Title: Beginnings
Author: vatwoman
Summary: Jenny and Giles at his apartment after The Bronze.
Rating: Haven't a clue but I'd guess PG-13 (for the kissing?)
Pairing: Jenny/Giles
Spoilers: Oh, come on? For a story that is set *so* far back? Ok <sighs> this is set at end of
Season 1, directly after 'Prophecy Girl'
Disclaimers: Everyone's owned by Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, FOX, UPN (?) etc. No infringement of copyright intended.
Dedication: To Sally - this is *your* fault!:-)
E-mail: vatwoman@yahoo.co.uk
Feedback: is fine, but *please* be gentle with me, this is my first 'Buffy' fic and I'm sort of nervous about the reaction!!

The music changed around them and Jenny Calendar's eyes slitted with mischief. Rupert Giles sat back and held up a hand to her in self-defence

"No! I'm not dancing!"

"Come on, Rupert," Jenny teased, "They're playing our song."

"I'm not dancing!"

Everyone laughed. The phrase had been uttered by him, like a mantra, every step of the way from the library to The Bronze. And every step of the way Jenny had been calling him for his cowardice, laughing with him, teasing him with her gaze. Long before they reached the club they both knew that he'd give in.

He sighed long-sufferingly, "If I crush your feet remember that it was you who wanted this!" and got to his feet - to a round of applause from the rest of the group. His glare stopped the clapping but did nothing to stop the grins on the young faces around him. Ignoring them and gathering his dignity around him he turned to look down at Jenny Calendar and holding out a hand to her asked, "Would you care to dance?"

She rose, smiling, and, turning the tables on him, took his hand in hers and pulled him onto the dance-floor. They found a spot in the midst of the gently swaying couples and she stepped into his arms, casually linking her hands at the back of his neck. Almost as a reflex his arms looped around her waist. Pleased, she tucked her head against his neck: slow dancing, Rupert and Jenny.

"This is nice." she offered after a while.

"And public." he sounded embarrassed.

"We're only dancing, Rupert." She pulled back a little and smiled at him.

He raised an eyebrow in exasperation.

"This isn't 'only dancing', it's never been 'only dancing'."

His droll tones widened her smile.

"Really?" Her eyes rounded in the perfect picture of innocence.

He laughed at that and pulled her back against him. Their slow circular movements brought them around again to face the table where the rest of the group was sitting laughing, smiling, joking with each other, easing the terrifying tensions of the day.

Except Buffy. She sat between Angel and Willow, speaking to them, smiling even, but not really with them. She looked distracted, disjointed. Part of things and yet not part of things.

Giles's steps slowed. Jenny looked up, saw where his concentration lay and turned her head to really look at the girl who, Jenny now knew, was destined to slay vampires, demons and all the assorted evil spawned by this place they called the Hellmouth. And probably die in the doing of it: as she had died this evening.

At the first opportunity, when Buffy, Willow, Cordelia and Xander had got up to dance, Angel had told Giles and Jenny what had happened. Giles's eyes had glowed with new respect for the young man who insisted on playing their court jester when he heard that it was Xander who had saved Buffy's life. Xander loved Buffy. Giles had known it from the first and had spent sleepless nights wondering if, in the end, it would prove to be the team's greatest liability, only to have it proved to be, today, at least, the team's most precious asset.

"When will you speak to her?" Jenny asked softly.

Giles sighed and she could hear the weight of his worry in it.

"Tomorrow. I'll ... I'll try tomorrow. Tonight's a time for her friends."

Jenny touched his cheek and he turned his head to look at her.

"Don't forget - you're her friend too."

"I know, but that isn't what she sees in me today -nor is it what she'll need from me tomorrow."

Jenny frowned at that, unsure if he was right, but he was Buffy's Watcher and she was his layer: the dynamic of the relationship known only to them.

"What will you say to her?"

He surprised her by huffing out a short worried laugh.

"I don't ... actually, I have no idea." He looked at Buffy once more. "In all of my readings of the diaries of the previous Watchers, when the Slayer has died, she has, by all accounts, remained ... well ... dead."

"Then do something for me? When you talk to her?"

