TITLE: Calling Marco 1/3
AUTHOR: Jacqui
RATING: I tried to get pass the G, I really did, but all the characters resisted the smut impulse. What can I do about it? *sigh* G.
DISCLAIMER: Ya know what? They’re still not mine, after all the time I spend with them too.
NOTES: I can’t help myself, Buffy and Giles have moved into my head and keep talking to me, they’re getting nasty. If I don’t write, the bunny gets it, they said so. We don’t want that, so read on.
Also, I started to write this as a third for the "Permission" series, but then it got a life of it’s own, I think it stands out by itself, and there’s not much that really changes. So even if you haven’t read my other fics (and if not, why haven’t you? Go read them now. Shameless self plug, I realize this it should make sense.
TIMELINE: Now that we’ve passed season two, I’m taking the reigns, that’s right, I’m in charge.
FEEDBACK: Don’t want any, couldn’t care less… Oh who am I kidding? Make me happy, let me know.

DEDICATION: This one goes out to Ash, who blames me for her recent Buffy/Giles fascination. It feels good to corrupt the masses, no? And Solo, because she’s the best little web mistress ever, doncha all think?

There are times in our grief when we feel that there cannot possibly be any tears left to shed, that we have run ourselves dry, but the tears still flow, the salt still stings our cheeks. Then comes the time, when we have just convinced ourselves that tears are endless and they will never stop, that our wells run dry and crying ceases. For no obvious reason we just decide that crying is useless and it’s time to move on.

It took a fortnight for Buffy Summers to reach that point.

The bus, a random bus chosen because it was the first to leave Sunnydale, had taken her to LA. Large enough to be lost in, just what she’d wanted. Holing herself up in a cheap, dingy motel she had gone into hibernation.

Until her money ran out and she’d been forced to face the real word. People, she found, were easy to face when you didn’t know them and they didn’t know you. They didn’t expect anything, they didn’t ask anything and they didn’t care. It gave her permission not to care either.

Waiting tables in a small, out of the way diner was perfect for her. It gave her enough money to exist, however Spartan, and gave her the anonymity she craved. There was enough left over at the end of the day to put away. The sooner she could afford another bus ticket, the further she would flee.

* * * *

She stood in the doorway and sighed.

Joyce had come there to lay blame, to shout, yell, something, anything to hurt him. Make him hurt as much as she was, to show him exactly what he’d done. All that drained out of her when she saw the hunched figure that opened the door.

This man, this Rupert Giles that had stolen her daughter from underneath her very nose, already knew the hell that she was going through, because he was going through it too. He didn’t say anything, just lowered his eyes and stepped back, gesturing for her to enter.

The few times she’d met him, Joyce had pictured him a neat, ordered man. Someone who took pride in his appearance and reveled in order. The apartment that presented itself to her now would not belong to any man who fit that description.

His shy apologies for the mess, the disarray that he himself was in, told Joyce that she’d been right. She looked at him properly for the first time and correctly surmised the problem. The splintered and bandaged hands could no longer do everything they were told, the pained look on his face was a grimace of agony from unnamed injuries and he favored his right leg when he walked.

She gestured to his injuries.

"This happened during… during whatever it was?"

He could only nod.

"My god. Did anything happen to her? If something happened to her…"

"Nothing happened to…" How many times had he told himself that lie? "I don’t think anything happened to her. I keep telling myself that."

She didn’t say anything, instead she handed him the sheet of paper that she held in her hands, it took him a few moments to grasp it properly. Joyce wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but seeing this grown man cry in front of her wasn’t it.

"Is it true? Did you save her life?"

"Yes, yes I did." Giles looked up and faced her. Her eyes didn’t hold the recriminations he’d feared and for that he was grateful. "But she saved mine a hundred times over, and Willow’s and Xander’s. Even yours though you never knew it. Nobody ever knows it, they live on, oblivious to what she does for them."

They stared at each other for a while. Joyce was the first to speak.

"Tell me. Tell me about it all."

He nodded towards the sofa.

"Please, sit down. Would you like some tea?" He paused. "Perhaps something stronger?"

"Tea’s fine. Perfect, in fact."

She wanted to smile, in spite of herself she was beginning to see what had drawn Buffy to him. Once upon a time, it would have been called old world charm. He walked past her and into the kitchen as she began to examine the room she was in. She had to blink several times at the titles of some of the books, demons, vampires, monsters beyond her knowledge.

The sudden sound of a crash and splintering china made her jump. She heard Giles curse softly under his breath and went to help. He was leaning against the counter, his face a mask of agony as he bit back the pain. Shattered pieces of what used to be cups, she supposed they were cups anyway, littered the ground at his feet.

"You sit."

Her voice was full of an assurance that she really didn’t feel. Giles knew he had no choice. He sat down on a chair at the small wooden table and tried to protest when Joyce made herself busy. She did not listen to him. Opening and closing cupboards, finding what she needed, cleaning the mess, remaking the tea, it made her feel useful. It gave her hands something to do.

As she moved from room to room, clearing up what she could, returning order to the house, Joyce listened to the story of her daughter’s life. It sounded fantastical, like a dark fairytale by the brothers Grimm. Yet everything she heard seemed to throw things into perspective. A thousand little facts jumped into her face and she realized just how much she’d ignored, how much she hadn’t wanted to see, so didn’t.

"Last year? Just before that dance. Buffy came to me, she was acting strange, she wanted to skip town. Go on a mother daughter trip. There was something wrong then, wasn’t there? Something bad?"

One story he didn’t want to tell, but he told it anyway. It was pointless now to hold back details. He told her everything about the master, the prophecy, Buffy’s death. He spoke every hated word.

"She knew she was going to die?" Joyce’s voice was small with pain. "My baby knew she was going to die and she went anyway? She pleaded for us to go away, to leave, and I brushed it off as something to do with that stupid dance. She didn’t tell me, she let me believe I had saved the day, let me believe that I had made things better for her."

"She loves you Joyce."

"Well, she loves us all, apparently, but where is she?"

* * * *

One backwards diner in the US was the same as another, Buffy surmised as she knotted the apron around her hips. One more pot of nuclear coffee and another plate of pie. Phoenix, Arizona was as good a place as any.

It didn’t matter where as long as she could stay anonymous and not think. She would work all day and collapse all night. Somehow slayer strength didn’t count for much when she only ate when she remembered, and that wasn’t often, and she felt like part of her had been ripped out.

It felt as if she had a large, gaping hole in her side that grew without stopping. Soon it would engulf her totally. If she didn’t tire herself out completely during the day, she would have trouble falling asleep at night, and if she couldn’t sleep, she would spend her time crying shamelessly into the thin sheets of whatever motel bed she was sleeping in.

Relief, freedom from her pain, was not something she allowed herself to have. It was not something she thought she deserved.

* * * *

Giles sat at his kitchen table, poring over yet another local paper from somewhere around the country. He scoured every paper in print, daily, circling any news item that may have any hope, however small, of finding Buffy. The cup of tea was barely noticed as Joyce placed it by his elbow and sat down across from him. She sighed and reached for the stack of papers. This had become a routine. From the living room came the sounds of more rustling papers and the soft clicking of a keyboard.

"What time is your flight? And where to this time?"

"What?" He shook his head back and forth, gently, as if to dislodge something. "Sorry, uh, nine o’clock. An old colleague of mine in Boston gave me some very promising leads."

"Boston?" It was barely more than a whisper. "That’s so far."

They sat in silence. He sipped his tea, grateful for any distraction. It was far, but that had been the point, hadn’t it? Buffy had wanted to get away. The question was, just how far had she needed to get, how badly was she hurting?

"Giles! Good news!"

They stood as one and ran into the living room at the sound of Willow’s voice. She was seated before her laptop, Xander and Oz had stood up from their various places amongst the daily onrush of papers. Willow was quickly scanning the screen for more information and her face suddenly fell.

"Oh. Not so good news."

"What? Will, you’re killing us." Xander’s voice was only half tinged with humor.

"It’s… I got into her bank records. She was making regular deposits and withdrawals, first in LA, and up until yesterday in Phoenix."

"LA? Phoenix?" Joyce focused on the locations.

"Up until yesterday? What happened yesterday?" Giles focused on the details.

"She closed the account. She must have known I’d get into her records eventually. I’m guessing she opened a new account, I could check, but I’d have to look in all the banks, and there’s no promises she’s even using her own name anymore."

Willow looked into four pairs of eyes, all waiting for something. She shrugged.

"I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it. Only that it might take some time, is all."

* * * *

For a town called Farmington, they had surprisingly little farmland. A town of supposed opposites she was to find. The diners she tried, complete with greasy cooks and plastic waitresses smiles, all looked as normal and unassuming as the last, but the people behind the counter had beady eyes that sized her up in ways that made her shiver.

Buffy found herself a job, in all places, in a dark, seedy looking bar. The people who worked there were friendly, despite their aggressive appearance, and she quickly found herself included in their tight little group.

At four in the morning they would be seated at the tables, every last glass washed, every floorboard mopped, the front door locked. The jukebox would croon in the corner and they would talk until the sun came up. Buffy didn’t say much, she sat back, sipped on her beer and listened to the hearty conversations of the others. Daylight was for sleeping. It was a schedule that suited her body clock more than any other she had found. She was a night time person by nature, she had to be.

Above the bar and on the walls were several sketches, very detailed pictures. All of different people at different times in the bar. Most, if not all, included some combination of the people that Buffy now worked with.

Mark, who they all called Grolley for some unknown reason, owned the place. He was, as he said it, a retired Hell’s Angel and looked every part of it too, though in reality he was a teddy bear. Jonathon and Steve were his sidekicks, they looked just as rough, and were just as sweet. Susan was the mother of the little group and lorded it over all of them. She was delighted to, and wasted no time in, adopting Buffy as a figure to cluck over.

Not that she was complaining, Buffy needed reminding to eat, needed urging to take proper care of herself. She’d begun to notice her bones sticking out where they never had before. It was a strange sensation, discovering the feel of a new bone through her skin, and also frightening.

* * * *

The doctor wasn’t wearing her happy face.

"Mr. Giles, you haven’t been giving this hand the rest it needs. Did you listen to me the last time you were here? You could lose up to fifty percent of your motility."

He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. Sitting here in the doctor’s office was the last thing he wanted or needed to be doing. What if he missed a vital call? What if Buffy herself tried to ring? It also didn’t help that the doctor was right. When she’d unwound the bandages he’d known what she would say, had been expecting it.

He hadn’t rested the hand, hadn’t had time, he had a job to do. And as the fresh air swelled around the puffy skin, seeping in and causing the bones themselves to scream in protest, he knew the doctor was not exaggerating.

"I do what I can Dr. Fyfe, but I have people depending on me."

"They can wait."

Did he imagine it, or was she a little rough with the way she rebound the bandages?

"No they can’t, doctor, no they can’t."

* * * *

Grolley looked up from the books, his head swarming with the numbers, his hand reaching out for a glass. It was still empty though he’d ordered a new one more than fifteen minutes before. He looked up at the auburn haired woman behind the bar.

"Susan? Where’s Blondie? What’s keeping her?"

"She’s out back." Susan’s voice was light, but she nodded to him to come closer. "She’ll probably be there for a while this time."

Grolley sighed. It wasn’t his business to play nursemaid to the staff that flew in and out of his bar as the seasons took them. This one, however, had ingratiated herself into their little group. She was a funny little thing, didn’t talk much, but engendered a strange loyalty and protectiveness in all of them.

"What set her off this time?"

"Nothing, I was just showing these photos that Sarah sent up. Little Jenny is growing so fast."

"Oh I see." His eyebrows stretched up teasingly. "You bored her to tears?"

Susan flicked at him with the cloth she’d been using to wipe the bar.

"That’s cute. Really. But you’re not fooling anyone. Last time they were here, Sarah said you rocked Jenny to sleep in your arms. Held her for two hours while she slept. You’re just a big softie, aren’t you? I know."

"Keep it to yourself."

Susan looked at the door that led to the back.

"I guess I should go say something, huh? Wonder what her problem is."

