her stall, my father said. She was the last of our stable." His tone was wistful, remembering.

"Well," he said, snapping himself out of his reverie, "show me what you wanted me to see in the bedroom."

"There's a lot of stuff here," she said, leading him into the bedroom. "I don't know how much of it you want to go through. I mean, a lot of it-band-aids, boxes of powder-we can just toss. But...."

"Actually, the Auction house said to keep any old toiletries, anything which could be forty or more years old. They might be worth something."

Buffy just stared at him. You're kidding, right?"

"I wish I were," he sighed. "People collect odd things."

She grinned. "Here. See if any of this is worth anything." She gave him his mother's jewelry chest.

"She didn't have much in the way of good jewelry, that I recall. But she had some costume pieces and...ah!"

"What is it?"

"A charm bracelet." He handed it to her. "Take a look at it."

She examined the charms: a book, a cross, a clock, a candle, a pen, another book with a cross on it, like a bible, and a flower. "Pretty" She handed it back.

"Look more closely at the charms. Think of them in relation to each other."

She looked again, thinking instead of their being part of a whole. "Cross, book, clock, no, watch... Giles, they're watcher's charms!"

He smiled. "That's right. It was my grandmother's. And she, in turn, gave it to my mother."

Buffy examined the charms again. "That's so cool."

"Would you like it?"

"What? Oh, I... Shouldn't it go to another watcher? I mean, if I wore it, it would get snagged on things and broken and I might lose it...." It was very pretty, but she couldn't imagine wearing it. Not her style.

"All right. I'll hold onto it, for the time being." He smiled, that quiet smile he had which always made her feel like she was seeing only about a tenth of him-the rest was deeply hidden. "But there ought to be another piece here that.... Ah, here it is." He pulled it out.

It was a cross. Covered completely in gemstones of dark red. Rather than being gaudy, the effect was one of rich elegance. Buffy gasped when she saw it.

"I would like you to have this," Giles said softly. "My father gave it to her and she wore it almost all the time." He fingered the piece reverently. "I know you aren't wearing your silver cross anymore," he said sympathetically, his eyes kind. He knew where the silver cross had come from. "And I know she would be pleased that I was giving it to you."

Buffy touched the cross carefully. "It's beautiful, Giles. I..." She looked up at him. "What if I lose it?"

He shrugged. "You never lost the silver one. It's a piece of jewelry, Buffy, valuable only in its sentiment. But I'd like you to have it."

"What are the stones?"

"Garnets. Or perhaps simply dark red glass. I don't know and it doesn't really matter. It's yours

if you want it." He set it in her hand.

She held it by its thin gold chain, raising it to the light. The stones sparkled. Then she held it up to her neck and gazed at him.

"It looks lovely," he said.

She lowered the necklace and closed her hand around it. He'd never given her anything like this before, something that was so much a part of him,

a part of his past. It had belonged to his mother.... She was awed. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

He looked quickly through the rest of the case. "This lot can go to auction, there's nothing else I want here. You're welcome to anything else which strikes your fancy."

She shook her head. "No offense, but it's all grandma jewelry."

He chuckled. "Yes, I suppose it is." He closed the box, setting it aside, and did a quick survey of his father's jewel case.

"Are your grandparents still alive, Buffy?" he asked as he worked.

"Both my mom's folks are, but my dad only has his mom left, and a step-father he doesn't like, so we never see them."

Giles nodded. "I was quite close to my grandmother, my father's mother, when I was growing up," he said, setting aside a pocket watch, and a set of cufflinks and tie-tack.

"She's the one who was the watcher?"

"Yes. But she passed away when I was twenty. It was after that when things started going badly. I doubt I've have gotten so...off track if she'd been there." He sighed and closed the box. "Well, that's that. Anything else here you find, any of her things, you're welcome to."

"Nah," Buffy shook her head. "Not really my

style. But thanks." She opened her hand around the cross. "Thanks especially for this."

"You're welcome." He put a hand on her shoulder and she wrapped her arms around him, giving him a hug.

Then he left her to her sorting and went back to his papers.
***

X

A couple of hours later, Buffy came out into the parlour. Giles was taking a momentary break from the seemingly never-ending stacks of papers when she walked into the room, bent over double, and stretched, touching her knees with her forehead, her hands grasping the backs of her ankles. His own spine winced at the movement, but he was glad she was so flexible; she was the one who needed it, after all.

"Stiff?" he asked.

"Not used to this much...nothing."

"Well, we haven't worked out properly since we've been here." He put his teacup down. "Let's do that now."

Buffy straightened. "Your father has weapons?"

"We won't need weaponry today. Come on, outside."

"Giles, it's raining outside."

"It's barely drizzling. Come on, you won't melt."

"I'll get all wet," she insisted, pouting.

"You'll dry." He folded his arms and gave her a stern look. "Or are you getting soft?"

Buffy sighed exaggeratedly. "All right, but if I get sick, you get to explain to my mother what I was doing running around in the rain," she mumbled.

They shrugged into jackets and Giles led them to the large back garden. The grass was overgrown, but there was plenty of open space to work.

"You can't be faulted on your weaponry handling. And your strength is considerable. But we need to concentrate on your energy."

"My what?"

"You expend so much energy in fighting, you tire quickly. All it will take is a vampire with better stamina and you'll be in trouble."

"I do what I need to do," she insisted.

"But you do it...sloppily. We're going to work on conservation of energy. Learning to control your energy, letting it work for you, letting your opponent's energy work against him."

"Huh?" Buffy frowned.

"I'll show you. Come at me. Try to attack me."

She got a glint in her eye. "You sure about this?"

He just smiled and motioned her on. She moved in on him, but as she did, he took her arm, backing away, pulling her off balance. She recovered quickly and came at him again, and again he managed to get her off balance.

She frowned. "What are you doing? You're not doing anything."

"I must be doing something, I keep evading you, and you keep practically falling."

"I'm just out of practice," she scowled.

"And you're using so much energy that I can deflect it, make it work against you."

She stopped. "How?"

"It's very simple," he grinned. "Here, I'll show you."

For the next hour, he taught her some martial arts defensive techniques which relied not on her own strength and speed, but on her being able to anticipate her opponent, to use his strength against him. With this technique, she was never the attacker, but always ended up victorious. And she didn't wear herself out nearly as quickly. It was the kind of

training Giles especially liked. Something other than getting himself pummeled by Buffy week after week. He wasn't nearly as inept as she seemed to think he was, but it took something like this, something which used intellect as much as pure strength or stamina, to prove it to her.

He followed the training up with some rudimentary chi kung exercises which showed her how to channel the energy she had, to focus it in certain areas, or to make it flow throughout her body.

It must have been successful, because by the end of the session, Buffy was practically glowing with energy. It seemed to vibrate through her almost electrically.

"Wow," she gushed, "why didn't you ever show me that before?"

He smiled, delighted at how successful the session had been, especially at how receptive she'd been to the new techniques. "You weren't ready before. This kind of training requires a great deal of discipline. And doing it wrong could have consequences. Headaches are just the least of them. We're tapping into your personal energy source, we must tread carefully, making sure we don't overdo it."

"How could I overdo it, I feel great!" And as in proof, she ran across the yard, leaping into a series of cartwheels and flips, all perfectly executed....

Until her foot slipped in the wet grass and she landed flat on her back. Hard.

"Buffy!" Giles dashed across the lawn. His breath was in his throat. The damage she could have done, landing like that....

She was staring straight ahead, mouth open in surprise. Then she gasped. "Whoops."

"Are you all right?" He started breathing again.

"Yeah," she sat up carefully. "That's what I get for showing off."

"Yes, but it did give you a clear demonstration of undisciplined energy," he smiled, offering his hand to pull her up.

"Swell," she muttered. "Oh, Ick!" She looked down at her muddy, grass-stained clothes.

"It's all right. You'll wash."

"I'm all wet!"

"And dry. Come on, let's go back inside."

She nodded and walked with him back toward the cottage. "Maybe," she began, looking up at him, "we can try this again tomorrow?"

"Yes, all right," he smiled. "In the morning. We've got to be at the funeral home all afternoon and evening."

"All afternoon?"

"From about three o'clock on. You'll probably be desperately bored, make sure you take a good book along."

"I don't have one," she said mournfully. "There's nothing to read here."

"Buffy, my father's house is full of books."

"Yeah, but nothing I want to read. They're all, like, scholarly."

"Not all. I'm rereading The Man in the Iron Mask."

She wrinkled up her nose. "No thanks. I'll wait for the movie."

He sighed. "What sort of book are you looking for?" he asked as they got inside and hung their wet coats up in the mud room. They left their shoes there, too, and Buffy stripped out of her muddy jeans, tugging her baggy sweatshirt down over her hips as she padded on stocking feet toward her bedroom.

"How 'bout a cheap, trashy romance?" she called, going to get changed.

"I'm afraid I can't help you there. But what about a gothic romance?"

"Like what?"

"Oh, like Jane Eyre."

She came out of the bedroom, pulling up her sweatpants. "What's it about?"

"It's about a young woman who becomes governess in the home of the handsome Mr. Rochester, a mysterious man with a dark secret," he told her, doing his best to sound "dramatic".

Buffy grinned. "Sounds promising." Then she frowned. "Is it...icky language?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You know, weird English that's hard to understand."

"No. The style is a little more formal than contemporary writing, but you should have no problem understanding it. Let me find it for you, then you can take a look and decide for yourself."

"Okay," she agreed, and he left her in the bathroom, trying to drag a brush through her snarled, wet hair. While he was in the study, looking for the book, he heard the bathroom door shut and the tap run. He sighed. He'd never seen anyone who took as many baths as Buffy Summers did.

When she came out, he handed her the book and after thumbing through it quickly, she put it in her room. They went back to their sorting. Buffy was done with the bedroom and now worked in the dining room, going through everything. Giles was still sorting papers. Anything which was questionable got stacked on the dining room table, so it was a slow task. It seemed to him that no sooner did he get one stack worked down than two more popped up in its place. Already he'd filled up one box of things he needed or wanted to take home with him. No doubt he'd have quite a few more by the time they were done.

A couple of hours later, Giles stood up from his work. "My eyes are crossing," he said. "That's it for tonight."

Buffy got up from where she was sitting in the corner of the dining room, going through the silver. "Well, you're making progress, at least. Isn't that stuff there from the den?" She pointed to one of the stacks of paper on the table.

"Some of it. But there's even more in there." He shook his head. "I swear the man never met a piece of paper he didn't like."

Buffy giggled. "Or anything else, for that matter."

"Quite," Giles agreed and stretched. "How'd you like to go out for a little while?"

She frowned. "Out where?"

"Just down to The Maiden for a drink."

The frown didn't let up. "Am I allowed?"

"You can't drink, but you can certainly go in with me. You've been there twice before, why the problem now?"

She shrugged. "The first time was for food, and the second time was for you. I didn't know what the rules are in English bars for minors."

"Pubs in the city probably wouldn't let you in, certainly not if you were by yourself. But we're a bit...laxer out here. It's at least as much community meeting place as drinking establishment. Come on, I could do with a walk."

Buffy looked at the window. "Is it still raining?"

"I think it's stopped. Do you want to go?"

She grinned. "Sure. Why not?"

They walked down to The Maiden. The evening air was chilly, but at least the rain had stopped. It felt good to just walk. They didn't bother to talk; they didn't need to.

There weren't very many people there, just the handful Giles figured were the regulars, having a pint at their "local". Several of them greeted him as if he were an old friend, expressing their condolences about his father.

"You know them?" Buffy whispered once he returned with their drinks.

"Haven't a clue." He sat down next to her. "Friends of my father, undoubtedly. I'll probably meet them again tomorrow or Wednesday. Perhaps then I can put a name with the face."

She nodded and took a sip of her soda. "Hey, it's diet!"

"I remembered to ask this time," he said, smiling.

"Cool, thanks." She looked at his glass. "That's not that same stuff from the other night."

"No, this is cider."

"Cider?" she frowned. "Like apple cider?"

"Yes...well, no, not exactly. That is...it is, but it's hard cider. It's fermented."

"Fermented apple juice? Eww." She made a face.

He laughed. "Not at all. You can try some if you'd like."

"I think I'll pass," she shook her head.

He leaned back in the booth. "You're not much of a drinker."

"And that's a problem?"

"No, not at all. But most young people your age seem to go out of their way to look for chances to drink. You seem to avoid them."

"Well, the one time in recent memory I had a drink I almost became dinner to a giant snake guy, so it kind of put me off," she said.

"I can see where it would," he agreed.

"And mostly I don't like the taste. I mean, beer? Yuck. And have you ever had a martini?" She shuddered exaggeratedly.

He chuckled. "Yes, well some alcohol is definitely an acquired taste."

"Besides," she went on. "I don't like the idea of...not being in control. Especially with slayage. I don't want the vamps to ever have the upper hand."

"That's quite wise. Alcohol is a neural inhibitor, it slows your reflexes."

"And it gives me a headache," she admitted. Then she looked at him. "Hey, I just thought of something."

"Yes?"

"When I was fourteen, we had...well, there was this party and things kind of got out of hand. But anyway there was drinking and I don't remember how much I had but I know I was pretty looped. And the next day I was a little hung over but okay. The next year I went to another party and had a drink and right away got this terrible headache, and that was only from one drink. And about a month after that is when I met Merrick. Do you think I was already the slayer by then and the alcohol hit me differently?"

"It could be. I don't believe there have ever been any studies about the effects of alcohol or other drugs on the slayer's metabolism. She's much too valuable to be used for experiments of that nature. And since she's always a young girl...."

"It's usually not an issue," Buffy completed.

"Quite."

They fell silent; the mood had turned introspective. It still felt relaxing to sit here, unwind after the day, but they could no longer pretend they were just two ordinary people, out for a drink at their "local". Buffy traced a finger through the glass rings on the table top. "That's something else I used to wonder, too," she said softly.

"What is?"

"Whether virginity affected a slayer."

He felt a shiver go through him. "Pardon?"

"Well, one of the, you know, signals...is cramps, changes in my periods, stuff like that. So I used to wonder if virginity had anything to do with it." She swallowed and looked down. "But I guess it doesn't."

Giles looked at her sympathetically. He knew Angel had been her first, and that it hadn't been something she'd done lightly. It was a very precious gift she had given of herself, and it had been soiled by the events which had followed, a single act with continuing repercussions.

"No," he said gently. "It makes no difference. Because slayers are all young women, a majority have been virgins, but not all. There were even instances where a slayer was married and the marriage was consummated."

She stared at him, wide-eyed. "How do you know it was consummated?"

"It was mentioned in the watcher's diary."

"She told her watcher?" Buffy looked both fascinated and appalled.

"Er, her watcher was her husband."

Her expression lost the fascinating part of the equation and Giles hurried on. "In certain time periods, certain societies, the only way a man and a young woman could be alone together would be as husband and wife. Now, it's true that some of those were simply marriages of convenience, little more than documents on paper. But not all. And one particular instance, in the 1830s, I believe, was clearly a love-born union. In fact," he smiled, "it's really quite a romantic story."

Buffy scowled. "Yeah, until she became vampire food."

Giles's smile faded. He supposed if he were in Buffy's shoes, he wouldn't want to hear about it, either.

"What about pregnancy?" she asked. "Did any of them ever get pregnant?"

"No, I don't believe so."

"'Cause I think it would be pretty hard to slay vampires when you've got this big belly in front of you."

He smiled. "Yes, I imagine it would."

She sat up abruptly. "None of the married slayers ever got pregnant?" she asked again.

"I...I don't know. I don't recall reading that they did."

"Or any other slayer?"

"Not to my knowledge. Why?"

"Maybe it's because we can't."

"What?"

"Get pregnant. Maybe we can't. I mean, how can a slayer slay while she's carrying a baby? Maybe that's one of the things that happens when the slayer becomes, you know, the slayer. She becomes...sterile or something." She slumped back in the booth, a sorrowful expression on her face.

Giles frowned, considering. It would make a certain perverse sense. A slayer with child would be an impossible situation. But the idea that along with the slayer's extraordinary gifts of healing and strength came sterility.... It was a bloody unfair setup.

But then, he'd always thought the whole thing was bloody unfair.

But to Buffy he said, "You told me once that when you first became the slayer, before you knew of your calling, your body began behaving strangely and you went through a full battery of tests."

"Yeah?" Buffy looked at him suspiciously.

"Wouldn't those tests have shown up something abnormal, like the inability to bear children?"

She shrugged. "Maybe they didn't know what to look for."

"And maybe there was nothing there to look for," he suggested. "Buffy, I don't have an answer for you. When we get home, you can see your doctor, if you're that worried about it."

"No, it's just...." She took a deep breath. "I mean, it's not like I'm planning on having kids any time soon. Maybe never. But to know I can't.... I don't know, that would be kind of harsh."

He reached across the table and took her hand, hoping to offer what little comfort he could. He didn't know what to tell her. If it was true that slayers were unable to conceive, it hadn't been written about in any of the extant volumes he'd read. But that didn't mean anything. He was surprised, sometimes, at the things the other watchers managed to leave out. This would be just like them-a topic considered too "delicate" to be discussed, yet one of burning importance to a young woman. "But you don't know. And unless you're prepared to have the tests to find out...."

"No," she said. "No, I just.... I don't know. Just me being weird."

He smiled gently and squeezed her hand. "Don't let it worry you. Should the time come that you want to consider the issue seriously, then we'll look into it further." Perhaps he'd look into it on his own, to further increase his knowledge about the slayer and to benefit those generations to come. And, most importantly, for her.

She nodded and he let go.

Another of the neighbors came up to the table to offer their condolences and to tell Giles that they'd be at the wake tomorrow.

"So what's this gonna be tomorrow?" Buffy asked when they'd moved off. "A service?"

"No, just a chance for people to pay their last respects. The funeral will consist of a short service at the funeral home on Wednesday."

"How come not at a church?" she asked.

"My father didn't attend any church. As a boy, I was raised in the Church of England, but that was my mother's faith, not his. I drifted away from it after she died, and any religion he might have had died with her." He sighed. "I think he missed it, having a faith like hers. I know I did."

"What do you mean?" Buffy frowned.

"Religion can be a great comfort, especially in times of trial. Without that faith, you have nothing to fall back on. You can't, for example, trust in God, because you don't believe that God is there."

Buffy's frown deepened and she looked down, her finger once again tracing the circles of wetness on the table. "What do you believe?" she asked softly.

He sighed wearily. "Sometimes I'm not sure anymore. I know I believe in good and evil. Seeing the things I've seen, doing the things I've done, it would be rather...difficult not to. I believe in a higher power, whether you call it God or something else. But I have a hard time with God as conceived by most organized religions, with their structures and strictures. I suppose it's not God I have problems with but the organization of religion. There's a great deal of power in ritual and symbol. I know, I've seen it. The idea of that power being misused...."

He gazed at her gently. "We've never really talked about religion, have we?"

"It isn't something I think about a lot," she admitted. "We didn't go to church when I was growing up. I've really only ever been for holidays and...and things like funerals. And I went sometimes with my cousin, Celia, when I was younger. They went.

"But it's kind of hard not to think about it when you're faced with evil, isn't it? I mean, religion is supposed to be the opposite of evil."

"Religion can be used to combat evil," he corrected, "but religions themselves are not necessarily the opposite of evil. In fact, worshipers of Satan have a religion by any definition, even though what they worship is evil. Even the "good" religions have been full of evil over the years, though it's often misguided rather than intentionally malicious."

Buffy sipped her soda thoughtfully. "Why do crosses hurt vampires?"

Buffy always surprised him. Most of the time she did her job, didn't question, didn't look too deeply at anything. But he knew that those depths were there, hidden just below the surface. She'd never asked a lot of the questions he'd expected of her when they first met. At the time, he'd assumed that Merrick must have given her all the answers she needed, though his journal never mentioned her asking. Or else she simply hadn't thought about them. It wasn't until he'd gotten to know her that he realized that she didn't ask because she knew that the answers wouldn't change what she had to do. In a way, it showed far more insight than most. Buffy wasn't about to clutter her life with useless information, not unless that information would be essential toward keeping her alive.

He answered her directly. "They're a symbol of good. Evil creatures fear their opposite."

"But it's a Christian symbol," she said. "What if your vampire's not Christian? I mean, what if you've got a Jewish vampire?"

"It doesn't matter. It's the power inherent in the symbol itself, not whether the vampire believes in the cross, or even whether the wielder does. It's the cross itself which has been imbued with power against evil, by generations of believers. And therefore its power can transcend the belief of a particular vampire or demon."

Buffy sat back, a look of amazement on her face. "Wow. Heady stuff."

He smiled. "Yes, I suppose it is. That's what I meant when by the power of symbol. Most people think of them as nothing more than...icons. But the oldest symbols are much more than simple representations. They're manifestations of power."

"Do all symbols have that kind of power?"

"Potentially. It depends on the symbol and how it's used. The cross is a very potent symbol because of its prevalence and the history of its believers. The Star of David has power to a much lesser extent because its people never used it as a ward against evil. But there are other symbols in Judaism which are much more powerful. The yin/yang's power is quite different, because the meaning of the symbol is very different. But there are some very potent Eastern symbols. And the Muslim star and crescent have a potency similar to the cross, though less prevalent in this country."

Buffy grinned. "Knowledge guy strikes again."

"As you said, pretty heady stuff." He chuckled.

"It's...good, though, knowing you know all this stuff. It's like, whatever I need to know, I know you'll know about it, so I don't have to know about it ahead of time."

He laughed softly at her compliment. "I don't know everything, Buffy."

"No, but you know enough. And you know where to find the rest of it."

"Yes, that's what I do."

She grinned at him. "So that's good."

"Yes, I suppose it is." He sighed and finished his cider. "Well, we'd best be getting home."

"Yeah, I guess," she nodded. "But it was...kinda nice, just to talk. We don't do that much, not really. I mean, not without some crisis or other brewing."