Giles frowned at her.

"Yes?"

"Be her friend, not her Watcher."

His frown deepened and he started to shake his head.

"Jenny, I don't know if ..."

She touched a finger to his lips.

"Promise me, Rupert ... and trust me on this?"

It was at moments like these that he was reminded of just how mysterious he found her - who she was, what she was, how dark her eyes were. Brown. He knew they were brown. Like chocolate. But so often he saw them like this: black. Night-still ponds. Hiding depths he could only guess at. If he was brave enough.

She was asking him to trust her. He wondered if she could see where this was heading. He'd seen the path clearly the moment she'd walked into the library and announced that she was intent on dragging him into the 21st century, whether he wanted to go or not. He knew it was too fast and that the feelings she was stirring in him both terrified and excited him - in just about equal measure: yet here they were, strong and true.

"I promise I'll try."

Jenny's answering smile was soft and sweet. "So, do you think we've made enough of an exhibition of ourselves?" She tossed her head in the direction of their group, intending it to mean the whole club.

"God, yes!"

They both laughed.

"Then would you like to escort me home, Mr. Giles?"

"It would be my pleasure, Ms. Calendar." They started off the dance floor but he stopped her with a gentle touch. "Perhaps you'd like coffee?"

"Coffee?" The teasing glint was back in her eyes. "Your place?"

He nodded, "Mmm ... yes ... my place."

"Ok, that'd be good. Hey, kids. " Jenny added as they reached their table, "We're leaving. I'm letting Mr. Giles ply me with coffee. Enjoy the rest of your evening." She glanced up at Giles then back at the Gang, "Don't do anything we wouldn't do!"

"You ask that of people living on a Hellmouth?" Giles muttered, "What on earth would that exclude?"

Jenny rolled her eyes at him and everyone laughed. She grabbed his hand and hauled him off waving goodbye for both of them.

Giles opened the door and gestured her in ahead of him. He dropped his keys onto the table in the entranceway and followed her into the main area of the apartment, stepping around her to switch on the lamps scattered around the room. They met in the middle of the floor. Her eyes gleamed with interest.

"Can I look around?"

He smiled.

"Yes, of course ... ah, feel free." Sudden hesitancy caught him, then released him again. "Um, I'll make coffee."

She nodded and returned his smile and shrugging out of her jacket, turned to put it and her purse on the nearest chair. He was gone from her side when she turned back, but not far, only as far as his galley-kitchen, where the much harsher light from the spotlightss above his head threw his body into sharp relief.

She heard him humming to himself as he filled and put the kettle on the stove to heat. His movements were sure here - this place, like the library, was his. She half-laughed and then found the breath catch in her throat as, in quick succession, he stripped off his jacket, tie, sweater-vest, rolled up his shirtsleeves and opened the top two buttons on his shirt. It was madness, she knew, the man was completely clothed and yet she was as aroused as if he'd just performed for her a slow striptease.

It had taken her by surprise, this attraction. One minute he was infuriating the hell out of her and the next ... She was unsure what it had been; his smile, when he allowed himself to smile' the mad British diffidence swimming against the flood of ultra-assertive teenage Americans, the care and concern he showed for his young charges; the calm that radiated from him.

She wondered if he knew where this was heading? That having her here was a dangerous thing?

He'd turned his back to her and spread his arms against the worktop, bracing himself. Exhaustion defined every line of his body and although he hadn't seemed to have heard her walk across the room he didn't jump when she laid a gentle hand between his shoulderblades.

"On a scale of one to ten, just how tired are you?"

He half turned his head towards her and she saw his mouth crease slightly.

"I have no idea, my brain isn't functioning clearly enough to get past zero!"

Both her hands were now on his back, rubbing flat palmed over the tense muscles, stroking, soothing. His head slumped forward and he groaned out a sigh. When she hesitantly wrapped her arms around him he folded her hands in his and brought them to his mouth and touched them with a whisper-soft kiss. His murmured, "Thank you." was lost in the whistling of the kettle. The sound went on and on. Ignored. Unattended. They stood motionless, her face pressed to his neck, his arms holding her tightly to him. Breathing together. Warming each other. Eventually he moved the kettle from the heat and turned to face her. The tears ran silently down his cheeks.

