TITLE: The Watcher: 127 Fountain Street 1/3
AUTHOR: vatwoman
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: Second story in `The Watcher' series. Giles is back in Britain after the events of `Tabula Rasa' and is sent to Glasgow to deal with a Watchers' Council problem. This story is as much about the Watchers' Council and Giles's relationship with it, as it is about anything else.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Giles and everything `Buffy' belong to Joss Whedon,
Mutant Enemy et al. Anna and everyone else I invent are mine.
FEEDBACK: Will be gratefully received, at: vatwoman@y...
DEDICATION: To Sandra, ListMom of The Tweedies: Happy Birthday!
ARCHIVIST NOTE: You can find the first story here...Ghost Story
Half an hour, he'd been here for half an hour already. Just exactly what he didn't need after a pig of a transatlantic journey. He'd been imagining his warm, soft, quiet, bed since five minutes after take- off from LAX: screaming children, drunken passengers and troubled dreams all having taken their toll on his already shredded nerves. And now this five flights arriving at once and all of them seemed to be unloading their baggage onto this particular carousel. God, he felt like punching something. Or someone. <Next person to jostle me> The baggage carousel finally started running and Giles glanced heavenwards in thanks.
"Mr Giles?"
<Of course and this just makes the day perfect, doesn't it> He turned around and looked down at the young woman standing there picture perfect in her elegant two piece suit, de rigeur white blouse and sensible shoes. "It's pretty much a uniform now, isn't it?" He jerked his head to indicate her outfit.
"I'm sorry?" She asked the question but didn't look at all puzzled by his comment.
"No, I don't think you are." His voice hardened as he carried on speaking. "We'll get along so much better without the platitudes, Miss ?"
" Bergmann. Jane Bergmann."
"So " Giles glanced over his shoulder briefly to check on the progress of his luggage. " Miss Bergmann, what can I do for you?"
"Mr Travers would like to see you."
"Really?" He smiled. "And exactly which part of the phrase `inactive duty' did Quentin not understand?"
"I'm sure he understood the entire phrase perfectly, Mr Giles."
He glared at her. "And yet here you are." The tone of his voice was dangerously soft.
"Yes." She met his look head on, not giving him an inch.
"And if I refuse to go with you?"
She looked away, long enough to make his eyes follow hers. They settled on two policemen, submachine guns nestled across their arms, watching them from the other side of the baggage hall. "I'll have you arrested."
He blinked in surprise, but realised that, regardless of Quentin's high-handed tactics and the fact that she probably meant exactly what she said, he was actually enjoying this. "On what charge?"
"I have no idea, but I'm sure I'll think of something by the time they get you to the station." Her face momentarily took on a reflective cast. "Perhaps a suggestion of terrorism? Very good for allowing the police to hold someone incommunicado for days. Weeks even, if we fabricate the right evidence for the reviewing judge." Then she smiled. "We could lose you in the system completely." She tilted her head fractionally and for the first time Giles noticed the tiny black ear-piece in her left ear. "Your luggage has been recovered. Please?" She pointed across the hall.
The police officers had moved to a side door, away from the milling crowds still waiting to recover their bags. The door was open and through it Giles could see his bags being loaded into a car that was sitting outside. He sighed and let go. <Fight the fights you can win, Rupert> "Is there going to be a decent meal at the end of this car ride?"
Jane Bergmann's mouth twitched as she tried very hard not to smile at his grumbled request. "I'm sure that can be arranged." She gestured him on again. "Shall we?"
>>>>>>
The grey monotones of suburbia flashed past them as they sped along the motorway towards central London. There'd been days where he'd wanted this with an almost physical ache and had cursed the relentless sunshine that he had instead. This was his home something he'd almost forgotten in the maelstrom that was his life in Sunnydale this was the landscape and these were the people that had shaped him. The two weeks he'd spent in Bath, even with the untimely interruption of Anna Freer's ghost, had almost paralysed him with the giddy delights of being able to live a life that he'd been sure he'd never have again.