"No, we don't," he agreed. "And we should. We get so involved in training, in doing research, we sometimes forget simple communication. Part of what I'm here for is to guide you, advise you in any situation, not just those which deal with vampires or demons. You should be able to come to me and talk about any topic. They're all relevant to the slayer."

She smiled, a sweet expression. "I'll remember that."

"Good. Well, come on." He stood up.

"You're not still gonna work tonight, are you?" she asked, drinking down the last of her soda.

"No, actually I was thinking about going to bed and sleeping in come morning."

"Works for me."

They both slipped back into their jackets and left the Maiden, saying good bye to all of the people there who were saying good night to them.

Outside, Buffy stopped. "Oh, ick, it's raining again!"

"Yes," Giles extended his hand, "it is most certainly raining again."

In fact, the rain was falling steadily, much more heavily than it had done for most of the day.

"I'm gonna spend my day soaked," she complained.

"You'll dry." He turned up the collar of his coat and set out.

"But I'm freezing."

"Then walk quickly," he replied, continuing. He wanted to get home and out of the wet; he wasn't going to stand around and coddle her.

"Yuck," she muttered, but obediently trudged through the rain, catching up with him.

They were drenched by the time they got home. And cold. Buffy was absolutely freezing. She dashed straight for the bedroom, stripping off her wet things as she went, not caring about the puddles she was making on the floor. She changed into her sweats and toweled her hair dry.

"I'm putting the kettle on," Giles called to her. "You want tea?"

"We don't have any hot chocolate, do we?" she called back.

"I don't know, I'll check."

She was still freezing, so she opened the large standing wardrobe, searching for something she'd seen earlier. In the corner was a thick chenille bathrobe. It screamed "Fifties", but was soft and warm. She slipped that on over her sweats and padded out to the kitchen, careful not to step on its hem which trailed on the floor. Mrs. Giles was obviously taller than Buffy.

Giles, still in his wet things, was pottering around the kitchen.

"We're in luck," he said, smiling when she came in. "I found some drinking chocolate."

"Some whating whoey?"

"Drinking chocolate. Like cocoa."

"You mean real cocoa?"

"Yes, of course, what were you expecting?"

"The stuff in the packets?"

"Not here. Here you get the real thing." He grinned as he poured milk into a saucepan and set it on the burner. "Here, keep an eye on this while I go change. Don't let it boil."

She nodded and came over to the stove. He was looking at her, a gentle, sad sort of smile on his face. Then she realized he was looking at the robe. "I hope you don't mind," she said, touching it. "It was in the closet."

"No, of course not," he reassured her. "I told you you were welcome to anything you found. It's just...I hadn't seen that in twenty-five years." His voice sounded wistful.

"Well, I don't know if I'll keep it, it's just...." She stepped closer to the stove to check on the milk and put her foot in a wet spot on the floor. "Oh, ick, Giles, you're dripping on the floor and I just stepped in it. Go, get out of here before you make more puddles."

"Sorry," he apologized and went upstairs.

When he came down again, in clean trousers and a sweater, Buffy was stirring the saucepan. "It's just about to boil, what do we do now?" she asked.

"Put in the chocolate and the sugar," he said, measuring each into the milk. "Now stir it 'til everything dissolves. Then let it heat up again."

In a few minutes, they had cocoa: rich, smooth, warm. Delicious. Buffy was still cold, but the hot chocolate was helping.

They sat in the parlor and Buffy tucked her feet up under her, huddling to get warm.

"Are you really that cold?" Giles frowned.

"Freezing. It's like, every time I start to warm up this trip, something happens and I get cold again."

"I'm sorry. I should have warned you." He rubbed a hand up and down her arm.

"You did. I just didn't believe any place could be this cold all the time, especially not in the spring."

"Spring doesn't really come here 'til April. We can get snow up until Eastertime."

"Uggh," she shuddered. "Hey, does the fireplace work?"

"It used to, but I've no idea when the chimney was last swept. I can try, but it might smoke."

"I'd love a fire," she said, giving him her best 'wistful' look. She knew she did wistful well, it ought to do the trick.

"All right," he chuckled. "Let me see what I can do." She wasn't sure whether he bought her "poor pitiful me" act, or if he was merely rewarding the performance. But as long as she got warm, she didn't care.

He spent the next several minutes, doing various "fireplace" things, then finally lit some tinder, coaxing it as the flames began to lap at the logs. However long it had been since its last tending, the chimney still functioned; the smoke rose as intended, leaving nothing but light and heat and that wonderful wood smell behind.

"Ah, warm," Buffy purred happily as she dropped to the floor directly in front of the hearth. She simply sat there, eyes closed, feeling the heat leech into her body, feeling it banish the chill that went bone-deep.

Eventually, she sighed, stretching.

"Better?" Giles asked.

"Much. Thanks." She slid back toward the couch, leaning against it lazily. Giles handed down her cocoa and they sat peacefully, letting themselves enjoy the warmth and...and the not doing anything. She rested her head against his knee and he gently stroked her damp hair, smoothing it. The soft corduroy of his trousers felt good against her cheek.

"Domestic scene with watcher and slayer," she said softly and he chuckled.

"Yes, it's nice, every now and then, to have some down-time. A chance to re-charge."

"Mmm," she sighed in agreement, closing her eyes. His gentle touch of her hair felt nice. Soothing. Made her feel...content. His fingers would start at her temple, slowly smoothing the hair away from her face, following it down behind her ears, where his fingers would tenderly brush her hair away from her neck. Her mother would sometimes stroke her hair like that, conveying her love with a tender touch. It always made Buffy feel so...cared for.

She sighed again. "You ever thought about having kids?"

His hand stilled, then resumed its gentle caress. "I, uh, well, I suppose I thought about it when I was younger," he finally answered.

"'Cause I think you'd be a good father," she said, in case he was wondering where her question had come from. She raised her head and looked at him. He was flushing slightly, but smiling, too.

"It isn't something I've given a lot of thought to, especially not recently. My life these days isn't exactly conducive to fatherhood. Besides which," he cleared his throat, "I'm missing a rather crucial element in the equation."

She realized what he meant and looked away guiltily. He could have had that, if not for her.

They sat silently for a time, and eventually, he resumed his stroking of her hair. But Buffy didn't find it soothing this time. Every touch reminded her that he was sitting here with her because he couldn't be sitting here with Ms. Calendar. If she'd still been alive, he would have brought her on this trip, not Buffy.

"I just don't understand," she whispered.

His hand stilled. "Understand what?"

"How you can not blame me."

She didn't say anything more. She didn't need to; he knew what she meant.

"I don't blame you because it wasn't your fault," he answered simply.

"Yes, it was." She turned away and drew her knees to her chest, hugging them. "Hormones, that's all it was. Stupid hormones."

"Yes," he agreed. "You acted impulsively, but I know how powerful hormones can be at your age. Besides," his hand rested on her shoulder, "you couldn't have known what would happen. And I know how much you loved him."

A lump formed in her throat. "That's what's so hard," she said, choking past her tears. "I l..love him. In spite of everything that's happened, everything he's done, I still love him." The tears were flowing freely now and she made no move to stop them.

"You can't just turn love on and off, Buffy. Like a faucet. It will take time. Especially...especially since Angel was your first love. Your first lover."

"It hurts so much," she cried. "He's so cruel now. But then...he was so gentle...." She buried her face against her knees, sobbing.

He let her cry for a moment, then she felt his hand rubbing her back soothingly. When he spoke, his voice was a gentle whisper. "Shh, Buffy, it's all right. Hush now. Sh-shh."

His hand felt good on her back, and his voice was soft and comforting. But Buffy didn't want to be comforted. She didn't deserve his affection. She raised her head, struggling to swallow back the tears, savagely pushing the emotion away.

A square of cloth was pressed into her hand and she used it to wipe her eyes, blow her nose. Then she looked at the cloth balefully.

"Ugh, I icked it up."

He chuckled softly. "That's what it's for."

"Yeah, but now I have to...do something with it."

"That's what laundries are for."

"I like something I can throw away better," she said and stuffed the soiled handkerchief into her bathrobe pocket. She sniffed and he stroked a hand down the side of her head, pressing it to rest against his knee again.

"Feeling better?" he asked, his hand smoothing her hair once more.

She shook her head. "But at least I'm not falling apart at the moment." She sighed. "Feeling better's too much to hope for."

His hand on her hair stilled and he hooked a finger under her chin, tipping her face toward him. "You want somebody to blame you," he said softly, "because then your own self-blame will be easier to accept. You'll feel justified in your anger and your guilt. But you're not going to get that from me, Buffy, I told you that already."

She pulled away, his gentle touch too hard to bear. "How can you just forgive like that?"

"There's nothing to forgive. And even if there were, why should you be so undeserving of forgiveness?"

She stared up at him. "Because of what I did."

"What did you do? You made a mistake. You acted impulsively, not maliciously. And I'd say that you've paid for your error, paid many, many times in excess of your supposed crime. You can go ahead and beat yourself up over it, but don't expect my help in doing it. I told you before that all you will ever get from me is my respect, and my support. And my love."

Buffy ignored the tears which streamed down her cheeks unchecked. Why did he love her like this, when she was so undeserving of his love? When her selfishness got the love of his life killed. How could he still stand to be with her? She bit her lip to keep her chin from quivering.

"Buffy," he murmured, extending his arms, offering his love in the form of a hug. But she knew if she accepted it she'd be lost, so she got to her knees, moving away.

"N-no, I think I'm just...gonna go to bed." She refused to look at him, didn't want to see the compassion or the pity in his eyes. She stood up. "G'night."

"Buffy," he repeated, but she turned away and left the parlor, left him behind.

She held it together until she got into the bedroom and closed the door. Then she collapsed on the bed and let herself weep.

Giles stood in the middle of the parlour, watching Buffy's retreating back, listening as she shut the bedroom door behind her with a firm click. Hearing the silence, and then the weeping. He closed his eyes with a silent groan. There was no way to "jolly" her out of this mood of hers, no way to convince her that he didn't blame her, he didn't hate her, he certainly didn't condemn her. And even if he had, what good would it have done? It wouldn't undo what had happened. It wouldn't bring Jenny back.

It all came down to Jenny: what she'd been, especially what she'd been to him. He had loved her, even while feeling the sting of her deception. And he had honestly believed her when she said she had no idea what would happen if Angel experienced true joy. But she was dead now because of that single moment, a moment which directly linked back to Buffy. Of course Buffy blamed herself; how could she not, after seeing so vividly just what Jenny's death had done to Giles. The poor girl had had to deal with a suicidal watcher not just once but twice thanks to his relationship with Jenny. That wasn't in the contract, that the slayer had to pick up the pieces when the watcher self-destructed.

Buffy blamed herself. And he was at a loss as to how to convince her that the blame was not hers. That the blame, if any could be assigned,

rested firmly on Angel's shoulders, rested with a 240 year old vampire who, soul or no soul, ought to have known better than to become involved with a mortal girl, especially one who was the slayer.

And it rested with Giles himself, who should have put a stop to the relationship before it could progress so far. But he hadn't wanted to face the fact that Buffy wasn't a child, she was a young woman with all the urges and desires that youth was heir to. And he'd been so grateful for Angel's assistance, for his knowledge and strength, he was willing to ignore that part of him which was screaming "you're letting your slayer date a what?!"

He sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. He supposed this particular "scene" had been too long in coming. It was inevitable that eventually they would need to talk about what had happened, painful though it might be. She needed to know exactly where he stood, and he had to know what she was feeling, what she was thinking.

But how to convince her that everything would be all right? How to put a smile back on her face? If the other watchers saw a sorry little waif with him tomorrow, what would they think about the way he was handling her?

Come to that, what would they think anyway? Letting the slayer get romantically involved with a vampire. What the hell had Giles been thinking?

He would have a lot of explaining to do tomorrow.

With a sigh, he banked the fire, making sure it was burning down safely, re-stoked the stove, and turned off the lights, climbing upstairs to go to bed. The rain was still coming down, if anything, harder than before, and it made a soft rustling sound as it struck the thatch. He lay under the eaves, listening to it, remembering lying in this bed as a boy, listening to the rain and imagining himself lying under a tent someplace exciting and romantic.

He smiled ruefully at the memory. Excitement and romance were over-rated.

Eventually, he fell asleep, but awoke to a loud crack of thunder, followed by more flashes and crashes in rapid succession. In between the peals of thunder, there came another sound, a banging. He sighed. That meant one of the shutters had come loose and was banging against the house. He hauled himself out of bed and went downstairs to check on the windows.

It was the shutter in the dining room which was the culprit, and he quickly closed it. While he was up, he checked the others, tightening a few of them just to make sure.

There was another bright flash, another loud crack of thunder, and Giles heard the bedroom door open.

"Giles?" Buffy's voice was timid, wary.

He moved to the hallway. She was little more than a silhouette against the light coming from the bedroom, a small thing hunched into her thick robe. "Did the storm wake you?"

She nodded. "I...don't like thunderstorms. I guess that's pretty stupid, huh?"

"You don't get them very often in California, you're just not used to them," he said by way of comfort. "Actually, they're not that common here either, but not unheard of, exactly, especially in the spring.

There was another flash and Buffy jumped. "A..are we safe here?"

"Safe?"

"W-what if lightning hits the roof? I mean, it's straw...."

"We're grounded. In the unlikely event, we'll be fine. It's more apt to hit the stable, and even that's got a lightning rod. Don't worry. This house has stood for over a hundred years without ever being hit by lightning."

"Oh." She didn't sound convinced.

"Is the shutter closed in your room?" he asked.

"I don't think so."

"Let me check." He moved past her and closed the shutter against the flashes and the wind. "There, now you won't see the lightning, even if you'll hear the thunder."

"Thanks," she said, her voice still small.

"We'll be fine, just go back to bed."

She nodded, but didn't make any move toward returning to her bed. Her complexion was pale and she looked like she'd cried herself to sleep. He didn't want to push, especially not after earlier. So he just gave her a smile he hoped was reassuring, and patted her shoulder as he passed.

"Giles?" she called just as he left the room.

"Yes?" He turned around.

She stood there for a moment, torn between wanting to say something and wanting to forget the whole thing, the emotions playing out across her expressive face.

Just then another crack of thunder shook the house.

"Can...can I be stupid and childish?" she blurted.

The way she said it almost made him laugh, but he didn't want her to think he was laughing at her. "What do you need?"

"Can you...can you stay and talk to me?"

"About what?"

She shrugged. "I don't care, I just...if I'm listening to your voice, I won't hear the thunder."

He smiled to himself. It was touching, the idea of his strong, brave slayer, being afraid of a thunderstorm. She wanted to rely on him to keep the "big mean thunder" at bay.

"Where's your book?" he asked, coming back into the room.

"I don't want to read," she protested, "I need..."

"I know. Come on," he put a hand on her shoulder, "back into bed."

A look of relief flashed across her face. "Oh. Over there." She pointed to the nightstand where the copy of Jane Eyre lay. She crawled into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin, and he sat down on the edge of the bed next to her.

"Have you started it yet?" he asked, picking up the book. She shook her head. "All right. Now just relax." He brushed her hair away from her face, and with a gentle thumb, stroked across her brow and between her eyes. "Close your eyes, that's it." Her eyes fluttered closed

and he opened the book.

"Chapter One. There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question."

"Giles?" Her voice was small again and she was gazing at him with big, sad eyes. "I'm sorry about before."

"Shh," he soothed and took her hand. It was cold and he held it tight. "You'll need to come to terms with what happened, Buffy, one way or another. But I will always be there for you, whenever...or however...you need me."

A tear formed in her eye again and she blinked it away. "I know. Thanks."

He raised her hand to his lips, then set it down. "Do you want to talk? Or do you want me to read?"

"I want you to read," she said and rolled onto her side, facing him, the smallest of smiles playing on her face, a look of gratitude in her eyes. She reached for his hand again, interlacing their

fingers.

"All right," he agreed, squeezing her hand. "Going on." He cleared his throat and began again. "I was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed...."
***

XI

When Buffy came out into the kitchen the next morning, Giles was just brewing his tea. He saw her and smiled. "Good morning."

"Morning," she replied sleepily.

"Did you sleep all right?"

"Yeah. Thanks to you." His soothing voice had calmed her fears, distracted her. She never even heard him leave.

He smiled again. "All part of the service."

She folded her arms and leaned against the doorpost. "Is it?"

"Pardon?"

"Is that why you do it? 'Cause you're my watcher and you have to?"

The smile still played around his mouth, but left his eyes. "I don't recall bedtime stories being mentioned in the watcher's manual. Some things I do because I can. Others because I want to." He turned to face her. "But I have to tell you, Buffy, self-loathing is not an attractive trait, especially not in a slayer. Learn to work it through, but accept here and now that I will never accuse you, never blame you, never condemn you. I will do everything in my power to help you. Yes, it's my job, but it's also because I care about you, a great deal. And I'd hate to think I was caring about someone who doesn't believe she's worthy of my affection. I think I have better judgement than that."

Buffy opened her mouth, but there were no words. What could she possibly say to that? "I'm sorry," she murmured.

"That's enough," he scolded. Then his voice softened. "Now then, get yourself something to eat and come into the parlour. I have something to show you."

"What is it?"

He smiled gently. "You'll see." He left the kitchen.

She watched him go. She'd upset him, and she hadn't wanted to do that, not ever. It wasn't that she doubted him, but that she.... She didn't want to disappoint him, and she knew he was already so disappointed. He said he wasn't, but she couldn't see how he couldn't be. His disappointment, his disapproval, hurt more than anything else. She needed him so much, and she hated the idea of doing anything to mess that up. With a sigh she poured out a glass of orange juice, broke off half a scone, and headed into the parlour. Maybe she could find some way to make it up to him. Somehow.

He was just coming in with a stack of large books. "Here's the part you've been waiting for," he said.

"Huh?"

"Family photo albums."

"Ooh, keen!" she gushed and plunked down on the sofa. "Gimme."

He chuckled and sat next to her, setting the stack of albums on the floor at their feet. The earlier tension was gone, just like that, and they were back to being friends. How could that be, so easily? But she looked into his face and saw not recrimination or anger or even disappointment. Only affection.

"So," she teased, "are you gonna be embarrassed?"

"I...uh, yes, I rather suspect I am. Though I haven't seen these in probably thirty years. I don't remember most of what's in them." He pulled the first one off the stack.

The first photos were of Mr. Giles as a young man, looking solemn, standing beside a woman Buffy guessed was his mother.

"That's your grandmother? The one who was the watcher?"

"That's right."

"What was her name?"

"Anna. My father was about sixteen there, I think."

"What about your grandfather?"

"He died when my father was just a lad. I really don't know much about him, except that I was named after him."

"Oh, so you're Rupert Giles, Junior?"

"No, a junior is when the son is named after the father. A second has the same name as another relative. But my middle name, William, came from my mother's father, so I'm just Rupert Giles."

"Oh. I never knew your middle name."

He smiled. "You never asked."

The next picture showed Anna and her son with a pretty, young girl. "Who's that, his sister?"

"No, that was...Lucy. Grandmother's first slayer."

Buffy blinked and studied the image carefully. Except for Kendra, she'd never seen another slayer. The diaries she'd read hadn't contained any pictures, so while she knew about Louise Kiefer and Tamara Weigel, she didn't know what they looked like. Lucy, Mrs. Giles's slayer, appeared to be fifteen or sixteen, long dark hair, pale complexion and bright, dark eyes. Buffy wanted to ask how old Lucy had been when she'd died, but realized she really didn't want to know.

Then she frowned. "First slayer? How many did she have?"

"Three. Though the last one, Lizette, she merely trained with another watcher."

"Watcher's apprentice?"

He chuckled at her description. "More or less."

The next page showed more shots of Richard Giles doing various things, including one with him and some friends in black robes much like the photo of Giles on the mantel. "Did he go to Oxford, too?"

"Yes. He was a solicitor-a lawyer who works civil as opposed to criminal cases."

"Yeah, that's what Mrs. Peavey said." Buffy looked closely at the pictures. Richard Giles looked like a younger Giles: similar chin and jaw, same high cheekbones. Though their eyes were different.

Giles turned another page. "Ah, here we are. That's my mother. I believe they were courting here."

Richard Giles's formerly stern expression was softened as he gazed at the girl at his side. And she, in turn, was beautiful. She had the same kind, bright eyes that Giles had, that seemed to twinkle with an inner light.

"How did they meet?" Buffy asked.

"Actually, she was the youngest sister of one of his associates. At the time, he was in London doing what amounted to an obligatory stint with a law office. His mother was in France with her latest slayer, so he was invited to spend the holidays with this associate's family. He always said it was love at first sight." Giles laughed softly. "My mother's version was somewhat different."

"Ooh, good gossip? Tell." Buffy grinned.

"Just that she said it took him almost six months to get up the courage to ask her out. You see, he was almost thirty and she just nineteen. And while he was a shrewd businessman, when it came to matters of the heart, he...."

"Shyness in romance runs in the family?" she said gently, remembering how he was about asking Ms. Calendar out.

He flushed, then cleared his throat. "Yes, well whatever the real story, they were married about a year and a half after they first met." He turned another page. "Here."

The next several pages contained wedding photos. The bride was radiant. Buffy thought she was pretty before, in those other pictures. But here in these photos she looked absolutely beautiful. And her new husband.... Richard Giles had that goofy grin Giles sometimes got when he was especially delighted about something. He used to get it a lot around Ms. Calendar.

She had hardly seen it at all recently.

The next album got into the good stuff. Baby Rupert, from birth to about age five. Like all new parents, the Gileses had taken roll after roll of their baby boy, doing all sorts of things-eating, sleeping, playing, laughing, crying, chewing on his toes....

Giles turned a page, then quickly turned another, but he wasn't fast enough. Buffy got her hand in between the leaves.

"You don't need to see those," he muttered.

"Are you kidding? This is the payoff!" she grinned, teasing.

He frowned and looked away, clearly uncomfortable.

"Look, I promise I won't tell anybody. And if it makes you feel better, someplace my mom has an especially embarrassing picture of me toilet training."