"Oh, Rupert. Oh my God."

She reached up to touch his face but then hesitated, uncertain, not sure if, in touching him, he would break, or she would - and yet he smiled at her.

"I'm alright, Jenny. Really." He took off his glasses and unselfconsciously as a child wiped away the wetness on his skin. "Someone once told me that I cry all the time." This time the smile was wider. "And I do! Weddings. Sad films. Happy films. Soppy films."

Jenny shook her head and swallowed heavily. Damn this man! Damn this man!

"'Soppy'?" Her voice was rough with the unshed tears which brightened her eyes. "This is a word?"

His face softened, thanking her for going along with this charade.

"Oh, yes. 'Soppy'. 'Drippy'. 'Weepy'. 'Corny'. I've cried at them all." He touched her cheek with gentle fingers, suddenly serious. "Never underestimate the restorative qualities of a good cry."

But she was angry now and pulled away from him, just an arm's length but it yawned between them like a gaping chasm.

"I don't understand!" Her hands fluttered in front of her, giving form to her agitation. "I need to ask you a question. And it's a stupid question! And it makes me look stupid! And I already know what you're going to say, but I need to ask it! I need to *say* it!" She stopped and dragged in a huge breath. "How can you live like this?"

He closed his eyes against her anguished tones. Of course the answer was brutally simple - they both knew that - but twice she'd asked him to trust her and she deserved his trust. Her strength had been his strength today. Her presence had fortified him and her clarity of mind had kept him on track. The hand she'd put into his when he'd come to and had found Buffy gone had, he was sure, stopped him from going quietly out of his mind. She deserved better than his continued silence.

He reached out and gently squeezed her upper arm.

"Go and sit down. I'll bring the coffee - and we'll talk."

Moments later they were both settled on the sofa. She sat sideways, legs tucked beneath her, holding the steaming mug of coffee in both hands letting the warmth and the comforting aroma of the drink calm her. Rupert sat beside her, facing forward, his expression a mixture of utter tiredness and complete concentration. He dropped his head back, closed his eyes and began.

"My father was a Watcher as was his mother before him. At ten I was told that I was to be next."

<Young. Very young.> Jenny thought. <Younger than Buffy was when she was called.>

"It means nothing at that age. Some extracurricular studies that would make any normal school system blanch. Arcane languages. Magicks. Lessons in the handling of weapons." He turned his head to look at her. "Bows and arrows. Swords. Every young boy's dream."

He smiled but there was no lightness in it.

"Is it usual for Watchers to run in families?"

"No, not really. Although there've been a few families throughout history who've provided more than one Watcher, my family's situation is somewhat unique."

"And your mother?"

"Left when I was eight. Two months after my father was Called to his Slayer."

"She left you with him?" He didn't reply. "Rupert?"

"It seemed that way." He turned away again. "I found out much later that my father had put pressure on her to leave me behind - he'd seen my 'potential', apparently."

"Is she still alive? Do you see her?"

"I don't know. I haven't seen her since the day she left. Almost forty years ago."

Jenny felt her heart clench. Her family was scattered, very few of them within easy distance of the USA, never mind this part of it, but she carried them with her everywhere she went. She couldn't comprehend how he lived with such a gap in his life. She would've folded years ago if she'd been him.

"Go on. Please."

He sighed and ran his hands backwards through his hair.

"My father was a Watcher for a very long time and he was very good at it. And Marielle was an exceptional Slayer. And I grew up. And I studied relentlessly. And I made life-choices that both supported and complemented my coming role in 'the grand scheme of things'. And I didn't think about what I was doing for a single damn minute." Sudden bitterness twisted his voice. He stopped talking.

She let the silence grow, sipped her coffee and gave him time to find the words again.

He sat forward and picked up his coffee from the table where he'd first put it on sitting down. He took a long swallow grimacing as the hot liquid trailed a fiery path down his throat. Putting the mug down again he leaned his elbows on his knees and his chin on his clasped hands. Then he turned towards her again.

