__Second-Chance Tune Up__
By Beadtific



Giles drifted, but it wasn't altogether pleasant. There were moments he was occasionally aware of Buffy: her warm body pressed against his side, her lips on his temple, the sounds of her weeping, and the soothing lullaby she used to pull him out of his terrors. But he couldn't contact her, no matter what he tried; he couldn't move, couldn't speak, and the Bond was dead.

Dead. Because of his foolishness. He could have killed them both with his lack of control. One simple kiss ruined it. He wondered if he imagined Buffy's presence. Once he thought he heard Willow's soft voice, thick with tears, and again, the familiar voices struggling to contain laughter; it had made him happy for a moment. It was possible that they were there, just as it was possible that they were momentary mirages between torments, a soothing balm before memories and dreams burned him again and again.

There had been hope that the First Slayer had a plan for them, and had given Buffy some instruction so that things could be mended. He seemed to remember that. He thought he did. But in this twilight land, he knew, somehow, that he was paying a price for his inattention and carelessness. Who knew for how long the punishment would last? He wasn't entirely sure he was still alive.

Except for those hazy moments of sweetness and hope, his internal wanderings were full of anger, terror, and guilt all turned toward himself. Buffy slew Angelus because Giles lost his control. Buffy nearly died at eighteen because he was too foolish to stand up to the Council. Buffy did die, and his world shattered. Then he got her back, and nearly lost her all over again by shutting her out, leaving her, and then coming back to second guess her and nearly killing her champion.

He was a fool and the worst sort of idiot. Bringers chased young women down dark alleys. The Master killed Buffy, and was freed to walk the Earth. Demons chased them all, holding him as they tore Buffy and their friends apart in gruesome ways that never happened. He staked Spike himself and the First became flesh and invaded the world. He had blood, so much blood on his hands. He was too late. He always knew too late, arrived too late.

"Are you quite through?" a dry, exasperated voice asked. Giles opened his eyes with a jerk. He was in the desert, in the place where the Bond was severed. The sand rasped softly as he sat up and squinted across the fire. The First Slayer squatted on a rock, gazing at him through heavy lids. A figure stood next to her one he couldn't quite make out.

"W-who's there?" Giles cursed the weakness in his voice. Of course, he wasn't going to be able to do much in the way of self-defense, weakened, barefoot and clad in pajama pants. He could do some martial arts, he supposed, if it came to it. Someone, thankfully, had untied him. He closed his hand around a brick-sized rock.

"Ah, the sleeper awakes!" the voice said, amused. Giles was sure now it was a man, and the voice was familiar. He scooted until his back pressed against one of the rocks, a comfortable distance from the still-roaring fire. Giles’ eyes widened when the figure walked toward him; it was a man who had died right in front of him.

"Hullo, old man," said David Robson, picking up a rock of his own. "Corporeal, just like you; I'm not the First Evil."

"Robson," Giles gulped dryly, "Am I dead then? Are you here to take me somewhere?"

Robson laughed a dry chuckle, "No, old man, I am not the Angel of Death. Never did look good in black, and that whacking great scythe is just a nuisance. I'm a servant of the Powers That Be, which is rather a nice gig, helping to save the world and whatnot. Much less paperwork when your bosses are omniscient." He grinned cheekily at Giles.

"The Powers seem to think your sorry hide's worth saving. Our girl there," he pointed to the First Slayer, who bared her teeth at the late watcher, "Did a bit of freelance work in saving you and your slayer from burning your brains into cinders. Seems to have formed a bit of an attachment of her own to your lady, I think."

"Friend," rasped the spirit, in explanation, then ducked her face behind her dreadlocks, shyly. Both men's eyebrows flew up.

The spirit’s gesture had reminded him of Tara at her most self-conscious, and the pain behind the shyness of both women--murdered young witch and ancient spirit--touched him. It occurred to Giles that the First Slayer probably never had a friend when she was alive – not after the Shadow Men had made her a slayer and turned her out into the night. And she evidently had come a long way since she said to Buffy, "No friends; just kill."

"I'm sure Buffy would be honored to know that," Giles said, hoping that was what his beloved would want him to say to the spirit’s admission. The First Slayer gave him a half wistful, half amused look, and rolled her eyes.

"Good," she nodded, seeming to think things over. She raised her own eyebrows and gave him what passed for a shy smile. "Good…you not dead. You not…" Lacking the proper words again, she pantomimed craziness and grinned at Giles with satisfaction. Happy or not, her expression was still rather blood curdling, and Giles smiled his thanks as best he could. Unused to expressing so many positive emotions, the First Slayer jumped off her rock and indulged in a little violence by throwing her knife into a nearby log.

"Imagine that," Robson said, shaking his head in wonder. "She likes you, I think. You may just watcher to the First Slayer. That will play hell with the time line."

