Title: Sick 'Em, Ripper! 4/? (Yes, it's another series, so shoot me).
Author:Jacqui
Rating: At the moment, G.
Disclaimer: They’re mine! They’re all mine! Oh wait, no, this is the real world, isn’t it? I don’t own squat. ‘Cept, maybe Alice’s whistle.
Spoilers: First three seasons, then I take control. Things were different in my Buffy college universe.
Feedback: You would not believe how much I want it…
Comments: The Council is evil. Do we all agree? Good, then you’re ready to read on...

Alice McIntyre whistled while she worked. It was a habit borne out of years of loneliness. She had friends in town and she called her daughters regularly, but there were countless hours that she spent here by herself. Some people said pointless hours, that the house could be closed up, cleaned every now and again, and that would be called proper upkeep.

Not while Alice lived, she could tell you that.

Closing in on sixty five, Alice had worked in this very house for over forty years. She would not leave it, even if she wasn’t getting paid anymore. She lived very well off her pension and most of her expenses were paid for, anyway. She was part of this family.

That day, however, Alice’s whistling held a touch of nervousness, an edginess that could also be seen in the distracted way she kept looking at the front door. Waiting, wishing, dreading the knock that would soon come.

She had expected Fletcher home days ago. Her brain told her what this would mean, that his absence fairly screamed that their mission had failed, but her heart kept her hoping. There was a chance, quite possibly, that he was perfectly fine. Her bones told her that she was waiting, not for him to return, but for a messenger. One of his peers to tell her details she didn’t want to hear.

While she waited, she swept floors that didn’t need sweeping. Washed linen that didn’t need washing and weeded a garden that had become her pride and joy. It was stubborn, but Alice was more so and they had come to a grudging compromise. Relentlessly, she worked in it, kneeling on her sometimes swollen knees, Alice’s plump fingers would search out the intruding weeds and yank them out. She’d mulch the soil and water the plants, so that, occasionally, beautiful flowers would grow and delicious scents would encompass her.

The kettle started to sing, the steam escaping in a rush. It was an old fashioned stove kettle, no new fangled electric things for Alice McIntyre, she wouldn’t hear of it. A nice cup of tea would really hit the spot right now, she thought indulgently, remembering the new packet of biscuits she could open.

The knock on the door sounded.

Her heart skipped a beat.

She opened the door, expecting a somber faced man in a suit, probably wearing glasses with the obligatory handkerchief peeking from the top pocket. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw who was really standing there.

"Bless my stars." She wheezed. "Look what the cat drug in."

"Hi." Buffy gave a little wave with her hand as she smiled, nervously. "You don’t know me, but…"

"Don’t know you?" Alice almost laughed. "Oh, where are my manners? Come on in, Buffy, and bring your friends."

"You know my name? How…?"

"Don’t all stand there with your mouths hanging open like that, come inside and sit down. Fletcher told me all about you all. I imagine you’re tired from your flight. I can’t fault your timing, I’ve just put the kettle on."

Five confused and exhausted people, plus one worse for wear Labrador, followed the plump old woman into the little cottage, immediately warming to her. A little spark of hope began to flicker in Alice, people, children, family. Fletcher’s family, here with her.

* * * *

Quentin knocked on the door softly, his ears pricked for the slightest sound. There was none. He twisted the knob and pushed his head through the doorway cautiously. His throat tightened, his chest restricting, a week’s worth of work about to be tested.

Across the room, his head bowed over a table, cradled in his arms, his body looking worn and ill used, sat Rupert. He raised his head, opened one blood shot eye and glared. Quentin watched the pupil contract, creating a laser beam aimed directly at him.

"You." Spat Rupert. "You did this to me."

"Rupert, I…" Quentin’s heart was doing the foxtrot against his ribs.

"Why’d you let me drink so bloody much?"

"It’s not my fault you can’t hold your liquor."

He eased the rest of his body into the room, mightily impressed with the way he disguised the release of nervous laughter. The smile spread on his face and he grew more relaxed.

"Pillock." Rupert retorted, the camaraderie established. He nodded his head slowly, a resigned smile of embarrassment on his lips. "Just tell me I didn’t make too much of a fool of myself last night."

"Not at all." Putting his hands in his pocket, Quentin began to unconsciously rock back and forth between the balls and heels of his feet. "And anyway, no one would hold it against you if you did. Every body gets drunk now and again."

Rupert suddenly grew serious.

"Not the real watchers, I’d wager."