He stretched out his hand and stopped her.

"It’s okay, I’ll go."

The back was empty as far as he could tell. Standing completely still he closed his eyes and listened hard. From behind the toilet door he could hear the sounds of muffled sobs. He knocked on the door three times.

"I… Just a minute."

The sounds of paper being torn and a nose blown filtered through, shaking breaths trying to steady themselves. The door began to open, then stopped, the toilet flushed and he grinned. She wasn’t fooling anybody. Buffy didn’t look at him when she walked past him, keeping herself small so that they didn’t touch. He reached out to stop her.

"C’mon Blondie, something’s got to give. Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?"

For some reason, the nick name did not bother her. Coming from these people it wasn’t a put down, or some condescending title. It was just something to call her and, so they’d said, she just didn’t look like an Anne. Which she wasn’t, not really, but they didn’t know that.

It couldn’t hurt to talk, could it? Surely after all these weeks of crying in private, she could speak her mind just once. Grolley was also a very good listener and she’d seen the others open up to him without realizing what they were doing.

"I was looking at the photos of Susan’s family and I realized I don’t have any photos of my own. I left them all behind."

"We can fix that."

"We can?" She wasn’t sure she knew what he meant. The only reason she’d talked was to tell him what was bothering her, not to get him to fix it. What could he do anyway?

She was to find out. As they gathered in the front, in the wee small hours and wound down after the cleaning had been finished, he bought out a large notepad and an assortment of pencils. He winked at her and grinned.

"I was once a police sketch artist. Tell me what they looked like, and I can draw ‘em for you."

It took a while but she soon warmed to the idea, they found a rhythm with her description and his drawing. They smiled at her enthusiasm, the first kind of real emotion she’d shown. Grolley had patiently listened to her broken descriptions, her little corrections and interested questions.

"What does it matter what color her hair is? You’re drawing with a lead pencil."

"I need to know how heavy or light to make it, the texture. It all counts."

"Oh. It’s red, bright fiery red, and it comes down at the top in one of those widow’s peak things. And her face is open and expressive." And a thousand other things she couldn’t express but eventually she was happy, a picture of Willow was in her hands.

"He’s kind of dark, but in a good way. And his face is elastic, like a cartoon, it shows everything."

Voila, a picture of Xander.

She took a little more time with Joyce, making sure everything was perfect.

They talked and laughed the rest of the night away, Buffy sat a little apart, staring with reverent awe at the pictures she held in her hand. Only one was missing, for some reason she didn’t want the group to know about Giles, he was still a memory too precious to air in public. It was as if speaking him aloud would make whatever they had between them melt and float away. She waited until the others had left.

"Grolley? Can I ask a favor?"

He had just been about to lock the door, behind him the grayness was dissolving into fresh new colors and he could smell the greenness of the morning.

"Anything my sweet. What’s on your mind?"

"Can you do another picture for me?"

She gave off an air of vulnerability that made it impossible for him to say no.

* * * *

It was getting light when he fumbled for his keys, awkwardly sliding them into the door and turning the lock. Giles had purposely chosen the middle of the night flight. He hadn’t wanted to run into the others yet, hadn’t wanted to look into their eyes and admit another failure. Just facing himself was bad enough. His house was quiet and empty.

LA and Phoenix had given him nothing. Nobody had remembered her, nobody had cared. He’d asked everybody he’d seen, shown them the photograph, pleaded with them to think. People had begun to cross the street to avoid him, eventually he’d been chased out by a policeman.

He let his bag fall on the floor, he didn’t have the strength to put it away. Not once in the past two years had he felt the almost painful pull that came from the locked cupboard. It was nearly overwhelming now. The lock would probably be rusted shut. To his surprise it opened easily, like an old friend the bottle of scotch winked at him, the deep amber liquid gleaming in the light.

It was becoming hard to care so much.

The telephone rang shrilly.

* * * *

Buffy held on to the picture of Giles, she traced the lines of his face, wishing it could be him. The receiver in her hand was heavy as she listened to the ringing at the other end. What was she doing, calling him so early in the morning?

Just seeing him, not even him but a picture, had made her breakdown. She needed to hear him, to know that he was alright. She needed to apologize to him, anything to hear his voice. Why wasn’t he answering his phone?

"Hello?"

One word, one simple word, and everything she’d been practicing to say disappeared along with her breath. It was painful, to hear him, his voice again. She could not speak.

"Hello? Who is this?"

The pain in his voice was evident and it cut her deeply. He sounded so tired, so weak, so lost. There was a silent moment, she couldn’t say a word, but she couldn’t put down the phone. She needed to hear him.

"Buffy? Is that you? Are you alright? Where are you?"

He knew it was her. His voice took on an excited quality, a new life that had not been there seconds before. His frenzied questions, and the hope they implied, made her shiver and recoil from the cool plastic in her hand. How could she do that to him? How could she put him through more pain?

The sound of the receiver being replaced as she severed the one connection to her past, hammered a nail into her heart.

* * * *

It had been her. He couldn’t have said why or how he knew, but he had known. The silence that had crackled between them spoke as much as it always did. Giles’ hand trembled as he replaced the now dead receiver to its place. He hesitated only seconds before lifting it up again and dialing a number.

"Hello? Michelle? It’s me, Rupert Giles… Yes that’s right. Oh, oh I’m managing, yourself? Look, I know it’s early, but I need your help on something. Remember that favor you owe me? Can you trace a telephone call? I know that, yes. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. Thank you."

One more thing he’d never thought he’d do. One more friend he’d taken advantage of, but the price was worth it. Anything, if he could just find out if Buffy was safe.

* * * *

Giles had to admit defeat, Farmington was as useless a lead as any other he’d followed. He had proof that Buffy had stayed at the motel, the trace had led him there, and still no one remembered her, knew a single detail about her. The people there couldn’t recognize the photo he showed them and they flatly refused to let him see their records. They were just doing their jobs, he knew that somewhere in a small, hidden, sane part of his brain.

It was one of the lowest days he’d had so far, being so close and yet so far was killing him. He had been so sure that he would find her here, catch a much wanted glimpse, that he’d nearly been able to smell her, that intangible mix of scented soap, earth and comfort. He knew he should go back, tell them all once again what a failure he was, but he couldn’t do it, he walked into a bar instead.

It was a comfortable place, not too crowded, but not deserted. Not exactly a creditable establishment, it was by no means as bad as some of the placed he’d frequented in his past. Giles walked to the counter and ordered a scotch, neat. As he waited for his drink, he studied the pictures that decorated the walls. Interesting choice. He picked up the glass and let some of the liquid burn his throat.

"Mr. Giles?"

The rough voice startled him and he turned quickly to see an intimidating man seated at the farthest table from the bar, dark and shadowed.

"You have got to be Rupert Giles."

"Ah… yes, yes I am."

His heart leapt with hope, he almost couldn’t talk. Tentative step after tentative step finally bought him in front of the man who had gestured him over. He would have had to have at least seen Buffy, most definitely talked to her, to know his name, maybe he even knew where she was. Giles’ hand shook wildly as he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a worn, creased, photograph and passed it over.

"You… you’ve seen her? Is she alright? Where is she?"

A strange expression came over the man’s face as he took the photo, if he’d been pressed to name it, Giles would have called it wistful.

"So this is what she looks like…" He gestured for a confused Giles to sit across from him. "… when she’s actually happy."

"Tell me…" Giles didn’t know what to make of this man, he wanted to crush him into a boneless mush for the familiarity with which he looked at the photo, yet at the same time wanted to embrace him for the hope he offered. He gave the man another photo, his favorite one of Buffy and himself, well, the gang really. "Tell me what you know of Buffy?"

Grolley looked at the picture in his hand. Buffy? It was a strange name, but somehow it suited the bright, glowing girl in the photo, much more than ‘Anne’. It was a picnic, there were five of them in the picture. Buffy, the girl he’d drawn called Willow, the boy he’d drawn called Xander, Mr. Giles, and another girl he’d never seen before, svelte and brunette, nestled into Xander. Willow was sharing a secret smile with whoever was behind the camera. It amazed him how accurate his drawings had been. His attention, however, was captured by the two in the middle of the group, the couple that dominated the picture.

They were all crowded around a wooden picnic table, laden with the remnants of a feast, and the older man seemed totally at ease with the teenagers, seated in the middle. Standing behind him, her arms draped around his neck and down his front, her chin resting on his shoulder, was Blondie. Her eyes shone out at him, the happiness glowed from her, he could almost hear her laughter. It made him realize how much older she’d seemed, how downtrodden she’d actually been. Grolley wondered exactly what had happened, it must have been bad.

Slowly Grolley reached out and turned over the frame that had been lying face down on the table. It was his newly finished picture for the wall, he’d just been mounting it. He watched the expression on Giles’ face. Delight at seeing her turned into shock, worry and fear at her appearance, then hard, green eyes flew up to meet him.

"Where is she?"

Giles could only look at the man long enough to ask the question, then his eyes fell to the scene in the frame. Several people were seated around a table, all seemingly having a good time. Except for one fragile figure who sat slightly apart, looking into the distance, the misery on her face heartbreaking. Even worse was the drawn face, the sunken eyes, the skeletal frame. She looked sick, Giles had never seen her look so bad. He needed to find her soon.

"She left yesterday. Wouldn’t say why, wouldn’t say where. Worked here almost a week. She’s hurting, Mr. Giles, and from what I’ve seen, I think you’re the only one who can save her."

"I intend to do just that." Giles couldn’t take his eyes off the emaciated Buffy on the table as he downed the rest of his drink in one gulp. "Or die trying."

Grolley believed the words.

* * * *

Lamar wasn’t a large city, it wasn’t exactly small, but not what you’d call a metropolis. The people who lived there, at least most of them, were good people. If you knew the people and places to avoid then you could be certain to be left alone. Crime, though it still happened, was not a major concern. If you worked hard and paid your dues, you could live with assurance that you’d live a long and prosperous life.

At least, that was what Cindy Majors had been led to believe. She was nineteen, had just enrolled to start college at UCLA, was about to complete her last week of cashiering at the local grocery store, her dreams of leaving the small town had finally been coming true. At least, they had been.

Her mind had reached the point where she could no longer think legibly. Fear soured the sweat that oozed from her pores, it glistened in her eyes and sounded in her muffled screams. Each of her limbs was being held down, roughly, hard fingers covered her mouth so forcefully that her teeth were puncturing the inside of her lips and she could taste the blood. Vicious laughter sounded all around her and she had lost the ability to discern one voice from another. The leader of the group stood above her and began to unbuckle his belt, a cruel smile played on his obscenely full lips.

Cindy closed her eyes and wished for it to be over soon.

It never came. Her eyes flew open when, at the same time, she felt the hands leave her and the cry from the man above her. The cry was an equal mix of surprise, pain and enraged, wounded ego. She saw him doubled over in pain, saw the others rush at a figure, heard the obscenities. Cindy squinted as she tried desperately to control her ragged breathing. It was a girl, a tiny, little thing, whaling on this group of six, large, drunken men. She knew she should get up, help, maybe even run away, but she was frozen to the spot with fear. Moments ago she’d been fighting for her life.

Buffy knew she was going too far, knew she was breaking bone, they were only mortal after all. Her anger built up to almost unstoppable proportions, they deserved the pain, they deserved agony, they deserved everything she was putting them through. But she was doing it for the wrong reasons. A small part of her had been enraged when she’d caught them, but the largest part of her was glad for an excuse, any excuse, for a good fight. She’d been holding it in, her slayer’s energy. The rage that she usually drew on to kill the vamps had been building up and was now exploding, flooding over onto these disgusting excuses for men.

Using all of her control, Buffy reeled her anger in and forced the men onto their knees in a line. With no sense of satisfaction at all, she took in their bleeding faces, broken bodies and disbelief. Making them all apologize to the trembling girl, one by one, gave Buffy a better feeling.

Cindy looked with awe at Buffy, hardly believing what had happened. There had been something beautiful and graceful, yet frightening and terrible in the way the blonde girl had fought, smooth and efficient. The strangest thing, the scariest thing, was that the most power had come at the end, when she’d been holding her anger in. When Buffy gestured for Cindy to leave, she did not hesitate.