Giles gave the spirit of his old friend a sarcastic look.

Robeson smiled, "I'm just saying… very interesting for research purposes. Historical, and all that."

"Well, 'old man', we only seem to chat when I'm unconscious and in danger, so do forgive me if I neglect to take notes."

"You really are still so easy to rile, Rupert," Robson chuckled. "How did you survive mentoring a slayer as - vivacious - as Buffy?"

Giles' face grew grim, "*Have* I survived, David?" What is this place?"

Robson looked around the site, taking in the rough, red, California rocks, the blazing fire that never seemed to die down, the stars in the sky and the aborigine methodically chipping an innocent log to pieces. "Bit of an astral plane. It's sort of a holding place where we can talk a few things through, without you sinking back into the self-flagellation that is your mind at the moment. You were starting to get rather excessive in your imaginative by making a few disasters, so I stopped you. Willow's out there in the world, with your Buffy and the coven, working on bringing you back. Your young witch has a few good ideas, but she's not going to get all the answers she needs. The books she could really use are all ash now. Pity."

Giles' eyes stung, and his breath caught, "Buffy's alright then?" He whispered, "I thought I heard her voice."

"Well, she had rather a shock too, but, slayer healing and all," Robson waved an assuring hand. She *is* a bit frayed around the edges. She misses you, terribly. Been by your side the whole time. Jolly good the First Slayer contacted Willow; she's been a big help getting your lady back on her feet."

Giles rested his head on his knees a moment as relief poured through him. It was one thing to pray Buffy was all right, but a whole other delight to find that their separation had, in fact, caused no permanent damage to her. Suddenly a thought struck him. "If she's alright, then why I am I still… here?" He gestured to the desert around them.

"You had a bit of a shock as well, Rupert, and you're only bloody human. Also, a bit of what Buffy was feeling was left in you as the Bond was cut. Those feelings, combined with your own, sent you into a nasty place, I'm afraid. Between the Bond fragments and your own sense of failure, you wrote, directed and produced your little nightmare jaunt – a nearly three-day festival, I might add. We rather hoped you'd figure it out on your own."

"I've been out for three days?" Giles said, trying not to panic. "Why haven't I woken up yet?"

"Well, for one, *she* was holding you here until you could heal from the shock of severing." Robson gestured at the First Slayer, who pretended not to hear him. "Free will," the dark haired man laughed, "is what got you into this mess, and free will is what saved your bacon, old boy."

"What do you mean?"

"The Powers always intended for watchers and slayers to be Bonded, both as a gift of thanks and a powerful weapon against the Dark. But, the free will of the council from over a thousand years ago, mucked *that* up, with jealousy and being power-mad. A lucky few, very few, bucked the system, but most did not. And that continued until the old council went *boom.* The old council had strayed a bit far from its path."

"You and your Slayer are obviously the best hope for a new generation, which you've already begun work on – one far closer to what the Powers intended. Bonded Pairs would be formidable weapons." Robson ticked off categories on his fingers, "for both, telepathic and empathetic communication; for you, increased healing powers, better reflexes and stamina; for her, improved cognitive abilities, longer life span, and sharing, to an extent, any mystical abilities you might possess. She wouldn't have full access to the power of your magicks until she was trained. Longer life span's really the brass ring for your Buffy, even given her track record with resurrection. The Bond is rather a win-win situation if done properly."

"But we didn't do it properly." Giles stated.

"Well, to be blunt; no. It was all set into motion, not once but twice! Once, a few years back, when Buffy asked you to be her watcher again, you were set on the path, and again, when she joined you in your work this year. But his last year, my friend, you were a bit thickheaded when it came to looking for signs of the return of your former, normal, Watcher/Slayer bond. You remained closed off to her, until a few days ago. Then, all unawares, you barrel into the sacred Bonding ritual without noticing what was happening! She claimed you, man! No warning bells?" Robeson snorted, "Nary an idea in your head until you took a good crack to the old noggin and Buffy felt your pain. I tell you, Everyone," he pointed towards the heavens, "was amazed at the series of coincidences. What the Powers wanted to happen happened, but you did it rather arse first."

Giles grumbled, "We were doing all right really, until that last bit--learning a bit of control."

Robson snorted derisively, "Oh, enjoying the neurological overload of the blackouts, were you? And bruised shins? Not to mention how badly Buffy's high heels pinch. It only would have gotten worse you know, old man. It *did* get worse."

"We came to Devon for some help – to build some protections around the Bond," Giles said defensively.

"Which might have worked, Rupert, if you hadn't added blood to the mix, amplifying everything. It could have killed you both. Should have. But Buffy's friend over there stopped things before it could."

"How?"

"Buffy's her heir, in direct line through millennia, and her power comes undiluted from the undying essence of the First Slayer. And, since you invoked the First Slayer in a spell once, there's a deeper connection with that essence. She's entered your mind before, and tried to influence things."