Quentin summoned up a concerned look of sympathy. He sat down next to Rupert and placed his hands on the table, speaking with a steady, understanding voice. The words tasted rich and luxuriant to him.

"It bothers you, doesn’t it? Never having a slayer assigned to you?"

"Well, yes." A flush appeared on his neck. "It’s not like I haven’t worked for it. Is it? I’d be a good watcher, I’m sure of it!"

"Yes, yes, Rupert, I’m sure you would." Quentin maintained his mien of sympathy, but inside he was gloating, rejoicing in a private battle won. "But you know the elders just haven’t agreed on you yet. I’ve put in a good word, maybe the next slayer…"

"Oh, stop it." Rupert let his head fall back to the table. "At my age it’s highly unlikely I’ll ever be assigned a slayer. My whole life is a waste, Quentin, my whole life’s purpose and what? I’m an overgrown library assistant for the council."

"But a good one…"

Quentin stopped when Rupert glared at him.

"I just thought my life would have meant more by now. Maybe I should have stayed with the museum."

* * * *

Buffy placed the bowl on the floor, gently, careful not to spill any. Ripper nuzzled her arm, a slow growl growing in his throat. His large eyes blinked slowly and his head drooped slightly. Buffy smiled indulgently as she ran her fingers through the fur on his head.

"Poor Ripper, drink up. You’ll feel better."

"I’m amazed that dog survived the flight." Alice’s bright voice floated past Buffy to the table already set with cups and jugs of milk and sugar. In her hands she carried a tray of biscuits and the pot of tea. "He’s awfully well behaved."

"He’s drugged." Xander shrugged, reaching forward and claiming a biscuit.

Alice’s eyes widened.

"We just gave him a sedative," Willow rushed in. "that’s all. Something to keep him calm."

"Of course." Alice smiled. "Like you did with that boyfriend of yours."

Then it was the scooby’s turn to widen their eyes.

"My what? With a what?"

"Relax," Alice began to pour the tea. "I keep telling you, Fletcher always kept in touch. He told me all about you."

"Why do you call Giles Fletcher?"

Everyone nodded at Anya’s question.

"Oh my." Alice ducked her head. "I keep forgetting that no one knows that story. I’ve called him that since he was five years old. You see, he’d just learned how to read and, always the little show off, he had to outdo his older brother. So he began to read poetry to us, real poetry you understand, not the children’s stuff. One night he came to me, so excited, he’d found in one of the books a poem by Giles Fletcher, 'that’s me!’ he kept saying, over and over again, ‘that’s me!’."

"That’s so sweet!" Willow smiled.

"Adorable." Fiona agreed.

"He has an older brother?"

Buffy looked at Alice, her eyes wide. In one instant, Alice saw all that she needed to see, in the way that Buffy’s bottom lip trembled, in the slight, unsure tremor and mildly injured tone of her voice.

"Had, sweetie." She reached out and Buffy stood up from her place on the floor next to Ripper, going straight to the older woman. "The word is had. He doesn’t like to talk about it anymore."

The doorbell rang a second time.

* * * *

There was something calming, steadying about the smell of dust and leather as Rupert walked through the large, heavy wooden doors of the library. A scent so familiar to him, that it overrode the strange, disconnected feeling he’d had all day.

Everything about him was normal, there was nothing different, but it all felt somehow new. His apartment in the council headquarters, that he’d moved into last year when he’d finally given in to the council’s pressure to work solely for them, was exactly as it should be. The library, where he’d worked ever since, creating a workable cross reference catalogue of the old books and mythologies, was no different from the last year.

He didn’t want to dwell too much on last year, or the months preceding it. Those last, horrifying months when Alice had been so sick and so weak. The cancer had eaten her alive and Rupert had taken care of her until the end. Even when she had forgotten his name.

She had been the last link he’d had to his mother’s family. There had been nothing keeping him from surrendering totally to the council after her funeral. The old cottage shut up and locked. Entering a state of disrepair that it had never seen before.

Rupert shook his head, trying to dislodge the unpleasant memories. Now, when he was feeling so out of sorts, was not the time to fall into a worse depression. Try to keep focused, Rupert, he told himself, try to keep your mind on the job.

There, sitting at his usual desk, cluttered with the usual papers and the obligatory stale cup of tea, sat Thomas. Small and wiry, he wore thick round glasses that magnified his rapid, nervous eyes. He moved with an unnerving jerked rapidity, like a rodent, it had taken Rupert a long time to get used to him.