* * * *

Willow wanted to scream, her search had provided nothing useful and everything seemed to be getting thrown back at them, the harder they looked the less they seemed to find. It was hitting Giles harder than anyone, except perhaps Joyce, he wasn’t getting better physically and he was getting worse emotionally. That last lead, the phone trace to New Mexico, had buoyed him up with so much hope, only to dump him into a deeper pit of depression. He’d returned looking so defeated, that she’d worried he’d given up, but still he worked. If anything, it seemed to drive him harder.

At times it was difficult not to blame Buffy.

The phone startled her, made her jump. As always happened, Giles rushed to it before it had rung more than twice. Throughout the day he shuffled along, trying to hide his pain, but when the phone rang he lost all awkwardness and plunged.

"Hello?"

Willow strained to listen.

"Hello?" A pause. "Buffy? Is that you?"

He’d pulled the receiver out into the hall, away from her, but Willow could still hear his shaking voice, the pain, pleading and misery.

"Buffy? Please answer me. Tell me that you’re okay. Buffy, please?"

Willow heard the sound of Giles slipping down the wall and landing on the floor. She could picture him sitting there, gripping the phone as if it were his only link to Buffy, which it was.

"Buffy!"

The last word was a whispered wail of agony and Willow knew that Buffy, if it had really been her, had already hung up. She sat in front of the computer, trying not to hear the muffled sobs of frustration, not knowing what to do.

At times, there was nothing to do but blame Buffy.

* * * *

Buffy put down the telephone and cursed herself for her weakness and cruelty. All she’d had to do was speak, say one word, but she hadn’t, couldn’t. She’d known it too, had known she wouldn’t say anything despite the absolute torture it caused him, caused them both. The pain in his voice as he called to her was killing her, but it was killing her at a slower rate than not hearing his voice at all, so she persisted. No wonder he hadn’t wanted her, all she did was take from him and never gave back.

That night, for the first time since she’d left, she’d used her strength to save someone, to make a difference. It had filled her with a confusing mix of emotions, it felt good to do something, to be out there spending her energy as it was supposed to be spent. Yet it also scared her, made her very bones shudder with the memory of how close she’d come to really losing control. Mingled with this was a deep, overpowering need to tell Giles, to hear him reassure her, and she felt disgusted at the weakness this showed.

She lay back on the thin, worn mattress. It matched everything else in the dingy room. Thin and worn, like the sheets, the pillows, the curtains, the suspect security. Thin like the coffee that congealed in a chipped mug by the bed, thin like herself. Worn down like the aching muscles she ignored.

Everything in the room was thin and worn, except the sobs that came thick and heavy as she drew her knees up to her chest, hugged them tightly, and rocked herself to sleep.

* * * *

Xander walked the darkened street alone. He almost wished a vamp would jump out and attack him, at least it would prove he was alive. Things had been so quiet, so lifeless, this summer. It was as if even the undead were mourning Buffy’s leaving, or had forgotten she even existed. It was like she’d never been there at all, if only he saw a vampire or two, it would prove they existed and, in extension, that Buffy existed somewhere out there too.

"I just knew dead boy was a bad choice." He mumbled to himself as he toyed with a stake in his hand. "But nobody listens to the Xand-man, do they? No, of course not. I’m just the lackey, I’m just there to run errands. Ha. It’s not as if I asked her to do something bad. Kill the vampire. It’s what she does."

He didn’t look up as he turned a corner, didn’t notice the eyes that followed him, or the footsteps that dogged his own.

"Am I the only one that can see that? A little staking when I’d suggested it would have saved a lot of fuss. Now? Now, we’re all searching for the long lost slayer while she runs and hides. Next time, I choose the summer activities. No more of this grinding Master bones, or printing out milk cartons. No. Next summer I’m the one who’s leaving town. Oooh! Amy Yip at the waterslide park!"

He sighed, somehow the fantasy was less fun when there was no one around to berate you for it, or your lack of imagination. Even when he was alone he tried to cover his true feelings with humor. He knew that, given a choice, he would give up Amy Yip in a second to have Buffy back and the group together again. All he wanted was for things to be the way they should. Xander nearly jumped out of his skin when a hand landed on his shoulder.

"Ooh, tense much?"

"Cordelia? What are you doing here?"

"Nice to see you, too." Cordelia smiled a tight little smile. "I thought you might be out here, hunting the dead and icky. I bought you some coffee."

She held out two styrofoam cups. Xander took one from her and swallowed gratefully. They fell into step with each other, not saying anything. The silence dragged on, they kept walking. In a burst of breath, Cordelia spoke.

"So, is there any dead, or icky, things to hunt tonight? Or are we walking for our health?"

Suddenly the loud and unmistakable sounds of a fight reached their ears. With a glance at each other they jumped into action, running towards the growls and groans. When they turned a corner they stopped dead in their tracks.

* * * *

She was there, she was back in the church beneath the ground. It was as dark as it had ever been and the stench of candle wax and stale blood choked her nostrils. Like before, she could not move, she was paralyzed, the Master standing behind her. Buffy felt her jacket being taken away, felt the dank air caress her naked shoulders as the hot, rancid breath blew over her neck. Still she could not move.

The Master spoke, but it wasn’t the Master at all, it was Giles. It was Giles’ hands that stroked her neck, Giles’ voice that spoke obscene words into her ear. She was standing there, frozen, at his mercy. There was nothing she could do.

"Prophecies are funny creatures."

Buffy felt the fear rise in her stomach.

"It didn’t say that you’re the one who sets me free."

She could sense his teeth about to pierce her neck, break through the skin and suck at the blood that was being pumped rapidly by her heart.

"Buffy," His voice sounded like it was begging. "Set me free. Set me free, Buffy, please."

Buffy sat straight up in bed. That had been a vivid dream, one of the more vivid she’d had lately. It didn’t matter that it was only a dream, that she knew it wasn’t real, she could still hear Giles’ voice begging her to set him free. It was what he needed, wasn’t it? To be free. Free of her, free of all the hurt and pain and agony she caused him time and time again. The sweat drenched sheets clung to her as she tried to get up. She needed to get out of this town, even if she hadn’t built up any money first.

* * * *

"Mr. Giles?" Joyce still felt awkward calling him Giles, like the children did. "Mr. Giles, are you home? Your door is unlocked…"

She stepped inside the apartment, scared of what she might find. Joyce really didn’t know the man, but from what she’d learnt over the last few weeks, she was sure he wouldn’t leave his front door unlocked. Visions entered her head, of bad horror slash movies, with buckets of scarlet paint thrown about to simulate blood. She’d never seen a real vampire attack, didn’t want to, but she was afraid she was about to see one now.

His body was hunched over the table and she nearly screamed. It took her a moment to realize the body was breathing. As she stepped closer, about to wake him and suggest he go to bed, what she saw on the table stopped her.

Next to his hand lay a glass, half full of scotch, it sat next to a bottle of painkillers. In a panic, she picked up the little bottle, but found it almost full. He must have just taken his dose and chased it down. For an intelligent man, he could be extremely foolish. One of his hands, spread out on the table, rested on a piece of paper. It wasn’t like Joyce to pry, but she couldn’t help notice the words. Once she started to read, she found she could not stop.

It was from the council, the council she’d heard so much about but knew nothing of note. Until now. What she read made Joyce ready to scream. She wanted to fly to England and throttle the whole bloody lot of them. How dare they?

The letter was a refusal to fund any more of Giles’ expeditions to find Buffy. They felt at this stage of the game that a Slayer without the proper influence of her watcher for so long was not of any use to them. If Giles wanted to continue the search he had to do it with his own finances.

Joyce seethed. Buffy was no more than a commodity to them, no more than an instrument to be used until it didn’t work properly anymore. That’s not what Giles felt, somehow she knew that he would use his last penny, spend his last breath, looking for her and protecting her. It was a thought confirmed by another page that lay on the table.

On it was scribbled, in Giles’ hand writing, all his assets and their worth. How much he could afford to spend in searching. He’d listed everything he’d owned, and was prepared to lose it all. Joyce wanted to cry for the man.

With great difficulty she managed to get him to the sofa and found a thin blanket to cover him. She spent the rest of the night on the telephone to her bank manager, and Hank in LA. Whatever she had would go straight to Giles, she vowed it.

* * * *

She was awake, but Buffy could feel slick fingers grasping her shoulders and a greasy voice slur into her ear.

"Get a move on, Babe, I’m not paying you to stand around and look pretty."

She closed her eyes and ignored the gibe, what was not said, what hung in the air, were the words ‘but I could if you wanted me to.’ It was the worst job she’d taken so far, but she’d had no other choice. Her cash had run out, flowed away like water down the drain. It was her own fault, if only she hadn’t given in to her wiggins and left Lamar before she’d been ready. Now she was in a worse mess.

Buffy picked up the tray of drinks and tried to escape the clutches of her new boss. Marcus was as sleazy as they came, his eyes literally ate you when you walked in the door, but he had been the only one hiring. All she had to do was earn enough for another bus ticket, a ticket to anywhere, and she could leave.

He wouldn’t let her leave so easily, though, as his grip on her shoulder tightened and he leant even closer. To the patrons in his club they probably looked like lovers having a friendly chat. To Buffy it felt dirty, like she needed to shower, yet she couldn’t draw on the reserves needed to break away.

"Just remember who pays the bills, sweetheart. I own you. Don’t cross me."

* * * *

Willow looked confused from Cordelia and Xander to the girl who stood slightly apart from them. She was strangely appealing, her tough outer façade so obviously a façade. With every obstinate glare and proud saucy comment, the girl betrayed her insecurities. Willow felt she could identify and become really good friends with her.

"So, you’re Faith, huh?"

* * * *

He was insanely happy. Buffy had come back to him, she’d arrived only to fall in his arms. She no longer blamed him for anything, no longer resented him for the things he’d done. Her laughter made his heart leap and her smell made him drunk.

Not drunk enough.

Giles looked at the empty bottle and wondered who else had been drinking it. He couldn’t possibly have consumed it all, could he? Most probably he could, most probably he did. They’d lost the trail. They hadn’t had any good news in nearly a week. She hadn’t even called him. He was losing her and he didn’t know what else to do. He would never give up hope, would never stop looking.

But it was becoming damned hard.

* * * *

She was in trouble. All she had to do was draw on her strength, but Buffy was afraid to. Ever since that night when she’d stopped those guys. Losing control was not a feeling she enjoyed. It scared her more than she wanted to admit, thrashing out like she had, with no real sight or sound. Besides, righteousness belonged to those who deserved it, she knew that, it wasn’t for the likes of her. The hopeless, the helpless, those who did nothing but hurt the ones they loved.

Buffy tried to melt into the wall behind her, but it wasn’t working. Marcus’ hands were at either side of her head and he was pressing himself into her. He smelled of stale beer and smoke. This was worse than enduring his less than subtle intimidation during the club’s hours. It was being alone with him after hours, in the back, where no one would ever dare to come.

This was feeling his hand come down over her neck and trace patters of obscenity over her shoulders. It was hearing his threats and ugly suggestions as he leered at her, enjoying the fear she was showing. Paralyzed. That’s how she felt, she didn’t want to lose control, didn’t want to hurt anyone. All she wanted was to be left alone, so that she could escape her past, free everyone from her destructive clutches.

"You are a tasty morsel, indeed."

Something in the way he said it, in the way he kept fingering the veins in her neck made her snap to attention.

"No."

"What?"

Buffy straightened herself, drew her body up to its full height.

"Not like this, not now."

"Oh, I beg to differ, bitch."

He pressed his teeth to her neck and his hand up her thigh.

She shoved him back and pushed him away. In all her stupidity she had stopped carrying stakes and crosses and any thing that might help her at that moment. All she had to work with was her hands. She found that they were enough.

His face snapped back as she punched him hard, he stumbled and her knee found its way into his crotch. He doubled over in pain and she frantically searched for something, anything, that looked sharp or wooden.