When he'd told Buffy that he'd found coming back to Sunnydale bewildering he'd been speaking no less than the truth. He had no idea what he was doing or where it was that he belonged and he couldn't be what she needed him to be for her. Leaving her again like he did, with her telling him that he was wrong, that she needed him, with her anger aimed at him like a blade thrust into his heart and twisted, was one of the most terrible things that he'd ever done in his life.
The Board of the Watchers' Council had had little choice but to approve his demand to be placed on inactive duty. It was either that or have him resign and break forever the most successful Slayer/Watcher partnership in centuries. He knew how they'd justified it to themselves: `At least this way there's still a chance we can persuade him to go back to her. The break will give him time to catch his breath.' And he needed to because he couldn't remember the last time that he'd drawn a breath that wasn't laced with the pain of losing Buffy and maybe he needed to because how in the hell was he to deal with that one brief, devastating, second of resentment that he'd felt when Willow had told him that she was back?
"Would you have had me arrested?"
She sat opposite him and hadn't taken her eyes off him since they'd got into the car. He wondered if she really believed that he'd jump if she gave him even the sniff of a chance.
"Yes."
He liked her lack of elaboration. Saying just enough was quite an art. "Good. Never issue a threat if you're not prepared to go through with it." He frowned, wondering why his words sounded so much like a lesson. "Now ask your question."
"What question?"
"The one you've been itching to ask me since you got in the car." "It's more an observation than a question "
" then make it."
Her eyes clouded as she thought about how she was going say this. "You're a Watcher, you have a duty "
" which is?"
"To serve the Slayer. To protect the world."
"But not necessarily in that order?"
She frowned. "I don't understand."
"Slayer's are ten a penny we've only got one world." Giles snorted. "The gospel according to Quentin Travers. Your boss would say that should make the plight of the planet far more important to us."
"And shouldn't it be?"
"The two aren't mutually exclusive: especially when the Slayer spends so much of her time dealing with the apocalypse of the week."
Jane smiled. "I've read your diaries, not even Sunnydale has managed an apocalypse a week!"
"It's amazing how often it felt like it, though." He turned away to look out of the window. It was starting to rain. He shivered. "Could you ask the driver to turn up the heat, please?" She spoke into the intercom and immediately he felt a blast of warm air. "Thank you."
"Why have you left her? She's your Slayer."
Giles sat quietly and traced the streaks of rain across the window with his fingers. He sighed, tired of having to explain this again. "And still your boss insists that they're ten a penny and that we shouldn't treat them as anything other than the weapons that they are. Shouldn't matter if I'm there or I'm not." He looked at her and saw her frown. "If you were the Slayer, why would you fight?"
"To save the world from demons and the darkness "
"No " He was already shaking his head. " that's Council-speak. If you were the Slayer, why would you fight? What is it in your life that you would fight and die for?"
"My family." It came out in a rush as if she'd seen the truth of it for the first time. "My friends." She hesitated and then carried on, but with a slightly embarrassed smile hovering around her lips. "My dog."
"And the world?" Giles asked gently. "What happened to that?" There was no response. "It's alright. It's not a test. It's just how things really are. The fight isn't taking place in a vacuum. It's taking place in the midst of our messy, complicated, funny, sad, joyful lives. And the Slayers are no different. They save the world and they do it one person at time and for the people and things that they're connected to. Just like you and I."
"So why have you left her?" Her voice was so much softer than when she'd first asked this question, only moments ago.
"So she can rediscover who and what she's connected to." He turned away again to stare through the rain-lashed window. He finished on a whisper audible to only him. "And because I was standing in the way."
>>>>>>
Comfortably at home in the centre of the City of London, the smart steel and glass tower of the Council Headquarters dominated the street. This was the latest of hundreds of such buildings that the Council had used over hundreds of years: state of the art.
The early history of the Council spoke of it wandering first the English, then eventually British, countryside as a way of avoiding detection by the forces of darkness. The Council leaders would seek out a strong patron, one who could provide shelter, and in return for an abbey, or castle, or fortified stronghold, the Council would rid his lands of vampires and demons.