All of it, unchanged and routine, predictable as the two century old grandfather clock in the main hallway, had taken on the surreal aspects of a dream. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Most probably, he presumed, it had to do with the hangover from the night before.

He took the key from his pocket, unlocking the office door at the back. This gesture, as routine as everything else, held a clarity to him that soothed, like the scent of the books. His eyes searched the room, taking inventory of the tomes that were piled in neat, organized little heaps, a sheet of tissue paper separating each one to protect them.

On top of his desk sat an old fashioned, black telephone. The receiver felt molded to his hand when he picked it up, the chair easily accommodating his back, he pressed the connection he wanted and ordered his usual pot of fresh tea, hot, with no sugar.

He did not know that in the other room, Thomas was making a call of his own, having watched the progress of Rupert through the library. In a lowered, conspiratorial voice, Thomas told Quentin exactly what had gone on.

* * * *

Alice walked down the steps, her feet knowing the way automatically, her muscles happily exhausted, her brain buzzing with new energy, too distracted to register the fatigue. Her new house guests were firmly entrenched in beds, none of them having put up too much of a fight. It hadn’t taken Warren and her long to convince the tired crew that they could not storm the council and save Fletcher in the shape they were in, with no planning.

She would have enjoyed having people in the house again, preening after them, clucking like a mother hen, but there was Fletcher to worry about. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she wasted no time in facing Warren.

"What’s the real plan, my boy? And don’t beat around the bush, the bush doesn’t like it."

A smile graced the lips of Warren Leeds, creating deep creases in the sides of his face. He wore his lines like a badge, not a burden. His eyes glittered slightly as they regarded her.

"Ah, Alice, you never change, do you?"

She wanted to smile back, she really did, but there was a sudden need within her, an ache that made her lips tremble and her hands to shudder. Now that the younger ones were no longer there, the day hit her with a mean ferocity. Her eyes pleaded with him.

"Tell me the truth, Warren, can we get him back?"

"It’s not impossible." He offered, knowing before it even happened, that her shoulders would drop just a little bit further, that the skin at the corners of her eyes would stretch downwards, that she wouldn’t show anything more than that. "But it’s not going to be easy."

"Just tell me."

"We have to wait, to watch. It’s suicide going in unprepared. It’s not enough to know where they’re keeping him, we have to know how he is and what they’ve done already."

"They wouldn’t hurt him…?"

"You know as well as I do that the council cannot damage a watcher of Rupert’s ilk. He comes from the Giles line. However, there’s many ways to hurt a man without physically damaging him."

Alice shuddered visibly. Memories of another little boy surfaced and she pushed them down.

"We need to get him out of there."

Warren sighed, he closed his eyes patiently, knowing the old story, the old pain.

"Even if we fight our way through tomorrow, get to Rupert, there’s no guarantee that he’d come with us. If they’ve ‘reorganized’ his brain, then he’s more likely to resist and we’d have to fight him as well as the rest of the council. It’s too risky, we have to know what we’re dealing with. I have a plan, Alice, will you trust me?"

She nodded.

For the next few hours, Alice and Warren talked over the plan, changing little details, perfecting it. It was nearly three am before Alice climbed into her own bed, satisfied that there was nothing else that could be done.

* * * *

Rupert Giles took his breakfast in the dining hall that morning. For some reason, he couldn’t fathom why, he’d suddenly become claustrophobic in his room. Most mornings he’d taken his breakfast in his room, one of the many perks of living with the council was the impeccable service. Routine, dependable, his breakfast had been bought to him every morning with the newspapers.

He eyed the plate bought to him, toast and eggs. A perfectly good breakfast, he told himself, but his stomach was craving something else that he was struggling put his finger on. Something a little less heavy, he didn’t feel like eating a cooked meal. Yet, he reasoned, it was exactly the sort of thing he’d done while he was here. Cereal, with cold milk, his mind threw at him. Quick, convenient, heavily processed, Rupert found himself mildly surprised at the discovery. It wasn’t anything he normally had. He pushed his plate away.

As he opened one of the papers left on the table, Rupert wondered if he wasn’t falling ill. Maybe he should talk to Quentin, see if it was worth arranging an appointment with the council doctor. Though he really didn’t relish the thought of seeing that man again. He knew too much, had seen the ugly month that had followed Alice’s death and, years before, the aftermath of Ian.