Giles chuckled wryly. "I think there's one like that in here, too."

Buffy laughed. "Why do parents do that? I mean, they must think it's cute, but all I can think of is 'embarrass in front of the boyfriend time'."

That did get a laugh, and reluctantly, he allowed her to turn the page back.

Sure enough, there was little Rupert, with a book, sitting on the potty. She snickered. "With a book yet!"

But the best one, or worst, depending on your point of view, was toddler Rupert, aged two or three, stark naked, running straight for the camera, arms spread wide, a bright, happy grin on his face.

Buffy couldn't help but laugh. "Oh, that's too precious! What were you doing?"

"I have no idea," he sighed, shaking his head. "I don't even know why I was naked."

"You weren't one of those little kids who was always taking off his clothes, were you?" she asked, trying to imagine Giles-her Giles-as an exhibitionist.

"Not that I recall. They probably caught me right after a bath or something." He glanced at her. "There, now I'm thoroughly embarrassed. Can we turn the page, please?"

She smiled. "Yeah, go on."

On the next page was one particular shot that caught her attention. Possibly taken right after the previous one, in this one little Rupert was wrapped in a blanket and sitting on his mother's lap, snuggled up close to her. He was gazing up at her with wide, adoring eyes, and Catherine was holding him gently, a hand stroking through his soft curls as she bent her head to him. It was a perfect illustration of motherhood and Buffy was awed by the impact of that simple image. She touched the photo carefully with a finger.

"That's always been a favorite," Giles said softly, agreeing with her unspoken appreciation.

"You should have that blown up and framed. It's wonderful."

He smiled fondly. "Yes, she...it is." He flushed slightly at his slip of the tongue and she put a hand on his arm in reassurance. She hadn't learned much about his mother, but she knew that her memory was sacred to him. It must be hard for him to look at these pictures, especially now, when he was getting ready for his father's funeral. But he didn't look sad, just...wistful.

He cleared his throat and turned the page. The pictures and albums which followed showed Giles as he grew up: with his mother, with his father, with his grandmother, with friends. One shot was of Giles, around twelve or so, with a beautiful brown horse.

"That was Nimue," he said.

Buffy smiled at the picture. He looked so pleased, so proud. As she'd guessed, Giles at twelve had been tall and skinny, with very long legs and shaggy hair a little lighter in color than it was now. In this photo he had that goofy grin she liked so well.

"You really like horses," she commented.

"Oh, yes. There's a dignity and a majesty to them. All that strength, all that power. And yet there's nothing ferocious about them. They're pack animals who want most of all to follow their leader. Their rider. When horse and rider...connect, when they work together as a team, they become almost one body, one entity. It's truly the most incredible feeling imaginable. Almost like you're no longer just yourself, you're now part of something greater." He stopped, flushed and looked away. "Sorry, I hadn't meant to...wax so rhapsodic."

"No, that's neat. He had such a vivid way of describing things that when he was talking, she could picture the unity of horse and rider, imagining Giles on his brown horse, riding across the fields around Chalworth. "I don't think I've ever felt anything like that," she admitted. "The closest I probably ever came was when I used to skate. The first time I landed a jump-actually, the only time, I wasn't very good. But when I landed that jump, it felt like I was flying. I could have raised my arms and soared."

He smiled. "You probably did soar. If only on the ground."

She thought about that for a minute. "Yeah, I guess so." How cool that Giles would understand what she'd meant, what she'd felt.

They returned their attention to the photo albums. Some of the pictures were pretty boring: trips, holidays, family gatherings. People Giles admitted he didn't even know. Family pictures which at one point stopped featuring Catherine Giles.

After that, Richard looked much sadder, older somehow, and there seemed a seriousness about Giles, too. Both of them still smiled for the camera, but it was like there was a tension there, obvious even in the photographs.

The last album had pictures of Giles at Oxford and ended with his graduation. In those, at least, Mr. Giles looked pleased with his son. Both of them wore that same goofy grin. She could see in these photos what she had only guessed at in the nursing home, how much they looked like each other.

Giles closed the last album. "There. So was it worth coming all the way over here to see those?"

Buffy smiled. "Oh yeah. They were fun." Then she looked at him sideways. "Does this mean I have to show you my baby pictures now?"

He laughed. "Only if you want to." He glanced at his watch. "Good lord, we've managed to waste most of the morning."

"Don't think of it as waste. Think of it as...education." His snort told her just what he

thought of that. "How about watcher/slayer bonding?"

He chuckled. "Yes, I suppose so. Though I still maintain we could have...bonded...perfectly adequately without your seeing my two-year-old exploits." He stood up. "And I still have to get to the bank before this afternoon."

"Oh." She frowned. "I was hoping we could do some more of that kung fu stuff."

"It's chi kung, not kung fu, and we don't really have time, Buffy. I'm sorry."

"Darn," she pouted. It would have been good to get some training in before they had to sit for so long today. "Tomorrow?"

He smiled. "Yes, all right." He put the albums in one of the boxes he was taking home.
***

XII

They arrived at the funeral home a few minutes before three. Jack Larkin, the funeral director, ushered them into the chapel, letting them have some private time before the doors opened to the public. Giles took Buffy's hand, walking to the front of the chapel where the casket stood. Several feet shy of the front, he stopped, unable to go forward, the lump in his throat cutting off his air. At his side, Buffy stood, supportive and waiting.

He closed his eyes, swallowing. "Give me a few minutes, Buffy?" he whispered. "Please."

She squeezed his hand and let go, moving away. Finally, he opened his eyes and, taking a deep breath, approached the open casket.

His father was.... Dead. He'd never understood people who commented on "how good" the dead person looked. The mortician's art had taken away the pallor in his father's cheeks, the sunkenness beneath his skin. But it could not restore the spark of energy which had been so much a part of the man, even lying on his death-bed. It was difficult, seeing him like this, so...empty of everything which had made his father the man he'd been. Though at least in this setting, Giles felt a sense of closure. There was no feeling like this was all some ghastly mistake. Like there had been with Jenny....

He pushed that thought away roughly, knowing if he went there now, he was lost.

There was a kneeler in front of the casket and Giles found himself on his knees without much conscious thought. Funny how early indoctrination came back to you, even after a lapse of almost twenty-five years. He bowed his head.

Our Father.... the prayer began in his head, then sputtered and died. He still remembered the words. But their meaning was gone.

He started again. My father, who art...somewhere I may never know. Happy, I hope. Without pain. With Mother.... He swallowed past the lump in his throat. You know, we're not very good at expressing our emotions, you and I. I can't even remember the last time you told me you loved me. I can't remember the last time I said it to you, either. But I did-do. Love you. And I hope you loved me. I hope you were proud of me, there at the end. It seemed like you were, but with you one can never be sure.

I wish...I just wish there weren't so many regrets. So many things I wish I'd said to you. So many things I wish you'd said to me. I wish I could have been what you wanted me to be. But I couldn't. I can't. I can only be who I am. It took me almost twenty years to realize that, and I'm sorry if...if that wasn't enough for you. I'm sorry I was a disappointment, but...but perhaps I'm even sorrier that I never...felt you gave me the support I wanted...needed. From you. Somehow or other, we failed each other, Father. And we can never make it right.

I suppose that's what makes me sorriest of all.

Giles took a deep breath, feeling his control slipping, feeling a tear trace its way down his cheek.

I have a slayer now, Father. And as you've seen, she's...quite a handful. I hope I can do her justice. And if, some day, I ever train someone to follow me as a watcher, I hope...I hope I can instill in her the same dedication and devotion to her calling which you tried to, no, which you did instill in me. You always were my role-model, even if it didn't seem so at the time. However far I may have seemed to have strayed, I never really did. And even though you're gone, you're still with me. Just as you have always been.

I love you, Father. Be at peace.

He stayed still a few minutes longer, head bowed, wanting to be certain when he rose that he was back in control. The mind-numbing grief he'd felt after Jenny.... There would be time for that later. But for now there was Buffy to consider. His young slayer was out of her element here, stuck in the middle of a strange town, in a foreign culture, a stranger to everyone but him. She needed him. If he hadn't known that before, last night had proved it.

Pull yourself together, Rupert, he commanded himself. For Buffy.

He opened his eyes, took a deep breath and rose to his feet, looking around the chapel. Buffy had taken a seat in the last row of chairs, and as he turned she rose to meet him. He tried to give her an encouraging smile, but the emotions swamped him unexpectedly and his eyes closed again in a vain attempt to block the tears. He didn't know whether he moved or if she came to him, but the next thing he knew her arms were around him securely and he buried his face against her hair, fighting against grief he honestly hadn't expected to feel.

In a few moments, he was calmer and simply rested his cheek on the top of her head.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Hey," she soothed, "if you can't cry at your father's funeral, when can you?"

"Funeral's tomorrow," he said, straightening.

"You know what I mean," she smiled, holding onto his arm. "God, you are so literal."

"Simply...precise," he said, finding comfort in their usual banter. He blew his nose and glanced at his watch. "They'll be opening the chapel in a minute. Are you ready for this?"

She shrugged. "Like I have a choice. What do I have to do, play hostess?"

"No, but there will be people who will be interested in meeting you."

"Watchers?"

He nodded. "Or those who are familiar with them. In Chalworth, the watchers are rather an open secret. They're not really talked about, but they're not exactly hidden, either."

Buffy just shook her head. "Too weird."

"It all depends upon your point of view."

Just then Mr. Larkin came in to open the chapel doors. The first person through them was Mrs. Peavey.

Buffy and Giles just looked at each other and smiled.

Buffy stood before the open casket. She'd seen dead people, lots of them. Seen 'em newly dead, seen 'em in their coffins, seen 'em when they rose again. But she'd never really taken the time to look at one, to examine just what it was that made the dead...dead.

Besides lack of life, that is.

There was a certain comfort in knowing that Richard Giles would not suddenly sit up in his coffin. The dead were much nicer when they remained that way. But there was a lifelessness to Mr. Giles which went beyond the not breathing thing. This might have been a person once. Now it was just a shell.

She sniffed and wiped at the tear which threatened.

Gentle hands settled at her shoulders. "Are you all right?" Giles's voice was soft, concerned.

She nodded. "I was just thinking. When someone dies, their soul leaves their body. The body is just a...a shell. A housing. Without the soul, it's empty. And it doesn't matter if a vampire or some other demon moves in. It's still dead. That's the part I knew intellectually, but never really understood, you know? It's hard to think of someone who's walking and talking as being dead. But they are." She turned around to look at him. "And that's what I have to do. Remember that A..Angel...is dead. The guy I l..loved is gone and a demon is walking around wearing his body. But it's not him. He's dead."

Giles didn't say anything, simply leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. She leaned against him gratefully, then straightened.

"You need something?" she asked.

"There are some people who want to meet you, but that can wait. Why don't you take a break?"

"I'm okay," she insisted.

In response he brushed a gentle thumb across her cheek, wiping away the tear she hadn't even realized was there. "I don't want you getting over-tired. Take a few minutes, get yourself something to drink, sit down and rest for a bit."

She had to agree. She'd been in this chapel for almost five hours, meeting people, listening to them, sometimes talking to the ones who wanted to meet her. Mostly staying within sight of Giles, if he needed her. But he was hanging together pretty well. She was the one who was ready to drop.

"I guess I am thirsty," she admitted. "Back in a few." She squeezed his arm as she went past.

A quick detour to the bathroom to fix her face, then to the little ante-room which was set up with a coffee pot and which the funeral home guy had stocked with Diet Cokes just for her. A few minutes and a caffeinated beverage later, feeling considerably more human, Buffy went back to the chapel.

Giles was standing talking to a small group of older people, two men and a woman. His hands were behind his back and he was standing straight and stiff, like he a schoolboy called in front of the teacher. These were other watchers, she guessed.

He saw her and a slight smile played across his face. He raised a hand and beckoned to her. So Buffy plastered on her best smile and went to meet him.

"Better?" he asked softly.

She nodded, casting a swift glance at the gathered group.

"Buffy, I'd like you to meet some of the senior watchers. Matthew Burkridge, Sylvia McManus, Thomas Martin." He turned to them. "May I present Miss Buffy Summers."

"It's an honor to meet you, Miss Summers," Mr. Martin said, taking her hand. He was a balding gentleman with kind eyes. Buffy recalled that he was the one Giles said he told about the vampire in Oxford. Mr. Martin was one of his father's oldest friends, he'd said, and would be giving the eulogy at the funeral tomorrow.

"Thanks," she shook his hand, smiling. "Nice to meet you, too."

"Buffy. What an unusual name," Mrs. McManus said, taking her hand. "Is it a nickname?"

"No, it's my real name," she answered. "There are a lot of kids with unique names in California. It's that kind of place."

"Yes, I imagine there are," Mrs. McManus smiled. She was an extremely proper looking older lady, not a hair of her snow-white head out of place, perfectly tailored dark suit, and pearls completing the ensemble. Mr. Burkridge, at her side, was her male equivalent in his impeccable suit, his perfect white hair, his neat mustache, and his supercilious attitude. Buffy couldn't imagine having a watcher like these people. Merrick had been old-fashioned and super-serious, but at least she knew he was human. And Giles was...Giles, in spite, or maybe because of his tweed. But this bunch was like...Stepford watchers.

"Miss Summers, I am so pleased to meet you," Mr. Burkridge purred, moving to take her hand. Something about him made all the hairs on her arms stand on end. He seemed too slick. "Your exploits have been quite...remarkable."

Buffy glanced over at Giles, who shifted his weight uncomfortably. "Exploits?" she asked, hoping to play the innocent.

"The demons and vampires you've encountered. First Lothos, then the Master. Quite extraordinary."

"Oh, those exploits." She shrugged. "All in a day's work."

Burkridge chuckled. The expression never reached his eyes, which remained distant, assessing. "Yes, I dare say. I wonder if you would do me the honor of telling me a little more about some of your adventures. We're all so impressed with your work, I'd like to hear all about your experiences over the past year or so."

"Well, Giles..." Buffy began.

Again that dead chuckle. "Mr. Giles can manage without you for a few minutes, isn't that right, Rupert?"

"What...? Oh, yes, of course," Giles stammered.

"I meant that he can tell you more than I can. I mean, he's the record-keeper."

"Yes, of course, and his reports to the watchers are always timely and...succinct." The way he said it made it sound like he didn't believe Giles's reports. "But I would very much like to get your opinions-straight from the horse's mouth, so to speak."

She glanced at Giles again. The look in his eyes was resigned and helpless. She really didn't want to talk to this man, but couldn't see any way out of it.

"Yeah, okay," she finally agreed.

"Splendid." Burkridge smiled again. This time the expression reached his eyes, but the look couldn't exactly be called friendly. "Don't worry, Rupert, I'll only keep her a few minutes."

"I'm not worried," Giles said, and Buffy wondered if anyone else caught his double-meaning. "I know Buffy can take care of herself."

They shared a smile before Burkridge put his arm around Buffy's shoulders and guided her to a far corner of the chapel.

"Here we are, Miss Summers," he said, "why don't you make yourself comfortable?" She sat down and he sat beside her. "Now then...."

"Now then, let's try the direct approach so we can both stop pretending," she said.

Another dead smile. "I don't know what you mean."

"It's obvious you wanted to talk to me by myself, so why don't you just tell me what you want and we don't have to pretend and mess around with small-talk."

"Shrewd girl," he conceded. "I did want to talk to you privately, Buffy-may I call you Buffy? Because I'm a little concerned with certain aspects of your life as a slayer."

Buffy frowned. "Such as?"

"From the reports Rupert has filed, your approach is frequently, how shall we say, unorthodox?"

"Yeah, well I've discovered that vampires aren't big on following rules. You do what you have to do."

"Including disobeying your watcher?"

"I never out-and-out disobey him," she insisted. "I just...sometimes...kinda find other ways. We still get there in the end."

"More out of luck, it would seem, than out of the careful planning which ought to be the watcher's hallmark. Now, it's clear you're a very resourceful, very talented girl. Perhaps your watcher is not strong enough to give you proper leadership."

Buffy groaned. "Oh, not you, too."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Giles's father tried to say the same thing the other night. And I'm telling you what I told him. That Giles is the best watcher I can think of. Not only that, he's the best watcher for me. We're good together. We respect each other. And I'm doing...." She paused. She didn't know how much Giles had told the watchers about the mess with Angel. If he hadn't told them everything, she certainly wasn't about to tell them anything. "I'm doing pretty good," she finally said. "I mean, there have been some rough spots, but...."

"Like coming so near to dying that the next slayer was activated," Burkridge interjected.

Buffy sighed. "Oh, that again."

"It's a very serious matter, when a slayer is put at that much risk. Your watcher should have...."

"Will you guys stop already! Giles did everything right! From the minute he learned about the prophecy with the master, he did everything he could to keep it from happening. I'm the one who knocked him out and went charging in. Me, not him."

Burkridge gazed at her, a gleam in his eye. "I thought you said you never disobeyed him."

She made a face. "Okay. One time. But that's my fault, not his."

"A good watcher should be able to control his slayer better."

"Yeah, well maybe I'm a slayer who doesn't deal well with authority figures." She took a deep breath. "Look, you don't like the way I operate, fine. Replace me. You've got Kendra just waiting in the wings, go ahead and make her the permanent only slayer. I don't need the aggravation and you probably don't need the confusion caused by having two slayers. But don't go blaming Giles because he's got a temperamental slayer."

"Forgive me, Buffy, I'm not meaning to cast aspersions on your abilities as a slayer. You've done an admirable job. And accident or not, it was a fortuitous circumstance which enabled us to have two active slayers. Now, Rupert is a good man, I've known him since he was a boy. Just as I knew his father, and his grandmother. But my concern is that perhaps he is not a strong enough figure for you. He isn't giving you the guidance you need. Being a 'nice guy' is a fine trait in a neighbour, or even in the high school librarian. But the watcher must be more than that. He must be teacher, trainer, advisor, mentor, coach...."

"He is. He's all of that, and more."

"Yet you seem to be operating a great deal on your own."

She frowned. "Where do you get that?"

"You take decisions out of his hands, you choose your own strategies...."

"Of course, I do. I know what works for me."

"Your watcher ought to know what works for you. He ought to choose strategies based on your skills. He should be the one with the battle plan, you should be the one who executes it."

"Oh, I get it, I'm supposed to be a drone soldier. Little miss robot slayer who only does what she's told." Buffy made a face in disgust. "No thanks."

"Slayers have been working that way for generations."

"And guess what? They're all dead. I'm alive. I'm the walking, talking, living proof that my way works."

Burkridge sighed. "You're misunderstanding me. I'm not saying you're unsuccessful as a slayer. Your record speaks for itself. But my concern is that you are not being provided with the assistance which is your God-given right. The support every slayer needs if she is to succeed.

"I feel that a stronger watcher, perhaps someone older and more...dedicated... would be able to help you grow and thrive, not just survive."

Buffy stared at him, feeling a knot in her stomach. "I've got news for you," she said softly. "I've got a strong watcher. I've got one who's so dedicated he sometimes goes days without sleep because he's looking up stuff, stuff to keep me alive. I've got one who..." she swallowed past the lump in her throat, "...who turned away from the w-woman he loved, because he thought she hurt me. I've got one who has put himself in the line of fire again and again in order to keep me safe. That's way beyond the call of your typical 'Book Man' watcher. My watcher is the bravest, strongest, best person I know. So don't you go telling me he's not up to the job."

"Your dedication to him is admirable," Burkridge said. "But you may be letting your...affection for him cloud your judgement."

"What do you mean?"

"It's obvious you two are very close. After all, he brought you all this way to be with him during this time of trial. I'm sure he finds your presence here a great comfort."

Buffy stared at him open-mouthed. "You think there's something going on between Giles and me?" The idea was too far out to be real.

"Of course not," Burkridge soothed. "I'm sure Rupert's behaviour toward you is always proper. But it's clear you care a great deal for him and he for you."

"Well, yeah, of course. I mean, watcher, slayer, we're a team. Isn't that the way it's supposed to work?"

"Within limits. But becoming too close can be detrimental to the working relationship between the watcher and the slayer. One can lose one's focus. The concern is no longer the destruction of the forces of evil, now it's concern over the safety of one's...companion. This could lead to irrational behaviours, dangerous actions. You are the slayer, Buffy, you cannot allow your affection toward Rupert to cloud your judgement. If he cannot be rational about you, then you must be rational about him."

She stared at him again, feeling that knot in her stomach harden into cement. "You're serious about this, aren't you?"

"Of course. When it comes to matters concerning the slayer, I am always serious. I just want you to consider the possibility that there may be someone else much more suited to the job. Someone who can give you the support your current watcher obviously can't."

"There isn't," she said flatly. "Giles is my second watcher. I won't go through a third. If I lose Giles, then you've lost me as a slayer."

There was a long silence as Burkridge gazed at her, his pale blue eyes digging straight into her soul. "Is that a promise or a threat?" he asked smoothly.

"It's the truth."

"I don't expect you to be able to think about this clearly at the moment. After all, it's a time of emotional turmoil for Rupert; it wouldn't be fair for you to abandon him. But I do want you to consider what I've said, Buffy. Think about it calmly, without letting emotions and personal feelings interfere. Then perhaps we can talk more later."

Buffy stared at him, feeling physically ill. He couldn't take Giles away from her.

Could he?

Giles gave Burkridge five minutes before he decided to intervene. He had no idea what the older man was saying to his slayer, but knowing Burkridge, it couldn't be good. At the very least, the man was overbearing and boring. At worst, he was insufferable and smug. Buffy had, thus far, behaved admirably. He'd been impressed by the poise shown by his young charge, thrown into such an awkward, difficult situation. And yet she handled it with aplomb, greeting strangers cordially, making small-talk, managing to be by his side when he needed her, and yet not hovering. She'd really been remarkable. Now she deserved rescuing.

"Excuse me, sir," he interrupted their conversation. From the atmosphere, he could tell that whatever they'd been discussing, it hadn't been the weather. Buffy looked up at him with a peculiar combination of relief and fear. And Burkridge looked like a man who was far too pleased with himself. "Buffy, there's someone I'd like you to meet. If you don't mind, sir?"

