( RIPOSTE ][ A Watchergirls Archive )

__Baby, Baby__
By Blood Bytes

“Giles, I – I can’t. I have class; I can’t skip again. Are you all right?”

Buffy was just about to step into her dorm room when she heard Willow’s hushed voice; she opened the door an inch and peeked inside to find her roomie on the phone.

“I can get Buffy for you – ”

The Slayer was about to announce her presence and take the phone, already running through a mental list of possible demon catastrophes it could be this time. At the next words, however, she stopped.

“Giles, that’s dumb; Buffy can handle it. You obviously need help – I can come over in a couple of hours, but it doesn’t sound like you’re gonna make it that long.”

Since when did Giles go to Willow instead of her? What was she, chopped liver? First, she gets pushed aside for some British chippie (whatever the hell a chippie was; she made a mental note to ask Giles the next time she saw him.) And then, he goes to a Wicca in training – not even a very stable one these days – instead of asking the Slayer. His Slayer. What kind of Watcher was he, anyway?

A few seconds later, Willow hung up the phone and Buffy burst into the room.

“Buffy!” The redhead looked up, flushing guiltily. “Hey – I didn’t hear ya coming. Guess that’s the whole stealthy Slayer thing, huh? Good job. Way to be all…” her voice faded. “Slayer-y.”

“I heard you on the phone,” Buffy accused. “What’s wrong with Giles? Why didn’t he want me to come?”

“He made me promise I wouldn’t say anything.”

Buffy didn’t even pause to ask more questions, just went straight to her weapons chest and grabbed a healthy selection of stakes, bottles of holy water, and her crossbow.

“Is he at his apartment?”

Willow’s eyes widened even further as Buffy stuffed everything into her backpack. She nodded, mute.

“I’ll just go; prove to him that even if he’s not my Watcher anymore, at least one of us is mature enough to stick with her destiny for the long haul."

Willow didn’t find her voice until Buffy was already out the door and down the hall, managing faintly after her: “You probably won’t need the crossbow.”

* * * * *

Once she’d reached Giles’ apartment, Buffy didn’t even bother to knock – even though she knew firsthand the horrible demon-y things (Olivia) that could be waiting on the other side of the door. Why hadn’t he called her instead of Willow, Buffy seethed. They’d grown apart in the past few months, sure – but that was because he’d practically thrown her out the door once he got a girlfriend. He’d made it perfectly clear more than once that he didn’t want his former Slayer hanging around; so if she went out and got herself a life all her own, complete with boyfriend and almost-respectable grade-point-average… Well, that was just fair play, she reasoned. But there was no cause to think she wouldn’t be there for him when he really needed her. Was there?

Racing inside, she found the apartment empty, clothing strewn across the couch and books tossed to the floor. Taking in the living room and kitchen, she stepped further inside and suddenly became aware of a sound that traveled up and down her spine in waves, chilling her. A howl, a scream; Buffy took the stairs two at a time, and it was only when she stepped into Giles’ bedroom that she realized what the sound was.

“Giles!”

He looked up at her, his face a mix of exasperation and surprise. The yowling bundle in his arms took a moment to replenish its tiny lungs and then began its furious protestations anew.

“That’s not a demon.”

He rolled his eyes, bouncing the tiny bundle in his arms ineffectually.

“Says you,” he quipped dryly.

Buffy took a cautious step forward, and Giles laughed despite himself.

“What?” she demanded.

“You – ” he raised his voice a notch, in order to be heard above the squalling infant. “You look as though it’s going to stake you… It’s just a baby, Buffy.”

“Well, what about you?” she retaliated. “You’re bouncing that thing like it’s a… well, something that’s good with the bouncy life. I don’t think you’re supposed to do that to babies.”

Sure enough, the infant had had quite enough of Giles’ inexperienced jostling – it promptly spit up all over itself and the Watcher’s favorite sweater.

“Bloody hell,” Giles muttered. He stood, gesturing Buffy closer. “Here – will you take it? I’ll get something to clean it with.”

Buffy’s eyes widened in horror. “Nuh unh – I’ll get something. You keep it.”