Rupert frowned into the paper. He hadn’t thought of Ian in years and he hadn’t thought about Alice in months, yet now he was constantly besieged by memories that came to him. Something was pushing these thoughts to the front of his brain, against his will, and he wanted to know what. And whilst the memories of his brother were painful, the one of Alice were doubly so.

They hurt him beyond his understanding, they were different than the ones of Ian. It was almost as if he were seeing them for the first time, experiencing them without having built up the emotional defenses to deal with them properly. He couldn’t explain it.

Suddenly, he felt eyes upon him, as if he were being watched. Searching the room, he saw nobody unusual, a few people eating, chatting, reading and the usual staff. He knew them all, except one of the uniformed girls in the corner. She was busy setting dishes on a tray, not even looking in his direction, but for some reason, she caught his eye. There was something about her, as if she didn’t belong here, as if she were a dangerous element.

He resolved himself to ask Quentin about her during lunch.

* * * *

There were only so many times he could follow her steps, shuffling around the apartment as she paced. Eventually, Ripper gave up and heaved his body onto the floor next to Xander. He kept his eyes on Buffy though, confused.

Buffy barely noticed. Her skin itched all over and she had to move. Preferably, she should have moved with Warren. They’d been woken up early, loaded into a car and driven all the way back into the city. Then Warren had taken Anya to work undercover inside the Council grounds.

To see Giles. To see Giles when she, Buffy, couldn’t.

Of course, she understood the reasoning behind it. The Council knew her by sight, Fiona too and Alice. Even Xander and Willow would be known, if not by everyone, at least by Quentin Travers. There was nothing she could do and she hated it.

She needed a purpose, something to do. Something to take her mind off the situation. On the floor, Xander sat cross legged, idly patting Ripper as he rifled through all the tourist maps and pamphlets. He leaned his back on the sofa.

Taking great pains not to move, Willow lay on the sofa with her face nestled into a pillow. Jet lag had hit her hard and every now and again she reached one hand out to fumble for the glass of water that she sipped, whist she gave Buffy a distracted moan of annoyance.

Buffy looked around the room, trying to remember where Fiona and Alice had gone. Voices had floated through the apartment all morning, upstairs in the bedrooms, in the kitchen, wherever. Satisfied to claim the small living room, Xander, Willow and she had let Fiona wander through the city apartment.

It occurred to her that Fiona had adopted Alice as a motherly figure. Her mind puzzled this over, she didn’t really know anything about Fiona’s life, her background. It bothered her just a little bit. Rising in the pit of her stomach, she felt the old guilt, all the old recriminations float to the surface. We’re doomed to repeat our mistakes, she thought, damned if I’ll let it happen again.

She knew, deep down, that her initial resentments and jealousy of Fiona were surface emotions only. A vehicle to work through her own. For the whole trip, Fiona had stayed quiet, easily letting the others overshadow her with their constant talk and catching up. Even so, Buffy was beginning to like her.

The few conversations they’d had had been comfortable, easy. At least, the conversations that didn’t revolve around Giles and the Council. It bothered Buffy to think of Fiona going through the crucimentum…

Damn.

Stopping still in the middle of the floor, Buffy didn’t notice the others look up quizzically at her. She was too busy doing calculations in her head, remembering her first conversation with Fiona. Double damn.

"Guys?"

"Yo?" Xander seemed untouched by the lethargy that Willow embraced.

"Mmm?" Was the only reply Willow could muster.

"We have to do something."

"Yeah, ah Buffy?" Xander looked at her strangely. "We’ve been through this, it’s going to take time…"

"No. I mean for Fiona. It’s her eighteenth birthday."

* * * *

"Damn insufferable knick knacks."

Anya waved the duster over the shelves in the reading room, she muttered under her breath.

"Damn dishes at breakfast. Undercover work is supposed to be exciting. My hands are all red and cracked. This is about as exciting as washing Xander’s boxer shorts."

A figure toppled off the shelf and crashed to the floor. Anya looked to see if anyone had noticed, they hadn’t. With a quick, smooth movement, she ducked down, picked up the pieces and deposited them inside a large bowl with three gold fish swimming inside.

"Damned expensive breakable things."

Warren had told her not to expect too much on the first day, that Giles would probably be quarantined somehow, separated from the main staff and kept secluded, at least for a while. But there he had been, eating breakfast.

At first, when he had started watching her, Anya had thought he’d recognized her. It took several minutes before she was sure he hadn’t. He sat there, perfectly normal, eating toast. Nothing to indicate he was a prisoner.