"Not at all," Burkridge smiled. "We were just finishing up." Buffy stood and he followed. "Thank you for talking to me, Buffy."

"Sure," she said, looking at him warily. "It was...interesting."

Burkridge chuckled and Giles nodded a farewell as he led Buffy across the chapel.

"Who did you want me to meet?" she asked.

"No one. I just thought you could use a reprieve."

Buffy grinned. "Thanks. Is he always so annoying like that?"

"I'm afraid so. Mr. Burkridge is among the truly insufferable." They settled on one of the couches near the back of the room. "What did he want to talk to you about?"

"Oh...nothing much." She looked down, refusing to meet his eyes. "Just some watchery crap."

Giles raised an eyebrow. "Watchery crap?"

"Yeah, watchers, and slayers, and vamps, oh my." She grinned. "But you'd have been proud of me."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I didn't hit him."

Giles laughed and put an arm around her shoulders, giving her a brief hug. He should have known that Buffy would be able to hold her own against Matthew Burkridge.

"Well, it won't be too much longer 'til we can go. I know this has been pretty miserable for you."

She shrugged. "I understand why people have wakes. I've been to them before. It's just this time I feel-well, kind of funny, being here. I mean, I'm here for you, not for him. I hardly knew him. And everybody wants to talk to me about him. I just don't know what to say, most of the time."

"You've done very well," he told her, hoping to reassure her. "Quite a few of the guests have been very impressed with you."

"Yeah, and then there's Mr. Burkridge." She made a face.

"I wouldn't let that bother you. Burkridge likes to push, much like my father did. Which was one of the reasons they couldn't stand each other. Probably too much alike."

"Nope, I don't believe that. "I liked your dad. But Burkridge?" She just shook her head.

Then her gaze shifted toward the door and he followed it. A woman had just entered the chapel. Giles felt his heart jump in his chest. "Elizabeth?" He stood up, not believing it was her. But she turned toward his voice, recognized him, and in two steps he was to her, taking her hands delightedly. "My God, Liz! It's been so long! I'm so glad you could come."

"I just got in and dashed over, hoping to catch you," she told him. Then she smiled and the next thing he knew, she was in his arms, almost as if she'd never left them.

He finally managed to pull back. "You look wonderful." He touched her short hair. "I like the hair."

"I look old," she grimaced.

"No, I like it, it suits you."

"Flatterer," she smiled, then cupped his face in her hands. "You look like bloody hell," she said bluntly.

"Yes, well it's been a hell of a week."

"I'm sure. How are you holding up?"

"About as well as can be expected. It's all a bit unreal. Come on, I want you to meet Buffy." He took her hand, leading her over to the sofa. Buffy had been watching the exchange curiously. "Buffy, I'd like you to meet an Elizabeth Leary, Mrs. Peavey's daughter." Buffy's eyes widened. He suspected she'd never thought she would meet the woman whose horrific experiences had so affected her. "Elizabeth, this is Buffy Summers."

Buffy stood up and Elizabeth took her hand. "It's an honor to meet you," she said warmly.

"Thanks," Buffy replied, as she'd been doing all evening. "It's nice to meet you, too." She glanced at Giles, her expression full of curiosity and more than a little trepidation. As if she wasn't quite sure what to make of Elizabeth, especially given what she knew about her.

Elizabeth's smile softened and she squeezed Buffy's hand. "And it's a pleasure. I'm sure the watchers haven't been saying that. They're a stuffy lot."

Buffy laughed, and Giles watched her wariness melt away before Elizabeth's bright cheer. "I noticed."

"How have you been faring, thrown down in the middle of all this craziness?" she asked.

"It's been okay," Buffy replied. "I've never been to England before."

"Oh, too bad you have to spend it in Chalworth."

"We went to Oxford on Sunday," Giles interjected, not wanting it to sound like Buffy had been a prisoner here.

"Well, that's better than nothing," Elizabeth conceded. "But it's not London. You'd love Regent Street and Harrod's."

"Next time," Giles suggested, seeing Buffy's face light up at the possibility of shopping.

"He wants to bring me back after high school," Buffy explained.

"That would be marvelous," Elizabeth said. "When will that be?"

"Not for over a year," Buffy said mournfully. "This is only my junior year."

"Still, good to have something to look forward to."

Buffy looked away sadly and Giles felt his heart go out to her. He knew the reason she lived so much in the now was because she never planned for the future. It was too painful to think about the future when you realized you had very little future to plan for.

Elizabeth must have recognized her expression because she touched her arm gently. "You have to have things to look forward to, Buffy. Otherwise, there's not much point. Those little plans for the future can make a good deal of the present a lot more bearable."

Buffy looked at her, trying to decipher her expression. "Sometimes it's enough to get through moment to moment," she said softly.

"Sometimes it is. And sometimes it helps to get through the moments if you think about something good at the other end."

Buffy frowned. "Is that how you did it?"

Elizabeth looked surprised. "He told you about that?"

Giles was about to defend himself when Buffy did it for him. "Your mother did."

"Ah. Well, the answer is yes. Moment by moment, always looking toward the future. And it helps to have good friends and companions on the journey."

"I know," Buffy said quietly and moved closer to Giles. He put an arm around her shoulders protectively and she leaned into his embrace, her utter faith in him once again filling him with awe.

Elizabeth, meanwhile, was glancing around the room. "Let me pay my respects-oh bloody hell, there's Burkridge. Well, I'd better say hello to him, too. And then I'll be back. How late is this going on?"

"Just 'til 9:00," Giles answered.

"Almost over then. Good." She leaned toward Buffy. "I hate to say it, but I've always despised these things."

Buffy smiled and Elizabeth excused herself, going to the front of the chapel. Giles watched her go, watched her pay her last respects to his father, standing before the casket for a long time, head bowed. It was so wonderful to see her again. Especially to see her now, when he was feeling so totally at sea-unsure of himself, of his relationship with his father, his relationship with Buffy....

"Yo, earth to Giles," Buffy, at his side, called softly.

"What?" He blinked, realizing he'd been staring. "Oh. Sorry?"

She laughed. "She won't disappear if you take your eyes off her, you know."

He felt himself go red. "It's...I haven't seen Liz in twenty years. I'm just...it's good to see her again."

"I like her," Buffy said definitely. "She seems so...open. Honest."

"Yes, she is," he agreed. "During the past twenty years, she's only grown stronger. She's quite...." He stopped himself before he said something totally humiliating. "I must sound like an idiot."

"Nah," she patted his arm. "I think it's cute. But I was right about the girlfriend thing, wasn't I?"

He flushed again. "Sort of. Look, don't mind me," he murmured, feeling terribly embarrassed. Of course, he'd cared for Elizabeth deeply. But that was more than twenty years ago. Why was he so ready to fall at her feet again?

"At least she made you smile," Buffy said softly. "That's more than I can do."

He looked down, concerned again by her weary sadness. It seemed that no matter what else happened, now many laughs they shared, at some point, it all fell apart and Buffy's depression returned. He cupped the side of her face tenderly. "You do make me smile," he said gently. "Just by being with me. Just by being here and being you."

She leaned into his embrace, hugging him, and he was surprised by the touch of desperation, the strength in those arms. His own tightened around her. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah." She straightened. "It's been a weird week."

"Mmm," he nodded. "Almost over, though. Just the funeral tomorrow. And that's it."

"Except for that awful plane ride." She made a face.

"But you can sleep all the way."

"I couldn't coming over."

"Then you were excited. Now you're exhausted. There's a difference."

Elizabeth came back over to them, smiling ruefully. "You know, every time I see Burkridge, I keep hoping this time it'll be different. But it never is. The man is impossible!"

Giles smiled grimly. "Burkridge will never change. Men like him never do."

"Am I gonna lose slayer points if I say I don't like him?" Buffy asked.

Elizabeth laughed. "I'd be worried if you did, love."

Just then, the object of their conversation started toward them. "Speak of the devil," Giles murmured and Buffy immediately moved closer to him, almost as if seeking his protection. He put his arm around her shoulders again.

"Rupert," Burkridge began, "I'll see you tomorrow at the funeral. I hope you and...Buffy..." He said the name like he didn't approve of it. "...will join me for lunch afterwards."

In his arm, Buffy stiffened. "Oh," Giles began, not sure what to say. "We...."

"I want to personally offer my condolences. And there are some things we need to discuss."

Buffy held onto him more tightly, her entire body rigid. The only time he'd ever seen her react like this was with.... Was with Jenny. After Angel.

"Um, yes, well...it will rather depend on how things go tomorrow," he said, not wanting to commit to anything until he knew what was going on with Buffy. "It's been a rather trying week."

"We need to talk, Rupert," Burkridge said sternly.

"Yes, I know. We will. I'll see you tomorrow. Thank you for coming." He hoped the other man took his dismissal. He had no intention of subjecting Buffy to anything more tonight.

But Burkridge wasn't done yet. "Good night, Miss Summers," he said, taking her hand. "I am so glad we met."

Buffy pulled her hand away. She'd faced vampires, demons, the very hosts of hell. Yet something here was frightening her. And that frightened Giles. "Good night," she managed, and held onto Giles even more tightly.

Burkridge finally left and Giles felt his charge relax. He looked down at her. "Buffy, what's wrong?"

The wide eyes which looked up at him were frightened. "Giles, let's go home. Tomorrow. Let's move our flight up and leave right after the funeral."

He stared at her, frowning. She was trying to flee, to run away. But from what? "The appraisers are coming first thing Thursday morning," he reminded her. "What's the matter?"

She sighed and ducked her head. "Nothing," she mumbled. "I...I guess I'm just homesick."

He smiled tenderly. Perhaps she was still worried about that dream. "Do you want to call them again? Just to be sure?"

"It's that phone thing again," she said.

"That doesn't matter. If you'll feel better calling...."

"Is there a problem?" Elizabeth asked.

"The phone at the house is disconnected and Buffy wanted to call her friends back home."

"Well here, I've got my cellular, will that do?"

"Whoa, talk about roaming charges!" Buffy said.

Elizabeth laughed. "I'm on roaming as soon as I leave Doncaster. It's all right."

Giles looked around; they were the last three remaining in the chapel. It was time to go home. "Are you sure it would be all right?" he asked, escorting them out of the chapel, pausing while they collected coats and while he confirmed the arrangements for tomorrow with Jack Larkin.

"Absolutely," Elizabeth confirmed. "I always carry it when I travel, but I won't be needing it here. Why don't you hang onto it 'til after the funeral tomorrow?"

"That would be great," Buffy enthused.

"Just tell us what we'll owe you for calls," Giles added.

"Don't worry about it. It's the least I can do."

Giles smiled; he did adore her. "Thank you."

They left the funeral home together. "Did you drive?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Walked. Had enough of the car on the trip down."

"Then we'll give you a lift back."

"Thanks." She smiled, taking his other arm.

They drove in amiable silence. "Just go on to your place. I can walk from there," Elizabeth said. "Besides, I want to give Buffy the phone."

Giles nodded, casting occasional glances at the woman at his side. She really was extraordinary. He'd let a good one get away when he'd let her go. Of course, he'd been a confused twenty-one at the time, hardly ready to settle down, certainly not able to give her the stability she'd needed then. It was probably for the best, all those years ago. But that didn't mean there weren't regrets.

He pulled into the drive and they climbed out of the car.

"I think I can offer you a coffee," he said as he unlocked the door.

"Nothing stronger?" she teased.

He chuckled. "This is my father's house. What do you think?"

"Ah yes," she smiled. "I'll take one of those. What is it?"

"I haven't any idea. Knowing my father, single malt."

"You mean you could have gotten drunk at home instead?" Buffy scolded, flouncing into the parlour.

"What's this?" Elizabeth teased.

"Ah, I'm afraid I'm in a bit of the dog house from the other night," he admitted sheepishly.

"What did you do?" she laughed.

"He...."

"Buffy," he interrupted, "perhaps Elizabeth can show you how her telephone works."

The two females exchanged a glance and a smile, by which he knew at some point dirt would be spilled. He sighed. He was delighted that Buffy and Elizabeth seemed to be getting along, but wasn't sure about the ultimate implications of that friendship.

Elizabeth, meanwhile, dug the phone out of her bag and she and Buffy huddled over the instrument while he went into the study where his father's decanter was stored. He poured out two measures. He almost poured one for Buffy, something to settle her down. But since she didn't care for the taste of most alcohol, it wouldn't do her much good if he couldn't get it down her.

He came back out to see Buffy smile her thanks at Elizabeth and disappear into the bedroom.

He handed Elizabeth a glass. "To old friends."

"Friendship renewed," she added and they touched glasses.

He sipped, feeling the smooth liquid fire glide all the way down to finally curl in his stomach. From the bedroom he could hear Buffy's voice, soft but happy, as she chattered with Willow. He knew she missed her friends. Oddly, he found he missed them, too. Willow's keen intelligence and bright smile, Xander's irreverence and absolute conviction, even Cordelia's grudging support.

He'd be glad to get home again, too.

"Penny for them." A soft, feminine voice eased its way into his thoughts. Elizabeth was gazing at him, a gentle smile on her face.

"Sorry," he ducked his head, embarrassed.

"You still do that," she commented.

"Do what?"

"Go off on your own little private journeys. I used to wonder where you'd go, whether it was any place better than here."

He shrugged. "Just thinking." He escorted her to a seat on the couch and sat next to her, very aware of her nearness, her warmth, the scent of her perfume.... "About Buffy," he completed.

Elizabeth nodded. "Is she always so skittish?"

"Not at all. That's what has me worried. I know she's tired, but...." He took a sip of his drink. "But it's almost as if she's scared."

"And that's not normal."

"Buffy is one of the bravest girls I've ever known. She seldom just 'gets scared'. Not about little things. Sometimes not even about big things."

Before he knew it, he was talking to her, telling her things. About Buffy, about their life in Sunnydale, about the slayerettes. About Angel.

Even about Jenny.

Through it all, she listened, attentively, compassionately, sitting with one leg tucked up under her, her arm resting on the back of the sofa, her hand stroking his shoulder comfortingly. As if she understood.

Because she did.

He told her what had happened on Sunday in Oxford and about Buffy's nightmare. And about their little "scene" last night, and how now he was worried about her peace of mind.

"I knew this trip would be a difficult one. But I thought it would be hard for me, not for her. I assumed her biggest problem would be boredom. But it's been much rougher than I'd anticipated. Almost as if I'm the one who's had it easy. At least I came here knowing what to expect. Buffy's been rather lost.

"I know she hasn't been sleeping well, not since...since Angel. I brought her hoping that getting her away from all that would help. But I think I've made it worse."

"I doubt that," she soothed. "It sounds to me like spending all this time together has just intensified certain things. Forced some conversations that might have remained unspoken. It's a crap-shoot, Rupert, you know that. You got her away from the danger, at least temporarily. But in the process she gained knowledge you'd have preferred she not have. Things that disturbed her. She's not stupid; do you really think she read anything in those books she hadn't already thought of herself? Sometimes it's harder to see it in black and white, but it's really nothing new. Slayer fights, slayer dies."

He shuddered. "I know. Dear God, I know." He drained his glass then turned to her, taking her hand. "How did you stand it? When I think of something happening to her, I feel physically ill. How did you keep from going insane?"

"I almost didn't," she said softly. "You must remember that."

He did remember. Her anguish, her all-encompassing grief. How sometimes she could barely take a breath without sobbing. And how she had clung to him, reaching for something, anything, to take away the pain. "All I did was take the knife out of your hand," he answered softly. "The resolve, the inner strength, that had to come from within."

"And from without. Rupert, do you think it was just sex we had? That was only a small part of it. The smallest part. More important was someone to hold onto. Who'd listen when I needed to talk. Who didn't view me with either pity or disgust. Who could be silent when I needed stillness. Who was there.

"Why do you think I loved you so much? Because you didn't just save my life. You saved my sanity."

He just gazed at her, completely overwhelmed by her simple declaration. "If you loved me, why did you go back to John?" Then he ducked his head. "No, forget I asked."

"The reason hasn't changed," she said gently. "You weren't in any place in your life to be able to give me the security I needed then. John could."

It was nothing he didn't already know. "No regrets?" he asked.

"Nothing I'd have done differently," she said simply. "Not much point in playing what if. It doesn't change what was, it doesn't change what is."

He reached a hand to cup the side of her face tenderly. Her simple pragmatism was like a balm to him. "I have missed you."

She smiled. "I've missed you, too."

He desperately wanted to kiss her. But the fact that she was a married woman somehow mattered more to him now than it had twenty years ago. So he contented himself with stroking a finger down her cheek and letting his hand rest in the curve between neck and shoulder.

"Do you have regrets?" she asked.

"Oh, yes. All sorts. But not about us. I suppose my only wish is that I could have been older, perhaps through with school."

She shook her head. "If you had been, you wouldn't have been there. Here. No, it was because of what happened in London that you were there when I needed you. So you really can't afford to have regrets. If not for what you'd done, you couldn't have done what you did."

He laughed softly. "I think I even understood that." He shook his head. "I have been hanging around Buffy too long."

She laughed, too, tipping her head and rubbing her cheek against the hand resting on her shoulder. Then she captured his hand, turned her head and kissed it.

The touch was electric, the atmosphere charged. Giles found it difficult to breathe. Her eyes were bright, her lips soft, inviting. She leaned forward, her chin slightly raised. He moved closer, his hand sliding to the back of her neck. He bent his head; her lips parted in anticipation....

Then there was a thump and a muttered curse from the hallway and Giles pulled back as if stung. He swallowed past his dry mouth, tried to force his heart back down into his chest where it belonged, and called out, "Are you all right?"

"Who put this box here?" Buffy called back.

"I thought you knew," he answered. He glanced at Elizabeth; she was a little flushed, trying not to burst out laughing. He was certain he must look equally as guilty.

Buffy came into the room. "Thanks for the use of the...phone." Her words died. "Um, did I just interrupt something?"

Elizabeth chuckled. "Just remembering old times."

"How is everybody?" Giles asked, hoping to change the subject.

"Fine," Buffy answered, willing to be distracted. "Day two of Spring Break, so everybody's bored. Xander and Cordy broke up yet again, it's raining, and Willow's depressed because Oz has to stay in the basement."

"Good Lord, is it the full moon again?"

"Guess so. I lose track."

"It's a good thing Oz doesn't."

"What's this?" Elizabeth asked, curious.

"Oh, my friend Willow's boyfriend is a werewolf," Buffy said matter-of-factly.

"Werewolf! Honestly?"

"Three nights a month," she confirmed.

"You do live in an exciting place."

"Oh yeah. Barrel of laughs." Buffy's scowl was actually rather cute. She handed the phone to Elizabeth. "Thanks for the use of this. I appreciate it."

"Oh, you hang onto it, love. 'Til tomorrow. Just in case." Elizabeth handed it back to her.

"You sure?"

"Absolutely. Go on."

"Thanks!" Buffy grinned.

"That's not blanket permission to start phoning everyone you know, Buffy," Giles said, seeing the dollar signs flash in his mind.

"Not everybody. Just Xander."

Giles sighed. Another international call....

"Go on, let her," Elizabeth prodded. "Don't worry about it."

Buffy gazed at Giles endearingly, as if to say 'pretty please'. He sighed again. "Don't talk long," he finally compromised. "You need to get some sleep."

"I'll call Xander then go right to bed. Promise," she grinned and hopped off down the hall.

"Buffy," he called.

"Yeah?" Her head poked around the corner.

"I'm going to walk Elizabeth home."

She smiled and her eyes twinkled. "Sure. Go ahead." He thought she was reading far more into that statement than he'd intended.

He stood, extending his hand toward Elizabeth. "I'll be back shortly, all right?"

"Yeah, fine." Still that knowing smile.

Elizabeth stood as well. "It was lovely to meet you, Buffy," she said. "I'll see you tomorrow." She moved around the sofa, giving the girl a hug.

"Okay. 'Night," she said, hugging back.

Buffy went on into the bedroom and Elizabeth came over to where Giles was waiting, holding her coat. He grabbed a flashlight on the way out, remembering how stygian it got out here. Especially away from the road.

They were silent as they walked around the back of the house, heading toward the break in the hedge which both families had been using as long as either could remember.

Elizabeth looked up at the night sky and sighed. "It's a beautiful night," she said. Sure enough, the moon, almost full, shone bright, practically eliminating the need for the flashlight. Occasional clouds floated past, reflecting silver in the sky.

He smiled, taking her hand. "Thank you for everything you did today."

"What have I done?" she asked with a chuckle.

"Oh, not much-just took a very frightened slayer and put a smile on her face." He stopped and turned her toward him. "And on mine as well."

"You're welcome," she said. "I really like Buffy. She's sweet."

"She likes you; she said so at the funeral home."

"Good." She smiled, took his arm and they started walking again.

Then she suddenly stopped. Ahead of them lay the stable.

"Anything in there anymore?" she asked.

"I haven't been out there. Buffy says not. I suppose I'd better check before I go."

"Let's check now." She gazed at him.

"I...." he started to protest. He'd lost count of the hours they'd spent in that stable, their love spread on a blanket in the hayloft, the world stopping for a time, focusing down until it was nothing more than bodies, and needs and the desire to be together.

"For old time's sake," she whispered.

"Buffy..."

"Will be fine. Come on." Without waiting for his approval, she took his hand and started leading him toward the old building. He realized protest was pointless. Why protest against something he wanted so much anyway?

Besides, maybe he was reading more into it; maybe all she wanted to do was see it and remember, not try and relive it.

It was eerie, seeing it without the horses, though the smell of horseflesh, old leather, hay and dust still lingered. The three stalls

were empty, and a bridle hung on a hook near the door. Beyond that, the place was deserted.

"I wonder if anything's left," Elizabeth whispered, heading for the ladder to the loft. He held the light for her as she climbed.

"See anything?" he called.

"Come on up and see," she answered, so he climbed up as well.