* * * *

Giles watched the last drop of scotch at it lazily rolled down the neck of the upturned bottle. It glowed and glistened in all its amber glory. With a soft plunk it landed on the steel of the sink. That was the last bottle of alcohol he kept in the house. Gone, down the drain. He placed the empty bottle next to the row of others.

He was past drinking, it wasn’t helping, it was hindering. It made him feel worse, didn’t even deaden the pain like it used to. His pain was a lot stronger now, stronger than his powers of denial. He was rather ashamed at the way he’d been acting. More so that he knew Joyce had seen him.

Buffy needed his help and he wasn’t much use passed out and incoherent. How disappointed she would have been, had she seen him like that. It made his stomach crawl just thinking about it. The thought of all the blissful scotch he’d just poured away also made his stomach crawl.

Actually, it made his stomach burn, he could feel it gnawing at him. All he wanted was to let the liquid burn his throat, flow down and splash into the rising acid, causing wave after wave of bitter pain. It would remind him that he was still alive.

A deep throb pulsed in the bones of his hand, that pain was worse than the ones in his back, or his head or leg. It was constant, regular, and impossible to ignore. He looked at the small bottle of pills and winced. They helped, but only for the pain, not his brain. Them too, he poured down the sink. The little plastic coated capsules clinked lightly as they knocked against each other in their fight to the bottom of the drain.

The phone rang at that moment, it nearly made him fall face first into the basin.

"Hello?"

This time was different, he could tell that straight away. Something had changed and it wasn’t good. There was no silence on the other end. Suddenly the pain in his hand seemed distant as he listened to her sobs.

"Buffy? Tell me what’s wrong, please? Buffy, I need you here."

He could hear her fight for breath, could hear as she tried to stem the cries. It was definitely her and she was in pain. There was something else, too, behind her cries. A rhythmic beat, familiar and elusive. His heart was near to bursting with the need to take her in his arms and stop the pain.

"Just talk to me, one word. Please Buffy? I’m here, I’m always here for you."

Still there was no answer. He finally stopped begging, it wasn’t working, but he refused to be the one to break the connection. Sitting on the floor, he leaned against the wall and listened to the sound of her muffled sobs.

A memory rushed to his brain, unbidden, he could identify the elusive sound as the same one in his head. Rain, it was raining where she was. One day, one of those rare days when it had actually rained in Sunnydale, the children were stuck inside the library. They’d insisted on playing a childish game.

As he’d tried to translate a difficult piece of text, they’d hidden themselves around the library while one of them stood blindfolded. That person called out ‘Marco’, and somebody else called out ‘Polo’. The blindfolded person had to use the sound to find the others.

He’d pretended to ignore them, but really he’d been secretly enjoying the day. Their innocence as they played, even after all they’d seen they still had the energy to play childish games and laugh. It had amazed him then.

At that very moment, leaning against his wall, every cell in him crying out for a drink, his heart breaking with the need to find Buffy, his ears listening to her sobs, he had never felt more like a blindfolded person in his life. Giles listened to the rain as it pelted down on the other end of the phone.

"Marco."

It was a whisper. It was a plea. It was enough.

"Polo."

Then the line went dead.

She’d talked to him! Giles had to find out exactly where it was raining at that moment. He dialed the operator and asked for the weather bureau.

* * * *

She clung to the receiver as she’d never clung to anything else in her life. Buffy had called him to tell him that she would never darken his door again, that he could get on with his life without her. It would have hurt him, she knew, but he’d soon realize how better off he was without her. Then he had pleaded with her, made it so hard for her to say the words she’d been practicing.

The rain outside had matched her mood, dark and depressed and seemingly endless. Apparently it made Giles think of the same day she had been reminded of. He must have heard the rain, must have made the connection, otherwise it was too freaky. Then again, if he had thought of the same thing, that was freaky too.

When she’d heard him call ‘marco’, she knew that she couldn’t break the tie just yet. Shameful waves of selfishness washed over her as she knew in her heart that the thing she needed most was him. His voice, his arms, the overall sense of safety he provided without ever knowing. She craved that now with every cell in her being.

It was physical, that need, an agonizingly physical need that ate at her. There was nothing she could do to stop it. Buffy wondered whether she wanted to stop it. Exactly what was wrong with her wanting Giles?

The fact that you can do nothing but hurt him, everything you do causes him pain, and he deserves more than that, so much more. You’re even hurting him now, dragging him along like this, when you could sever the ties and let him go. Just like he asked you in your dreams, let him go.

"Goodbye Giles."

She whispered to the deadened phone and then hung it up. She knew what she had to do.

* * * *

He sat at the table, the phone nestled between his shoulder and his ear. In his hands, Giles held a velvet lined box. The lid opened with only a little force, which surprised him as it had been so long since he’d even looked at the box. The jewel inside glowed softly, at least it seemed to glow, more accurately it reflected the light in such a way it made him want to cry.

"Yes, yes, I’m here. No Sarah, it’s the genuine thing. Honest, the stone of Zerilius. Whole and uncut. You remember the owner, Maria Cox? Did you ever know her maiden name? Maria Giles, yes, she was my great, great… something or other. Look, it’s real. Do you want it or not? I need it in cash. Immediately. Yes, I know it’s a rather large sum of money, you can get it, I know you can. Great."

Giles sat and looked at the stone for a long time. He almost wished he hadn’t refused Joyce’s offer, but he couldn’t let her sell the house, or her shares in the gallery, he wouldn’t have been able to live with himself. What were family heirlooms, anyway, if you didn’t have a family to share them with?

* * * *

It was still raining. Her bus had gotten a flat tire and departure would be delayed for an hour. She had spent every last cent she had, and some she didn’t, to get the bus ticket and now her stomach was growling. All she needed was to be struck by lightening and it would make her day absolutely perfect.

Buffy sat on the steps, just out of reach of the rain, she needed to feel the fresh air on her face. Her total belongings packed into one bag. She’d learned to travel light, it was a survival tactic. She shivered as goose bumps pimpled her bare arms. It wasn’t cold.

The raindrops splashed lightly on to the already wet ground, splintering into a myriad of smaller droplets. It was almost pretty to watch. Legs walked past her, not heeding, not caring about the thin girl crouched on the steps. Somebody tossed some loose change at her feet. Buffy looked up in surprise.

"Hey! I’m not…"

But the person had gone. She looked back down at the coins. Enough to make a telephone call. Buffy grabbed the coins and her bag and walked over to the public phones inside the bus station. Her fingers knew the numbers automatically, her ears knew the sound of the connection.

There was no answer.

"Damn it! Answer the phone!"

The tone sounded shrill to her ears, rude, as if it were purposefully keeping Giles from getting to the phone. She felt lost again. The need to hear him just one more time tore at her insides. Just once more, she told herself, just once.

"Giles, please pick up, I need you."

Her heart sounded loud to her ears, pumping away at twice its normal speed. Where was he? Why wasn’t he answering the phone? Was he hurt? Her heart beat even wilder and she began to panic. Her words were becoming an incoherent jumble.

"Please Giles, I’ll do anything, just call Marco one more time. Just once. Please."

When the line rang out and her coins were returned Buffy knew exactly what she’d given up. It tore her apart. She closed her eyes and leant her head against the steel.

"Marco."

Buffy froze. It had sounded so real, so close. She could have sworn she’d heard Giles’ voice right behind her. A moment passed, she could have sworn she could feel someone standing behind her, could smell the unforgettable scent of Giles. At least in madness she might be offered some relief.

"I said Marco."

Her eyes flew open. It was real. She hadn’t been hearing things. Twisting around so fast it almost made her head spin, she found herself face to face with the very person she’d been running from. Without her consent, her arms sprung around his neck and held him to her. Just to feel him under her fingers was filling her with warmth, feeling the steady rate of his heart, feeling the pressure of his hands as they rested on the small of her back, it was more than she could stand.

Giles breathed in deeply, he couldn’t believe he was holding her in his hands. He could almost believe it was one of his dreams, except for the bones he felt that had never been there before, the shadows he saw under her eyes. The pain he sensed radiating from her every move. She clung to him, nearly as hard as he clung to her.

He reached up and brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ears, he followed through with the gesture, bringing his hand down her cheek and resting his fingers on the side of her jaw. She felt so good. Buffy leant back and her eyes drank him in, Giles was afraid of what she would see there.

She wanted to curl up then, shrivel and be swallowed by the Earth. Everything he had been through showed itself to her and it was all her fault. The fingers on the side of her face shook, he’d never had tremors in his hand before.

"I’m sorry, Giles, I’m so sorry."

She was so thin, so painfully shrunken and drawn. It frightened him to see it in real life. Even though he’d seen the picture, he knew that his mind had been secretly hoping for it to be an exaggeration, that she really had been alright. He could feel the bones of her cheek and jaw, could see the sharp outline of her shoulder blades.

"Sorry? Buffy, there’s nothing to be sorry for."

"Yes there is, everything I’ve done… I…"

Giles placed one finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. His eyes stared into hers and demanded that she listen to him. It pierced him, the tears that ached to fall, hiding behind her eyes, the way that she seemed to breathe him in like someone coming up from the depths of the ocean.

He was the one who should apologize, his heart berated him, he was the one who had pushed her away, kept her at bay when all she wanted was to come to him. It was he who had forced upon her the impossible task of killing her past lover. It was he who had made her choose, when choice was the last thing she should have had to face.

Buffy shivered underneath his gaze, she didn’t know how, but she was reading everything that he thought with his eyes and it made her want to melt. After all that she’d done, he still blamed himself, would go on blaming himself. She angled her face up to meet his and kissed him.

It was the only thing she could think to do, the only apology he would accept, allow or acknowledge. He stood still, motionless like a granite statue, and when she didn’t back down he placed a hand on each of her shoulders and pushed her away. The confusion in her expression made him want to crush her against him, to hell with everything, but he stood his ground.

"No, Buffy, not now. Not like this."

Her lip trembled, but she nodded. He was right, he was always right, but it felt so wrong, suddenly, to let him go, to drop her arms back to her sides and step backwards. It felt like she was tearing a part of her away.

Placing one hand just beneath her elbow and another at the small of her back, he led her to the tables nearby and sat her down, placing his light jacket around her shoulders despite the humidity. It seemed so natural, suddenly, to make these territorial movements, these small caresses that hadn’t been there before. It surprised him when she followed without the slightest resistance, the meekness with which she gave in to his unspoken directions.

They sat across from each other at the small, round plastic table, squeezing into the molded plastic chairs. Their hands clasped each other in the middle of the table as if they were each other’s lifeline. Neither wanted to let go, they’d only just found each other.

"Will you come home with me, now?"

Buffy knew that he would have asked the question sooner or later, she’d only hoped it would be later. She wanted to find herself floating in the dream that everything was fine when she was with Giles. It would be so easy to forget that the rest of the world existed if only he played along. He wouldn’t, though, he was firmly rooted in reality.

"I can’t."

She spoke the two words calmly and simply, but they shook him to the core. He’d gone to so much trouble to find her and now she was turning him away? It seemed almost cruel to him, the way she’d clung to him when she saw him, only to now push him away, except that she could never be cruel.

Buffy saw the hurt in his eyes and realized what he must have thought.

"No!" The desperation in her voice made him jump. "I didn’t mean you, Giles, god don’t leave me now. I meant, I can’t go home, not now. Can’t we… can’t we go somewhere else? Just you and me?"

He lifted their clenched hands as one, to the sound of her pleading, and kissed her fingers, his lips finding them out instinctively among his own. No matter how changed she was, she still tasted like Buffy, salt and cinnamon, dark and light.

"There’s an old adage, Buffy, that says if you want to run from your life, you have to be prepared to leave it behind. Are you ready for that? Can you really tell me you’re willing to leave everyone behind? Your mother, Willow, Xander?"

She looked down at the table, sorrow weighing her head down.

"I hurt them all, you especially, I know that. But Giles, I put them all in danger, I betrayed them, how can I go back now?" She paused. "I don’t expect you to understand…"

"Buffy, I think I know what you mean more than you realize. Nobody blames you, I hope you’ll see that eventually. Until then, if you really want to leave, then we’re going to do it properly."

