TITLE: HUNTRESS 4/4
AUTHOR: Jaydn Michelle
FEEDBACK: Absolutely, I love it - who doesn't?
DISCLAIMERS: Buffy and co. are the property of Joss Whedon, just borrowing them for a little bit.

NOTES:
Direct quotes:
"Want, need, have." Faith, choose an episode.
"Slayers don't walk in this world." First Slayer - 'Reflections'.
"I have no language." First Slayer - 'Reflections'.
"We're not demons." Buffy - 'Reflections'.
"You're nothing but a rank amateur." Giles - *that* episode.
"Where once was a vertebrae is now a tangle, from constant kissing at an
awkward angle." James Cagney - 1973, autobiography.
And various imagery pilfered from 'Reflections'.

He dodged, feet slipping in the mud, twisting like a cat to avoid a kick that would have blind-sided him if he hadn't lost his purchase. Falling to one knee he rolled, fingers catching at his shinai.

It shattered in his hand a bare second later, pulverised by a punch that would have fractured bones - //Is she *trying* to kill me!?// - an outraged thought, and then he feinted. A little slow this time, her fingers catching at the wet wool and tearing a rent near his bicep. He stumbled back, blinking sweat from his eyes and cursed. He couldn't fight a Slayer, he couldn't fight an *enraged* Slayer, and he certainly couldn't fight an enraged Slayer who happened to be *Buffy*.

What to do? Wag his finger and admonish her? //It's just not cricket, Buffy//, and it occurred to Giles that he was beginning to sound as insane as his own damn Slayer.

//Oww! Dammit! Concentrate!//.

Run.

Running was always a viable option, except for the fact that she had found him from across the *Atlantic* - and could out pace him any day. Wesley's snide tones erupted in his head: //A Watcher never runs. We simply advance to the rear//, and he decided he didn't *like* Wesley in his thoughts any more than he had liked him in his life, and really, in the end, what did it matter?

//Bring her back. It's what Willow couldn't do. Eighty per cent Slayer and twenty per cent Buffy was no fun, especially when half of the twenty per cent was fractured by confusion. Let *go* Rupert, and bring her back//.

But on some dark - and more instinctive level - he wasn't sure if he could.

__________________

Buffy caught him with a one two combination; a low sweep that knocked him off his feet, and the heel of her palm to his sternum. He sailed backwards, landing prone before curling, caught between gasping and coughing.

Stillness settled in - feeling the current of the wind, a distant bark of a farm dog - she advanced slowly, one foot in front of the other, heartbeat a tattoo and mantra. Want. Need. Have. She had no language.

But she felt it, an instant before her spider sense went crazy. The last three feet separating them ended in a rush, realising that his cough had transmuted into a mutter. A low snarl, fingers grasping out, a nail tearing across his cheek, and then it hit her like a poleaxe.

Magic.

She was airborne - torn away by forces unseen.

Ever dignified Buffy tucked, hitting the ground on a shoulder-roll, pushing to her feet like a runner at the mark; and was back at him in an instant, crashing into Giles like a freight-train. It knocked them both off their feet, rolling halfway down the hillside, arms and legs entangled until it ended, not surprisingly, with Buffy on top. His wrists captured and her knees pressed tight to his flanks.

She froze, watching the rise and fall of his chest, staring at the blood on his cheek. Haze and fog dissipated - given rise to a singular thought: //Demons don't bleed red//, and she leant forward to taste it.

It was the wrong thing to do.

He thrashed, almost dislodging her, and she was struck by a second thought of absolute clarity. //Ripper - or an aspect of him - fighting against fate with every breath in his body//, and he had, knowingly or not, just given her the answer.

There was no sense of remorse. Only a sweet pleasure that this man belonged to her, feeling him struggle like a wild thing. Applying pressure until she could feel the bones in his wrist grind, drawing her knee down and then up, forcing it between his legs - a firm warning - and he desisted instantly.

The pupils in Giles' eyes had dilated, green and gold irises eclipsed by black, and when he spoke, there was nothing of the victim in him, tone low and commanding: "Buffy, let me go."

She did instantly, as if branded by fire. Instinct fled as reason crept back (this was Giles. *Giles*), and then her stomach churned…oh god…flinching backwards even as he caught hold of her wrist.

A tableau - poised statues on a windswept hill - whispering of the past. Hunting; the swift plunge of wood, metal and sword, a snarled threat or whimper. Watching humanity slip away as darkness greeted its own.

//slayers don't walk in this world// - not unless they had something to hold on to.

A sound from her throat that was neither laugh nor sob - but it tore through Giles' own sense of panic, adrenalin leaving him shaking as he reeled her in.

They collapsed, pooled together, staring up at the night sky with her head tucked under his chin, her body no longer a restrictive force but a pleasant weight. Buffy's fist, clenched in his jumper, kept flexing open like a cat kneading at a sweater.