"Ask me."

"Were you in love with her?"

"Of course I was."

"How ... " Jenny couldn't finish the question so Giles did it for her.

"How did she die?" She nodded. He looked away but she saw the lines around his eyes crinkle as he closed them tightly for a moment. "Horribly."

"And your father?" She could hardly bear to ask but she had to know.

"I lost him."

<Lost him. What did that mean?> Her heart gave a sudden lurch. <Oh no ... > "He didn't become a vam ... ?"

"Vampire?" Giles shook his head. "No ... no ... nothing like that. It was just that at some ... elemental level he stopped living." He cocked his head and a whimsical look cast itself across his face. "It was odd. I had no reason to suspect anything other than that my mother was still alive, I knew my father was, yet I felt like an orphan."

"I'm sorry, Rupert."

"So was I."

He sat back again and put a hand on his heart, feeling the pain of his loss heavy in his chest once more, even after so long: Marielle's bloody and broken body on the step outside their door. His father's shattered expression. There'd been so much blood, on his face, on his clothes, on his hands; and he remembered the silences that had reigned in their house from that day forward. He'd been ... what .. twenty? Twenty-one?

"I did not cope well with the loss." Irony dripped from lips. "I left Oxford. Went to London. Tried everything I shouldn't have. Did everything I shouldn't have. Fell in with some very questionable people." He looked across at her. "I can't remember whole stretches of that period of my life and the memories that I do have ... "

"Yet you're here, being Buffy's Watcher."

"A friend died."

No explanation. No A to B to C connecting up this part of the picture that he was laying out before her. Just more emotion. The rawness of it shocked her.

"How can you live like this?" she asked again, helplessly.

He turned all the way around to face her down the length of the sofa. His expression, now that she could see him properly, was haunted and grey with fatigue. He looked suddenly so much older. She stretched out a hand to touch him but again hesitated, as she'd done earlier, still unsure of her reason for wanting to touch him. She had no idea if she wanted to do it for his sake or for hers. And she had no idea if, in the end, the reason really mattered one way or the other.

The hand she'd raised dropped onto the back of the couch. He stared at it for a long time wondering at her need to touch him and then wondering why she hadn't done so. He wasn't even sure if he wanted her to touch him - he was too open to her and it frightened him. She'd touch him and he'd tell her everything, every dark, sordid little secret. Everything that he'd just told her he couldn't remember, but did. Every abuse of his body and his mind. Every misuse of the arts his father had taught him.

"I live this way because this is the way it is." The answer she knew he'd give her. "My father gave me the speech about duty and responsibility and sacrifice. I learned very quickly about sacrifice and finally about duty and responsibility. I completed my degree and gave my services to the Watchers' Council."

There was a long silence then she raised a questioning eyebrow, "Short finish."

With his eyes on her, a slight frown creasing his brow, he looked exactly as he had in those moments before he'd told her that he wasn't sure if he could trust her. She'd shivered then under the intensity of his gaze and did so again now. She loved his eyes, the hazel-green so different from her own, but they gave nothing away, something she'd noticed over the past few months. His emotions tended to paint themselves over his entire face - but when he was calm, or thinking deeply, or preoccupied with his work his eyes were like mirrors, reflecting everything around him, giving no sense of depth.

Then ...

"I have secrets, Jenny, things I don't think I'll ever be able to tell you."

The non sequitur made her blink and she found breathing was suddenly difficult. Where was his voice coming from, it sounded so deep. The air felt heavy. Dark places. He'd taken them into dark places. Places where she, too, hid things from the daylight.

"Everyone has secrets, Rupert." And what were hers to his? He'd been almost a man before she was even born and was already years into a life that would be spent surrounded by death and destruction. A life spent as much in the shadows as the vampires that he and Buffy hunted. Unwitting anger enveloped her. <What a waste!> "I can't, I *won't* be just a safety valve for you!"

"You're not!"

"Damn straight!"

The darkness bled anger. It swept through him freezing each muscle in turn so that when he tried to speak it was through clenched teeth.

"I want you ... "

" ... good!"

"That wasn't what I was trying to say!"