She looked up at him, confused, not really sure what he meant. What she did know, however, was that he was agreeing with her and that he would stay with her. It was all that she needed, all that she wanted, she would agree to anything he asked of her.

"I have to make a delivery, I’d like it if you came. Before we leave, however, I want you to call Joyce and tell her… I don’t know, tell her you’re okay. Tell her something, anything."

Buffy wasn’t sure if she could, fresh in her mind were Joyce’s words "You walk out of this house, don't even think about coming back!" Joyce had sounded so resolute, so sure of her crisp, clipped words. Giles had asked, however, and that clinched it. She nodded.

"Delivery? What and to where?"

"Oh," Giles was suddenly evasive. "Just something small I have to give an old friend. In England."

"England?!"

* * * *

Joyce had to stop herself from placing two plates on the table, she did it every night without fail. She still hadn’t gotten used to the fact that she was cooking for one, the neighbor’s dog had been getting fed awfully well lately. She sighed as she placed the plate back in the cupboard.

The house felt so large, it echoed with her every movement, seemingly taunting her with its emptiness. Each loud sound shouted her guilt at her, she’d thrown Buffy out, and Buffy had left. She hadn’t meant it, not really, in a moment of blind panic she’d lashed out and her baby had run.

The last few months had taken their toll and Joyce was tired. Truth be told, she wasn’t even hungry and knew she wouldn’t eat the meal that she’d just prepared. It was habit that made her cook, maybe a touch of blind optimism and even superstition. It was such a final step, to stop preparing things for Buffy as if she’d never come home. If she did stop, it was like admitting that she’d given up.

She’d tried to call Mr. Giles, but he hadn’t answered his phone. It was possible that he was either passed out again, or he’d received yet another obscure clue. Joyce felt both relieved and envious that she wasn’t the one rushing off at the drop of a hat.

To go off with such high hopes and have them dashed time and time again would tear her apart, and yet it seemed just as hard to sit still and not do anything. At least Mr. Giles could say he was trying. She could see the havoc it wreaked on him and cursed herself for not helping.

Resolutely, she switched off the oven and grabbed her car keys. As she was headed out the door the telephone began to ring. She was torn between two actions. So many times her heart had began to soar at the sound of the phone, her pulse quicken as she’d reached out to pick it up, only to have her hopes crushed with some insignificant caller. Yet she couldn’t just leave without knowing who it was.

Joyce reached it just before it rang out.

"Hello?"

There seemed to be silence on the other end, but it was broken by some muffled sounds.

"Is anyone there?"

Joyce began to shake. She closed her eyes and prayed silently.

"Mom?"

She cried. Months of worry and guilt and blame and terror came crashing down on her with that one word. At last she was able to let herself break down, here was confirmation, Buffy was alive. Her knees buckled and she reached for a chair.

"Oh god, Buffy. Are you okay?"

"I’m… I’m fine." There was a pause. "Well, I’m not bad. What about you, Mom? Giles said that you…"

"Mr. Giles is with you?" Joyce broke Buffy’s sentence. "Thank heavens. When are you coming home?"

"I’m not… we’re not coming home yet." Buffy sounded so small. "I can’t do it. He’s… he’s taking me to England."

Joyce wanted to scream. She’d just gotten her back and Buffy was being taken away again. She wanted to hug Mr. Giles and hit him at the same time. He’d found her, but he wasn’t bringing her home. What was he up to? He was going to take her away again, it felt as if he’d done nothing but take Buffy away from her. But that was unfair. It wasn’t all his fault, yet she couldn’t help the deep rut of resentment that ran through her.

"England? That’s so… so far. Buffy, please? You’ll have to come for your passport. Just come and let me see you."

"Mom, don’t, please? Don’t make this any harder than it has to be. I just can’t see you now. I… I brought my passport with me."

Joyce was sobbing and Buffy was struggling not to do the same. It was hard, so hard, not to give in and tell her that she’d come home, that she’d be there as soon as she could. Buffy wasn’t sure of much, but she was sure of one thing. Sunnydale, the memories and the people it contained, was the last thing that she could cope with.

Neither of them were saying what they wanted to say, under the surface of their conversation were deep currents of guilt and blame and apologies. They would, most likely, never get said, they’d be pushed under the rug and ignored. The less said the better. It was the way it had always been and the way it always would be. That’s how they knew things would be alright, eventually, the unspoken agreement that things were forgiven and forgotten.

"I love you, Buffy."

"Me too, Mom. I don’t want to hurt you, but I have to do this."

Buffy paused, waiting for something, she wasn’t sure what. She held her breath.

"Will you call me? Talk?"

She exhaled.

"Anything. Tell the others I love them." The call was interrupted when the signal came to tell them of the diminishing time left. "I gotta go. Mom, I miss you."

The line went dead. Joyce held the receiver in her hands, the tears beginning to slow. It wasn’t what she’d wanted, it wasn’t anywhere near it, but somehow it was enough.

* * * *

Giles eyed the half empty plates on the table, she’d barely touched the things he’d gotten for her. At first, she’d eaten ravenously, but then had quickly slowed down, dwindling to just picking. She’d claimed she wasn’t feeling well and had avoided his questioning glare. His mind went back to all the times he’d watched her eat and had marveled at her appetite. This wasn’t right.

He sighed and sat down at the small table. The room wasn’t fancy, it was small and bare, but it was the only free room the motel had had. They had two days to wait before their flight. Giles looked down at his hand and tried not to feel the ever present ache.

Buffy was pretending to read a newspaper she’d found among his things and trying not to look like she was watching him. It was strange, having someone there with her, especially Giles, after being alone for so long.

She watched him grimace at the food she’d left behind and immediately felt guilty. Buffy did not think that telling him she’d eaten so little lately that her stomach had shrunk and she could barely eat enough to sustain a child, would make him feel any better.

She watched him stretch and flex his right hand underneath the bandage. His movements were gentle and tentative, as if he were scared of the sensations. Each cringe he made sent a shiver down her spine. She stood up and walked over to him.

Giles looked up, surprised to see her standing so close to him. Without saying a word, she reached out and softly lifted his hand. Her eyes looked at him as she sat down and began to unwind the cloth. Her touch was gentle and soothing, holding enough intimacy to make him catch his breath, and lacking the careless surety of his doctor.

The air rushed into her lungs with a loud woosh when she caught sight of the damage beneath. She didn’t want to cry, she wouldn’t cry, she wouldn’t. Her eyes left his and she could no longer stand to look at his face, feeling his eyes upon her, knowing that he was watching her, waiting for something. She didn’t know what to do, what to say, how to make things better.

She left and quickly returned with a bowl of warm water and a cloth. For half an hour she tended to it, washing it, stroking it, bending down and lightly blowing on it. Not a word was

spoken, but many things were said. Both of them were sensitive to the electricity in the air, it hummed between them.

Standing up, she crossed the room and took a fresh bandage from the first aid kit in her bag. This time, when she came back, Buffy did not sit across from him, instead she knelt down in front of him. Her touch was intimate as she rebound his hand, passing the cloth from hand to hand, under and over, effectively keeping the bones in place. It was looser this time, still firm, but he could adjust and stretch his fingers and it felt good. He could feel it healing.

His eyes watched sadly as Buffy still did not look him in the eye. It wasn’t her fault, it wasn’t anybody’s fault, but she would never believe that. Giles wanted to reach out and shake her, hit her even, anything to get a reaction. A flash of anger, fury, something that resembled self righteousness. This submissiveness scared him. But he knew he would never raise a hand to her.

"Buffy, look at me."

Her shoulders began to shake and she let go of his hand.

"Buffy?"

The shaking continued as she knelt up and raised her arms, snaking them around his neck. She pressed her face into his neck and leant against him, her whole body needing to feel him. His hands came around her waist, slowly, unsure. The fingertips of his bandaged hand ran up and down her back, his other hand came up to hold the back of her head.

She was getting chills in her spine. The light, feathery touch of his hand on her back contrasted harshly with the memory of another, larger hand, smothering the flesh and pressing hard. His neck was made just for her to nuzzle into, the skin pulsing, the tiny little lines of his skin molding to hers.

Giles didn’t know what to do, she was trembling harder than he’d ever seen. It seemed as if they had been melded together and nothing could separate them, and yet she kept clinging, so hard it hurt. If only he knew the right things to say, the right things to do, if only he could wave a magic wand and ease her pain. He knew none of those things, the only thing he could do was hold her.

Buffy could feel only his hands, the all over safety that he oozed. A deep and dark blackness was rising, threatening to fill the agonizing emptiness that had plagued her, and she wanted to push it away, wanted to escape from it forever. She wanted Giles to save her. Turning her head, she began to kiss the side of his jaw, making her way to his mouth.

"No, Buffy…"

His mouth was saying no, but he wasn’t letting go, wasn’t pushing her away, if anything, he was holding her closer. She stood up, without releasing his neck, without taking her lips off his, and straddled him on the chair.

"Giles, please. I want this."

He closed his eyes, wishing that she hadn’t said that. It was only making this harder. How could he deny her anything? She was sobbing through her kisses and he felt them to the bone. Felt every shudder as it ripped through her thin frame. He lightly pressed her face away from his, brushing her hair away from her forehead, caressing her cheek.

"I can’t let it happen like this. Buffy, when, if it happens, I want it to mean something."

She looked him in the eyes, and it seemed to him that each tear only magnified her pain as she searched his soul, demanding that he open himself to her. Her whole body tensed under his touch.

"How can you say that? It means everything. I may be confused about a lot of things right now, but this is clear. I want this, I want you, I love you and I will always need you."

She surprised herself with her words. They were true, but she hadn’t known the depth of them until she’d said it. With her whole being she loved and needed him, craved him with every cell she owned. It had been useless running, he was part of her now.

"It’s not you, Buffy. I have to be sure for myself. I don’t want to take advantage of you and unless I can be sure, then this can’t happen." He ducked his head so that she couldn’t see his eyes, it was one of the hardest things he’d said in his life. "Don’t ask of me what I can’t give you."

Buffy didn’t say anything in response, she tightened her arms around his neck and rested her head just past his shoulder. The sobbing had died down, but replacing it was a stillness that scared him. She breathed slowly.

"Do you understand? I have to be sure… I…"

He could feel her nodding against his neck.

"Will you hold me, then? Just hold me until I sleep?"

* * * *

Buffy turned around nervously and began to walk away. Giles reached back and halted her. He turned her forward again and they walked towards the gate. She was dragging her feet. On her face was a look of pure terror.

"We don’t have to do this, you know. England, it’s a big step. Maybe too big. I have a Hellmouth to look after. Giles?"

He smiled to himself as they waited for the flight attendant to scan their tickets and lead them to their seats. His hand rested on the small of her back and he could feel the tensions there, the nervous rippling that meant she wanted to run.

"Relax," He whispered gently to her. "Willow told me there’s a new Slayer in town. So you can take it easy."

She wasn’t sure what to make of that. On one hand it relieved her that there was somebody to take her place, on the other hand, it scared her that there was somebody to take her place. Maybe this girl was better than her, maybe she could protect everyone where she, Buffy, had failed.

They were shown to their seats and the attendant helped them store their bags overhead. They hadn’t had any luggage, Giles said he’d get them everything they needed in England, it was redundant to buy it all here and then have to transport it across the ocean.

That, and the business class seats he’d paid for, made Buffy wonder exactly where he’d gotten the money. From what she could tell, Giles had been well off, but not exceedingly so. How could he afford to just drop everything, fly across the globe and buy them everything they needed when they got there?

"Are you sure we’ve got the right seats?" Buffy asked the attendant, but before an answer could be given she turned to Giles who was seated next to her. "I hear that if a plane crashes, it’s better to be in the back." She turned back to the attendant. "Of course, it would probably be better not to be on the plane at all." She turned back to Giles. "It’s not too late to turn around. We can still get off the plane. Let’s get off."