Damp wool, mud, ashes from the vampires she had slain; her voice was a bare whisper: "Oh God, Giles, please, I don’t want to lose myself."

And it struck him suddenly, the terrible irony of all this - that both of them were caught by the same absolute terror.

_______________

The walk back occurred in a state of flux, not quite awkward, definitely not comfortable - but teetering on the edge of acceptance.

The only disturbance came when they reached the dirt path and old man Shep drove past in his truck, slowing to a near crawl when he caught sight of their appearance. Soaked through with hail and rain, liberally splashed with mud, clothes torn and abrasions aplenty. Giles' short retort that he had been teaching her rugby resulted in a laugh. The farmer training a speculative eye on the blonde American before responding: "Aye, I could help you with that if you'd like."

They both ignored him.

They arrived at the cottage and separated, having barely spoken, Buffy taking a quick shower while Giles kindled the fire. He was fairly certain that if it weren't for her remarkable constitution, Buffy would be in the throes of hypothermia by now.

Staring at the flicker of the open flame, Giles couldn't stop shivering.

He was going to lose himself to her - and he didn't know how much the ritual would take. His knowledge only existed in broad strokes, lacking finer detail, and it bred uncertainty. Would there be anything of himself left? Or would he be an automaton leashed to her command? Stupid. The asset of a Watcher (even a dark Watcher) was in the power of their mind, and that meant *thinking*, which in turn, meant independence. He'd simply be subservient - and the young man known as Ripper lashed out - raging against such a fate. Pointless too, he'd given himself to her since the day they met, what did it matter if she ripped out his soul?

"Penny for your thoughts?" Buffy stood at the bathroom door, watching the muscles in his shoulder bunch as he faced her, face an inscrutable mask: "Giles?"

"How are you feeling?"

Too cordial, too polite, and her warning bells sounded. "Okay, more like myself; I'm only in danger mode during or directly after a fight. Can you explain to me what happened?"

"Excuse me? You attacked me."

"You fought back."

"What was I supposed to do, be pummelled?"

"Maybe…it would certainly be more Gilesy," she squatted, one hand fastening around his arm when he would have stood. "I almost invoked the ritual, didn't I? The one you know nothing about?"

She'd seen hawks gaze at mice with kinder expressions.

"Yes."

"Sorry."

Priceless how that word as spoken by her, could wash everything away. "Buffy, I don't know the exact ramifications of the ritual… but I *do* know it interweaves my soul with yours," a tired smile. "If you're going to do that to a man you could at least have the decency to *ask*."

Penitent - she *was* penitent - because Giles was absolutely right, but her mouth twitched at the tone in his voice and he caught sight of it. Eyes narrowing dangerously, he placed one hand around her face and knocked her sprawling from her squat. Rolling onto her back she giggled, hearing his footsteps recede into the bathroom, accompanied by a low mutter about the pushiness of bloody Americans.

//I love him. Oh God, I really love him//.

It was a little like living on a pendulum, Giles supposed, resentment on one end and the same sense of secure belonging on the other. He seemed to be swinging back and forth like a kid stuck on a Pirate Ship, and he couldn't maintain any sense of objectivity, wasn't sure if he cared to.

The hot beat of water sluiced the mud from his body, offering a balm to the bruises that she had inflicted upon him.

He hadn't known. Not for sure - and his decision to leave Sunnydale had been a direct result. He knew Buffy wasn't *right*, but he had been at a loss to determine how much had been displacement, or how much had been the effect of Willow's spell.

If it were confusion then Buffy would, in time, have found her own feet, relying on the support network of her friends. If it were spell related, then Buffy would have drawn on every instinct she possessed and hunted down a Watcher. Leaving - waiting to see if she followed - had been the quickest way to determine what was wrong. If anything.

But the confounding thing was, when she had arrived here Buffy seemed more like the girl of old than she had in Sunnydale. It was only during the fight that he had known for sure, and having witnessed her fight, Giles knew that he couldn't leave her like that.

Instinct was invaluable - but the absence of reason was deadly. Buffy had walked the fine line between both worlds with distinction, but she was now faltering and it would see her killed. But not before it turned her into Faith - and Giles had broken too many rules nurturing her sense of compassion to allow that to happen now. Buffy was the longest living Slayer of this century, and the only thing that marked her as different, was the fact that she *hadn't* been raised by the Council.

Unlike Kendra - or Faith.

Buffy had friends, family, the foundations of sanity, and at one point Giles had hoped it would be enough, but she also had *him*. He turned the water off calmly, having reached a decision that ironically, had never been in doubt.

Giles emerged from the shower dressed in a charcoal sweater and loose pants, a dark bruise along his cheek and hair ruffled - moving with unconscious grace. Buffy studied him, eyes somber. She knew what the ritual entailed - could have forced him at any time. Dawn's sweet smile and childish falsetto, echoes of a dream - all we are is blood. But she was more than Faith could ever hope to be and ultimately this decision was *his*.