She had her knowledge. The first thing Anya wanted to do was leave and tell the others. She was here for the whole day, though. That was the deal. Warren had implemented a plan, months ago, for one of the regular girls to suddenly fall ill.

His niece’s name was on the Council’s approved staff list. His American niece. That was when he thought he’d need to infiltrate the Council for other reasons. It was different now. It was just luck that they were there at the right time, Warren felt it best that someone who knew Giles should go in.

So here she was. Cleaning after the evil Council. They made her nervous. Was there any way to discover that she was an ex-demon? They’d surely kill her on the spot. That was not something she wanted very much at all.

So lost in her thoughts was she, that Anya failed to notice the man in the corner who had been watching her every movement. The dark brown leather of the chair swallowed him as he placed his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

* * * *

"Rupert?" Thomas peeked around the office door. "I’m just going to run a few errands. You’re alright here?"

He bristled at the name without knowing why, bristled at the sound of Thomas’ crisp English accent. Rupert let a furrow etch deep into his forehead, but he tried not to allow any other signs of frustration seep through. Why the hell was he so out of sorts today?

"I’m fine, Thomas, thank you."

Five minutes, ten, the time passed slowly and Rupert found himself doing nothing productive. His fingers tapped along the cover of a book, but he had yet to open it, catalogue it, let his eyes devour the fine print and porous pages. His normal love of books was overshadowed by that strange vague feeling he’d had all day.

Standing, he eyed the high windows of his office, looking out over the city. Dusk was just beginning to bleed the color from everything, turning the scenery a light blue. Buildings were beginning to turn lights on, creating bright squares in otherwise bleak blocks.

Out there.

The words filtered into his brain quite suddenly, bringing with them the memory of the smell of ozone settling, the country air, trees curling their leaves. He longed to go outside, to feel the coolness of damp grass on the bare flesh of his feet.

A small chuckle escaped his throat at the thought of all these stuffy council members reacting to him pulling off his shoes and socks and walking over the grass in the council gardens. While he was at it, he might as well pick flowers and sing.

Rupert felt that strange confusion wash over him again. Why did he keep referring to the council and it’s members as "them"? When had he distanced himself from them so completely? There was something altogether not right going on and he was going to find out what.

There was a small lamp sitting on Thomas’ desk, illuminating a small circle and casting shadows further on. This was a pattern echoed all around the large room, as lamps lit reading desks. The whole illusion was eerie. The place was abandoned. The shelves, a deep mahogany, were impossibly tall and ran in endless rows, step ladders dotted the aisles.

It was a library, it was the same library he’d studied in for decades and worked in for the better part of a year. He knew every inch of it, knew the feel of the card catalogue, knew the old, dusty smell of the locked rooms, had memorized the smell of mould and decay that rose from the tomes so old they’d fall apart if touched with human hands.

It was just a library, but it just didn’t fit inside his head. Without knowing why, Rupert walked to the front shelf. Orderly, neat, honored, every volume read, reread and devoured by every member of the council.. The Watcher’s Diaries. Accounts of every active slayer, as far back as records allowed.

The old slayers, their duties performed, their actions noted down. Battles fought, battles won and inevitably, the battles lost. Some of the volumes were shorter than the others. His eyes floated over the older books, he was well versed in them, could account for the life and death of centuries of girls fighting bravely.

Almost obsessively, his eyes kept returning to the newer volumes. The slayers of his lifetime. A terrible sadness overcame him suddenly. How the noble had fallen, how the cause had been lost and forgotten. Duty was only a word nowadays.

He could recite the names, the dates, Agatha, Mai-Ling, Elli, Christine, Angelique, Ebru, Buffy, Kendra, Faith, Fiona. He could remember each one of his peers, heading off with purpose, with vigor, their hearts as big as their dreams, only to die or to return broken and bruised and invariably disheartened.

One slayer dies, the old words ran through his head, sounding less like a prophecy and more like a curse, and the next is called. These books, he ran his fingers over them, the only testament to their sacrifice. A dozen girls, a hundred, countless, giving their lives to save the world. They were shorter now, the most recent books, barely enough to be called books.

He pulled one of the shelf and looked through it. Ebru, Turkish, fought well. She lasted nearly two years, she was brought down by the crucimentum. How a girl unable to pass that test was supposed to save the world, he did not know.

The book was replaced as he took out the next one. Buffy. She had barely lasted a few months. A slight pain in his chest made him put that book back, Merrick had been one of his close friends. A trusted confidante, a good advisor. Kendra had not fared much better, Faith had turned rogue and now, so had the latest one, Fiona.