The engine roared to life and the plane lurched forward slowly. Buffy paled and turned to the attendant.

"It’s not too late to get off, is it? You can stop this thing, can’t you?"

The attendant, a red head with a large plastic smile and a nametag that read ‘Bernadette’, smiled reassuringly at Buffy and then looked questioningly at Giles.

"If your daughter’s afraid of flying I can get someone to talk her through it, if you like."

Buffy forgot her nervousness, she drew her limbs in and tried to shrink herself down into the seat. Her eyes stared forward, suddenly lifeless, she didn’t say anything. Giles watched her retreat and his nerves began to stretch taut. He looked up at the woman coldly.

"My daughter, if I had one, would not be afraid of an airplane, if she ever rode on one. If you could bring us some water after take-off and then leave us alone, my companion and I would be very grateful."

He took Buffy’s hand and held it, never taking his eyes off Bernadette, he’d managed to place a lot of implied meanings into that one word ‘companion’. Bernadette’s smile paled a little, she was too surprised to say anything as she stared at them. Then her training took over.

"My apologies. I’ll see to that water. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to ask."

Giles watched her walk away.

"Buffy?"

She gave a soft, little mewl.

"Ignore her, ignore them all, they don’t know…"

She turned to face him, her eyes glistening with moisture.

"And there’s going to be a lot of them, isn’t there? They’re going to look at us and think…"

Giles put his arm around her shoulder and guided her so that she was leaning into him.

"It doesn’t matter what they think, Buffy. What matters is that we’re doing what we want to do. In a perfect world, maybe we could expect people to understand, but we don’t live in a perfect world. People will bring their own prejudices and what have you. You can’t change that. If you want to do this, you have to get used to it. From strangers on the street, even from your friends."

Buffy scrunched herself deeper into his shoulder, twisting herself so that she could no longer see anything and felt nothing but the erratic beating of his heart, thundering against her own. It was a fast, intangible beat, the two rhythms making a pattern that had no pattern. She held him close and tried to breathe with him.

"Match me."

He barely heard her whisper, but he knew what she was asking. They both closed their eyes and concentrated, gone were the low rumblings of the engines, the announcement telling them to stay seated until after take off, the murmurs of the other passengers, it was all gone. Before long they had matched each other’s heartbeat and the two rhythms had become one.

They hadn’t talked about it, not out loud, but they’d both come to an agreement. They needed each other, they loved each other, but things now were too confused, addled, they were too needy. For the moment they would just find their way.

In the two days they’d had to wait for their flight, Buffy had refused to get another room, although there had been vacancies. She slept better, so she said, in his arms. Giles wouldn’t have had it any other way. They stayed close, neither venturing far from the other. It seemed they were joined by an invisible thread that would bind them painfully if they tried to stretch it too far.

Giles was beginning to worry about her, the loss of something intangible. It was as if she no longer believed she could, or should, do things by herself, that what she did and thought wasn’t to be trusted. Unsure, scared and timid, clinging to him, not just physically, but emotionally too. It wasn’t like her, not like her at all.

She was beginning to find in herself something that hadn’t been there before, a deep self loathing. A black streak of blame that tainted everything. Every memory she dragged up to her mind was infused with this guilty stain, showing her exactly how selfish and petty she really had been.

Buffy held him tighter, wishing she knew how to make it all up to him.

* * * *

The pages in front of her began to blur. The strict lines became fuzzy and bled into each other. Joyce sighed and turned another page. Eight neat little squares stared up at her. A little girl, of about five or six, grinned up at her. Bright blue eyes shone, round little cheeks glowed with happiness and exercise, brown hair stretched taut into two saucy little ponytails on each side of her head, the ends curled with dampness. She stood bathed in sunlight on the beach, dried sand clinging to the side of one leg, her bright green swimsuit hanging off the shapeless, boyish hips.

Buffy had been such a happy child.

So happy, so blissfully ignorant of the fate to fall on her. Joyce could see it in the eyes that stared up at her, the happiness that would pale to a hidden pain. The photos in the album were like a tragic story, the beautiful innocent childhood stolen and shredded. She looked at the first few photos, Buffy as a willful teen, that showed signs of what was to come. A sad tinge showed in the eyes, a little bit of light extinguished.

Yet, Joyce realized, these photos were a little too early. From what Mr. Giles had told her, it would have been another year before Buffy would be called. These photos would have had to be taken around the time that… Joyce groaned as she figured it out… she and Hank had been fighting so much.

Everything she’d blamed on Mr. Giles, well a large portion of it at least, could be traced back to her. Had she been honestly mistaken? Or had she been looking for a scapegoat? Could she have transferred all her guilt to the one man who had actually made a difference in Buffy’s life?

She skipped ahead, now that she knew what she was looking for, the change seemed to shout up at her. After they’d come to Sunnydale, that’s when Buffy had regained some of her old self. The one whose eyes shone with laughter and light. It was everywhere in the photos, with Xander and Willow, even Cordelia. But it was most evident in the photos with Giles. Not that either of them were aware when the photos were taken, at least she hadn’t been, but the two of them reflected off each other, drew from each other.

Joyce could even imagine that she could see the strength that Buffy drew off the man. Maybe she’d been too hasty in her judgements, maybe she should be glad that Buffy had someone so obviously dedicated to her.

Maybe she should learn to let go.

* * * *

The blue seemed endless. It spread out beneath them, it spread out to either side of them, and if they strained their necks to look it would probably spread out above them. Buffy was going to scream. The sounds of the plane’s engines had long since passed being soothing, sped right past monotonous, and had well and truly entered the annoying stage.

To say the least, Buffy was not one for trans-oceanic flights. Her body, even misused and neglected as it was, was screaming for exercise and movement. She could no longer sit comfortably and the thought of more tiny cans of soft drink, or packets of peanuts, was making her slightly green. Giles, though she did not know how, had managed to fall asleep.

She stood up and inched her way into the aisle, she really didn’t need to use the bathroom, but her legs wanted to unwind. Half way down the aisle she could see Bernadette handing a pillow to another passenger. Buffy lowered her head and tried to sit down again without being noticed. It didn’t work.

"Buffy?" Giles reached out for her, his voice groggy with interrupted sleep. "Is everything okay?"

"Oh yeah, sure." She gave a large, not quite real, smile. "I’m half way across the ocean, on a plane with people who think we’re a bunch of perverts, running from my life, everything’s peachy."

"Buffy…" His voice was weary.

"I know, I know. I’m just letting off steam. Sorry."

Giles sighed. He could only guess how hard this was for her. She was exceptionally below strength, about to enter a world she had no experience in, trying to deal with things that nobody should have to. He didn’t know why he did it, maybe he felt that she needed to be aware of how much he wanted to be with her, or how much he was sacrificing, for whatever reason, he reached into his jacket and pulled out the small velvet box.

She took it gently, unsure of what was happening. When she opened the box, the jewel inside glittered, reflecting both their faces several times over. It was one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen.

"What…?"

"The stone of Zerilius. One of the most valuable gems of the Sixteenth Century. It belonged to one of my ancestors, Maria Giles, she passed it down through the family. It’s worth a tidy sum."

Buffy breathed hard as she let one finger touch it slowly. She didn’t turn her head, she just let his words waft into her ears, similarly she spoke to him. Her voice was soft and full of awe.

"And you own it?"

"Not anymore."

This time Buffy’s eyes left the gem and looked at him fully. Her face was blank with sternness, her mouth hanging open slightly. Deep down she knew what he was saying, but she was giving him a chance, pleading with him, to tell her otherwise. Was there no limit to the ways in which she could hurt him? Even now she had cost him all that he held dear.

He saw it in her eyes, saw the depth of realization and knew what she was thinking. It wasn’t like that, he had to make her see, somehow he would show her, that it wasn’t her fault. How could he be so heartless? He’d known what showing her would lead to. But, the little demonstration wasn’t over yet, he still had a second velvet box, and this he would not sell. He’d give it freely, but he’d never sell it.

"This is what we have to deliver to my friend. She’s quite an old friend actually, we go way back. Buffy, it’s what I wanted."

"But it’s yours. It’s your family’s! Surely…"

Slowly, he took the box from her hands.

"Where are they now? Buffy, ask yourself that. Where is my family now?"

She didn’t answer. Truth be told, she had no idea about his family, or his old friends, or his life before her. Without a doubt, she knew that Giles could relate every detail of her life without having to ask. Her guilt doubled.

"I’ll tell you where. Right in front of me."

Buffy looked up at him, confused, she didn’t speak.

"You’re all the family I have, all the family I need. More importantly, Buffy, you’re all the family I want."

Sometime during his speech he had managed to produce the second box. It didn’t register straight away. Staring into his eyes, trying to discern his meaning, Buffy failed to look at the item he was pressing into her hand. She noticed the nervous glint to his eyes and suddenly felt the pressure.

"Oh. My. God."

Buffy stared at it open mouthed. She couldn’t move. She didn’t want to move. It seemed so unreal. It couldn’t possibly be what she thought it was. He couldn’t possibly be giving her a ring, asking what it sounded like he was asking. That was not rating high on her reality meter. Yet, here they sat, Giles watching her greedily, expectantly, she staring dumbly at the box. Open it. Her brain was working, but her limbs seemed to be having difficulty carrying out the instructions. Open it.

"Buffy? Open it."

"Yes, yes. Of course. Open it. Why didn’t I think of that?"

She kept staring at it, without opening it, her hands had begun to shake.

Giles watched her, taking in every minute movement, trying to decipher her reaction. She could barely speak, hell, she could barely move. Was that a good thing? He was probably holding his breath, it seemed likely, the way that his chest began to sting, swelling up painfully. If only he could let it out, if only he could move. If only she’d answer him. Please say yes, please say yes, good lord, please say yes. Her shoulders began to shake, he couldn’t see her face. Was she crying? That couldn’t be good, could it?

"Buffy?"

Her shoulders kept shaking, he placed a hand on one. She turned to face him and he saw that she wasn’t crying, rather she was laughing.

"What? Oh yes, I’m here. Um… I… oh god yes. Giles, yes."

She leaned forward and gave him a quick, excited little peck on the lips. It was hardly the most passionate thing that had happened between the two in the last few days, but it held so much more. He watched her with satisfaction as she opened the box.

He had to cede one point, his ancestors had spectacular taste in jewelry.

* * * *

She half stumbled, half crawled to the massive bed that dominated the sleeping quarters of their hotel room. Falling on it, face first, she let out a long, low moan. It took all of her energy not to collapse totally. Buffy was not quite sure what time it was, what the name of the hotel was, even what day it was. She didn’t particularly care. Her feet, still encased in her shoes, hanging of the end of the bed.

"Sleeeeeeeeeep!" It was a cross between a moan and a plea that came, muffled, from underneath the blanket of her hair. "Blessed sleep!"

Giles tipped the bellboy, sufficiently perky and helpful in his little trained monkey uniform, and closed the door. He turned with a tired smile towards the figure on the bed. The flight had really taken it out of her, though, after a good meal and about a year of sleep, she’d be good as new. He wasn’t far behind, but he’d taken enough flights to be used to the inevitable jetlag.

"Buffy? I think you should eat something. You barely ate today. I could order something…"

"Mmmph. Sleep now. Eat later. Much, much later."

He stepped closer to the bed, chuckling to himself about the absurdity of the whole thing. Giles didn’t know exactly what had happened, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to. He was extremely happy to sit here and marvel at his luck. She’d said yes. She was wearing his ring.

Sitting on the end of the bed, he began to unlace her shoes. With a patience and thoroughness he really didn’t feel after such a long flight, he took off her shoes and socks, laying them neatly aside, then rubbing the soles of her feet with deft fingers, until they felt warm to the touch.

Buffy was in heaven, the thick fog of exhaustion was settling and she was close to oblivion. His fingers, gentle but firm, were finding deep pressure points. She thought she could die from pleasure just then, at least, she did until his hand came up to dissolve the tightness in her back. Then she began to float. By this time he was lying next to her, his arm stretched lazily over the small gap between them.