That was her voice of morality and beneath it, laughed another- whispering that he was only safe until her next fight and then, driven by instinct, she would go after him.

Giles picked up a knife, a thin stiletto, and flipped it with casual expertise, his voice a murmur: "Buffy, come here."

She approached, soundless on her feet, and gave voice to the only concern she had: "If I die - you die."

No hesitation, "Yes."

Buffy *knew* death had never been a particular concern of Giles'. He was the only one of the Scooby gang who had shown scepticism over her supposed location in the afterlife. "My track record sucks. Big time."

Green eyes met hers, and there was warmth in his look, igniting a low burn of desire. "Consider this a motivational factor."

Still not convinced, Buffy frowned: "At least you *survived* my last death."

"Of sorts." At her quizzical expression, Giles' smile widened, reciting softly, "I got myself a dank apartment in London, surrounded by books and…and…"

"Bottles of scotch?" she supplied helpfully.

He laughed softly, bringing her left hand over until it clasped the opposite side of the knife, entwining her fingers with his, the blade held tight between them. Giles' right hand rested on the hilt, and Buffy caught his gaze with quick intensity, needing him to *hear* it as much as she needed to *say* it: "I won't let anything happen."

An expression of shocked wonder on his face, left hand squeezing hers briefly - the blade digging into their flesh - and then he drew the hilt upwards, cutting them to the quick.

A gasp as the steel was removed and then their hands clasped, open wound and blood fusing.

A sonic boom and the room flickered, walls melting into sand; Giles' eyes burned feral as a storm whirled up behind him, ozone and dust, the scent of destruction. Buffy pulled him closer, her good hand snaking behind his back, holding tight as warmth suffused her.

The room flickered…drab walls in a tiny cottage, the sharp scrape of bark against the window pane, and he leant into her touch, voice searching, pulling her deep into herself: "Buffy?"

The room flickered…

…into a grassy knoll, a *dry* knoll, sun shining, sporadic clouds, and...ah, there she was.

Buffy.

Giles strolled toward her, sitting down cross-legged when she made no effort to rise, sprawled across the ground with her arms stretched wide.

He didn't speak, content to wait, feeling the warmth of sunshine across his back.

Buffy's eyes opened, searching his, and the slow smile that crossed her features was beatific. "Giles," whispered like a prayer.

He returned the smile tentatively, taking note of her crucified position, "Is this your impersonation of…"

She snorted, interrupting him, "After being torn from heaven…it seemed appropriate."

"It doesn't look comfortable."

Teeth worried at her bottom lip, and then she blurted: "It's not. I'm stuck!"

Giles' grin wasn't what she expected; Giles' low laugh nearly infuriated her.

"Giles, *WHY* am I stuck?"

"Willow. She brought you back, but she left a little bit behind."

"A *bit*? *What* bit?!"

"Reason," his voice trailed off, smile widening, "good God, I hope not, maybe it was compassion," at her withering glare he amended, "Humour?"

"Sorely lacking. Can you get me out? Up? Conscious? Back? Whatever?"

He was studying her intently, watching the tendrils of dark magic that coiled around her frame. For an instant his eyes looked different, more gold than green, but there was nothing that Buffy could physically *see*. Her stomach muscles tightened - a tingling sensation - and then he backed away, "Yes," and offered her his hand.

When she made no effort to move he simply sighed, wrapped it around her wrist and hoisted.

Movement so sudden she stumbled into him, his arms catching her, holding her steady.

The spark of humour gentled and his tone became soft: "Willow's a talented witch, Buffy, but she's also young. It wasn't hard to see what she had done wrong when I…well, had a chance to *see* it."

"That's it?" She felt robbed somehow - Buffy was a Slayer, and there was a part of her that expected to be able to deal with anything, including magic. Yet she had been helpless here - and whatever Giles had done, had been so subtle that she couldn't even detect the merest *hint* of magic. It made her uneasy. The complete lack of fire-works and black-eyed witchiness somehow more…ominous. "You pull me up and that's it? I've been lying there for six months!"

"Slayers and magic don't mix, Buffy. You've already got enough on your plate as it is. As for what I did," the smile returned, "you just can't see it."

She flinched, and Giles realised that the Slayer had read more into that statement than he had intended.

"I'll be alright?"

"You still have to deal with the fact that you died and have come back, but you're no longer missing any key elements of yourself."

"How do I get out?"

Giles inclined his head toward the slope, the same way he had descended, and Buffy strode off without hesitation. She made it halfway up the hillside before she realised Giles wasn't beside her. Turning, she found him where they had been standing, his face expressionless. Buffy frowned, concerned, sifting through sub-conscious memories until she had a possible explanation. Smile slow, her voice became a sweet purr: "Giles, are you stuck?"