Years passed, the Council's strength grew and it found itself capable of providing its own shelter bought, stolen, begged a base from which to organise and become the force it had always been destined to be. From that base grew the power. Wealth followed. Rights and privileges were bestowed, not just in Britain, but across all the kingdoms of Europe and beyond. Lore was amassed, as were mystical objects of great power capable of terrible destruction and for the sake of these, the Council began again the wandering lifestyle of its infancy.
It sought the best architects, the best builders, the best practitioners of the magical arts, and had built for it a home impervious to attack, physical and magical, fulfilling its guardianship of the things and beings that took up residence inside. But as science and the arts advanced there were always better architects and builders and practitioners of magic and always better buildings. So ten years would pass and a new home would be sought. Another ten and another home. And another. And another. Hundreds of homes over hundreds of years. Until this, the Council's current home.
Giles liked it. Uncompromisingly modern, it was sleek and strong and strangely beautiful, even in the rain. Nor did it hide its purpose from the world: the plaque on the wall at the entrance read `The Watchers' Council of Great Britain.'
The door slid open silently to admit him. The guard at the security desk nodded as he approached. "Mr Giles. Welcome back." He glanced over Giles's shoulder and saw Jane Bergmann coming through the door. "Miss Bergmann."
She acknowledged him with a tilt of her head towards the executive elevator. "Mr Giles has an appointment with Mr Travers."
"Yes, he's expected."
"He's standing right here." Giles interrupted testily.
"My apologies, Mr Giles." The guard gestured to the elevator. "If you would care to go up? The twenty first floor."
"Thank you." Giles spun on his heel and marched across the lobby. With the elevator doors before him, he stood still with his eyes closed and felt the gentle probe of his mind.
<Rupert Giles you have returned to us welcome>
The doors opened and he stepped in. Expecting Jane Bergmann to follow him he was surprised when she stayed outside. He raised an eyebrow, letting it ask the question for him.
"Not invited." She explained.
He nodded. "Then thank you for your company."
"You're welcome."
He stepped away from the doors and let them close. They were almost shut when he remembered something. "Food!"
"Hadn't forgotten come to "
The doors shut firmly on her last words, cutting them off from him.
>>>>>>
Giles leaned on the doorframe of Travers's office and watched the great man at work, surrounded by his minions, barking out orders that they scurried to obey. The arrogance of it was breathtaking. Giles laughed.
"Rupert." Travers looked up from his papers. "That will be all." His staff hurried away. The room empty, Travers sat back in his chair. "Are you coming in?"
"Probably not."
"Very well. We have a problem."
Giles tucked his hands in his trouser pockets and settled in against the door. "This is the royal `we' we're employing, yes?"
Travers mouth twisted in a faintly annoyed smile. "We've booked you on the seven o'clock flight from Heathrow."
"Flight?"
"Yes."
"To where?"
"Glasgow." Travers reached into a desk drawer. "Ticket." He tossed the wallet onto the desk in front of him and, as he'd expected would happen, Giles marched into the room and snatched it up. There were a few moments of uncomfortable silence as he scanned its contents.
"What's the problem?"
"We've prepared a file for you to read."
Giles looked up. "Why Glasgow?"
"Because that's where the problem is, Rupert."
"Yes, but why me?"
"Because your experiences in Sunnydale over the past five and a half years have made you the best field agent that we have."
" `Field agent.' " Giles mocked. "We're Watchers, Quentin, not members of bloody MI5!"
"Exactly. We're Watchers and this is our work."
"Don't you dare presume to tell me my work." He took a deep breath and threw the ticket back onto the desk. "You do remember the phrase `inactive duty'? "
"Not something I agreed with, as I'm sure you know. A Slayer has a Watcher: it's how it's always been."
"I think the First Slayer would disagree with you."
"But not, apparently, your slayer? You can consider yourself reactivated. I'll even throw in a pay rise: you could remind Miss Summers of the concept of inflation the next time she renegotiates your salary for you."