"I was thinking," Giles spoke in time with the kneading of his hand, "that we should take the rest of today and tonight to recover, and tomorrow I’ll take you shopping. A whole new wardrobe."

She had to smile at the innocence of it. Did the man not know how much energy was needed for shopping? Buffy drew her knees up slightly as she rolled onto her side to face him. He let his hand fall still, but kept it on her back so that her movement dragged it across her skin until it rested on her hip. She liked the strange weight of it, as if it were supposed to be there.

"What? You mean like a Pretty Woman deal?"

Buffy reached out to his face, just inches from her own, and ran a finger down the bridge of his nose. Her mind jingled with the thought that it was her nose now, the whole face was hers, he was hers.

"Yes. Um… a what?"

She was so close to sleep, but she just couldn’t get there. Buffy felt almost drugged in the thick haze that weighted her every muscle. It even hurt to keep her eyes open for very long. She yawned.

"You know. Julia Roberts, hooker. Richard Gere, rich guy who saves her. She saves him back. It’s sweet."

"Sounds absolutely charming."

Giles rolled away, she missed the feel of him lying next to her, she wanted to scramble after him and pull him back, but she heard the familiar sounds and suddenly wished that she had managed to fall asleep. Buffy listened to his muffled voice, letting it lull her further, why hadn’t she realized the musical tone of his voice before? A telephone receiver was held gently to her ear.

"Buffy?"

"Mom? Flight. Good. Alive. Talk. Later. Bye."

She could hear Joyce laugh softly through the wires and it suddenly clicked home to her just how far her mother was. For a split second she wanted to see Joyce in person, climb into her arms and share the good news. It wouldn’t be now, though, not when she could barely formulate a sentence. One of the last things Buffy remembered before descending into a much wanted slumber, was the feel of Giles’ lips brushing her forehead.

"Sleep well, Mrs. Pervert."

She grinned.

"You too, Mr. Pervert."

* * * *

He woke to the sound of Buffy’s voice talking heatedly into the telephone. Giles tried to shake the groggy cloud of exhaustion, but it clung to him. Instead, he just lay there on his back, eyes closed, listening to her. She sounded bright, awake and alert, a sharp contrast to the walking zombie she had been the night before.

"You have to do this for me."

The sheets in the bed were smooth and felt silky on his skin. They stretched around his waist and covered his legs. His chest and arms were bare and there was a slight breeze in the air that caressed him, disturbing the wiry hairs that dotted his body. With his eyes closed, he listened to her in the darkness.

"Who are you saving it for? Mom’s fine with this, I don’t know why you aren’t!"

He stretched an arm out towards her, reaching out as far as his muscles would let him. From the stressed, pleading tone of her voice, he could tell that she hadn’t seen him. He wondered who she was talking to and what could be so important.

"You owe me this. Fine. I shouldn’t have expected anything more from you. You have no idea what I’ve been through, no idea at all. Look, if you can’t do this then…"

There was a long silence, Buffy’s voice had taken on an angry tone and she’d obviously been interrupted. He could hear the impatient sound of her fingers twisting in the telephone cord, could imagine the angry glare in her eyes. Giles felt as if he should shake himself awake and go calm her, but he still felt drugged with exhaustion.

"I’ve never asked you for anything like this before! Can’t you do this?"

Giles felt the fog begin to lift. He forced himself to pay attention. Her voice seemed to calm down a little.

"Yes. He loves me." There was a pause. "I love him. I want to be able to show him. Please?"

There was some more muffled words, he really couldn’t distinguish them, then the sound of the receiver being placed back. He listened harder, trying to guess what she was doing now. There was silence, as if she hadn’t moved at all. Just as he was about to open his eyes, he felt the side of the mattress sink down.

"I know you’re awake."

He smiled but kept his eyes closed. The bed bounced a little.

"C’mon. It’s time to get up. I’m hungry already."

The air next to him shifted a little and he could feel the heat of her knees on the side of his ribcage. Was that even possible? To feel something like that? Or was he just imagining it, knowing that she was kneeling next to him, so close?

"Giles, I mean it. Get up."

She was leaning over him now, he could smell her hair, a light fruity smell that made the insides of his nostrils tingle. She’d already showered, he wondered how long she’d been awake. There was a nervous energy about her, as if she’d been kept caged for too long and had just broken free. He let the lid of his right eye creep up.

"Aha! I knew you were in there somewhere. Ooh. That is one bloody eye. You look tired. Maybe you should have more sleep."

Giles let a small growl begin in his chest, rumbling lightly up his throat and out of his mouth. Her hair was still damp from the shower and her cheeks had taken on a ruddy color that hadn’t been there the night before, or the last couple of days.

"No chance of that now." He was surprised at the gravelly sound of his own voice. It was like trying to talk through a pile of rocks. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and his throat felt dry and sticky at the same time.

"So? What are you waiting for? I feel great! Like I could run forever. Or eat forever… I haven’t decided which. Either way, you’re coming with me."

She reached over him to the small table beside the bed and picked up his glasses, she put them on his face and then followed through with a kiss to the end of his nose. He could feel her lips stretch into a smile as they left his skin. Giles opened his other eye.

"Well, then, that leaves the eating. No power on earth will get me running today."

Her hands pressed into his chest as she pushed herself up to a standing position. She jumped over him and onto the floor. Turning around she gave him a look that said he better get up or she would get him up. He rolled over, grumbling, put his feet on the floor and forced himself into a sitting position.

"Yay. Now to get you dressed."

"Buffy, can’t we slow down? I’m a little worse for wear here."

"So I noticed." She reached forward and pulled him to his feet. "After a shower, you’ll feel great. Then we can go eat, build up our energy. After that…"

Buffy let one eyebrow rise high, a mischievous grin spreading on her face. Giles grew concerned.

"I think you promised me a shopping trip."

He let his breath out in one large whoosh of air.

* * * *

"Married?" Squeaked Willow into the telephone. "Giles and Buffy?"

"Did I miss something?" Xander raised his eyebrows across the room. "How did we go from ‘yay, I found her’ to ‘meet my fiancé’?"

Willow tried to quiet him as she finished talking to Joyce. It was a whispered conversation, tinged with excitement. Far from her expectations, Joyce was surprising Willow with her acceptance and lack of hostility about the subject. It sounded a little too much like Joyce was getting excited about planning a wedding.

It had been pure luck that Oz, Xander and Cordelia had all been here when the phone rang. Willow wouldn’t have to call everyone now. Things were tentative in the new group. There was still a hole left by Buffy’s absence, but Faith was trying her hardest to fill it. They were getting along, making new grounds to walk on. At that moment, they were holed up watching videos and waiting for Faith to finish patrolling. She really wasn’t a people person when she fought.

Willow hung up the phone and turned to the group, a smile teasing her lips.

"They’re in England and they’re getting married. Do you believe it?"

"They’re getting married in England?" Cordelia looked non-plussed.

"It’s doable. A reception with champagne and scones."

Everyone looked at Oz. Well, everyone except Cordelia.

"Ugh. Think of the weather. The dresses will have to be long sleeve. And there’ll be no sunlight for photos…"

"Giles and Buffy?" Xander asked again, hoping for a change in detail.

Willow took about as much as she could stand before glaring at them all. Her expression was meant to be angry, at least, she tried to make it look angry, which is different from actually getting it to look that way.

"Hey! Guys? Focus, okay? They’re not getting married in England. They’re in England now. They’ll get married after they get back. Probably sometime after Buffy’s 18^th."

Xander looked at her.

"They’re staying in England until her eighteenth?"

Willow felt like screaming.

* * * *

Buffy had never felt so small and insignificant in all her life. Physically, that is, emotionally she held the record for feeling small. The ceiling towered above her, so high that she could barely make out the details of the carvings. Everything here seemed so impossibly large and imposing.

She kept her hand clasped behind her back, her right hand playing with the ring that now adorned her left. It still didn’t seem real, even though she’d been wearing the thing for a week, she kept twisting it and turning it as if checking to see it was still there.

Loud, crisp, footfalls echoed on the tiled floor behind her. She turned to look at the woman who was walking towards her. Buffy felt her jaw drop and tried not to stare. This was not somebody she would never classify as an ‘old’ friend.

She looked in her early thirties, her brunette hair was lifted off her neck in a perfect French knot. Her deep hazel eyes glittered with warm recognition and her wardrobe was perfect, every inch in place, right down to the scarf knotted around her neck. Her cheek bones sat elegantly on a perfectly sculptured face, flawless skin dipped into the neckline. Shapely legs tapered off into high heels. She was tall, she was elegant.

She had her grubby little mitts all over her Giles!

"Rupert! How are you?"

Sarah took a step back and took in Giles’ less than healthy look. Was that a flash of predatory worry in her eyes? Or was Buffy imagining it?

"Sarah Stanton, I’d like you to meet my fiancé, Buffy Summers."

Giles’ voice stuttered sweetly on the word fiancé, Buffy thrilled to it. It wasn’t the first time they’d said it out loud, to other people, but they still got jolts of pleasure. Sarah raised her eyebrows slightly, then she stepped back and smiled warmly at Buffy. With her eyes, she sent a silent apology to her. Buffy could not help but smile back, she liked this woman.

"Rupert, shame on you. You don’t even call us for two years and then you show up on our doorstep with a wife to be?" Sarah leaned in closer to Buffy. "I have to congratulate you, my dear, so many of us have tried and failed. It’s nice to meet you."

"Yes, Rupert," Buffy’s voice teased him as she tested out the word, letting it roll around her tongue, she placed a hand on his arm. "Shame on you. This is a great place. You actually worked here? Why didn’t you tell me?"

"Worked here? Girl, Rupert Giles reigned here. He was not just a curator of The British Museum. He was THE curator."

Giles blushed. He had forgotten the easy way with which Sarah could make anyone like her and feel as if they’d known her for eons. Rather than feel her tense, Giles could feel Buffy relaxing, taking a warmth to Sarah. He was glad.

"Yeah, Giles has always been The Man."

He blushed even more as he felt Buffy’s hand shake on his arm. She was trying not to laugh.

"Don’t call me that."

Both women did laugh then. The tinkling sound of their humor dancing in each of his ears. It sounded good to hear Buffy laugh, but it unnerved him at the same time. There was no reason for him to be slightly uneasy with the feeling that they were ganging up on him, but he was.

"Shall we go upstairs? Benny is almost bouncing, he’s so excited to see you. Rhiannon too."

"What about…?"

"Scot hasn’t stopped talking about it."

As the little group walked towards the elevators, Buffy couldn’t help but think that their conversation sounded as if they were talking about children, or pets. This was strange, seeing Giles in another setting, watching him visibly shed his awkwardness and take the floor. This was his playground now.

"I don’t believe you came yourself, even for that silly jewel."

"Silly? Sarah, you’ve been after this silly jewel for nearly a decade. Besides, nothing but door to door delivery with this thing. I wouldn’t trust it to anyone else."

* * * *

Her muscles shivered with anticipation as she faced him. This was it. This was the pinnacle of what they’d been dancing around all night. A thin sheen of sweat made her skin slick, her breath came in raw, jagged pants. The goose bumps that dotted her flesh were proved false by the warmth that oozed and rippled in her belly. She leapt forward and he was felled instantly, lying helpless as she straddled him. Now. It had to be now or she would burst. She had to feel that moment, really feel it, relish it, savor it. Everything she did culminated in that moment, the moment where she would feel it go in.

Faith pushed the stake in slowly but purposefully. The vamp didn’t know whether to moan or curse before he exploded into a pile of dust. It was a small stumble to the ground as the solid form beneath her vanished, she rolled onto her back and stared up at the night sky.

That hadn’t sucked.

One thing she had to say about this town was that you were never short of undead company. Sunnydale kept the juices pumping, and Faith liked her juices pumped. There was an energy here that almost hummed, it couldn’t be called a good or bad energy, at least it didn’t feel that way, but the evil certainly fed off of it. She could sense it all around her.

Maybe she could make sense of it if she could talk to the one, the only, the almighty Buffy. But no. Of course not. She, Faith, had traveled here to see the legendary team, only to find that Buffy had run away, the watcher following and now they’d skipped off to England and were going to get married. Of all the hoakiest things she had seen or heard about.