The hay was mostly gone, a few odd scraps remaining. There was a pile of rags in one corner.

Elizabeth walked along the railing and crouched down, reaching for something. "Oh, my God," she murmured.

"What is it?" he frowned, unable to see what she'd found.

"Come here."

He followed and she turned around. Cupped in her hands was a candle stub. "Twenty years later, there's still a candle," she whispered, almost awed. At one point they'd had several candles up here. This was all that remained.

She looked at him. "You have a match?"

He nodded and pulled the book out of his pocket. She smiled and held the candle stub and he carefully lit it. She held it for several moments as they simply stared into the flame, remembering. When he glanced up again, she was gazing at him, her eyes bright in the glow of the flame. She wordlessly turned away, ran her hand over the railing to dust it off, and set the candle down on one of the discolored rings which showed where previous candles had rested, wax and soot marking their presence.

Then she turned toward him, let her bag slide off her shoulder to land on the floor, and extended her arms.

He didn't need a second invitation.

He went into her arms and she fit against him the way she did back then, the way she always had. Small, soft, warm, her body felt so good against his that for a long time all he wanted to do was hold her close, feel her heart beating next to his, revel in her sweet scent and the joy of simply holding her.

She made a soft sound and her hands cupped the back of his head, drawing him down. His mouth found hers and he lost the ability to breathe. She felt so good.... Her lips parted in invitation and he accepted it, their tongues caressing, plundering. She tasted of good scotch and smelled of sweet perfume. And he drank of her like a parched man.

Her hands stroked his face, hair, shoulders, neck. She moved her head, lips and tongue nibbling the sensitive flesh behind his ear. Hot fire coursed through his body.

"God, that's good," he moaned.

She made a guttural moan of her own and returned her mouth to his, her searching kiss making him dizzy with desire.

And then, somehow, a small tendril of rationality crept in and slowly, reluctantly, he broke the kiss, pulling back from her still searching mouth.

"Liz, no," he gasped. "We can't." He held her at arm's length.

"Why not?" she asked, as if two old friends suddenly finding themselves in the throes of passion was the most normal thing in the world.

"Because while your marriage didn't mean a lot to us then, it does now. And I can't...."

"What are you talking about?"

"John. Your husband. Remember him?"

"Rupert, John and I are divorced."

The world stopped.

"What?"

"Mother didn't tell you?"

"Obviously not."

She sighed. "Well, that's not surprising. I think she believes if she doesn't mention it, it didn't happen."

The world righted itself again and resumed its spin. He cupped the side of her face in his hand. "What happened?"

She shrugged. "Whatever happens? People grow apart. I suppose it was inevitable. We hadn't felt passion for each other since Kenny died. We had Brian hoping it would help. Don't misunderstand, we both love him dearly, but he wasn't the solution we were looking for. We were comfortable enough together, had no real complaints. Only eventually, we realized it wasn't enough. We looked at each other one day and realized that except for Brian, we had nothing in common. It was amicable enough. He went back to Ireland. We still talk occasionally, but usually only about Brian."

He didn't know what to say. Given the circumstances, it was wonderful news. But it still made him sad, in a way. "I'm sorry," he finally managed.

"What happened all those years ago changed me, fundamentally," she went on. "For a long time I buried it, hiding out in security and something safe. But that's not what life's about. It's about the now. It's about not holding back thinking there might be a better time, because there might not be. You don't spend time on regrets and what ifs. You accept what is. You and I both know that this, whatever this is, can't really amount to anything, not while you're six thousand miles away. But what's wrong with taking advantage of this moment, this feeling? I loved you once. I still feel something for you or this wouldn't have just happened. Why not go with it? For the moment. For what is. Whatever it is."

He gazed at her, absolutely astounded by her. By her wisdom, her strength, her pragmatism. "You are the most extraordinary woman," he murmured and drew her close again, his mouth seeking out hers. The kiss was gentler this time, less pure sex and more heartfelt emotion. But the passion was still there, banked, glowing, threatening to flare again.

They kissed for a long time, not thinking, simply delighting in the sensation of lip against lip, tongue with tongue, body pressed against body.

Then she tugged at him. "I'm getting a stiff neck." They slid to the floor, sitting on the dusty planks in the empty loft, ignoring the discomfort in favor of delight in each other's bodies. His tie was askew as her fingers wriggled between buttons to caress his chest. His hands slid beneath her sweater to rub her bare back. And still they kissed, savoring the touch, the taste.

"I wish," he said between kisses, "I could have you stay. But Buffy's in the bedroom and I don't think we could manage it in my little bed again."

"Good lord, no," she laughed. "That almost killed us the last time." The one time they'd actually put their love into a real bed, it had been his narrow attic bed and they'd each nearly fallen out at least once. After that, they'd contented themselves with the blanket in the hayloft. It became their special, private world.

"And you can't stay with me," she went on. "Mother...."

"I know," he agreed, kissing her some more. "Damn." Now she was in his arms, he was loath to let her go.

She sighed, resting her head against his shoulder. "I guess it just wasn't meant to be. I don't know about you, but I'm getting a little old to play house in a dirty hayloft."

He chuckled, holding her tenderly. "I wish California weren't so far away," he murmured.

"So do I. I'd come out and visit, but the airfares are so dear. Especially with Brian's tuition."

"I'd send you a ticket, but getting myself and Buffy over here, spur of the moment, just about tapped me out."

"It's all right. We'll work something out."

He sighed, burying his face against her neck. A petulant little phrase, one of Buffy's, poked its way into his thoughts. Life wasn't fair. He laughed to himself.

"What?"

"Nothing. I have been hanging around Buffy and her friends too long."

"I'd like to meet them; they sound like good kids."

"They are. Oh, mostly, they're fairly typical teenagers. But they've seen so much, done so much, it's matured them. They're none of them innocents, not anymore. Which is sad, really. Especially Willow. She's very strong, when she needs to be, but there's a fragility about her which is painful to see. Everything that happens seems to affect Willow just a little more deeply."

He sighed again. "I'd considered, at one time, asking her to succeed me. But I'm not sure anymore I could do it. Not that she wouldn't be up to the job, because she'd be magnificent. But because of the terrible toll it would take on her. It's one thing to inherit it, to do it because you have no choice. It's quite another to be appointed."

Elizabeth was silent, her head resting on his shoulder contentedly. "Or perhaps it's easier."

"How do you figure?"

"I never fought it because it never occurred to me I could. Girls didn't disobey their elders, full-stop. You fought it but eventually came round, accepting it on your own. Brian wants nothing to do with it and I'm not sure he'll ever change his mind, because he's been told it's his destiny, which he refuses. But if, instead of having me tell him, at age twelve, that this was who he is, I had waited 'til he was, oh, maybe eighteen or so, then explained the situation and asked him to succeed me, it might have been different. Don't decide based on your reactions. Decide based on hers."

He gazed at her again, awed once more by her insight and intelligence. "It's a tough call," he murmured, stroking her smooth cap of hair.

"What is?"

"Whether I want you more for your body or your mind."

She laughed and they shared a tender kiss.

"Well, seeing as how they come as a set, you don't have to decide."

"I have missed you," he hugged her close.

They sat like that for a long time, simply enjoying the feel of warm arms around them, strong hearts beating together.

Until the candle sputtered and died.

"And that's that," she sighed, straightening from his embrace. "We should probably be getting home."

"Mmm," he agreed, climbing to his feet and helping her up. "Buffy is going to wonder what happened to me."

She laughed, helping him brush the dust off. "You're underestimating her again. Buffy is going to know exactly what happened to you."

"This is supposed to be a comfort?"

Another laugh. "Don't be so afraid that she knows you're human. She has no use for Superman."

"I have no problem with her knowing I'm human," he replied, helping her down the ladder. "It's intimate details about my life I'm not keen on. It was bad enough she had to learn about Ethan and that whole mess."

"So demons are all right but lovers aren't?"

"I didn't say that. It's just... Give me a chance, Liz. I came here to bury my father, not fall in love again."

He stopped abruptly. She was gazing at him, a look on her face he couldn't decipher in the dimness.

"Did I just say that?"

"Afraid so, Love," she smiled. "Want to take it back?"

He shook his head, marveling at the astonishing turn of events. "No. No I don't." He cupped the side of her face with his hand. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," he admitted. "I was in love with you twenty years ago. Things have just come full circle."

"Were you really?" she asked, taking his arm as they resumed their walk.

"Was I what?"

"In love with me back then."

"Madly."

"Oh." She was silent for a long moment. "I never realized. I always assumed it was just...physical."

"Of course not. I practically worshiped you."

"Then why did you let me go so easily? I mean, if...."

"You said it yourself. I couldn't give you what you needed. I wasn't such a fool as to think I could compete with safety and security. I would have ruined your life. I knew that. Better to let you go and have you happy than hold on and have you miserable."

"I never knew you were the sacrificial type," she mused.

"I'm a watcher. I rather think it's endemic of the breed," he smiled ironically, a look she mirrored.

They arrived at her door.

"Well," she said, "this has been... instructive."

He laughed. "That's one way of putting it."

They gazed at each other for a long time.

"I want to see you again," he said.

"You will, tomorrow at the funeral."

"You know what I mean."

"How?"

"I don't know. But just tell me you want it too, and we'll work something out."

"I want it too," she said simply.

"Then we'll find a way."

"All right. I trust you." She wrapped her arms around him again, and they kissed tenderly.

"This is insane," he murmured against her neck. "I don't want to let you go."

"I'm afraid you'll have to, love. Or else how do we explain to Mother what we were doing snogging on the front step all night?"

He laughed and that was enough to allow them to release the embrace.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he said.

She nodded. "I'll have Mother along."

"When do you have to head back?"

"No later than suppertime. I have to work on Thursday."

He didn't want to think about her leaving. Not yet, not when he'd just found her again. "Do you want to plan on lunch or something afterward?"

"Aren't you supposed to dine with Burkridge?"

He grimaced. "Come along; act as buffer."

"Thanks." She made her own face.

"No, seriously. Your presence might just about make it tolerable."

"I know," she grinned, "let's really get up his nose-invite Mother to come, too."

He chuckled. "Oh, you are wicked!"

"That's why you love me," she smiled.

His heart jumped at the words. "Among other reasons," he said softly and moved in to kiss her again, but she held him off.

"No, come on, we start that again we'll never say good night."

He still took her in his arms. "One final kiss, and I'll depart," he paraphrased.

"Parting is such sweet sorrow," she rejoined.

He kissed her tenderly. "That I shall say good night 'til it be morrow."

"God, this is getting thick," she chuckled and he laughed with her. Who could have imagined himself, at forty-three, quoting Romeo and Juliet on a lady's doorstep.

"Good night," he said one last time, and with a final kiss, he let her go, watching as she let herself in, turned and gave him a bright smile that nearly lit up the night sky. He stayed until the door closed, and then he turned and slowly went back down the garden toward home.

The house was silent when he let himself in, locking the door behind him. He walked through the parlour, picking up their empty glasses and carrying them to the kitchen. He briefly thought about pouring himself another drink, something to calm his giddy spirit. But he realized that despite the "high" of the past hour or two, he was actually bone-tired, and all the alcohol was likely to do would be make him fuzzy as well as hyper. He'd be better off without it.

He was heading toward the stairs when a shadow in the hallway made him start. Buffy was standing there, leaning against the doorway to the bedroom. "I thought you were asleep," he said softly.

"Hadn't fallen asleep yet, heard you come in." Perhaps not, but she'd been on the verge, if her heavy-lidded expression was any indicator.

"Oh." Suddenly, he was at a loss for words. "Everything all right with Xander?"

"Yeah. He's fine."

"Good, good. Well, you'd better get some sleep. Tomorrow will still...."

"You know, Giles," she interrupted, "I could have slept upstairs tonight, let you have the bedroom."

"What?"

"You know, with the bigger bed?"

It took a minute for her insinuation to register. Then he gaped. "What gives you the idea that...."

"Oh, gee, I dunno," she teased, "maybe it's that it took you almost an hour to walk next door. And then there's the dirt on your pants, and your hair's messed up. And the lipstick on your cheek."

He put his hand to his cheek guiltily. "I...I..."

"What'd you guys do, go to the barn?" she smiled. Not much slipped past her.

"I...I...we.... That's none of your business," he spluttered.

"Don't worry, I think it's cute. Anyway, there's always tomorrow night."

"Elizabeth is leaving tomorrow right after-" He stopped. He couldn't believe he was having this discussion with her. "What's with the prurient interest in my love life?"

"It's not prurient, it's just...." She looked up at him, her big eyes even wider. "I just want you to be happy."

"Well, I appreciate your concern, but...."

"And maybe I don't want to wreck it for you again."

His throat tightened. It seemed like no matter what, it always came back to this. "You didn't 'wreck it' before."

"I blamed her," she said, her voice breaking, "even though it wasn't her fault. But you defended me and she...."

"You, your needs, will always come first," he said quietly. "She didn't understand that, not really."

"But if I hadn't been such a bitch, maybe...."

"Buffy, no." He moved to her, a hand on her shoulder. "Let's not go into this again, it's late. What's happened has happened, we can't change it. Not for you, not for me. Believe me, if I could, I would."

"But it's all my fault," she whispered, tears in her eyes. "How many more will have to die because of what I...."

"Hush, now that's enough," he soothed, pulling her into his arms in a comforting embrace. "No more."

He held her while she wept silent tears, until she sniffed and raised her head.

"I'm sorry, I hadn't meant to...."

"Shh." He smoothed her hair. "I know."

"I-I guess it's been kind of a freaky day."

He nodded, understanding. "It has at that." He leaned over and kissed her forehead. "Now, you'd better get to bed."

She sniffed again and moved out of his arms. "'Kay." Then she stopped and turned back. "Giles?"

"Yes?"

He saw her swallow, and when she spoke, her voice was small, afraid. "You won't ever leave, will you?"

"No, of course not." Whatever gave her that idea?

"I mean, no matter what happens, no matter what I do or what other people say. You won't leave me?"

"I won't leave you," he confirmed, hoping to sound as confident as he felt. "Not ever." She smiled, but it was a sorry expression, and her tear-stained face looked so sad, his heart ached. "Buffy, what's the matter?"

"Nothing. I just..." She sighed. "Nothing. Good night." Before he could ask again, she went

into the bedroom and closed the door.

He stared at the closed door, bewildered. The calls to her friends had only helped momentarily; she was still upset. Frightened. It didn't bear thinking about, Buffy, the Slayer, the girl who nightly faced demons, devils, vampires, the very hosts of hell without flinching. That girl had clung to him desperately and wept bitter tears. And he didn't know why. Something must have happened which had made her react with such fear earlier. Perhaps something in her conversation with Burkridge, though he couldn't imagine what. The senior watcher was more annoying than threatening.

Wearily, he shook his head. This day had been long enough for two. From light-hearted laughter over the photo albums this morning to this...this heart-wrenching sorrow.

Not to mention Elizabeth. God! Where had

that come from, that passion?

Methodically, Giles put out the lights and

got ready for bed.

He lay for a long time staring at the sloped ceiling, in too much turmoil to sleep.

There was a vague ache of desire in his body. That would pass. And a greater ache of pain in his heart.

That one didn't seem to go away.
***

XIII

Buffy woke to sunlight streaming through the windows. She sighed and stretched. She'd slept, but it couldn't exactly be called restful. More weird dreams had disturbed her sleep: disjointed images, uneasy feelings, a sense of disaster. Giles had featured prominently in most of them, always standing there, just beyond her touch. When she reached for him, he evaporated, almost like a vampire turning to dust.

She lay in bed for a long time, trying to gather the energy to move. But eventually, she dragged herself out of bed. She wasn't going back to sleep and at least she could have Giles's company, assure herself he was still with her.

He was sitting at the table sorting papers, the ubiquitous cup of tea at his elbow. He looked up when she came into the room.

"Good morning," he said, his voice kind, concerned.

"Hi," she answered, her own voice practically non-existent.

They looked at each other as if waiting for the other to speak.

"Um, I think there are still scones left," he finally said. She doubted it was what he wanted to say, but it was good for a start.

"'Kay." She went to the kitchen, finding a glass of juice and a scone. She stood at the counter staring out the window while she ate, letting her mind wander.

What it lit on, naturally, was Giles. Especially when she saw the barn. She smiled, trying to imagine Giles and Elizabeth making out in the barn, but soon gave it up. Even if it had happened, and it seemed pretty likely it had, she couldn't imagine it. Some things just couldn't be thought.

She heard soft footsteps behind her and turned her head as Giles came into the kitchen. She smiled at him, pleased when he smiled back, though it didn't banish the concerned look in his eyes.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked, setting the kettle on the stove again.

She shrugged. "I slept." She didn't want to tell him about her dreams. She gazed out the window again.

A hand gently settled at her shoulder, his thumb lightly rubbing at the muscles in her neck. It felt good. Soothing.

"I wish you would tell me what's wrong," he said softly.

She sighed, leaning into his gentle massage, grateful for his sturdy support. "It's nothing."

"Don't give me that."

"No, really, it's just...." She took a deep breath and turned around. "Giles, have they ever taken a watcher away from a slayer?"

He frowned. "How do you mean?"

"I don't know, like they think someone else could do it better or something."

"Who's they?"

"The watchers. The council or whatever they are."

"That's not how they work," he said, shaking his head.

"But they're the ones who tell a watcher he's the one. They're the ones who call the slayer, right? So if they can assign a watcher to a slayer, can they, you know, unassign one?"

He frowned. "Why do you ask?"

"It's just..." she stumbled over the words. "Meeting all those people yesterday, talking with them, the ones who were watchers. Some of them kept going on about...."

The doorbell rang.

"Damn!" He looked at her for a long moment, then sighed. "I'll be right back," he said, squeezing her shoulder. She let out her breath, not sure whether to be grateful for the reprieve or mad that they'd been interrupted just when she was beginning to have the courage to talk to him. She followed as he went to the door.

Elizabeth was standing there, smiling, dressed in a sweatshirt and leggings. "Good morning," she said cheerfully.

"Elizabeth!. What are you doing here?" He sounded partly surprised, partly annoyed.

"That good, huh?" she answered with a chuckle. "I'd have thought you'd thank me."

"What for?"

"For convincing my mother you didn't want to be called bright and early this morning for breakfast."

"Oh." His expression softened. "Yes, thank you."

"I also was about to go for a run and wanted to see if Buffy would like to join me." She looked past him, to Buffy. "After all the sitting yesterday, I thought you might like to get in a little exercise."

That hadn't occurred to her, but she knew she hadn't been exercising as much as she was used to. Even that chi-whatever-it-was had been two days ago. Maybe that could account for that terrible unsettled feeling she had. At least partly.

"Yeah, sure," she answered. Giles was staring at her. "That would be good. Hold on, let me get changed."

Elizabeth nodded and Buffy went into the bedroom to change into sweats. She could hear vague voices, Giles and Elizabeth carrying on a soft conversation, their tone serious. She knew Giles was worried about her, knew he was probably telling Elizabeth about it. Maybe after her run, she'd feel better, enough to talk to him again. If her courage held out.

Quickly, she changed into her running clothes and pulled her hair back with an elastic band.

"Ready," she said, tugging her sweatshirt over her head as she came into the parlor.

"Don't stay out too long," Giles reminded them, "we have to be at the chapel by eleven."

"Don't worry, I'll have her back in plenty of time," Elizabeth promised and with a wave, the two of them took off.

They walked until they got to the lane, then Elizabeth pointed left and they broke into an easy jog.

"I'm a fairly slow runner," she told Buffy, "so if you want to do sprints or something, go ahead, I'll catch you up."

"I haven't run since we've been here," Buffy said.

"How often do you usually run at home?"

"Three or four days a week. In between my other training. I'm pretty fit, but Giles doesn't want me to get lazy."

"That's wise," Elizabeth said. "You always need to stay on top of things. Even if it doesn't seem that there's much happening. Things can change very quickly."

Buffy felt that now-familiar pang. "I know."

Elizabeth didn't answer and Buffy wondered whether Giles had told her about what was going on in Sunnydale-about Angel. Maybe even about Ms. Calendar.

"I'm sorry, Buffy," Elizabeth said softly. "That wasn't what I meant."

Buffy swallowed. "It's okay."

They ran in silence for a long time, through many of the country roads which crossed the area. They stayed clear of town, going instead on the lesser-known paths. Buffy enjoyed the sensation of pure physical exertion without thought. Running was so mindless, it felt good.

Elizabeth directed them down a small lane through an orchard, the trees just beginning to bud as if to say "we don't care how cold it is; we say it's Spring". The older woman slowed to a walk.

"Go ahead, I'll catch you up," she said, breathing heavily, pausing to stretch from the waist.

Buffy stopped, falling into step beside her. "Nah, it'll be good to walk awhile." They walked a little ways, taking in the peaceful setting. "It's pretty here."

"Yes, it is," Elizabeth agreed. "This was always one of my favorite routes." She ran a hand over her brow, mopping the perspiration.

Buffy took a moment to study her companion. She was old-well, older than her mother, even older than Giles, if what he said was true. Her short hair was almost half silver; it sparkled in the sunlight. She'd been breathing hard but was quickly returning to normal, meaning she was used to exercise. It was hard to see, with the sweatshirt, how good her body was, but she seemed fit.

Buffy's gaze moved to the older woman's face: wide hazel eyes with crinkles at the corners, a straight nose, not too long, small mouth with round lips, only a hint of a double chin. Fair complexion, not too wrinkly. Not so much pretty as pleasant. Elizabeth had a pleasant, open face, one which made you like her.

And Buffy did.

She realized the older woman was scrutinizing her in return and flushed, looking away. After all, they were still mostly strangers.

"So," Elizabeth broke the silence, "you want to tell me what's bothering you?"

"Huh?"

"Rupert said that skittishness of yours last night wasn't normal. He's worried."

Buffy stopped, scowling. "So he sent you to pry?"

"No," Elizabeth shook her head, coming to a stop beside her. "It was my idea to invite you running, because I know you're used to more physical activity than you've been getting here."