"You sure?"

Their words were staccato beats rattled out between laboured breaths.

"You're throwing your past at me like it's a weapon: why?"

"To make you understand!"

"I'm not afraid of your secrets, Rupert."

"But I am!"

"Then they'll eat you alive."

"What makes you think they haven't already done so?"

"That's one harsh piece of self-analysis."

"Harsh, but true."

"Then tell me something else that's true?"

His eyes narrowed. "I don't understand."

"Why you? Why were *you* chosen to be Buffy's Watcher?"

Here they were again, these depths that he couldn't fathom. How could she know that he hadn't been 'just the next in line'? How could she know that he'd been plucked so unexpectedly off a deliberately remote as possible archaeological site in South America? How could she know that the Council considered him to be one of their most gifted and yet most troubled watchers? How could she know that the Hellmouth was as much his test as Buffy's and that there were many on the Council who had sent him here to watch him fail?

And hadn't this evening just proved them right?

"Rupert?"

His eyes refocused themselves on her face, saw her anger was gone and then, suddenly, so was his.

"Yes?"

"That's a biggie, huh?"

"I'm sorry?"

"You? Buffy's Watcher?" He nodded, agreeing with her. "And now you find out what I'm frightened of."

"I don't understand."

"Truths."

Oddly he laughed, shaking his head. Raising a hand he ran his fingers across his tired eyes before pinching the skin at the top of his nose. He leaned his elbow on the back of the sofa and put his head on his fist.

"And don't we have so many of those, too." he mocked gently.

She mirrored his smile even as she mirrored his pose.

"You're avoiding the question."

"I know." The ghost of a smile that still played around his lips made his voice sound very soft.

"Tell me?"

He took a deep sighing breath. "Something about an out of control Slayer deserving an out of control Watcher?" He saw the dawning realisation on her face and nodded. "I don't know what disturbs the Council more, the fact that we're still alive ... or the fact that we're still alive."

"I don't know what to say." she sounded stunned.

"There's nothing *to* say."

"But they sent you here to ... what gives them the right! What gives them the right to play with peoples' lives like that!"

"They would tell you that history gives them the right. That the danger the planet is in does."

"That's crap!"

"Is it? Look at it from their point of view. The Slayer is chosen by ... by ... destiny if you will. The Council has no say in who is chosen. Don't you think that that doesn't ... irk ... them? Especially when the chosen Slayer says 'thanks, but no thanks' and flings her solemn duty back in their faces? And even when she takes up that duty she goes out of her way her to, apparently, make a mockery of it? And then there's me - the Watcher who did everything *he* possibly could to deny *his* destiny. As far as the Council is concerned it was a match made in the Hellmouth. Buffy dies and they take their chances with the next slayer. I die too and, believe me, nobody from the Council is going to stand over my grave wasting any tears."

"So where does that leave you?

"With a duty to perform."

"Buffy's Watcher."

"Yes."

"Until she dies."

"Yes ... or I do." His raised his eyebrows and grimaced. "Watchers have almost as high a mortality rate as Slayers. Which leaves you with a decision to make." His voice softened. "Jenny, I'm not a sound long-term investment."

There it was, said. Something admitted. Time stopped. He felt his breathing slow. Saw her pupils dilate. Something acknowledged.

"Maybe not," she said, sounding hesitant, "But it is my decision. Right?"

He nodded.

"No," she shook her head, "No, I need to hear you say it."

"Yes. Yes ... yes, it's your decision."

"Ok. Cool."

She reached out to touch the arm he'd rested on the back of the sofa and gently wrapped her hand around his forearm. He felt the shock of it go through him, like electricity. Everything was suddenly so still. Above their heads he could hear the clock ticking on his bedside table. He could hear his heart beating steady and deep. He could hear her breathing - a sighing in and out.

<She's going to kiss me.>

His skin was warm under her palm - a warmth that seemed to travel up her arm to fill her entire body. They were both so still, so expectant, that she could hear his breathing - a sighing in and out. She wondered if he could hear her heart.

<I'm going to kiss him.>

"I'm going to kiss you." she whispered.