"Yes, indeed she has," Giles muttered, running his hand absently across his scalp. A whirl of dreadlocks and dark limbs swarmed towards him. The First Slayer put her hand on his scalp, none too gently, where she'd cut him in the dream, years ago.

"Now. Protect," she declared, looking him angrily in the eyes. She slapped his chest over where the Bond had been. "Protect." He forced himself to look untroubled and calm.

"Yes," Giles said gently, "I know that now, Slayer. Thank you."

Her expression wavered towards softness, then she scowled, nodded and, in a swirl of dust, trotted back to her target practice.

"Gets her point across, doesn't she?" Robson deadpanned.

"Rather well, I should say." Giles breathed.

"You called her 'Slayer,'" Robson noted.

"Bloody well not going to call her 'the First,'" Giles snorted. Robson chuckled.

"Suppose not."

Giles sighed. "So I've mucked up our Bonding. What now?"

"Well, we're hoping that you'll get a few psychic visitors back down on the earthly plane. So, I'd clean up any cobwebs in your cranium before company comes. I'm going to heal the remains of your Bond wound, and Buffy's, so that you can become re-Bonded as soon as possible."

"After what just happened? Impossible."

"Old man," his old friend smiled. "It's the only way we can get you out of here." He tapped Giles' forehead. The ominous sounding 'thunk' of the First Slayer's knife into the log punctuated Robson's words. "Even with Miss Slayer's intervention, another lovely bit of free will, I might add, it was a near thing with you. The Powers healed your neurological system immediately after the severing, but left it to Buffy to wake the sleeping prince. I think it's like the adage about getting back on a horse…"

"Immediately after falling off, yes I know, David." He sighed. "Bloody hell."

"Worried you'll hurt her? It will hurt her worse if you refuse to wake up."

Giles put his head in his hands. Robson stirred, and Giles raised his head. Robson seemed to be listening to something in the distance. He turned to face Giles.

"Listen, Rupert, there isn't much time. Angela is down there now telling them she doesn't know much beyond the fact that watchers and slayers were always meant to be Bonded. Willow's going to do a spell soon, to pay a visit to your mind. Here's what you need to tell her when she arrives; she's to perform a protection spell, a strong one, and Buffy is to re-initiate the Bond again. They will leave, and you will wake soon after. You should perform a *minor* Bonding ritual, immediately, like blood bonding. You've asked her to marry you, so that will strengthen the existing bond, but not in any dangerous way. Should the God and Goddess grant you their blessing again, the right protection spells will ensure it shouldn't blow your motors. Got it?"

Giles jaw was set. "What if Buffy doesn't wish to re-Bond?"

"Oh good lord man, shut it." Robson stood, extended his hand to Giles, and pulled the man to his feet. "You might want to say your goodbyes now, to her." He nodded toward the First Slayer.

Giles edged his way around the bonfire to where the First Slayer was still tossing her knife into a log. He cleared his throat so as not to startle her, though she was probably knew exactly where he was. She turned and scowled at him.

"I'm going to leave now," Giles said warmly, "'Thank you' does not begin to encompass what…" he noticed she was looking a little confused. "You protected us, Buffy and I, and you helped us a great deal. Thank you."

The First Slayer shrugged and kicked the dirt, but there was a proud gleam in her eye, and her lips curved at the corners. Giles titled his head, raised his eyebrows, and aimed a grin of thanks at her. She grinned back quickly, then shyly ducked her head.

"Do you have a name, Slayer?" Giles blurted.

Her shrug this time was sullen, and her face ducked back behind her dreads. She shook her head. "No," came a scratchy whisper.

Giles took a careful two paces toward her. "Of course you do," he said, putting a cautious hand under her chin to raise it. As her head came up, her eyes were wide with surprise. He flaked some of the mud off her cheek with his thumb, and she stood childlike, basking in the attention. "Friend," he said, looking into her eyes and squeezing her shoulder. She beamed.

"Friend," she agreed and smacked him affectionately on the chest. He staggered. Sobering, she pointed to her own chest. "Tell her; Friend."

"I will," Giles said, smiling, feeling as if he'd done the right thing.

And with another frightfully delighted grin, she vanished.

"Always were a ladies' man, Rupert." Robson strolled over to where Giles was standing.

"Oh, do shut up," Giles turned toward the spirit of his old friend. "May we go now?"

"One last thing, old man," Robson said, placing his left hand on Giles' shoulder and his right flat against the center of Giles' chest. He began to glow a beautiful, incandescent white. "Time for a second-chance tune up."

A wind that was both warm and cool, deeply fragrant and as clean as snow, poured into Giles from Robson's hand. He began to shake as it washed through him. Jittering on the edge of joy and unconsciousness, he dimly heard his old friend's voice. "Long life to you, old man, and to your lady."

* * *