"And if I refuse to go?"
Travers shrugged. "Nothing. You stay in Bath, dabble with the little problems you find down there and wait for me to inform you of the deaths of two people whose lives you could have saved."
Giles laughed bitterly. "You're a cold hearted bastard!"
"I have a world to protect, Rupert, I can't afford to be emotional about it. So, your mission "
" `should you choose to accept it' " Giles smiled grimly. "I don't suppose I could be so lucky that you'd self-destruct in five seconds?"
Quentin grimaced. "That boy has poisoned your brain."
This time the smile was an easy one. " `That boy,' I remind you, has clocked more field time than all of us put together!" He held out his hand. "Give me the bloody file." Travers handed it over. Giles sat down to read it which took all of five seconds. "Jordan Fleming, nine years old. Maggie Fleming, seventy years old. Residing at 127 Fountain Street, Glasgow." He closed the file. "Impressive. If you tell me that it took your staff, what, two minutes to put that together, I might just be forced to believe you. What's going on?"
"Go to Glasgow, Rupert." Travers sighed. "Meet the family. Have dinner with them. Then call me."
"And just how do you suggest I introduce myself? `Hello, my name's Rupert Giles. I don't know you and you don't know me, but I thought I'd drop in for dinner anyway.' "
"The family is aware of who and what we were are."
"Really." Giles raised an eyebrow. "And is that why I'm going, because of `who and what we are'? " There was no response from Travers. "I'm beyond the age of finding being set-up a sexy proposition, Quentin."
"Just go." Travers reached out, ticket in hand. "Please." The two men stared at each across the wide expanse of the desk. "She's nine years old."
The moment stretched out almost unbearably.
"That sentiment would have more effect if I really thought you gave a damn." The ticket felt heavy in his hand as Giles got up and strode out of the room without a backward glance.
>>>>>>
The taxi drove off leaving Giles with the feeling that he'd been dropped off on the edge of humanity. The area was a bleak wasteland of scruffy grass, burned-out cars, and roaming dogs that snarled as they trotted past him.
The building, a big, bluff, square of red sandstone stood face on into the swirling wind and driving rain. It, too, looked like it had been abandoned there, dropped by some giant hand into the landscape to sit in isolation, with the next nearest sign of habitation one hundred or more yards further down the hill. Four storeys - ground to third two flats to a storey, one on either side of a central staircase, eight flats in total: the classic Victorian Glasgow tenement. For so long the symbol of abject poverty in this city.
The rain had darkened even further the evening sky and the glow from the lights in the windows was a welcome sight. He picked up his bag and walked to the outside door. The intercom system on the wall showed the name `Fleming' against Flat 2/2, and he pressed the door buzzer. He shivered: it was getting cold, the temperature dropping as night crept up on the city.
"Yes?"
The voice, made tinny by the speaker, was a woman's and strongly accented.
"Mrs Fleming?"
"Yes."
"My name is Rupert Giles. I'm from the Watchers' Council." Time to test Travers's assertion that this family knew exactly what the Council was and what it represented. There was no immediate reply and as the silence went on he pressed further into the doorway, trying to keep as much of himself out of the rain as possible. The door release sounded and he practically fell into the hallway. "Very stylish, Rupert!" He muttered, disentangling himself from his bag.
The door banged shut behind him. The lights in the hallway glowed brightly making the dark green patterned wall tiles shine. He could hear laughter from behind the front doors of the two ground floor flats as he passed them on his way to the stairs. There was a very faint smell of smoke in the air - the slightly acrid odour of burned fuse.
The staircase was dominated by a large stained glass window on the half landing where the stairs turned back on themselves. The stylised floral pattern of the glass matched that on the tiles on the wall downstairs.
As he turned again to start up to the next floor he was met by a woman coming in the opposite direction, bucket and scrubbing brush in hand. The steps above her were wet and he was assailed by the smell of disinfectant. He smiled at her in apology.
"I'm sorry " He gestured up the last flight of stairs. " I'm afraid I'm going to ruin your hard work."