"We trained a little on Monday," Buffy said defensively, hoping Elizabeth wasn't going to come down on Giles for not keeping her fit enough.

"That's not enough and you know it. But," she took a deep breath, "I also thought that maybe an impartial third party would be easier to talk to than your watcher. If you don't want to talk, I respect that. Just remember that you can." She started walking again, leaving Buffy frowning after her.

Why shouldn't she talk to Elizabeth? After all, she knew the watchers, she might know whether they could do what they threatened. Giles said not, but Giles was prone to hide things from her if he didn't want her to know. And Elizabeth would understand. She'd had a slayer before.

"Hey!" She broke into a trot, catching up with the older woman.

"Yes?" Elizabeth stopped and waited for her.

Buffy took a deep breath. Better now than never. "Can...can I ask you something? About the watchers?"

"Yes, of course. What about them?"

"How are they set up? I mean, I know there's a council, but is there like, a head watcher-guy who tells everybody what to do?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "There is a council, yes, and senior members. But it's a society of equals. None of them has any more authority than anybody else. Why?"

Buffy didn't answer. "So, like, if they wanted to do something, could they?"

"If who wanted to do something?"

"The watchers. How do they decide things? Like who the next slayer is."

"That's not decided by the watchers, that's determined by Fate," Elizabeth corrected. "You should know that."

"Well, yeah, but...I mean, how do they decide who's got slayer potential?"

"Study, research, investigation. Word of mouth. Various ways. Some are probably missed, but most are found, eventually." She gave Buffy a sympathetic smile. "Some later than sooner. Why?"

Buffy shrugged in a way she hoped was casual. "I was just curious. Your mother said something the other day about how I got...missed. And I was wondering how it happened."

Elizabeth sighed. "I'm not sure I've ever heard the whole story; it was after my time. Some watchers wanted to put all the blame on Merrick, but it was at least as much the fault of the rest of the council for growing so complacent. It was an unfortunate set of circumstances which could have been disastrous. It's our good fortune that you're as talented as you are, otherwise we could have been in serious trouble."

Buffy frowned. She had to wonder whether they were expecting her to fail, because of her inexperience. Like, "oops, blew it on this one. Well, she'll screw up and get killed soon, and that'll solve that problem". They probably didn't expect her to survive. They certainly wouldn't have expected her to outlive Merrick.

"What about the watchers?" she asked.

"What about them?"

"Who decides which watcher's gonna be The watcher? You know, the one who gets the slayer."

"Potentially, any girl to whom a watcher is assigned could theoretically become the slayer, so they all need to prepare their charges. Certain...manifestations, if you will, give them some indication which girl will be next, but until the previous slayer dies and the new one is activated, no one knows for sure."

"Yeah, but not all watchers even get potential slayers, do they?" Buffy asked. "I mean, Giles's father never had one, did he?"

"There are a lot of factors which enter into the decision to choose a watcher to watch over a particular slayer or slayer designate. Skill level, area of expertise, the age of the slayer or designate, the experience and knowledge of the watcher. And so forth."

"Yeah, but who decides that? The council?"

Elizabeth nodded. "That's right. It's one of their most important duties, beyond the actual training of a slayer."

"What about...unchoosing them?"

"What?"

"Well, if they choose them, the watchers, can they, you know, unchoose them?"

"How do you mean?" Elizabeth frowned.

"Well...." Buffy took a deep breath. It was now or never. "When I was talking to Mr. Burkridge yesterday, he kept going on and on about what happened with the Master, you know, when I died. He made it sound like it was all Giles's fault, what happened. Like he hadn't prepared me enough or something. He kept saying how I'd be better off with someone stronger and more responsible who could do it right. I tried to tell him I like Giles and thought he did good, but he said some crap about not letting personal feelings get in the way.

"So I just wanna know...." Her mouth dried and she struggled to get the words out. "I need to know if they can take him away from me."

She hadn't expected the tightness in her chest, the tremor in her voice. Any second now, she was going to fall apart.

Elizabeth stared, her mouth open in shock. "Oh, Buffy, no," she began, and Buffy didn't hear anything more.

"God, I knew it!" she groaned, feeling her chin quiver. "Oh, God, I...they can't...!" Tears filled her eyes and she stood there, fighting a losing battle not to cry. "Oh, please...."

Elizabeth's hand went to her shoulder comfortingly. "Buffy, shhh," she soothed. "It's all right, love. They can't take him from you. And they won't."

"But you just said...." She opened her eyes and looked imploringly at the older woman.

"I said that a watcher is appointed by the council, and that appointment is based on a number of factors. But once that bond has been established, between the watcher and the slayer, it cannot be broken. Only in the rarest and most extreme of situations do the council ever intervene at all and then only in cases where the watcher is directly endangering the slayer."

"But Mr. Burkridge made it sound like that's what he thought Giles was doing."

"Matthew Burkridge is a supercilious twit who wouldn't know proper watcher/slayer behaviour if it hit him in the face," she said sourly. "Which I might very well do myself for upsetting you."

"But...."

"Buffy, listen to me." She put both hands on Buffy's shoulders, forcing her to pay attention. "If Burkridge wanted to have Rupert removed, he'd need to have a consensus of watchers. Not just the watchers here in Chalworth but all the watchers, throughout the world. And he'd need to have demonstrable proof that Rupert was failing in his responsibilities. He's unlikely to get the first, and he simply doesn't have the second. Even if he tried, he wouldn't succeed."

Buffy looked at her, wanting desperately to believe.... "You sure?"

"Positive. If he so much as tries it, he'll have a fight on his hands. Not just from Rupert, who believe me, would fight like the devil for you, but from me as well. Don't worry, love. You'll have your watcher, for as long as you need him."

"I don't want just any watcher," she sniffed. "I want Giles. I couldn't take losing another one. It was bad enough last time and I didn't even know Merrick that well, not like I do Giles. I couldn't handle it, especially not with everything else that's happened. Sometimes he's the only thing that makes it bearable- knowing he's there, looking out for me...."

"Shhh," Elizabeth soothed, opening her arms. Buffy moved to her, unable to stop the tears. "Shh, hush, love, it'll be all right," the older woman comforted.

Buffy struggled to get herself under control again. "Sorry," she mumbled. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I never freak out like this. Well, hardly ever."

Elizabeth smiled kindly and smoothed her hair. "That's all right. You have every reason to be upset. It's a very special thing, the relationship between a watcher and a slayer. Every one is different. Your relationship with Rupert is something unique to the two of you. It might not be what the older generation of watchers expect, but that doesn't make it less valid."

Buffy nodded, pulling herself out of Elizabeth's arms and wiping at her face. "Well, I thought so, but when we first got here, Giles's father started going on about maybe Giles wasn't the best watcher for the job and I told him yes he was, and I think he finally believed me. But then Burkridge started saying all the same things and I got scared. Like maybe they meant it and they were gonna take him away from me."

Elizabeth put an arm around her shoulders comfortingly. "Richard Giles was a curmudgeon who never said a kind word when a nasty one would do. He spent most of Rupert's life putting him down, telling him he wasn't good enough, shaming him. I'd never tell Rupert this, because I know he loved his father, which is how it should be. But I'm just as glad the old bastard's gone. Rupert didn't need that kind of grief. He's a good man, one of the best. Only his father would never see that. All he saw was someone who failed to measure up to his idealized 'image' of a son."

"I think," Buffy began as they turned and headed home, "I think at the end, he finally realized that maybe Giles was okay. He said that at the end his father wanted to hear about everything he'd done-as a watcher. And your mother said he used to always tell her every time he got a letter from him. Like he was proud."

Elizabeth smiled gently. "Well, maybe he did. About bloody time. Thirty years too late, if you ask me."

"Better than not at all."

"True," Elizabeth conceded with a shrug. "Well, you ready to run again?"

Buffy smiled. "I wanna do some sprints."

"Go ahead," Elizabeth waved her on and broke into her own steady jog.

Buffy took off, running full-out for a time, then slowing to a walk until Elizabeth caught up with her, then sprinting off again, heading for home.

Giles was pacing, glancing at his watch when he heard laughter in the front garden and saw Buffy and Elizabeth trot up to the door.

He pulled it open roughly. "Where have you been?" he demanded. "We have to leave for the chapel in twenty minutes."

"My fault," Elizabeth said, "We lost track of the time. Go on, hurry," she urged, propelling Buffy into the house.

"Twenty minutes, Buffy," Giles called after her.

"I know!" she called back.

Then he turned back to Elizabeth. "Well?"

"Everything's fine. She had a misunderstanding. But everything's all right now."

"What was it?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Liz...."

Elizabeth sighed. "She was confused about some things about watchers and slayers. I straightened her out, don't worry about it."

Giles felt his stomach tighten. "What things? Did Burkridge say something yesterday to upset her?"

Elizabeth merely smiled. "I said don't worry about it. It's all fine now. I have to dash. I'll see you at the chapel. Bye." She kissed his cheek and trotted off toward her home.

Giles stood watching her, a frown crossing his face. Where did this sudden pang of jealousy come from? He ought to be grateful Elizabeth had done what he could not. But instead, part of him was indignant that Buffy had confided in her when she wouldn't talk to him.

Except she'd been on the verge when Elizabeth arrived. Perhaps if she hadn't come when she did, Buffy might have talked to him.

He sighed. Well, if Elizabeth said it was handled, it was most likely handled. Though if

Burkridge had purposely upset Buffy, he'd.... Actually, he didn't know what he'd do. He was in a precarious position with Burkridge. As much as he despised the man, he did wield power. He could make life very difficult for Giles if he chose.

Fifteen minutes later, Buffy emerged from the bedroom, wearing a very pretty dark red velvet dress. Her hair was upswept and held with a copper clip.

"Giles, can you get this clasp?" she asked, holding a necklace to her throat. His heart skipped a beat. It was his mother's cross.

He silently moved to her, taking the necklace from her and fastening it with fingers suddenly gone clumsy. But he managed, and turned her around. "You look lovely," he murmured.

She smiled shyly. "It just seemed-right-to wear this today," she said, fingering the cross.

"It is. She'd have been pleased to see you with it."

They shared a quiet moment, then he took a breath. "Are you ready?"

"Just a sec." She went back to the bathroom

and emerged a few minutes later with makeup applied. She smiled at him and he extended his arm, escorting her from the house.
***

XIV

They went into the chapel first, to pay their last respects in private. Buffy hung back while Giles went up to the closed casket and bowed his head, wishing he could pray. Perhaps that would fill up that terrible emptiness inside him. He'd been almost grateful for Buffy and her worries. At least it had distracted him. Standing here now, there were no distractions. There was nothing but...

Nothing.

When his mother had died, he'd wept bitter, angry tears, incensed at the cruelty of fate that had taken her away from the son who still needed her.

When Jenny was killed he'd been devastated. The mere thought of that night still sent lances of pain through him. He and Buffy had clung together outside that warehouse for a long time before he could muster the strength, the courage, to get up. To go on.

But now.... Perhaps he had grieved so much in his life he was numb to further pain. Perhaps it simply hadn't sunk in yet, the finality. Or perhaps it was degree. His father hadn't been a part of his daily life in a long time. And though he'd loved him, life wouldn't be significantly changed by this particular loss.

He'd wept the other night, and again yesterday afternoon. Had that been his quotient of tears? If so, then why did he feel now like something was missing?

He took a deep breath and turned away from the casket. Buffy stood behind him, her wide eyes filled with compassion and concern. Bless her for being here with him. She helped him feel less alone. He smiled and took her arm, silently walking with her to the back of the chapel.

In the foyer, guests were arriving and the funeral director opened the chapel doors to the public. "Let's get some air before we have to go back in," Giles murmured and they moved to the door.

On the front steps, Elizabeth was talking to Burkridge. Or rather, Burkridge was being talked to. Fiercely. Her words were soft, but it was clear by her body language, and his, that their meaning was anything but. Elizabeth, he recalled, could be something of a firebrand when she put her mind to it. Giles might almost feel sorry for the man if it weren't that he probably deserved everything he was getting.

Elizabeth spotted them, made a final pointed comment to Burkridge, and walked away from him, heading up the steps to where they were standing. She smiled at Buffy, giving her a hug. "Everything's all right," she said. "You have nothing to worry about. He said, if you can believe him, that it was a test."

Buffy stared, aghast. "What was he testing? How I could freak?"

"Your dedication, apparently. And how you felt about your watcher."

"All right, will one of you tell me what's going on?" Giles asked. "I'm serious, Liz. No evasions."

Buffy and Elizabeth exchanged glances. "Burkridge managed to convince Buffy last night that he was going to remove you as her watcher," Elizabeth explained.

Giles felt a cold rage come over him. "He what?"

"He made it sound like it was your fault I died," Buffy said. "I thought...I thought he was gonna take you away from me."

The raw fear in her young face damped down the worst of his anger. "Buffy," he cupped her face, "why didn't you tell me?"

"I thought you'd think I was being stupid. Besides, I didn't want to worry you."

His other hand came up to stroke her hair. "I was far more worried that something was wrong and you wouldn't tell me."

"I'm sorry," she said and her lower lip trembled.

He pulled her into his arms, hugging her close. "I won't ever leave you, Buffy," he whispered fiercely. "You have my vow."

"I know you wouldn't," she answered, her voice small. "Not if you could help it. But I thought they could take you from me."

"No. Not ever. They're the ones who put me here and they'll have a fight on their hands if they try to remove me now." He let her go, holding her at arm's length. "But the next time something worries you like this, tell me. We could have saved a lot of grief."

"I'm sorry," she said again mournfully. "I just didn't want to upset you, especially not today."

He put an arm around her shoulders comfortingly. "If I'm upset, it's not at you. It's at bloody-minded bastards who stick their noses where they don't belong." He looked across to where Burkridge was in quiet conversation with another of the senior watchers and felt the rage wash over him again. And, mixed in with the rage, a still, small tendril of fear. He'd never tell Buffy, but things weren't quite so simple as he claimed. "I'm apt to give him a piece of my mind before the day is out."

"No, it's over. Let it go." Her voice was small, afraid.

"No one upsets my slayer and gets away with it," he said indignantly.

For some reason, that delighted her. A bright smile lit up her face and she hugged him happily. "My hero."

He chuckled, pleased to see her smile. He looked over her head at Elizabeth, who caught his eye and winked. And that made him smile as well.

Mr. Larkin came up to them and invited them into the chapel, as the service was about to begin.

Elizabeth touched his arm. "I'm going to find Mother. I'll see you afterwards."

He nodded and, arm securely around Buffy, escorted her into the chapel.

The service was a simple one: a few biblical passages, a short eulogy delivered by Thomas Martin, a prayer. Through it all, Giles sat silently, rigidly. The words bounced off him like raindrops, but he felt the ache in his soul intensify. Whether the ache was for his father or for other losses, for Jenny, he couldn't say. At one point, Buffy took his hand and he clung to it almost desperately, using her tiny hand as a lifeline.

Soon it was over. He sat with his head bowed, still holding Buffy's hand as the guests paid their final respects to his father and to him. He greeted each of them mechanically, thanking them for coming, accepting their words of condolence or praise with little more than a nod and another thank you.

Next to him, Buffy remained, silent and supportive. Then she stiffened. He looked up.

Matthew Burkridge stood in front of him.

"Condolences, Rupert," the older man said, extending his hand.

Giles stared at the hand, then glared at Burkridge. "You'll excuse us, sir," he said shortly, standing and bringing Buffy to her feet, "but it's been a rather trying day." He turned away.

"I was hoping you would have lunch with me," Burkridge replied.

Giles turned back, giving him a hard stare. "I make it a point never to dine with people who show so little respect toward me or my companions."

Burkridge smiled reluctantly. "Ah, yes, Miss Summers, I understand our conversation yesterday upset you. I apologize. That wasn't my intention."

"Then what was your intention, Mr. Burkridge?" Giles asked coldly. "What possible reason could you have had for saying the things you said?"

"I...."

"My father," Giles hissed, "taught me that the slayer, her needs, her care, must always be paramount. That is the single most important commandment of our kind. By your callous, cruel remarks, you have broken this most sacred of vows." His arm tightened around Buffy's shoulders. "If you have any criticism regarding the way I do my job you come to me about it, you don't go around upsetting my slayer. Before you start slinging accusations you might want to consider the effect your actions have on the one we're all sworn to protect. She's the one who matters here, not your petty ego nor mine. And if you ever try to interfere again, I will stop you. You have my promise on that."

He took a deep breath and turned away, bringing Buffy with him.

"Rupert!" Burkridge called sharply. Giles stopped and slowly turned back. Burkridge was glaring at him. "We must talk."

"I believe we just did." He felt no fear, nor any intimidation.

"Your father had some books-"

"Yes," Giles nodded, cutting him off. "They've been boxed up and will be sent round to you. Except for a few titles I've kept for my own use. I've made a note of those. Good day, sir."

He turned back and firmly guided Buffy from the chapel, hoping he looked more confident than he felt.

"Giles, you're shaking," Buffy whispered at his side.

He couldn't answer; words and breath were lodged in his throat. He stopped in the foyer, unable to get his legs to carry him farther. Elizabeth and her mother were there, waiting for them. Elizabeth came over, touching his arm. "You know you're magnificent when you're riled," she said with a smile.

Just then Burkridge came out of the chapel. He and Giles exchanged a pointed glance before Burkridge looked away, moving swiftly out of the building.

Beside him, Buffy smiled. "Game, set and match."

A soft laugh was torn from him and suddenly, everything collapsed. Vision grayed and vanished, replaced by a roaring in his ears. Wobbly legs failed him and he found himself sitting, not quite knowing how he got there. His stomach lurched and his heart gaped open. He reached out, clutching at whatever was closest, trying to find a lifeline, finding it in something soft and warm. He held on, much as he had held on that night in the alley, when he was racked with pain beyond imagining. This was different; less pain, more ache, less loss, more emptiness. His entire existence irised down to this moment, Buffy's strong arms around him, and an ache more intense than nothingness had any right to be.

Eventually, the grayness passed, and the hot fingers which had tightened around his heart loosened, allowing him to breathe again. He sucked air gratefully, his face still buried against Buffy's neck, and the scent of her perfume, light, floral, so like Buffy herself, was a balm to him. He raised his head, looked into her open, tear-stained face, and closed his eyes again, kissing her forehead. "Thank you," he whispered.

Buffy said nothing, simply held him tighter.

He took a deep breath, letting it out again slowly as he straightened from the embrace, feeling the dizziness and the nausea pass, feeling his strength return in slow stages. He found his handkerchief and handed it to her.

Their world expanded and he became aware of other people: Elizabeth standing next to him, gently stroking his hair, her mother behind, looking on worriedly. Jack Larkin looking concerned, asking if he needed assistance.

"I'm all right," he managed. Now the fit was past, he was rather embarrassed about having collapsed in such a public place. He usually reserved such reactions for the privacy of his own home.

Mr. Larkin nodded and left the small group, returning in a moment with a glass of water, which Giles sipped gratefully.

"What happened?" Elizabeth asked, sitting next to him, her gentle touch soothing.

He shook his head, passing the rest of the water on to Buffy, letting her finish it up. "Too much stress, too little sleep, too little food.... It was very peculiar, like watching everything sort of...disappear."

"That's passing out," Buffy said, handing the glass back to Mr. Larkin.

"But I didn't lose consciousness. At least, I don't think I did."

"Everything go gray?"

"Yes."

"That's passing out," she repeated confidently.

"How do you feel now?" Elizabeth asked gently.

He took a deep breath, doing a quick survey. He still felt a bit shaky, a bit off-balance. But everything seemed to have settled back down. His head no longer swam, the pain in his chest was back to being an empty ache. And the tendril of anxiety still curled in his stomach was, at least for the moment, staying put. "All right," he answered. "More or less." He looked over at Buffy, now over her crying, and touched a finger to her chin. "Are you all right?"

"Reflex crying," she nodded, sniffing.

He smiled, grateful again to have her with him.

"Why don't we go to lunch?" Elizabeth suggested as they stood. "You need to eat, both of you. Mother recommends Blooms, they're right down the street."

"Isn't Blooms just a tea shop?" he asked. He didn't have the heart to tell Mrs. Peavey that Blooms was the sort of place she, and his mother, used to go to, and as such it held less than no interest for him. If they were going for lunch, he wanted real food, not finger-sandwiches.

"Not anymore," Mrs. Peavey joined the conversation. "About three years ago they sold out to some young kids. It's still mostly a tea shop, but they do good lunches, too. And they're licensed."

Giles glanced at his young companion. "Buffy, are you up to going to lunch?"

"Sure," she smiled.

"Why don't we walk?" Elizabeth suggested. "We could all use the air." They left the chapel together, walking the few blocks to Blooms.

Giles had to give the place credit; it had managed to maintain some of the ambience which had made it a favorite with his mother while adding touches, like the expanded menu and the soft contemporary music, which made Buffy feel completely at home. The three adults split a bottle of wine and lingered more than two hours over lunch, talking about everything...and nothing. It was a wonderful tonic, and if the empty ache in his soul was still there, at least for the moment it didn't hurt quite so much.

Eventually, Mrs. Peavey said she had to go, and Elizabeth told her she'd get a lift home with Giles. The older woman made her farewells and left the little group.

"Damn," Giles muttered.

"What?" Elizabeth asked.

"I'd especially wanted to talk to your mother about something and it completely slipped my mind. Ah well, it's not like I don't know where she lives."

"What about?"

"Some arrangements. I'm having an auction house settle the contents of the house and I wanted to ask your mother if she would be their local contact. It's much easier having someone on-site, especially with me being so far away."

"Oh, yes, I'm certain it would be all right," Elizabeth assured him. "In fact, if you tell me when the sale is, I'll come down, lend a hand."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. What about the house itself?"

"I've got an Estate agent handling that."

"Who are you using?"

"Your mother recommended Smithsons."

Elizabeth nodded. "They've been here forever. I'm sure they knew your father."

"They did. He did some of their title work once upon a time."

"Does everybody in this town know everybody else?" Buffy asked.