The council was currently searching for her. Wet works would take care of her. The thought made him slightly uncomfortable, ill. It was a vicious game, he knew, but it was also a serious war. The majority of the books in this room were not testaments to girls, but volumes describing the indescribable. Beasts and demons that must be stopped and subverted whatever the cost.

"What are you looking for, Rupert?"

He spun around.

"Quentin! You startled me. I… uh… I’m not sure." Rupert was disturbed by the sudden guilty feeling he had, as if he’d just been caught by his mother with a dirty magazine. There was nothing wrong with reading the diaries. He turned his back to the shelf as if, by doing so, he could negate the fact of his reading them. "Just browsing, really. My mind is elsewhere. I’m rather scattered today. I think I need some fresh air."

"Quite." Quentin pushed down the rise of acid in his stomach. There were bound to be odd feelings, restlessness, curiosity, in the first few days, perhaps weeks of Rupert’s integration. All reports so far had indicated that everything was going according to plan. He made a big show of looking towards the far windows. "It’s getting dark now, though. Perhaps you and I could take a walk in the gardens tomorrow?"

"Of course."

Rupert smiled, though he did not feel it. That strange feeling was beginning to feel a lot like intuition and it was telling him suddenly not to trust this man who had become a close friend to him in the past year. To watch every single move the man made. He did not want to spend time with Quentin.

"Do you have much to do tonight?"

Rupert looked back to the open door of his office. There was nothing that needed to be done urgently. He could leave everything until the morning, but he knew, without a doubt, that Quentin was about to suggest brandy in the parlor. The room would be full of like minded council scholars and members who would invariably bore him to tears.

"I’m afraid I’ve neglected duties all day, Quentin, I really should get something done before I turn in for the night."

Quentin nodded, slightly huffed at the rejection.

"I’ll leave you to it, then."

He was left alone in the dimness of the lamp lit library, comforted by the shadows. Rupert turned once more to the book on the shelf, saddened by their very presence. He didn’t hear the doors open once again, didn’t hear the steps as they drew nearer.

"Sad, isn’t it?"

He swung around, the ball of his foot digging into the deep carpet. There was something about this woman, something in the arch of her eyebrows. It was as if he’d seen this face before, as if he should know who she was.

"You’re right." He agreed, stalling for time. "I fear the true essence of the Slayer has been lost. I’m sorry, what was your name?"

She seemed taken aback. The woman was in her early forties, the deep chestnut of her hair scattered with shining threads of silver, which she had stubbornly refused to hide. Her face was slender and her cheeks were well defined, but it was her eyes, green and clear that drew attention, nestled underneath brows that curved naturally, giving her the appearance of eternally asking a question. Rupert got the feeling that it often made people want to answer, even if they didn’t know what she was asking.

"Annaliese." With the name, Rupert could detect the slight German in her voice that he hadn’t noticed at first. "And, actually, I meant, it’s sad that these girls give so much and receive so little in return."

Her eyes were searching him, he felt it keenly and wondered exactly what she hoped to find.

"These latest ones…" He gestured vaguely. "They’ve subverted the…"

"You can’t trust everything you read, Giles." He was slightly uncomfortable with the intimacy she assumed. "Especially not in here. Those girls, they belong to a higher plane than ours. Somebody very wise told me that, once."

With that, she left.

Rupert’s mind raced with the confusion the whole conversation had left him with. Not the least of with was the easy way with which she had called him Giles, referred to his last name and the even stranger fact that it felt comfortable to him. More so than when everyone around him called him Rupert.

Annaliese had left a vacuum in the building, which he was beginning to feel sorely.

An urge grew in him, one that had planted its seed earlier in his office, looking out of his window. It had steadily grown, a slight paranoia, a claustrophobia that was made worse with the walls surrounding him. Everywhere he looked there were walls.

He wanted, no, he needed to get out of here. To shake off the feeling that the building, that the council itself was trying to smother him. If only he could walk the streets, feel the hard strike of his feet against cement pavements, his ears naturally filtering out the noises of the city.

He wanted the taste of London to infiltrate his senses.

* * * *

Ripper was almost scratching at the door by the time that Warren and Anya returned to the apartment. It was dark outside and Buffy had promised to wait until at least sunset before she went out in public. She herself could feel the desperate need for exercise, compounded by an acute case of cabin fever, she was almost crawling up the walls, but she could wait a few moments more, to hear the news. Any news.