She shrugged, "Aye, well, stairs are made to be walked on," and carried on past him.
The front door to the Fleming flat echoed the designs carried through the building: more stained-glass, frosted this time, and more deep green. He pressed the bell. There was movement from behind the door and it opened slowly leaving him face to face with a young girl, nine or ten years old, tall for her age and willowy, her long pale face framed by blond hair and set off by dark grey eyes
eyes that were solemn and steady eyes that seemed to see right into the heart of him eyes possessed of an almost otherworldly knowing eyes old before their time
and he knew what she was, even as his whole being responded to her: Slayer.
"Mr Giles."
"Jordan." No point in pretending that he knew nothing. She moved aside but didn't invite him in. He nodded and stepped across the threshold.
"Mr Giles?" The voice he'd heard through the intercom.
He moved further into the hallway and saw her standing in a doorway, stick in each hand for balance, wheelchair beside her against the wall.
>>>>>>
She'd fed him out of courtesy. He might be an unwanted guest in her house but there was still pride in rendering basic hospitality and it was for this reason, too, that she offered him a bed for the night: all of this in as few words as possible. She'd seen to his comforts, shown him where the bathroom and his bedroom were, got her granddaughter to bed, wished him goodnight and had left him here in the kitchen with a last cup of tea and an admonishment to turn out the lights when he was done. And he'd sat there, shamed by this woman and her granddaughter. Shamed by the organisation that they saw in him, that even after hundreds of years it had yet to find a way to give these girls a life, any sort of life, before their existence was snuffed out.
His head was pounding. The day had taken on a surreal quality, beginning and ending, as it had, with a young girl whose life was mapped and set. The power was rolling off the girl in waves, making his body vibrate as the Bond responded. Maybe this was why his head was aching so badly. His Bond with Buffy, normally a smooth sub- harmonic that he was all but unaware of, was already a jarring discordant note within him and to that had been added Jordan's sharp, spiky, wild tones. She was clearly coming into her slayer powers and at only nine they were coming very early. Even Buffy, precocious as she was, hadn't developed hers until she was fifteen. He couldn't think of a slayer in history who had developed this quickly. Or this strongly. A Slayer's power had a resonance to it that spoke of its very depth: Jordan's had a pure bell-like quality that was almost breathtaking.
They'd sat with him while he'd eaten, Maggie Fleming delivering a deliberate, though unspoken, `She might be Chosen, but she's wanted and is loved and is my family.' He didn't need to be a mind reader to know exactly what the woman had been thinking: `You can't have her. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.'
Jordan had smiled and laughed with her grandmother. Complained loudly when she was told to go to bed. Pouted when it was clear that she really had to go. Kissed and hugged the woman who was her whole family. Looked at him again with those far-seeing eyes before wishing him goodnight. And he was supposed to take this baby away from the woman who loved her? <Well, screw you, Quentin!>
He shoved away from the table and marched over to the sink. His movements were quick and angry: wash the mug, replace the mug, switch off the lights, clean teeth, wash face, go to bed.
<Damn it to hell!>
He entered his bedroom, closed the door, strode over to the bed and scrabbled in his jacket pocket for his phone. He was almost blind with anger: then the phone was in is hand and he was pressing the quick-dial number of the Council.
<"Yes?">
"Get Quentin Travers on the phone."
<"Mr Travers has gone home for the evening, Mr Giles.">
"Travers lives there! Get him on the bloody phone!"
<"One moment, Mr Giles.">
He paced back and forth across the room.
<"Rupert?">
"She's a Slayer, Quentin." He snarled.
<"We know.">
"Please don't tell me you sent me here to drag her away from her family."
<"That's exactly why we sent you there.">
"You do remember I'm the one who's been telling the Council for years that taking these girls away from their family and friends is inhuman?"
<"A sentimental viewpoint which I, fortunately, do not share.">
"Well you've got the wrong man: I won't do it."
<"Has she shown you what else she is?"> Travers asked, ignoring Giles's comment.