Elizabeth laughed. "Just about. That's both the advantage and the curse of living in a small town. The curse is that everybody knows your dirty little secrets. But the blessing is that there's always someone to lend a hand when you need it. The Peaveys and the Gileses have known each other more than forty years. If we can't rely on each other when things get rough, the world really would be a sad place."

Giles smiled. "It'll be a load off my mind knowing the situation's well in hand. The appraiser's coming first thing tomorrow morning. Do you think your mother could stop by so they can meet her?"

"Of course. I'll let her know."

"Only, tell her first thing means nine o'clock, not seven."

Elizabeth laughed.

They talked until the shop closed and Elizabeth reluctantly looked at her watch. "I'd better get home and changed if I hope to get back at a reasonable hour."

Giles felt a pang. "I wish you could stay."

She smiled. "So do I, but I have to be at work tomorrow morning. Besides, you're leaving tomorrow anyway, aren't you?"

He almost suggested that there was always tonight, but caught himself at the last moment. Despite Buffy's suggestion the previous night, this was not the sort of thing he wanted to be discussing in front of his slayer. So he settled for smiling ruefully and they took their leave.

Elizabeth came back to the house so that Buffy could give her the phone back. Giles had something of his own he wanted to give her. He excused himself upstairs while Buffy and Elizabeth said their goodbyes. He found what he was looking for and came back down to find them hugging.

"You take care of yourself," Elizabeth was saying. "And keep in touch. E-mail, telephone, even an old-fashioned letter. All right?"

"I will. Thanks for everything."

"You're very welcome, love. Now you be good and look after Rupert for me."

"I beg your pardon," he interrupted, smiling. "I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself."

"It's okay," Buffy said, taking his arm. "We look after each other." She smiled up at him, her expression a mixture of pride, love and a degree of possessiveness. A look which said, "hands off, this is my watcher." He didn't mind it, he felt the same way.

"Walk me home, Bertie?" Elizabeth asked softly.

"Bertie?" Buffy gaped wide-eyed at him.

"You didn't hear that," he told her sternly, shaking a finger. "And you," he pointed to Elizabeth, "are asking for it." Bertie indeed! He hadn't been called Bertie since he'd been out of short pants.

"Ooh, you don't scare me, Watcher," she teased. "Come on, love. Walk me home and I'll make it up to you."

At his side, Buffy giggled and he sighed. He'd never hear the end of this, he was certain. He turned to her. "Back in a few."

"Yeah, sure," she answered, disbelieving, a bright smile on her face. He glared at her but knew there was no winning this one. Better to let it go.

"Bye-bye, love," Elizabeth said, giving Buffy another hug. "Talk to you soon." Then she took Giles's arm and he escorted her from the house.

They walked silently, hand in hand. He had too much to say and no words to express what he was feeling. They crossed through the hedge and started up the slope to the Peavey house.

He cleared his throat. "Liz, about what Burkridge told Buffy...."

"Are you still fretting over that? She's fine, Rupert. It gave her a scare, but I told her she has nothing to worry about."

"Doesn't she?" He stopped walking. "I've been the black sheep amongst the watchers for twenty years now. I don't know why I thought it would be any different now that they gave me a slayer. A number of them weren't keen on my nomination and some of them, like Burkridge, have been looking for an excuse, any excuse to pull me out of there. And God knows I've given them enough of them. It's all very well to tell Buffy she doesn't have to worry, but I won't lie to her. I know you aren't actively involved with them any more, but I need to know if there's any chance Burkridge could succeed if he were to try to petition for my removal."

She smiled grimly. "It's really too bad so many of these old duffers have such long memories, isn't it?"

He turned away. "How can you joke?"

"I'm not. I told Buffy that Burkridge didn't have enough support to go through with it."

"Yes, but is that true?"

"If it wasn't when I told her that, it is now," she answered. "I talked to a few people at the funeral. Martin, McManus and Soberry all think you're doing just fine, and I spoke with Geoff Kenzy in Holland before we left for the chapel. You know you have his support. Plus me, of course. Just because I'm not active doesn't mean I don't still have voting privileges. I can make some other calls when I get home, but even with those, you've got enough to keep Burkridge from getting his consensus." She smiled.

He stared, stunned. "Why did you do all this?"

"You've tangled with him before. I just wanted to make sure Burkridge won't have a leg to stand on, in case he was serious." She gazed up at him. "Rupert, you know how I feel about the bond between the watcher and the slayer. It was the most important relationship of my life, and I wouldn't wish its dissolution on anyone, especially not if forced upon you by some meddling old fools." She smiled fondly. "I have to admit that when I heard you were to be the new watcher for the slayer, I was a little surprised. But I can see now what a good decision that was. I personally think she's the best thing to ever happen to you, and I know you're good for her. So you'd better believe I'm going to fight like mad to make sure you can stay together."

All he could do was gaze at her, too amazed and awed to speak. She'd just given him not only peace of mind, but peace of heart. A watcher, one who'd done the job, one whom he respected, thought he was doing a good job. That meant more to him than he could have possibly expressed.

He decided to let his actions speak for him. He took her in his arms and held her, tight. "Thank you," he whispered.

"You're welcome," she murmured in return, reaching up to kiss his mouth.

He broke the kiss and smiled at her shyly. The passion had been so strong last night, so all-encompassing, that by the light of day it seemed a bit...overwrought. He took her hand and they continued up the path to the Peavey house.

"Come in for a few minutes while I change," she said.

"I don't think so," he shook his head, glancing away.

"Getting shy all of a sudden?"

He looked down, flushing. "I just don't think it would be appropriate."

"Appropriate for whom?"

"Us."

She stopped. "Cold feet?"

He shrugged, wondering if he could explain what he was feeling. Certainly, his passion for her was undiminished. But the manifestation of that passion.... "Things look different by the light of day," he began. "When my senses aren't overwhelmed by you. When I can think a little more clearly. I know I love you. I don't know if it's still or again, but I have to believe the emotions are real. But I can't help wondering...."

He took a deep breath. "I told you about Jenny."

"You said Angel killed her," Elizabeth nodded sympathetically.

"What...what I didn't say was that he killed her...mostly to hurt me. He..he broke her neck and left her in my bed."

"Oh, my God."

"I went after him, of course, with every intention to kill him. To make him suffer. But I was fully prepared to die as well. I think I might have preferred it, actually. It might have gone that way if Buffy hadn't shown up when she did.

"Losing Jenny has been much harder than I'd ever imagined. I...I hadn't let myself fall in love in...in a very long time. After I lost Jenny, I remembered why."

He took another shaky breath. "I'm very attracted to you, I always have been. And you've been...so wonderful. To me, to Buffy. But it hasn't even been a month yet, and then to have to deal with my father's death on top of it.... I can't help wondering if part of what I'm feeling isn't...."

"Rebound?" she completed. He nodded. Of course she would understand. "So what if it is? What do you think drove us together in the first place? Pain, desperation, and need. I was searching for something, anything, to take the pain away. You were trying to fill up the emptiness. If we found what we needed with each other, even if only temporarily, what of it? That didn't make it less real."

"The difference is that we're not children anymore. We shouldn't be relying on the nearest warm body to keep the monsters at bay. Call me old-fashioned, but I have this silly notion that a relationship between two people ought to mean something more than that."

She stood in front of him, arms crossed angrily. "First off, we weren't children then. I was a married woman with a child and you were old enough to know better. And second, the nearest warm body-you-kept me from killing myself. I will never belittle what we had then as just sex. It saved my life and how dare you relegate it to the category of shameful little secret."

He stared at her, shocked by her sudden vehemence. "I...."

"And furthermore, where do you get the daft notion that you're not allowed to need someone, just because you're an adult now. That's bloody nonsense. We never stop needing, Rupert. The needs may change, but needing never does. You feel ashamed because you need someone to help you get through a very difficult time. Well, welcome to the real world."

"Liz, no," he pleaded. "I'm not ashamed of you, not ever. It's the opposite, in fact. I don't want to demean you by using you simply because I hurt. You deserve better than that."

She chuckled, shaking her head, her defensive posture easing. "Ah, Rupert, you dear, sweet idiot. Chivalry isn't dead as long as it has Rupert Giles as its defender. For a brilliant man, you're not very bright sometimes. Let me try this again, using little words so you'll understand. You aren't demeaning me. You aren't demeaning what we had. You're simply reaching for a friend-a good, old friend-who can help you through a time of crisis. I'm here. Lean on me. Depend on me the way I depended on you. You'll find the burden's easier to bear if it's shared."

He gazed at her for a moment, awed again by her strength.

Then she opened her arms and this time he went into them willingly, clinging to her desperately, like a lifeline. "Oh, God, Liz," he moaned, feeling like he couldn't get close enough.

"Shh, it's all right," she whispered, stroking his hair and back soothingly.

"No it's not. You're leaving and I don't know when I'll see you again." He knew he was practically whining, but he didn't care. He didn't want to let her go.

"I know," she said, sounding very nearly as sad as he. "I'll see what I can scrape together. Maybe come summer."

He nodded, fighting for control. "I ought to be getting some cash when the house sells. Assuming there's anything left after the death duties, I'll send you a ticket."

"All right."

"Pray it sells quickly."

"Absolutely," she nodded fervently and he laughed.

Cupping her face in his hands, he leaned in, kissing her tenderly, reveling one last time in the sweet softness of her lips, and of her warm arms around him. Then, reluctantly, she released him from the embrace.

"I'd better get going," she said.

"Yes, yes, of course. I'll let you go." God, this hurt more than it had any reason to. "Oh, wait, I have something for you." He dug in his pocket. "Hold out your hand."

She frowned but did as she was told. He fastened the item around her wrist and she gazed at it. It was the watcher's charm bracelet.

"It was my mother's," he said softly.

"Yes, I remember it. I always thought it was such a wonderful piece."

"We were going through her things and it reminded me of you," he said. "I'd like you to have it."

She smiled, her eyes glittering. "Even though I'm not a watcher anymore?"

"You'll always be a watcher, my love. Just look at you and Buffy these past two days. You're still a watcher. You just don't use the label anymore."

She held her arm out, examining the bracelet in the late afternoon sunlight. "It's wonderful," she murmured. "I love it. Thank you so much." She put her arms around him, hugging him tight. Then she released him, stepping back. "I'd better go, or else I won't want to ever leave."

They smiled at each other shyly. "Keep in touch?"

"Of course. I'll call you. When do you expect to get home?"

"Not 'til quite late on Thursday."

"Then I'll call you on Friday. What's the time difference?"

"We're eight hours behind you."

"All right. Take care."

"You too."

Another pause, another moment with too much to say. Then he forced himself to turn away and he heard her door close.

He got back to the house to find Buffy changed out of her dress, curled up on the couch, reading.

Reading? This was an interesting development. He hadn't thought she'd actually started her book, beyond what he'd read to her the other night. But she looked to be absorbed in it.

She looked up as he came in. "She get off okay?"

He nodded. "She will in a few minutes."

"Too bad she had to leave so early."

"Yes," he said softly. Her leaving hurt more than it had any logical reason to.

"She gonna come out to visit?"

He swallowed. "We're going to try."

"Good," she smiled, then went back to her book.

He went into the kitchen to put the kettle on, then turned it off again. He didn't want tea. Or anything stronger. What he wanted was changing her clothes, saying goodbye to her mother. What he needed was climbing into her car and driving 250 kilometres away.

The ache in his heart joined with the hollowness in his soul and he knew he was unfit for company at the moment.

"Buffy, I'm going upstairs for awhile," he said and before she could comment, went up

the narrow steps, closing the door behind him.

The second door was closed, too, a barrier against the real world. He dropped his jacket onto the desk chair and tugged off his tie, sitting on the bed to remove his shoes.

That was as far as he got. He fell back onto the bed and gave himself over to his grief.
***

XV

She hated to disturb him; he probably needed his sleep.

On the other hand, she wanted to be sure he was all right. She'd seen that terrible tension in him when he got back from next door, knew he was hurting.

He hadn't cried at the funeral, though that blackout thing was kind of scary. Maybe it would have been better if he had cried. Men had such hang-ups about crying in public. She respected his need for privacy, but....

But it had been over two hours. She just wanted to be sure he was all right. Foolish as it sounded, she missed his company. It would have been different at home, with her own things to distract her. But here, she relied upon him. She'd been reading Jane Eyre, which was holding her attention, but two hours was about all the reading she could stand at one time.

She opened the door and looked up into blackness. The upper door must be closed, too. She flipped on the stair light and made her way up, deciding that she'd just check on him. If he was asleep, she'd let him sleep. But if he needed anything....

She opened the door quietly and peered in.

The room was in darkness, only the light from the stairs providing illumination.

He was asleep, curled on his side in the narrow bed, his hand resting in a loose fist on the pillow next to his head. Even in sleep his brow furrowed, as if he couldn't escape his worries, no matter how tired he was.

Buffy studied his face intently. She'd never thought of him as handsome; he was just Giles. Really, he looked too haggard, too, well, old, to be her idea of handsome. But looking at him sleeping like this, she couldn't help noticing his interesting face: strong jaw, great cheekbones, nice eyes. They were closed now, but she'd always thought he had pretty eyes. Kind. She liked the way they crinkled at the edges when he smiled. He had a great smile. He never smiled enough. Especially not lately.

He sighed in his sleep and shifted, his curved fingers curling even closer to his face. It was chilly in the room but the edges of his hair were damp and his eyelashes were spiky. he'd been crying.

Her throat constricted at the conjured image of Giles, alone in his old room, weeping the tears he couldn't shed in public. She ached for him, for his reserve and his loneliness and his courage, in spite of everything. He'd buried his father today and his biggest concern hadn't been himself, it had been her and her fears.

She sniffed, swallowing past the lump in her throat, and the sound must have been enough to penetrate his light doze. He moved again, coughed softly, then slowly opened his eyes.

"I didn't mean to wake you," she whispered. He blinked a few times before focusing on her, staring as if to place her in his memory.

"What time is it?" he asked softly, his voice hoarse.

"A little after seven."

Another blank stare, then he rubbed a hand over his face to clear away the last of the sleep.

"You okay?"

He glanced at her. All right it was a dumb question. But she had to ask.

He nodded. "Have you eaten?"

"Sort of. I had the last of the scones."

He sat up, groaning. "If nothing else, I'll be glad to leave this bed behind." He rubbed his neck and shoulder, grimacing.

She sat next to him. "Here," she said, reaching to rub the sore spot.

But instead of relaxing, he stiffened. "Buffy, don't. Please."

She drew back, surprised. "I'm sorry, I..I thought it would help."

"I know you did. And I usually love back rubs. But...but Jenny...used to do that for me." He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face again. "I seem to be having too many memories at the moment. Jenny, my mother and father. Elizabeth."

She frowned. "Elizabeth's not dead."

"Remembering days gone by. When we were young and had our lives ahead of us." He sighed again. "I suppose it's inevitable that funerals remind us of our own mortality."

Buffy swallowed. She wondered if he even realized what he'd said. "I don't need a funeral to remind me."

He turned around, his expression stricken. "Oh, Buffy, I'm sorry." He pulled her into his arms, hugging her fiercely. "I'm maudlin and I'm taking you with me."

He held her close for a few moments, then eased the hug. "You're the one thing in my life that's good, that works. The one place where I feel I'm doing it right. You know," he held her at arm's length, cupping her face with his hand, "you really impressed the hell out of them this week. All of them. Even Burkridge. And I am prouder of you than I can possibly express. You really are an exceptional girl. Not just as a slayer, but as a person as well. And I am very grateful to have you in my life."

Buffy managed a smile. Sometimes it seemed to her that nothing she ever did went right. Angel lost his soul because of her. Ms. Calendar was dead, thanks to her. So much of it was her fault. But Giles never blamed her, never pointed his finger. Always offered support, encouragement and strength. He was grateful to have her in his life? Not half so much as she was to have him.

He was still looking at her, those wonderful, kind eyes filled with such warmth it dispelled the chill of the tiny room.

"You know what I want," he said softly, his thumb brushing gently against her cheek.

"What?" she whispered.

"I want you to be the first slayer they have to retire due to old age."

She giggled at that. "Right. I'll slay 'em with my cane."

"Just so," he chuckled.

She put her arms around him and hugged him tight. Impossible as it was, and they both knew it, it was the best idea she'd heard in a long time.

She kissed his cheek, content to just let him hold her. "I'm glad I came with you," she said softly.

"So am I," he agreed, his voice gentle.

"It's been cool, seeing where you grew up." She straightened from the hug, looking around the room. "Will you miss it?"

He sighed. "I didn't think I would. And mostly I won't. It hasn't been my home in a long time. But seeing it again, especially under these circumstances.... Yes, I suspect I will miss it. Or rather, I'll miss what it stood for."

He raked a hand through his hair. "Well, there are still things to do before tomorrow."

She took her cue, getting up from the bed. "Want me to put the kettle on?"

"Yes, please." He swung his long legs out of the bed, stopping for a moment as if to gather himself together.

She headed for the door, then paused, looking back at him. "Giles?"

"Yes?"

"I love you."

The look on his face-surprise, shock, awe and delight-carried her downstairs.

The remainder of the evening passed quietly. Several more boxes of papers and miscellany were sorted, packed, and labeled for mailing home. The box for Burkridge was sealed and ready to go. A list of instructions for the auction house was drawn up.

A little after ten p.m., Giles finally gave up. Buffy was still perking along, her customary bubbly good humor seemingly restored after the trauma of the week. She even went on and on about how much she was enjoying Jane Eyre, how it was "really cool, for an old book", and how she hardly wanted to put it down. He was delighted that his choice had been so successful and promised her that she could take the entire Bronte collection home with her, thinking that next he'd start her on Jane Austen.

But for himself, he was exhausted, physically and emotionally. He simply could not stand to sort through another stack of papers, trying to decide if they were of use or not. Those stacks which remained would simply get tossed into a box and sent home, to be dealt with later.

He got up from the table, stretching, and walked into the parlour, trying to work the kinks out of his back. He could feel Buffy's eyes on him and took a deep breath. "If that backrub's still on offer, I'll take you up on it."

Her eyes widened. "You sure?"

He nodded. "It's time to get on with my life. There will always be things which remind me of her. I can't go around avoiding them for the rest of my life."

She didn't answer, just patted the seat next to her. He sat down and she knelt behind him. "Where's it hurt?" she asked, tentatively touching his shoulders.

"Yes," he murmured, dropping his chin to his chest.

She laughed softly and set to work, massaging out sore muscles in his neck, shoulders and back. She was good; he almost asked where she'd learned her technique, then decided he really didn't want to know. Some things they simply didn't need to discuss.

She finished up with a pat to his shoulders. "How's that?"

"Wonderful. That feels much better. Thank you."

"Any time," she smiled, easing out from behind him and sitting at his side.

He sighed and leaned back contentedly.

"You look mellow," she commented.

"I suppose I am. It's quiet, this horrendous week is almost over, we can go home tomorrow. I've just had my kinks worked out...." He glanced at her. "My slayer is smiling. I'd say I have every reason to be mellow." He sighed. "Of course, I'm also exhausted. We should probably think about turning in."

"I'm not tired."

He smiled. "Ah, to have the energy of youth. Well, you can sit up if you'd like, but I'm...how do you put it? Wiped?"

"You ever wish you were my age again?" she asked with a grin.

"Good lord, no!" he laughed. "I can't think of anything more dreadful than being seventeen again. Except perhaps for being sixteen."

"Is there any time you wish you could do over again?"

"I don't know. There are things I wish I hadn't done. Getting involved with Ethan Rayne is one of them. But Elizabeth rightly pointed out that if it hadn't been for what happened, I wouldn't have been here for her when she needed me. So I suppose everything happens for a reason. Even if we can't see the reason at the time."

"I keep thinking I was happier before I met Merrick," Buffy said, "but it wasn't really that I was so happy but that I was stupid. I didn't know any better." She glanced at him. "You wouldn't have liked me back then. I was pretty shallow. Like Cordelia. Or like she used to be. God, weird to think of Cordelia as actually becoming a human being."

He chuckled. "Yes, well I don't have the urge to throttle her quite so often so I suppose that's something. Perhaps Xander's a good influence on her. Now there's a terrifying thought. Though what he could see in.... Oh, never mind."

Buffy laughed. "Well duh, Giles!"

He actually flushed. "I haven't totally forgotten what it's like to be seventeen."

"Something you once said about testosterone being the great equalizer?"

"Quite," he agreed reluctantly. His behavior with Elizabeth last night was proof enough of that. "And she is very pretty, if a bit, uh, brassy."

"Hey, was that a dig at my dye job?" she teased.

"Not at all, I was referring to Cordelia. Though if you're asking, I actually preferred your natural haircolor."

"You've never seen my natural haircolor."

"Well, whatever that was when we first met. I thought that was very pretty."

She looked at him curiously. "I didn't figure you ever paid any attention to how I looked."

"I might not comment, but I do notice, Buffy. I'm not as oblivious as all that. But the fact that I think you're a very pretty girl is rather inconsequential. It's your talents, your skills, what's inside that matters to me. And what's inside would make you beautiful to me no matter what you looked like."

She stared at him, shocked. Then she laughed. "Man, are you the master of the back-handed compliment or what?"

"What?" he frowned, confused. Now what had he said?

"Remind me not to go to any effort for you, you wouldn't notice anyway."

"I just told you I noticed, but that it doesn't matter. Besides, you don't go to any special effort on my behalf as it is, at least not that I'm aware of."

"Oh, right, I got dressed up today for Mrs. Peavey's benefit. Or Burkridge's."

"I rather assumed you did it for yourself."

"Well, yeah, but...but I also wanted to look nice for you."

"And you did. You looked lovely. I was pleased you chose to wear Mother's cross." He smiled and she returned the expression. Then it faded.

"What was she like?"

"Who?"

"Your mother. What was she like?"

He frowned. "I...she...that is...."

"If you don't want to talk about it...."