It wasn’t lost on any of them that Warren didn’t meet their eyes when he told them the bad news. Giles had been, effectively, brainwashed. It appeared that he had accepted the council as his home and was not about to ask questions. Buffy felt her bones leech of strength.

This made their job so much harder.

She looked over at Willow and saw pity in her eyes, it was echoed in Xander, a scathing emotion that set Buffy on edge. It was Alice, whose eyes echoed Buffy’s own resolve, and perhaps a shared feeling of pain, that made Buffy set her jaw.

She couldn’t do this, she couldn’t sit here any longer listening to hopeless sentiments and half thought out plans. There were other things that needed to be done. Maybe not so important, but they’d take her mind off things. Calling Ripper to her side, she made a vague gesture and left.

Warren looked over at Alice.

"She’s gonna do something foolish. She’s a loose cannon. We can’t afford…"

"Shut it." Alice glared at him. "She’s not a fool. We understand each other, us girls."

They glared at each other for the longest moment, the tension palpable. Warren was the first to back down, giving a little shrug of acceptance. There might have been the slightest hint of ‘well, it’s your funeral, and possibly others’, but if there was, Alice ignored it.

The group broke up, drifting uncomfortably to different corners of the small apartment. Xander followed Anya upstairs, indulgently listening to her complaints, helping her draw a very hot bath. Willow, who had begun to slightly improve, had been tempted by Alice with a small bowl of soup and was quite content to be drawn into a quiet game of scrabble with Fiona. Warren began to make mysterious phone call after phone call, speaking several different languages.

Alice observed her little brood, smiling smugly to herself, before heading to the kitchen. There were many things to do and they’d stop her going crazy over Fletcher. She knew, in her heart of hearts, that he would be fine. Knew it without a doubt, but the worry still ate at her.

* * * *

"Excuse me, Mister Giles?"

There was a guard at the entrance gates to the council grounds. He looked incredibly young to Rupert, his face fresh and almost shining in the streetlights.

"Mm?"

"It’s rather late to be leaving, isn’t it? Do you have clearance?"

Rupert’s eyebrows shot up.

"Clearance? Do I need clearance? This isn’t a prison."

"Yes sir." The young man seemed flustered, his eyes flicking back and forth. "But my orders, you see…?"

"Orders?" Rupert was quickly losing his temper, something that he could barely remember doing in the last few months here. Everything that day had been out of sorts and almost wrong, he couldn’t put a finger on it, but it was fraying his nerves. "Orders from whom? What orders are these?"

"I… I…" This was obviously out of the guard’s jurisdiction, he hadn’t been expecting an argument. He’d been told not to let Rupert Giles leave the establishment unaccompanied. He hadn’t been told why. "They said…"

"I repeat, this isn’t a prison. Or is it?" Intimidation was not something that Rupert liked to wield, but he was going to go crazy if he couldn’t leave the premises. He knew this instinctively.

"No, sir."

"Then what is the problem?"

"I…" Minimum wage and no respect certainly wasn’t worth this hassle. From what he’d heard, this business was shady, anyway. "There is no problem."

He stepped back, unlocking the gates and allowing Rupert to pass.

* * * *

Buffy was extremely proud of herself. She’d navigated the streets extremely well, had figured out the English currency with little trouble and, she wasn’t sure, but she suspected, she had saved on her purchases. Yay for her. The shopkeepers had been helpful, perhaps because her accent had given her away.

She swung the bags by her side, as a child might do, accentuating each step. The shopping list she’d secretly discussed with Alice filled to the letter, with a little something extra. There was nothing large or extravagant in the bags, but enough to sufficiently cover a makeshift birthday celebration.

Ripper walked by her side or, more correctly, loped. People would watch him warily whenever they neared Buffy on the street, but he only won them over with fierce licking. Buffy slowed her steps when she reached the park. Large expanses of green grass.

"Go run."

Ripper looked up at Buffy for a moment, as if to say ‘oh boy, oh thank you, oh boy!’ and then ran off at a great speed. Circling bushes and careening one way, only to double back and race around her legs. She watched him, loving, as always, the movement of his limbs, the way he never lost his playfulness. If he got too far away, she’d call him back. He always came back.

* * * *

Quentin Travers almost spat at the telephone receiver in his hand.

"What do you mean they’ve left the States?"