" `What else': I don't understand."
<"You mean you haven't felt it? The grandmother must be having a good day.">
"What else, Quentin?" Giles ground his words out around clenched teeth.
<"Magic, Rupert. The child has magic.">
"What?" Giles stopped pacing, all his anger draining out of him at Travers's words. "I felt something - it was strong - I just assumed it was the Bond pulling at me. But magic? Quentin, that's "
<" supposed to be impossible. We know.">
"How?" He sat down and ran his hand through his hair. A deep frown creased his forehead.
<"We've been watching this family for hundreds of years. Power has been concentrating itself in successive generations.">
"I still can't believe this - a slayer with magic."
<"It surprised even us.">
"So why am I here?"
<"I've already told you why. We need the girl here, with us.">
"Have you spoken to her grandmother?"
<"Yes. She's very much of the same opinion as you.">
"Then we should respect that opinion."
<"Oh, for goodness sake, don't be so naοve! We can't leave her there. She's `leaking' power. Her grandmother - who is, by the way, a very powerful witch in her own right - is protecting her by masking it, but she won't be able to do so for much longer because the girl's power is becoming too strong. The girl needs to learn control. She needs to be trained.">
"I don't understand what the problem is take them both!"
<"The grandmother is the problem. She won't come.">
There was an undercurrent, something that only someone who knew Quentin Travers very well would pick up on - and Rupert Giles knew him very well indeed. "What is it that you're not telling me?"
<"There's a history between the family and the Council, some unpleasantness.">
"Oh, this just gets better and better." Giles stood and stared at the bedroom door, wondering what the hell he'd say to Maggie and Jordan Fleming in the morning. "At what point in the proceedings were you going to tell me all this?"
<"Now.">
He nodded. "Of course. You couldn't tell me before and run the risk of me refusing to come."
<"There's something else.">
"Isn't there always?" This, then, was the crux of it.
<"There's a prophecy in The Codex.">
"The Pergamum Codex?"
<"Yes. The prophecy is discussed in The Commentaries.">
Until Angel had brought The Codex to Giles almost five years ago, `The Book of Commentaries on The Pergamum Codex' was the closest the Council had come to The Codex itself. The Commentaries had been written by a German cleric almost one thousand years ago, the last time The Codex had seen the light of day. Until five years ago everything that the Council knew about The Codex and about its pivotal role in Slayer lore had come from The Commentaries: it was almost as precious as The Codex itself.
"What does it say?"
<"Not over the phone, Rupert. We'll see you tomorrow: Jules will speak to you.">
"And you couldn't have told me all this this afternoon?"
<"Of course we could have, but this afternoon your emotions weren't engaged.">
"You go too far, Quentin." Fury made him icily polite.
<"Nonsense."> Travers sounded briskly dismissive. <"That girl needs to be here.">
"And if I can't persuade them to come? You'll send in the snatch squad?"
<"No. If they won't come you can explain to them that we have absolutely no intention of wasting any more time on them - and it'll be up to you to ensure that the girl doesn't fall into enemy hands."> There was a small pause. <"We'll talk more about this tomorrow, when you've returned.">
The phone went dead in Giles's hand. He snapped it shut and hurled it onto the bed, more angry with himself than he was with Quentin Travers and the Watchers' Council. After all, it wasn't as if he didn't know what they were like, or what they were capable of. The Council made no secret of the fact that its priorities had nothing to do with the ultimate well-being of either their Slayers or their Watchers. Individuals didn't concern them, only the big picture did and in this case the big picture, for the moment at least, included the girl, but that could easily change if sacrificing her was necessary to keep her from the legions of darkness.
He was under no illusions about his own lack of indispensability. It was implicit in Quentin's words. If he came back without her and left her alive, he was sure that his lifespan would be measured in minutes and all of them would be very painful indeed.
He rolled his shoulders trying to ease the ache: even if his head knew what time zone he was in, his body didn't. He glanced at his watch 10.30pm. Probably too late to call. He sighed and slowly got ready for bed: a pointless exercise since he knew it would take him hours to get to sleep. <Jet-lag and The Council> He'd be lucky if he slept at all.