"No, it's not that. It's just...how does one describe one's mother, especially filtered through thirty years of memory. I can say she was beautiful, but you know that from her pictures. She was kind, had a wonderful sense of humor, pampered me and my father, loved to sing, and garden, and read.... She'd trained to be a schoolteacher, but once she married my father, never worked outside the home. What I remember is all these things, and more. But I tend to forget that she was also a hard taskmaster who used to drill me unmercifully in my schoolwork. She kept an impeccable home and used to scold me interminably because I'd leave my clutter lying about. She used to go after my father about it, too, but she put up with more from him, which I suppose I always resented. She hated the watchers and everything they stood for, but supported my father completely in his calling, and insisted I accept mine as well.

"She was a woman, Buffy. A very real, very human woman, with good days and bad ones. She was often impatient and, like my father, did not suffer fools gladly. And yet during her illness, and she must have been in considerable pain, she never once complained, at least not when I could hear it. I adored her, I idolized her, and when she died I was devastated. But I'm not sure anymore who she really was. If I ever knew. All I have left are my memories, and some simple trinkets. I think she would have liked you very much. I know she'd be pleased that you're wearing her charm."

"It's beautiful," she said softly. "Thanks for giving it to me."

"You're welcome," he smiled, then struggled to smother a yawn. "That's it for me, I think." He sat up. "Tomorrow's going to be another long one, I dare say."

Together they stood. "What time's Lovejoy coming?" she asked.

"Who?"

"Lovejoy. You know, like the guy on TV who does antiques?"

"Oh, yes!" he chuckled. "Lovejoy started out as a book, you know."

"Didn't everything?"

"Just about." He put his tea things in the

kitchen. "How do you know about Lovejoy?

Doesn't seem like the sort of thing you'd watch."

"My mom did. Lovejoy, Cracker, Sherlock

Holmes, that French guy with the funny mustache...."

"Poirot," he supplied.

"Yeah, him."

"Ah," he nodded. "Around nine."

"Huh?"

"The appraiser. Around nine. And they're called Fletchers, not Lovejoy. Anyway, we've a lot to do tomorrow. Pack up, get all these boxes posted, shut everything up. We need to leave here by noon to catch our flight out."

"Right. Night, then." He smiled, wondering if she even realized she was beginning to pick up some of the local phraseology and inflections.

"Good night, Buffy."

She started down the hall, then stopped and turned around. "Oh." She came back, putting her arms around him and standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

He held her in a gentle embrace, overwhelmed again by her sweet spirit and kind heart. "By the way," he said, gazing into her pretty face, stroking her hair. "I love you, too."

"I know," she said softly, her tiny voice no more than a whisper. "You tell me that all the time. Even if you never say it." Then she slipped from his arms and went down the hall, closing the door behind her.
***

XVI

The clock read eight-fifteen when Buffy woke up, a little surprised Giles hadn't called her yet, especially with Lovejoy and company due in forty-five minutes. And he was always complaining about how long it took her to get ready.

He wasn't in the parlor, nor in the kitchen. Maybe he'd overslept, too. Then she heard a thump and a muffled curse from upstairs. Nope. He was awake.

"Giles?" she called. Both doors stood open as they usually did. "Giles?" she called again heading up the narrow steps.

He wasn't immediately visible in the small room, but there was a pile of boxes in the middle of the floor, boxes which hadn't been there the night before. "Giles?" she called again. "Where are you?"

At the far end of the narrow room was a small door, about waist high. And it was out of there a disheveled Giles poked his head. "In here," he said disconsolately. "In a flat panic."

"Why?" she laughed as he ducked back in. "What's in there?"

"God only knows," his voice carried through the opening. He followed it a moment later, pushing yet another box. "All along I kept thinking there were a lot fewer...things...than I thought there ought to be. But I figured he'd just got rid of some of it. A pretty lame notion-he never got rid of anything. But I woke up this morning suddenly remembering this storage area. And the bloody thing's absolutely crammed!"

"Anything important?"

"I don't know!" he whined. "And the appraisers are due within the hour."

He was almost beside himself with fretting. "Well, okay, here, let me help you. We don't need to catalog anything, do we? I mean, that's what Lovejoy's gonna do, right? All we need to do is see what's in them so we know if we want to keep it."

"All right. Why don't you...see what's left in there and I'll start going through this lot."

"I'm on it," she grinned and ducked into the cubbyhole to pull out boxes.

Most of the stuff was useless: old dishes, decorations, a box of old record albums which were warped from too many summers in a hot attic. And, of course, more books. Mostly they looked like legal volumes so could easily be gotten rid of, but there were some old historical ones Giles set aside for himself.

Buffy had gone back inside for more boxes when she heard him gasp. "Oh, my God."

"What?" She poked out of the cupboard.

He had the most peculiar look on his face: shock, amazement, surprise, delight, embarrassment, awe.

"What is it?" she asked again.

He didn't say anything, just looked at the box, speechless. She crawled over to him, wanting to see what he saw. On the top of the box was an old, scruffy teddy bear. Obviously well-loved, minus one ear and most of its fur.

"Was that yours?" she asked, picking up the old bear. He was partly filled with sawdust and he leaked when she moved him.

He nodded. "Until I was six. Then my father said big boys didn't keep teddies. And I never saw him after that. I assumed they'd got rid of him, but she must have put him in here." He shook his head.

"What else is in there?" She kept the teddy bear in the crook of her arm and looked at the contents of the rest of the box. It was filled with memorabilia of a boy; child's composition books, grade reports, a couple of childish drawings. An envelope contained a curled lock of sandy blond hair.

"First haircut?"

"I have no idea. I assume it was something like that."

There was a tiny red bow tie. "First tie?"

He nodded. "That I do remember. I'm surprised the whole bloody suit isn't here. It was blue, with short pants. I was five, and I hated it."

"I think I remember it in the pictures," she said. "How do you know it's not?"

"What's not?"

"In here. The suit." She looked into the box again, feeling something wrapped in tissue. "Maybe this is it."

He took the bundle from her, folded back a corner of the tissue, then smoothed it out again. "No, that's not the suit." He set it back in the box carefully.

"What is it?"

He swallowed. "It's my christening gown."

"Your what?"

"Christening gown." He pulled the bundle out again, slipped a finger under and loosened the tape. Inside the tissue was a tiny long white baby dress, all crocheted lace. Tucked inside was an envelope. He pulled it out and she looked at the certificate of baptism, dated just a few weeks after he was born, and a photograph of his parents holding their infant son in his long white gown. His mother was beaming, and his father looked so proud....

Buffy studied the photo intently. "This is so cool."

"I had no idea she'd kept any of this."

She passed him back the photo. "Well, you're gonna keep it, aren't you?"

"What for?"

"To keep." What kind of question was that?

"But for what purpose? It's been forty years here, taking up space. If I take it home it'll just take up more space. I never even knew these things existed. Most of them I have no memories of. They serve no purpose."

"At least keep the teddy bear."

"He's falling apart, Buffy. I've managed almost forty years without him. Well, once I got over being devastated at losing him, that is. I don't see any point in...."

"You have to keep him."

"Why?"

She grinned. "'Cause I'll tell Willow about him otherwise."

He chuckled. "I don't care if you tell Willow. He's just an old bear, from when I was very small." He shook his head. "I can't get over her keeping all of this."

"I can," Buffy said. "Mothers keep stuff. When I was little we lost a bunch of stuff in an earthquake. Including a box of my baby stuff. And my mom always said it was the one thing she was sorriest about losing, because that stuff couldn't ever be replaced. I think she wanted me to have it when I was older, I don't know, maybe to pass on to my kids." She looked at him. "Maybe that's why your mother kept it, too. Something to pass on to your children."

She couldn't quite decipher his look: gentleness, but a touch of sadness, too, she thought. "You know I don't have children."

"Well...someday, maybe."

He smiled kindly. "Except for you, that is. If you'd like to keep any of it, though I have no idea why ever for, you're welcome to do so."

"You mean it?"

"Buffy, you're probably the closest thing to a daughter I'll ever have. We've been playing at father and daughter all week, we might as well just extend the metaphor."

She looked at him curiously. "You really think of me as your daughter?"

"No," he said immediately. "I think of you as my slayer. And I am your watcher. And that goes far beyond father and daughter. Beyond friend, beyond mentor, beyond teacher, beyond consort.... I've often tried to find the words to describe what we are to each other. And the only ones I can come up with...are watcher and slayer."

She got to her knees, putting her arms around him and hugging him tight. He was right. It wasn't father and daughter. She had a father, thanks, and she loved him a lot. But it wasn't just friend, either. It was more than that, so much more. He was her watcher. He was her Giles.

She let him go, looking again at the box. "I don't know what I'd do with all that stuff, either," she admitted. "But I'd like to keep the bear."

He made a face. "He's falling apart, Buffy.

And he smells."

She picked the beat-up teddy bear up, sniffing. "He smells like mothballs. A little airing out ought to

take care of that. And I can sew up his tears, keep

him from leaking any more." She stroked a hand across his battered head. "Maybe give him a prosthetic ear."

He chuckled, stroking the teddy bear, too. "All right, if you'd like to keep him, you may," he said.

She smiled, hugging the bear lightly, not wanting any more stuffing to leak out. She just adored the idea of cuddling Giles's old teddy bear. It was stupid, she knew, but she couldn't help it. Somehow it made her feel closer to him, made him that much more real. He wasn't just her watcher, he was a real person named Rupert Giles who had a teddy bear when he was little. That was...neat.

"He'll sit on the shelf in my room with all my other stuffos," she explained. "He have a name?"

"Not that I can recall."

"Can I give him one?"

He looked sideways at her. "Why am I petrified at what you're going to come up with?"

She grinned. "I want to call him Bertie."

"I'll never forgive Elizabeth for letting that slip," he sighed. "The last time I was called Bertie, I think I was wearing that tie."

"I think it's cute," she insisted.

"You would." He chuckled. "All right, if you want to call the bear Bertie, you can. But how he got his name is something you may not share with the others."

"Cross my heart," she vowed. But she knew that as soon as she told Willow the bear's name she'd figure out where it came from.

He stood up, folding the lid of the box back up. "How much is still in there?"

"Just another couple. See, aren't you glad you went through them?"

"Not as much as you are, I'll venture to say," he commented wryly. She just grinned, set the bear safely back on the bed, and ducked back into the closet.

The last two boxes were more old decorations, vases, flower pots and other items which had no value to him. They were just finishing with the last one when the doorbell rang.
***

XVII

At last the car was packed. There were nine boxes which needed to go to the post office. And though Mrs. Peavey had offered to take them, Giles hadn't wanted her to have to manhandle so many heavy parcels. He did, however, give her the box for Burkridge, telling her to call him and have him pick it up from her. The less he had to do with the senior watcher the better, as far as he was concerned.

Buffy had been wonderful all morning. Once Fletchers had left she'd scrubbed the bathroom, stripped the beds, took out the garbage, and ran the leftover food to Mrs. Peavey, while he bundled the boxes into the car. Shortly after 11:30, they took the last of their belongings, including Bertie, who was wrapped in plastic and safely stowed in Buffy's suitcase, and Buffy went to the car while Giles made one final pass through the house.

It was strange seeing it like this, so...uninhabited. The small house was still crammed with things, but it felt very empty. Dead. It was no longer a home; now it was just a house.

One final pass through the bedroom where he found one of Buffy's barrettes on the nightstand and a sock under the bed. He smiled affectionately as he slipped the items into his pocket. He supposed if she were to discover anything else missing, he could always contact Mrs. Peavey and ask her to look for it. He moved to the window and closed the shutters, leaving the room in dimness.

In the kitchen he made sure the coal fire was banked and dying. He hadn't filled the chamber this morning, pleasantly surprised to discover he still remembered how long coal would last. Everything else was picked up and put away.

He gazed out the window at the stable. He knew it was empty, filled only with his memories, bitter and sweet. He wouldn't miss the stable as long as he had those.

The kitchen window was shuttered like the bedroom.

Upstairs, his narrow bed stood bare, except for a folded duvet at its foot. He wouldn't miss the bed, either, but at the realization that he was leaving forever the cradle of so many childhood memories, his throat closed and he blinked the emotions away.

Beyond that, the room was devoid of any personal artifacts, had been for many years. He quickly went downstairs again.

A quick pass through the rest of the house determined that they had everything they needed or wanted. In every room, he pulled the shutters, securing the house until Fletchers should come and catalog it some two weeks hence, and until the sale next month wherein all of these possessions would belong to somebody else. He didn't feel any sadness about that; they hadn't ever really been his.

At the door, he looked back into the small cottage, now dimmed and closed. It had been his childhood home. But that was gone now. With a sigh he locked the door one final time and headed to the car.

"You okay?" Buffy asked softly.

He hadn't even noticed the moisture in his eyes. But she must have.

"Yes, I'll be fine," he said and started the car, heading down the drive for the last time. They dropped the key at Mrs. Peavey's, posted the boxes, and a little after noon, were on the road back toward London.

"Thanks for letting me come," Buffy said.

"Thank you for coming. I don't think I could have managed without you." He glanced at her. Her expression said she wasn't quite convinced of his statement, but she appreciated it anyway.

She sighed, settling back in her seat, gazing out the window.

"You know," she began after several minutes of silence, "this is the most time we've ever spent together. At one time, I mean. I wasn't sure if we could do it. You know, it's one thing seeing someone for a few hours every day, but it's another being with them constantly. I figured by the time we left we'd be ready to kill each other. But we're really pretty compatible."

"Well, these were exceptional circumstances, but yes, I suppose we are."

"Which is cool," she grinned. "So when my mom finally finds out about my slayage and kicks me out, I can come live with you."

"Your mother won't kick you out," he countered.

"I dunno. I get the feeling she will Not Be Pleased."

"No doubt. That's why it's so important not to tell her. But I can't imagine she'd kick you out. She loves you too much. No, my fear is the opposite, that she'll try and take you away."

"She couldn't do that."

"She most certainly could, Buffy, while you're a minor, living in her house. And there would be nothing I could do about it."

"I could. I'd run away."

"Oh, that's a good solution. Until you get caught. Be rather difficult to slay vampires from juvenile detention, don't you think?"

"You could always break me out," she said confidently.

"And get myself arrested for abduction."

"Boy, you're Mr. Cheery here," she scowled.

"I'm sorry, but these are issues we have to face. Unlike days past when a slayer was given to a watcher as his ward, usually with her parents' permission, the situation today is vastly different. Not only do we need to be cautious with your mother, we need to be careful with the general public. One whisper of impropriety between us and I could find myself fired or worse. That's why it's vital you don't tell anybody of this little jaunt. And make sure Willow and Xander know to keep still about it as well."

"I know. It's just...they couldn't prove anything. I mean, it's not like, you know, we sleep together or anything."

He glanced at her. "It doesn't matter what is, Buffy, what matters is how it appears. Remember how that bounty hunter reacted when he saw us together?"

"Yeah, but that was because we were at lover's lane."

"And if word got out I'd taken you to England with me? Just the two of us? The simple fact that we spend long hours alone together would be enough. People are suspicious and always apt to believe the worst. It's even more difficult because we can't tell the truth."

She was silent, thinking. "Do you ever wish we could?"

"It's impossible."

"That wasn't my question."

"Yes, I wish we could. I wish we could tell your mother and know we'd have her complete support. Mostly because it would be so much easier for you. But that simply isn't to be, so we must make the best of it."

They lapsed back into silence.

"Which is a pretty long way of saying you don't want me to live with you," she finally said.

"Beg pardon?" Sometimes it was impossible to follow her logic.

"Before, when I said my mom would kick me out, and you said...."

"I said she wouldn't kick you out, and I don't think she will. I certainly couldn't reject a child like that, and I doubt your mother could, either. But that has nothing to do with whether I'd want you to come live with me."

"Oh." There was another pause. "Well? Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Want me to come live with you."

"Why would I want that?"

She shrugged. "I dunno. From what I read in the diaries, that was the way it was usually done. The slayer would become the custody of the watcher, and they'd live together and he'd train her. Right?"

"Well, that's not the way it's done now. Hasn't been in a good fifty years."

"I know, but...."

"You have a perfectly good home with a mother who loves you. Are you so anxious to leave it?"

"No. But let's face it, at some point I'll have to move out. I mean, after high school, after I'm grown up. Or grown-up-er."

"Yes, well let's cross that bridge when we get to it, hmm?"

Another silence. Then, "You still haven't answered my question."

"What question?"

"About whether I could come live with you."

He sighed, exasperated. "Buffy, what is this? Why do you all of a sudden want to move in with me?"

"I don't, not really, it's just.... I dunno, after this week, I just.... I just want to know that I could."

Now it was his turn to be silent, considering her words. He took a deep breath. "If something were to happen to your mother, God forbid. Or if for some reason you could no longer stay in your house, stay where you are.... Yes, you will always be welcome with me. Though to be honest, and I don't mean this as a dig, I am grateful, upon occasion, to send you home." He glanced at her confused expression. "It doesn't mean I don't care for you, simply that I'm used to...more solitude. Quiet. Sometimes you can be a bit...wearing."

Her face was still crossed with a frown. "Would you feel that way about Willow? She's quiet."

He considered. The problem with Willow, and he fully admitted that he adored the girl, was that there was such an air of vulnerability about her, he'd probably spend all his time hovering. "I imagine I'd feel that way about anybody."

"Even a lover?"

He swallowed. "That's different."

"Why?"

He took a deep breath. "You're inquisitive today."

"Too much time to think or something. Why's it different?"

"I don't know. I imagine with a lover, with a life-mate, a spouse, whatever, one is more willing to make certain sacrifices. It's a different depth of feeling."

"Oh."

They rode in silence for several more minutes.

"Were you and Elizabeth lovers?" she asked. He blinked. It wasn't the question he'd been expecting.

"Yes." There was no point pretending with her.

"Thought so. You guys didn't have any personal space."

"Any what?"

"Personal space. You know, there's always a little barrier around people. Their personal space. Only people who are really close let each other into their personal space. With you it was like there wasn't any personal space."

It was a very shrewd observation. Her skills really were improving. "It was a long time ago, and we were both going through...difficulties. We were...there for each other. That's about the best way I can explain it."

"Did you love her?" Buffy asked.

"Yes."

Another pause. "Did she love you?"

"I don't know. I think so. You'd have to ask her that."

Buffy was quiet, considering. He was grateful for the respite, however short, from her questions.

It was broken with her next question. "Do you think you'll become lovers again? I mean,

if she comes for a visit."

Ordinarily, he'd chide her for such personal, prying questions. But he could tell somehow that her asking wasn't motivated by simple prurient curiosity. So he answered her honestly. "I don't know. Possibly. But it's a little soon for me to be

thinking about getting involved with anybody again." He still needed more time to grieve.

"Oh." Once again that awkward discomfort which fell over them whenever Jenny, or anything to do with those events, was mentioned. "It's just...I don't want you to be lonely."

The pieces of the conversation fell into place. "Is that what this is about? The whole bit

about moving in? Buffy, I'm not lonely. I have you, I have the rest of the group. I have my

work. I know you find it hard to believe, but a person can be alone without being lonely. I actually enjoy spending time by myself. I enjoy reading, I enjoy my researches. I don't need someone with me all day, every day to keep me entertained. I'm always grateful for your company, but I don't require it.

"And, in fact, should I, at some point, decide to resume this social life you seem so convinced I need, I might find your presence, well, awkward."

She looked confused for a moment until she realized what he'd meant. "I guess I just want you to be happy," she said softly.

"I know you do, and I'm touched. But I really can look after myself. I've been doing it for a very long time now. But I do appreciate your concern."

She didn't say anything, just smiled at him, an expression he mirrored. He returned his attention to the road.

Something very basic had changed in their relationship this week. Something intrinsic. They could no longer pretend simple 'professional' interest in each other. That barrier was gone. He wondered if she felt it as well.

A glance at her, gazing idly out the window

at the passing countryside, an expression of

peaceful confidence on her face, told him that she did.
***

Epilogue

The final leg. Somewhere over the midwest, heading for home. Beside him, Buffy slept. Actually, beside was a bit of a misnomer. She had started out resting her head against his shoulder, trying to keep away from the ubiquitous draft. But as she fell asleep, she seemed to...sprawl. Now her knees were pressed against his leg, one hand resting on his chest, the other slipped behind his back. Sound asleep. His arm encircled her shoulders, holding her close, keeping the blanket tucked up around her.

Despite the fact that he didn't want to move for fear of waking her, and ignoring that his arm was starting to fall asleep, it was actually oddly comfortable, sitting with her like this. Especially nice because he wasn't trying to comfort her through some crisis. He was simply holding her, holding the girl who meant more to him than any other.

It had been an extraordinary week-one of deep sorrow and unspeakable joy, laughter, love, sadness and memories, all sweetened by Buffy's presence throughout. Her strong arms giving him comfort, her tiny hand giving him strength, her bright smile giving him joy, her compassionate eyes giving him peace. For all the difficulties, all the misunderstandings, all the crises and all the problems which naturally occur when two people are forced into close proximity for an extended period of time, it had actually gone far better than he'd hoped. She'd been correct in saying that they were an oddly compatible pair, in spite of all their differences.

He stroked the hair of the sleeping girl at his side and she snuggled closer. It felt good, having her here, safe and content. It made him feel like he was actually doing it right. His slayer wasn't just surviving, she was thriving. And all the terrible things which had happened paled in the reflection of this strong, resourceful living girl.

Buffy's despair after what happened with Angel, his own devastation at losing Jenny...they were both very real, very painful. But the pain grew less, day by day. And it was blunted somewhat, knowing there was someone there, there and alive, with whom life didn't seem quite so horrible.

He kissed the soft hair resting beneath his chin. Their lives would never be peaceful. At some point, preferably later than sooner, he'd lose her. Or perhaps his carelessness would take him away from her. But for now, they were together, watcher and slayer. Together they made a formidable pair, one to rival the great watcher and slayer pairs throughout history. He and his slayer. He and his Buffy.

"Be proud, Father," Giles whispered to the unseen spirits. "Your son is where you want him to be."

End

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