“Honestly, Buffy – it’s a baby. You’ve saved the world, for heaven’s sake.”

“And I’ll do it again, too. Got a demon in the closet or a vamp about to drag the world into hell, I’m your gal. I don’t do babies.”

Giles ignored her, pushing the whimpering child into the Slayer’s arms. “Well, you’re doing this one. I need to clean this before it's ruined.”

At the change in venue, the child’s screams began anew. Against her own advice, Buffy began bouncing on her heels; the screams escalated. She shouted after her Watcher, who’d disappeared down the hallway.

“I think there’s something wrong with it.”

Which was when Riley came bursting through the front door, already open from Buffy’s entrance earlier. In full commando garb, he scanned the apartment before coming to rest on Giles, who was wiping ineffectually at the mess on his sweater in the kitchen.

“Where’s Buffy – I got a message there was trouble. What is it? HST? Vamp?”

Giles looked vaguely confused as Buffy came down the stairs, her brow furrowed and the baby cradled awkwardly against her shoulder.

“Way worse.”

Riley’s face softened when he saw her. “It’s a baby.”

He went to her, taking the infant from her arms. Instantly, the bundle fell silent. Giles stared at the young man in awe.

“My God – how did you do that?”

“My God, too,” Buffy agreed. "I didn’t think it would ever stop.”

Riley shrugged, then ran a hand experimentally under the baby’s blanket.

“Looks like somebody needs a fresh diaper.” At the helpless look on Giles’ face, Riley looked skeptical. “You don’t have diapers?” The older man shook his head, and Riley immediately took charge. “Just a clean dust cloth or something’ll do. And some warm water and soap. Safety pins, too,” he added authoritatively. Grateful for some direction, Giles went to work gathering the items Riley had listed.

The young soldier lay the baby down on Giles’ table. Clear blue eyes stared up, chubby fists waving in the air as Riley removed the soiled clothes. Buffy peered over his shoulder.

“It’s really kind of cute… Once it stops screeching like a howler monkey.”

“It’s really kind of a boy, Buffy – not an it.”

“How do you know how to do that?” She took a step back, wrinkling her nose distastefully when an extremely soiled diaper was removed from an extremely soiled bottom. Riley whistled, completely unflustered.

“Wow. No wonder he was screaming.”

Giles reappeared, his arms loaded with supplies. At the sight of Buffy and Riley standing together, he recoiled – they were poised over the infant, cooing attentively; the picture of domesticity. He thought of his complete ineptitude earlier, - the reason he hadn’t called Buffy in the first place. He was already obsolete in her life, he hardly needed her to know that her former Watcher was a complete disaster with children.

Unlike Finn, he thought bitterly. Apparently, the strapping young Iowa lad was not only a stellar student, a patriot to the core, and an action hero in training… he would also be a wonderful father. Buffy looked up with a soft smile at Giles’ entrance, nodding toward the table.

“Riley figured out how to make it happy.”

“He,” Riley insisted.

She rolled her eyes. “Right – he. Take a look, Giles.”

Giles stepped closer, cautiously. In his absence, Riley had cleaned the baby up with a wash cloth – now, an utterly nude, blissfully content baby lay blowing bubbles on his dining room table, chubby arms and legs waving in the air.

“See. Not so scary,” Riley admonished.

Giles nodded, though not without reservations. He suddenly became aware of a stench issuing from a bundle of clothes off to the side of the table.

“Is that…?”

Buffy nodded gravely. “’Fraid so, Giles. Who knew babies could be so… well, ick.”

“And you couldn’t have possibly found a better place for this than my dining room table?”

“Sorry, Giles,” Riley took the items from the Watcher’s arms and began assembling a fresh diaper. “Gotta make do with what you’ve got.” Lacking safety pins, Riley used a paper clip to secure the handily-made diaper, sealing off the ends carefully by closing them together. Buffy shook her head, clearly impressed.

“Wow – you’re like the MacGyver of baby-dom.”

Giles looked at her in confusion; she smiled apologetically. “Sorry – pop culture reference.”