An hour later he put the light back on, along with his glasses and snatched up the phone <I know, now it really is too late > The number rang seven, eight times before it was picked up.
<" `Lo?">
Her sleepy query made him grimace <Very good, Rupert, you've woken her up!> "Anna?"
<"Mmm-hmm?">
"Anna, it's Giles."
<"Giles?"> Her voice sounded stronger and there was a lightness to it that made him think that she was smiling. <"Hello. Where are you?">
"Back home."
<"Here?">
"Not exactly there here, more here here."
There was a short buzzing silence over the mobile.
<"Alright, I didn't understand a word of that: is it because I've just woken up and my brain's not in gear yet, or because you're speaking in some sort of code?">
He laughed softly, mindful of the other people in the flat.
"Yes, sorry about that " He apologised sheepishly.
<" sorry about what?"?
"Waking you up."
<"No, it's ok, I would've woken up myself sooner or later. I fell asleep reading and the light's still on.">
He settled back into the pillows and tucked his free arm behind his head. "What were you reading?"
There was a snort of laughter from the other end of the phone. <"I'm embarrassed to tell you.">
"Why?"
<"Because!">
"A very grown-up response!" He teased.
<"Ghost stories."> She mumbled.
"I'm sorry?"
Anna sighed and admitted, <"I was reading a book of ghost stories.">
"Tell me that I didn't just hear you say `ghost stories.' "
She laughed. <"I used to love reading them, even when they scared me witless! I suppose I wondered if having my own ghost had ruined that particular reading habit.">
"And has it?"
<"I've found that now I can read them in a whole new light, a `been there, done that' sort of thing and they still scare me witless!">
His smile became a quiet chuckle. "How's the house?"
<"It's fine, thank you.">
"And how are you?"
<"Stronger more at peace than I have been for a long time: something else to thank you for."> He heard her take a deep breath. <"So thank you, Rupert Giles, for saving my life.".
He briefly closed his eyes as if in doing so he could capture the soft sincerity of her voice. His reply, though, was preceded by a shrug and perhaps something of that gesture crept into his self- deprecating reply. "It was nothing, Anna."
<"No "> There was a firm but gentle admonition to her words " please don't throw it away like that. You save lives and that is most definitely something.">
Giles smiled at her vehemence. "Alright " He agreed, " but no more thanks, please."
<"Ah, the stiff upper lip strikes again!">
"Something like that."
,"When did you get back?">
"Yesterday. No " He looked at his watch, " technically, it's still today."
<"How was California?">
He could hear in her voice the worry that this was straying into matters too personal. "Difficult." His admission felt heavy on his lips. "Emotional " His voice trailed off.
<"Giles?">
"I'm sorry." He sighed deeply. "It was just very, very, hard."
<"And Buffy? How is she?".
"In most ways exactly the same, but in some very changed."
<"How?">
"There's a fragility to her a sort of unconnectedness " He stopped, grimacing at his continuing inability to articulate this. " I'm not sure I can explain it. It's more what I feel about her, rather than what I know."
<"How long will you be home?">
"I don't think I'm going back."
There was a long silence on the other end of the phone in which he could hear her breathing: there was something soothing about it, the slow rhythmical inhalation and exhalation of air.
<"Are you alright?">
He felt a flash of embarrassment as her gentle query caused his eyes to well up. "No, not really." He swallowed away the tightness in his throat. "But I will be."
<"I know."> She let her words hang there for a beat. <"So where are you?">
"Glasgow."
<"Why?">
"Council."
<"Watchers' Council?">
"Yes."
<"Oh."> He could hear the smile in her voice. <"Am I to take from the suddenly abrupt answers that you're not there willingly?">
"Yes." He was starting to smile now, too. "The term `pressed man' comes to mind."
<"Except that you already work for them."> She sounded puzzled.
"And thought I'd agreed a period of inactive duty."