He listened with frustration as his US contact detailed the last few days’ worth of searching, the trails that led to the airport. The flight taken was not confirmed, but Travers knew, without a doubt, where they’d be headed.

Damn Slayers. They were going to ruin everything.

He pressed the button, effectively ending the conversation. It took only moments to make a new connection.

"This is Travers. I want security around the perimeter doubled. I want discreet observation of him and his room twenty four hours a day. I want updates every half an hour, even on the most trivial things. I want you to make contact with him directly, I don’t know, make up some excuse."

Quentin paused as the voice on the other end gave him the bad news.

"What do you mean he’s not on the premises?"

* * * *

Rupert breathed in the night air. He could think out here. Outside the cloying walls of the council. Something had happened, he was sure of it, but he couldn’t figure out what. Quentin was part of it and so was that Annaliese woman. If Quentin was part of it, then surely Thomas was, too.

This is ridiculous, old man, he told himself. You’re beginning to sound paranoid. That is the last time you let Quentin talk you into copious amounts of red wine, followed by brandy. Obviously, his body just couldn’t take it anymore.

No small wonder, with all the things he’d put it through in his youth. Scarred and weather beaten, Rupert was constantly amazed at the wounds one could attain working for the council without actually being on the field.

He was just bad at hand to hand combat. Rupert sighed as he remembered the humiliating defeats. There was a reason they’d never given an active Slayer over to him. He’d probably get her killed faster than any of the other girls he’d been lamenting before.

There was a sudden rush of air against his legs, a change in the air current so swift he barely registered it before he was besieged by a large dog. The thing, a Labrador, barked at him genially, demanding attention. A friendly dog, he thought as he bent down to pat it, he acts as if he knows me.

Behind him, a feminine voice called out.

"Ripper, no!"

He froze at the name, straightening his back and standing. It has to be a coincidence, his brain threw out at him, it had to be. But it was such an odd name for a dog. Maybe not so in London, but the woman was obviously American.

"I’m sorry, really, I’m…"

As Rupert turned around, the voice stopped abruptly.

He saw her pale instantly, her face bleached of all color as her mouth slackened in shock. Her hand drifted down, instinctively reaching for the dog, but she didn’t take her eyes off him. For the second time that night, Rupert felt uncomfortable under the intimate scrutiny of a woman.

She was young, in her early twenties. Beautiful, he noticed, bright. She was the sort of woman that captured the attention of a room, full of energy. He noticed her other hand slacken and watched, without thinking to stop it, the bags fall to the ground.

It was as if he were in a reverie, a trance of some sort. This was soon broken when she reached out her hand as if to touch him. A possessive gesture that he did not welcome. He stepped back. As he did so, her face flinched and contorted with pain, she covered her mouth with her hand. Rupert felt almost as bad as if he’d slapped her. He had to do something, say something.

"He’s a wonderful dog."

She blinked, shaking her head, obviously trying to regain her composure.

"Are you alright? Miss…?"

He began to feel real worry now. She barely moved and seemed so shaken that she could not possibly be alright. Rupert looked around, searching for anyone that might be with her, looking for her. This seemed to shake her out of whatever stupor she’d been in.

"No… I’m fine." She looked down at the bags on the ground, at the dog sniffing at the parcels, and her brows knitted in comic confusion, as if she couldn’t imagine how the bags had gotten down there in the first place. "Really, I’m fine."

He immediately knelt down to gather the bags for her, he couldn’t help but feel her intense gaze watching his every movement. Her eyes were proprietary, as if they were memorizing every detail of him, moving over his features as if they already knew what was there. It was as if she were reading him like he had never been read before.

As he handed her the bags, a flash of color caught his attention. A circle of beads on her wrist. There was nothing special about them, nothing to differentiate between them and any other girls’ accessory item, but they made him blink. They sent a flashing pain to the inside of his skull.

It was her turn to look worried.

"Are you ok?" He nodded at her. "No, really, I mean, are you ok? Are you happy?"

"Excuse me?" It was the strangest thing he’d heard all day, during a day of strange and inexplicable things.

"I’m sorry." She looked away then, flustered, blushing. "I have to go, I’m sorry."

Though it was the woman who rushed off, taking her dog with her as Rupert watched after her, puzzled and worried, it was Rupert who felt the intense gaze follow him home, back to the council. He tried to get the odd encounter out of his head, but it persisted.

Most of all, he tried to rid himself of the feeling that he had wronged her in some vital way, that he had harmed her irreparably. And, like Annaliese, that he should have known who she was.

NEXT