He nodded, feeling increasingly out of place. “Right – of course. Well… you two seem to have this well in hand. Perhaps it would be best if you took charge of the situation, until we figure out who the child belongs to.”

“Wait. You don’t know who he belongs to?”

Giles shook his head. “Of course not. I’m not the obvious choice for a babysitter, in case you hadn’t noticed. Someone left him on my doorstep this morning.”

“And you just picked him up?” Buffy stared at him in horror. “He could have been booby-trapped… or a demon. Or a booby-trapped demon.”

“Buffy, this is Sunnydale, not ‘Nam,” Riley advised. “You did the right thing calling Buffy, though,” he continued, apparently discounting how flustered his girlfriend had been when he’d first arrived. “She’s great with kids.”

Buffy’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “You must be thinking of your other Slayer girlfriend. And besides,” her lower lip came out just slightly and Giles rolled his eyes. “Giles didn’t call me. He called Willow.”

“Who was supposed to keep this to herself.”

Riley picked the now-diapered baby up and pressed him gently against his shoulder, removing himself from what had the potential to be another Slayer-Watcher blowout.

“Why didn’t you want me here? I could have helped.”

Giles went to the kitchen and put the kettle on for tea, Buffy close on his heels. “Right. Because you’ve been so monumentally helpful thus far.”

He regretted the words the instant they were out. Buffy’s face fell, hurt flashing in her eyes before she looked away quickly. “You could have called.”

The front door flew open just then and Willow, Tara, Xander and Anya came rushing in.

“Hail, hail, gang’s all here,” Xander announced as he shut the door behind them. Anya’s eyes widened in horror as she took in the sight of Riley walking the baby gently ‘round the apartment.

“My God. It’s a child. You have a child. Where did he get that?” She looked at Xander, who put a hand on his arm in a gesture half-restraint, half-reassurance, then returned her attention to Riley. “You can’t just take children, you know. It’s frowned upon. They put tiny pictures on milk cartons to prevent it.”

Buffy piped up, entering from the kitchen. “I’m guessing you’ve had this conversation?”

Xander nodded reluctantly. “Yeah. There was a thing with a little girl at the mall.”

“She was very tiny and very freckled. I thought she would go well in my living room.” The former demon rolled her eyes with a sigh. “Xander wouldn’t let me have her, though. Not that I wanted her after the fuss she started making, anyway.” She took a step closer, peering at the wide blue eyes staring out at them, tugging Xander with her.

“This one is much smaller, Xander. Not as many freckles, but there’s still something appealing about it.” She paused, weighing things out before making the final announcement. “We should get one. Immediately.”

Xander’s eyes widened and the rest of the gang looked at him expectantly as he stuttered over a response. “Uh – we can talk about it. A lot. And then think about it for a while. Talk and think – both goods. Hey… How ‘bout that geranium you were lookin’ at the other day? Geraniums are nice. They smell good.”

“And they almost never cry,” Willow added helpfully.

Anya was paying no attention to either of them, experimentally poking the baby as Riley backed away, looking to Buffy for help.

“Hey, Buff… Maybe you should take him? Use your Slayer reflexes to deflect likely attacks.”

Buffy shook her head immediately; Giles watched her face change, and felt something go through him, a knowledge that others lacked. He’d watched her for years now, it was his job - he took that job seriously; he took her seriously. And Giles suddenly sensed that the fear that crossed her face at Riley’s suggestion had little to do with her self-proclaimed distaste for children.

“Sorry, can’t… I’ve gotta get going. I’ve got some stuff at Mom’s I need to do, and then studying. Looks like with the whole gang, you’ve got it covered.”

And with that, she was out the door.

* * * * *

An hour later, Buffy returned to Giles’ apartment only to find that it seemed her friends hadn’t missed her in the least. Tara had the baby now, and he was definitely *not* unhappy with the development. Chubby face wreathed in smiles, he curled his tiny fist around the girl’s blonde hair, cooing contentedly. Willow was giggling, gently trying to disentangle the fist. Anya sat in Xander’s lap watching this play out, occasionally interrupting with a “My turn now,” or “Xander, make them give me the baby.”