His eyes flashed and she came back down. The ritual had been used to bind a 'dark' sorcerer to the will of a Slayer, and Giles was little more than a prisoner in this 'world, held hostage to her whim. She'd never given him licence to leave.

//Oh, this could be fun//.

Framing his face in her hands, Buffy kissed him once, languidly, softly, finding a dark sweetness and a measure of peace. "Come with me," and led him back by the hand.

______________

They awoke slowly, breathing in sync, sprawled on the floor of the kitchen. Buffy became aware of two things: one, there was little to no blood, it was as if their bodies had absorbed each other's flow, which was just plain icky; and two, she could feel Giles in the back of her thoughts without trying. Not ESP or anything invasive, just *there* - like a security blanket, something cherished.

She rolled, settling herself on top of his chest, and waited patiently until he focused before continuing what she had started. Kissing him with a savage pride and an ache of want.

He surrendered, let her take, and then plundered. Matching the kiss, striping her bare with the intensity of it - hands ghosting the lines of her body - calluses and warmth, she wanted to feel. Brushing her hands up his sweater she tore it loose, leaving skin bare to bite.

Giles rolled, caught her wrists and stood up, dragging her with him. Buffy's hands were at his waist-band, nimble, far too quick - drawing his pants down before he could react, her fingers curled around his flesh and he froze.

The smile was entirely in her eyes, "Have you ever been led around by your…"

"No," a throaty chuckle, "and don't you dare start now."

She stroked him - watched the dark sweep of lashes across his cheek - lips parted, eyes closed, leaning forward into a kiss that she met. It was gentle this time, so erotically gentle, melting up her spine as he picked her up, finding their way upstairs with minimal fuss.

Her experience with Angel had been hard to classify. It had been intense and cold, the element of 'forbidden', stolen under cover of darkness and not once repeated. Parker had been brusque, Riley with a constant wide-eyed look of worship, and Spike…she didn't want to go there.

Giles turned all of that on its ear.

He was funny where others had been solemn - stripping her of clothing without any respect, laughing kisses branding her shoulders.

Intense where others had been shallow, the single-mindedness that was so elemental to his personality coming to the foreground, leaving her quivering, thrusting, thirsting for more.

And as they wrestled their way from one end of the bed to the other, it became apparent that there was nothing as natural as Giles in bed - with *her* - and she wouldn't have it any other way.

Entering her with a slow glide of pure sensation, a circuit snapped shut. Feeling him with her in every conceivable way - a tsunami of emotion - and she came to her orgasm with a paean cry, finding herself complete.

_________________

Buffy packed in the morning, throwing everything back into the duffel, and she honestly didn’t know *what* she had been thinking when she chose that bag. Walking downstairs she found Giles sitting at the kitchen table.

The silent edge of fear crept in, almost choking her before she battled it down.

Raking a hand through his hair she pulled Giles' head back, until the neck was strained taut, and kissed him slow and deep.

He didn't move, green eyes sparkling when she released him, reciting pointedly: "Where once was a vertebrae is now a tangle, from constant kissing at an awkward angle."

Buffy stared, incredulous, and then laughed: "What, you couldn't quote Shakespeare to me?"

He sniggered, turning back to the paper, and she crumbled into the seat opposite. "Giles?"

"Hmmm?"

"Which way did you rebel?"

He blinked with an air of confusion, "Excuse me?"

"You were born into a family of Watchers, right?"

"Yes."

"Normal Watchers? Yet you also have magic," and her hand brushed over his heart. He smiled faintly, realising where she was going. "So, were you rebelling when you turned your back on your family's chosen career path? Or were you rebelling when you turned your back on the dark arts?"

His smile broadened, "Ask Ethan. I'm sure he'd give you a discourse into the nature of my 'rebellion'."

Buffy ate her breakfast in a thoughtful silence.

Giles was aware of it - a level of anxiety that Buffy projected without conscious thought - and when she appeared with her duffel in hand, Giles had his answer.

"I'm going back to London. Organising a flight to L.A from there, Hellmouth duty and all," her hands twisted on the strap, blue eyes cast down, and her anxiety flared into outright panic before she battled it under control.

And Giles realised that she honestly hadn't known. Relief pounded through him so intense he almost laughed - freedom, even the illusion of it, was too important to loose. "When do we leave?"

The smile that flared across her features was like the summer sun, and she was in his lap in an instant, almost knocking them both from the chair. Tongues tangling as heat, and need and love pounded through him.

On a dream reality they had spoken - metaphysical in Buffy's mind - but she hadn't realised that it incorporated the spiritual; and on that plane she had spoken only three words that could be construed as a command.

Come with me.

Giles was helpless to do anything but - and in the end, what did it matter?

_____________

fini

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