<"Can you do that?">
"It's not unheard of."
Another short silence. <"You're serious about not going back.">
To Sunnydale. He knew that was what she meant and there was concern in her comment phrased, as it was, in a half-questioning tone. "For the moment, yes."
<I know this'll sound like a terrible clichι, but do you want to talk about it?"> It was a terrible clichι and because it was he laughed. She joined him and they giggled together for a few seconds, then she stopped. <"Giles?">
He closed his eyes and saw Buffy, as he'd last seen her, angry beyond words with him. "She's falling to pieces."
<"And?">
"She's using me as a crutch and I can't be that for her." Giles covered his eyes with an arm and felt the involuntary clench of his jaw. "They pulled her out of Heaven. She was happy there, she said. She says that the world just seems so hard and brutal to her. She doesn't belong. She can't feel anything. She can't deal with it and all I want to do is protect her and help her and and she keeps pushing me away and I keep I keep trying to help and I'm I'm drowning!" He felt his eyes starting to burn. "Shit!" He took a quick, deep, breath. "Sorry."
<"It's ok.">
"I'd let go of her, Anna." He huffed out a breath. "Do you know how many walls I let fall?"
<"Yes.">
<Of course she does stupid question> "I'm sorry, I'm being self- indulgent." Their words to each other were tinged with the bitter regret of lives gone before their time.
Anna let a quiet fall before she again asked, <"So why are you in Glasgow?">
"A child a Slayer."
<"A Slayer?".
"The Council wants her in London where she will held under its `benevolent' protection." He rubbed his hand across his jaw, stubble rasping beneath his fingers. "A Slayer." He shook his head, still barely believing it himself. "My god she's so young."
<"How old is she?">
"Nine."
<"And her family?">
"Lives with her grandmother who doesn't want to hand her over, apparently."
<"What did she say?"> There was a sharp exhalation of air over the phone. <"How do you even what on earth did you say to her? `Hi, my name's Rupert Giles and I'm here to take your granddaughter away from you'!">
"She already knows about the Council."
<"Oh question's still a valid one.".
"Yes it is. The fact that she knows about the Council does, though, go some way to explaining why she let me in, fed me, gave me a bed and barely said a word to me."
<"So what are you going to do?">
"Try to talk to her tomorrow. I spoke to Quentin Travers "
<" the man who fired you ">
"Yes." Giles smiled, "I spoke to Quentin just before I called you and there's a well there's a complication. I have to come back down to London briefly tomorrow to see the Council. Then I'll speak to the girl's grandmother."
<"It sounds like a very difficult situation and that sounds like another clichι!">
Giles laughed. "Does, doesn't it! Doesn't make it any less true." Then, determined to leave those complications behind, he asked, "So, what have you been doing over the past few weeks?"
<"Actually actually I've been trying to find my direction again.">
"And have you?"
<"I think so a little, anyway. I've put together a showing of the photos that I took in the States just before my family died. It was time.">
"When's the show?"
<"Saturday.">
"This Saturday?"
<"Yes.">
"Damn!" He exclaimed softly. "I don't know if I'll be back by then " Then he stopped. "Unless I'm presuming too much?"
<"No, you're presuming just enough. Your invitation is waiting at home for you."> She heard Giles sigh. <"What?">
" `Home.' It's a nice thought. It's a long time since I've really felt as if I've had one."
<"And on that note ">
Giles glanced at his watch: it was almost midnight. "Sorry. I should let you get back to sleep."
<"And you should try to get some yourself.">
"I'll try I can normally manage a few hours through the night when I've got jet-lag."
<"Ok, goodnight.">
"Goodnight, Anna." He was about to end the call when he heard her calling his name. "Yes?"
<"Will you call me tell me how things are going?">
"Yes " He looked surprised but pleased by her request. "I'll do that. Tomorrow then?"
<"Tomorrow. I'll speak to you then see, and I didn't even ask you where you got my phone number from. Goodnight, Giles.">
He was laughing again as he heard the soft click as she replaced the receiver.