"I know." his voice was barely audible between one soft breath and the next.

Then her lips were on his. Gentle pressure. Then gone. Pressure. Gone. Touching. Tasting. Finding the angle ... there. Their kiss. The one with which they'd say 'hello' and 'goodbye' to each other. The one that would start and end their days. The one which would convey their love in those moments when the words just wouldn't come. Sighing, she opened her mouth to his.

They pulled back and stared at each other. He bent the arm that he'd stretched along the back of the sofa so that his hand reached into her hair, cupped her head, and applied gentle pressure to bring her closer to him. She dropped her hand from his arm and went to him.

Their kiss.

He pulled back again and smiled faintly.

"This is nice." he offered, stroking her hair and she smiled at him as he'd hoped she would.

She took his other hand in hers, rested both on his thigh. Their fingers twined momentarily before she let go and swept her hand up his arm and across his shoulder. The electricity was back, making him shiver. Her hand found the open 'v' of his shirt, her fingers curling into the soft hair on his chest. Then she placed her hand on his heart. And closed her eyes. And cocked her head to one side concentrating on something he could neither feel nor hear.

"I can feel your heart beating." and she opened her eyes again.

He was dazed. She'd enveloped him. Made him boneless.

"Rupert?" Her hand moved to his face. "Hey, Rupert, you still with me?"

He blinked, amazed at her strength when he felt so completely weak at the knees. Then he looked into her eyes and saw them glitter with emotion. Pressing a fingertip to the pulse in her throat he felt it racing. The heat of her skin dazed him anew. He laughed, finding himself filled with an incredible sense of joy. Smiled again with her.

"You're such a fraud, Jenny Calendar."

They kissed again.

"We're going to date," Jenny started, touching his face, stroking each of his features in turn, "Restaurants, ballgames, movies. Fight about more things we didn't realise it was possible for two rational people to fight about." She breathed in sharply as he kissed the palm of her hand. "Snatch kisses in the corridors."

He shook his head and murmured against her palm, "Principal Snyder won't approve."

"Ok, somewhere less public. My lab? Your office?"

"Hmm, my office." he agreed, still touching his lips to her skin.

She brought his head up so she could look at him.

"We'll spend our evenings making out. Then we'll progress to torrid sex." She'd been smiling but then her face softened becoming suddenly serious. "Then we'll make love, softly, passionately and so ... very ... slowly."

He was quiet for a moment and then asked, "Why are you telling me this?"

She shrugged, but smiled.

"Fair warning? Because you have concerns that go beyond this - beyond us? And because I know that once I have you I won't be prepared to let you go." She blushed at both her vehemence and the depth of feelings her words had exposed to him. "I want you to be sure, Rupert." This time a deep breath, "Sure of you. Sure of me." Then she laughed. "God, this is scary! You scared?"

Memory. Her words. He smiled and this time gave her a different answer - but one as true as the last had been.

"Terrified."

"So we're doing this?" she looked to him for his agreement and got it from the nod of his head. "Ok." She stood up and gently pulled him with her. "I think I should go now."

She crossed the room and picked up her jacket. He took it from her and helped her slip it on. Grabbing her purse she headed for the front door. He followed behind and reached around her to turn the lock. As he opened the door she turned to face him.

"Ask me out?" When he opened his mouth she stopped him with her fingers. "No, not yet. Leave it a while. Let me ... anticipate this ... you."

And suddenly he was dazed again ... and tongue-tied ... and hesitant ... and oddly tearful.

"I'll make a mess of it." He warned.

Seeing the glisten in his eyes she frowned, "I don't care." and her voice sounded as gruff as his. Then she was in his arms, held strongly, just held, and then released. He stepped back.

"Goodnight, Jenny."

She nodded. "Watch me to my car?" She walked down the path knowing his eyes were on her the whole way. It wasn't until she was in the car with the engine running that she looked across the street to his door. He was leaning on the doorframe, hands in his pockets, smiling at her. <He's mine.> The thought shot through her and she laughed at the sheer possessiveness of it. <He's a good man ... and he's mine.>

She saw his wave as she drove off into the warm night.

END