Faith held her breath and listened hard. A faint rustle sounded in the bushes nearby. She grinned and pulled another stake from her jeans. Silently she brought herself to her feet and began to stalk towards the noise. The hunger in her body not quite answered yet, but soon. No, certainly, this town did not suck.

* * * *

Giles knew. Before he even closed the door after them, he knew. Not that there had been any sign, the day had gone rather swimmingly, he’d thought, but he could feel it in the air. As soon as he looked up he saw it, the slump of her shoulders, the sad look that crept into her eyes. The stillness with which she sat there and didn’t look up. He still hadn’t found the magic wand to wave away her grief.

"She’s nice."

"Who? Sarah? I suppose…"

Buffy looked at him with sad eyes, brimming with tears.

"She is. They all are. Everything there was beautiful." Her hands began to fidget. "You looked like you belonged there, Giles. I saw you looking at the displays as if you’d come home to your long lost children. You did belong there once, with them, didn’t you?"

He nodded his head.

"And I took you away from it all, didn’t I?"

He reached out, but she shied away from his touch.

"Do you ever… didn’t you ever want to go back?"

"Yes." Giles held her with his eyes. "Everyday, without fail, it hits me. I remember how it used to be, the people I worked with, all of it, and I can’t help but ache to return to it." Buffy closed her eyes and scrunched herself down. "But then you’ll do something, say something, and it will make it all worth it. I wouldn’t go back for anything in the world, if it meant I’d lose you. You’re my life now, Buffy, why won’t you see that?"

Buffy cried. Why did he always have to be so sweet? Why did he always know the things to say? This time, when he reached out to her, she didn’t pull away, she leant into him and breathed in the scent of his clothes. They were still new, but they’d begun to take on some of him, a little intangible piece.

"Because you’re my watcher?"

His arms tensed around her. It was a low blow. She knew deep down that it was more than that, that he felt so much more than duty, but something in her needed him to say it, needed him to spell it out for her. That small, selfish part of her that she’d tried to ignore. It was growing bigger and she felt perilously close to falling in. Why couldn’t she accept what he was telling her, what he’d been telling her ever since he’d found her?

"Is that what you think? Buffy, it has nothing to do with that. I couldn’t care less about you being the slayer." He took her right arm and held it up. "See this? It’s skin, and under that is a lot of nerves, and veins and arteries, muscles, bone. There are many layers and each one of them make this arm."

He reached under her chin and drew her face up to look at him. Her eyes moved from left to right, trying to read his.

"You’re a slayer, Buffy, you can’t hide from that, but you’re also so much more. Don’t ever make the mistake of believing that you’re not. Being a slayer makes you who you are, but so does being the best daughter Joyce could have, being the best friend that Willow, Oz or Xander could ever know, and being…"

He choked over his next words. She nudged him gently.

"What? Giles, exactly what am I to you?"

"Nothing I could ever define out loud."

Giles kissed her hard, with a hunger he didn’t know he had. It was the only way to show her, she wasn’t listening to his words. He could feel her resist him at first, then melt slowly until she was kissing him back. Her hands came up and around his neck, one hand ran through the hair at the nape of his neck, she pressed into him.

Then Buffy drew her arms back, close to her chest, between them. She leaned backwards so that her body was no longer touching his, only her mouth had contact with him. Then she used her arms to push herself away from him, it was as if their mouths were the hardest thing to break apart.

"You can’t lie to me, Giles!"

He stared at her in shock, unable to say anything.

"Do you think I’m that blind? My god. We’ve been sleeping in the same bed all week! I have eyes. I can see. I can feel what he did to you!"

Giles blinked, trying to catch up with her rapid switch.

"How can you really love me after what I put you through?"

She stepped towards him again and rested her hand on the side of his left hip, just where a particularly deep scar started and wound its way across his back. Suddenly he realized what she must have seen while he’d been asleep. He’d been so happy to have her with him, that he hadn’t even thought to hide the worst of it. She’d tended to his hand over and over, that he hadn’t considered what knowing the truth would do to her. He cursed himself as her bottom lip trembled.

"That has nothing to do with it!"

"Doesn’t it? Giles, are you sure? What is this?" She indicated the ring on her finger. "A guilt thing? A pity thing? What?"

"Buffy…"

She lifted his shirt from his trousers and pulled it from him. Her hands touched lightly what she’d only seen before. Her fingers trembling as they ran over unnatural ridges and hollows. In places the skin had puckered in a deep reddish brown, in others it was scaly and scarred. Her tears ran down her cheeks.

"It was bad, wasn’t it? The things he did to you?"

Giles closed his eyes. It hurt. Not just her hands on his healing skin, and they hurt enough, but the memories and the thought of telling her everything. He shook his head, not denying what she was saying, only refusing to answer.

"Giles? Answer me."

"You don’t get to ask that, Buffy." His voice shook.

"Why? Why is it that you get to find out the tiniest detail of my life, every single detail, down to the dates of my menstrual cycle, and I can’t ask questions? Giles, what did he do?"

Giles began to shake with the effort of keeping back the tears. He wished that she’d be quiet, just this once, to let the subject drop. This was something that he couldn’t talk to her about, maybe the only thing in the world.

Buffy leaned in and lightly kissed one of the scars, she felt him tremble underneath her. This was one subject where she would not let him retreat. Given half the chance, Giles would push it down and let it fester, never talk about it. What he needed was to get it out. Even if it hurt her, which she knew it would. She kissed another, her lips barely touching him, like feathers.

"Don’t do this, please Buffy."

She ignored him, continuing with her ministrations, letting herself get to know the scars physically if not mentally. If he would not tell her, she would find out for herself. His stomach drew in and out as he tried to hold in the sobs. Buffy could have told him that it would feel better just to let them fall, but he wouldn’t listen, nobody ever does, they have to find out for themselves.

"I know you think it’ll hurt me, but what you don’t realize is that it hurts me more not knowing. I can look at you and see what’s there. My mind is throwing up all sorts of possibilities and I can only imagine the worst. My worst is scary Giles, you know that."

He didn’t even know that his knees were buckling under him until she caught him underneath his arms and led him to sit on the bed. A single tear burned his left eye and he raised a hand to stroke her hair, feel the heat of her cheeks. Giles wanted to end the conversation then, but he knew that she was right. She had to know or drive herself into a frenzy trying to imagine it. He drew in a deep breath.

She let herself be drawn in to him, so that they nestled into each other, he with his back to the bed head, she with her back to him. His arms came around her waist and held hers in front of her. His legs wrapped around hers and she felt covered with him. It was a good feeling.

Giles took one of her hands, spread the fingers out and began to caress them. She watched silently as their hands hovered in front of her, her small fingers encased and loved by his larger, callused and scarred ones. Some of the scars were old and faded, but most of them were new, fresh and angry.

"See this one?" Giles indicated the crooked middle and fore fingers of his left hand. "He broke them, slowly and precisely, then every now and again would adjust them in their sockets. And this?"

Buffy whimpered as he indicated the thumb, she leaned her head sideways and kissed the salty skin of his neck, then turned her attention back to his display.

"He pulled it right out of the socket. So hard it tore the flesh off the bone. I could feel the blood dripping down my fingers and onto the floor. Drop by drop. Knowing that at any moment the smell of it would send him over the edge, any of them. Blood also filled the insides of my hand, like water balloons."

He indicated his other hand. Buffy wanted to close her eyes, she wanted to tell him it was okay, that she didn’t need to hear the rest, but she knew that she did. It was too late to stop now. She’d asked for the truth and they both needed it.

"He crushed nearly every bone in this hand. It’s going to take time to heal, you’ve seen it yourself. They operated for eight hours, just on this one."

Giles drew her hands up to his lips. It was a gesture he was becoming to love. The taste and feel of her fingers. It was hard to distinguish who was shaking, it might even have been both of them. He couldn’t stop now, even if he wanted to.

He brought her hand down and backwards, to his right waist. There the flesh was tender and swollen slightly, her fingers seemed to go against the grain, but he arranged them until they fit the scar. Buffy gasped as she realized what this meant. The scar was the perfect shape and size for someone to have stuck their fingers into the open wound and press.

"Strangely, that one didn’t hurt so much, he destroyed the nerves and it became numb pretty quick."

Buffy didn’t know whether to be relieved about that. She also noticed that he couldn’t bring himself to say Angel’s name, even thinking it made her want to shiver.

"The burns on my back? Red hot blades against my skin, sometimes point first, sometimes with the side of the blade. I don’t know what was worse, the pain, or the smell of my burning flesh."

"Oh god, stop. Giles, please."

She twisted herself in his arms so that she faced him, leaned against him. His eyes were green pools of pain, but also something else, she stared into them, digging, trying to see what he needed her to see. Buffy smoothed the skin on his face, caressing it with the sleight touch of one who knows the terrain. The deep redness, the flushed heat underneath his skin began to cool.

There it was, deep down, she’d found it. A bitter self doubt, pressing her, testing her. Seeing how much she could take before she ran out on him again. Daring her to defend Angel as she’d always done, trying to see if she would betray him once again.

It made her want to cry. What could she say to defend herself, reassure him that she was going to stay this time? Nothing, not a damned thing, because it was true, she always ran, she always betrayed Giles in one way or another.

"I’m not going anywhere, Giles, I’m here with you. I killed him for you."

He raised a battle weary hand to her face and swept his knuckles against her cheek.

"You had to, to stop Acathla."

"No." Buffy drew herself up to her knees. She looked at him intensely. "I honestly don’t think so. If it was you… I… I’d leave the world to hell if it meant staying with you. It was hard, I’m not going to lie, it hurt me to do it, but I did. And I did it for you."

"Buffy?" There was something in her voice, a slight hesitation, a deep resonance, that told him she wanted to say more but didn’t know how. "What is it?"

"Tell me, honestly…" Buffy scooted backwards, she was no longer touching him and it ached. "If the curse had worked, and Angel had come back, he’d be different. It wouldn’t have been him that did all the bad, right?"

Her voice pleaded with him, if she had been looking at him her eyes would plead too. Giles felt a wall slide down in his brain. She couldn’t possibly still feel for the vampire, after all that he’d just told her. Yet, he knew it was entirely possible, it was one of the reasons he loved her so dearly, her capacity to love.

"No." Her body tensed at his harsh denial. "I’m not going to pretend this conversation makes me happy. The Romanians weren’t being blasé when they called it a curse, Buffy. He had his soul, but the demon was always there, fighting to get out. If the curse had worked, the demon would still be there, he might have been able to push it down, but it would have been there. And that’s what I would have seen when I looked at him."

Buffy rolled forward onto her toes, crouched on the mattress, her hands on either side of her steadying her. It seemed to him that it was the sort of pose that a wood nymph or fairy might make, except that she was in pain, the tears flowing easily. She looked as if she was trying to decide whether to leap into his arms or away from him, either way she was coiled like a spring.

"He came back."

The words were soft and he didn’t know whether he’d heard right. The meaning of it didn’t reach him. Giles reached out a hand and placed it lightly under her chin, she flinched slightly but let him guide her face upward so that she was looking at him.

"What?"

"Angel, he got his soul back." Her lips trembled as she sucked in air. "Then I killed him."

She watched him, waiting for a reaction, desperately needing him to understand. It was like watching glass splinter into a million little pieces as the meaning of her words sunk in. His eyes drooped a little in the corners, the skin crinkling with the movement. Giles let out a breath of air and it sounded like a low moan of comprehension.

"I’m so sorry."

Buffy turned her head to nestle into his hand.

"That’s what he said. He also said he loved me."

"Buffy…"

"But that’s not love, Giles. What he did, that wasn’t love. Even before he turned, he still had it in him, that creature, he fought it, but he knew what it was capable of. Not warning me, not giving me the chance to decide for myself, that’s not love. This, with you, this is love. And I’m so scared."

* * * *

The blue whorls grew and eddied behind him, he didn’t know they were there. Buffy couldn’t move, her eyes kept flickeri