Riley was in the kitchen, standing with his usual self-assuredness at Giles’ stove. Annoyance pricked at Buffy’s spine at sight of her boyfriend in a place that belonged so uniquely to her Watcher. That was where Giles made them tea, or poured his scotch, or made those yummy cookies she loved so much. Riley had just pushed him out of the way to make room for some stupid baby that could be a booby-trapped demon, for all they knew.

Everyone looked up when Buffy shut the door behind her – even the baby looked up. She avoided the cherubic face, feeling a strange twinge of… anger?, she thought wonderingly. It couldn’t be that; had she really gotten so hard in the past few years, that she could bring herself to actually be angry with a helpless baby? It’s not like he’d even done anything to her… okay, maybe a little baby vomit, but that hardly merited the bitch-fest she’d started since the upstart showed up on Giles’ doorstep. She realized suddenly that the others were looking at her, and managed at least half a smile.

“Hey Buff! C’mere – we named him Leo,” Xander waved his arm enthusiastically, motioning her over. “Come check out the newest Scoob.”

Anya nodded. “I named him, actually.”

“You did not,” Willow argued, still trying to get the baby’s fist out of Tara’s hair without scalping the girl in the process.

“I did so. I said he looks like Napoleon.”

Riley came in with a bottle of formula. “And then fought with everyone until we compromised.”

Still seated on Xander’s lap, Anya nodded. “Exactly. I named him.”

Willow rolled her eyes. “Can’t argue with good old-fashioned demon-y logic.”

Tara giggled unexpectedly, stilling the red head’s fingers in her hair. “S – sorry, Willow. It’s just, you’re pulling more than he is.”

Leo blew a soft, translucent baby-drool bubble, looking straight at Buffy. She swallowed something hard in her throat that went down like glass, quickly looking away.

“Where’s Giles?” she asked brusquely.

Riley nodded toward the bathroom. “Shower. Said he had to get the baby smell off. Did you get everything done?”

She shrugged, relieved to get back to business. “More or less. But I figured I should probably come back; see if we can figure out who this belongs to.”

Giles came out of the shower then, his hair still damp and the robe Buffy remembered uncomfortably from his Hefner days wrapped tightly around him. He smiled a greeting to Buffy, ignoring everyone else in the room, and she felt that old familiar calm run through her.

“Buffy – I thought I heard your voice. So you’ve returned to the Romper Room, then.”

She nodded silently, watching as her Watcher went over to check out the baby scene playing out on the couch. At sight of Leo with Tara and Willow, he smiled softly, leaning in to casually run a long hand over the baby’s down-covered head.

“He’s much happier now; just wanted changing and help from someone with a bit more experience.” He nodded toward Riley. “Is there anything your friend isn’t exceptional at?”

Buffy looked up in surprise at the bitter tinge to Giles’ words. Everyone else was oblivious, but she knew her Watcher too well. She caught his eye and he looked away guiltily, unable to hide the blush climbing his cheeks. For Riley’s part, the big dope took it as a compliment, grinning like a fool; Buffy rolled her eyes at the violence of her reaction. Where was this coming from? Riley was a great guy. Babies were cute. So when exactly had she turned into an angsty monster who hated all-American boys and drooling infants?

Oblivious to his girlfriend’s inner conflict, Riley handed the formula to Tara and went to Buffy, draping an arm over her shoulders. “Grew up on a farm with a big family is all.” He met Buffy’s eye significantly with a shy smile before looking back to Giles. “Always figured that once I found the right girl, that’s where I’d like to end up again.”

There was a brief, tension-laden silence before Giles managed a subtle cough, coming to Buffy’s rescue yet again.

“Yes, well… I expect Buffy’s right about one thing: demon or no, Leo clearly does not belong here. We need to do what we can to locate his parents.”

Riley might have been a corn-fed Iowa boy to the core, but he wasn’t dumb; he caught Buffy’s eye with a question in his own at her silence. “What’s wrong?” he mouthed, brow furrowed in concern. Buffy looked away quickly, pretending she hadn’t noticed. They went to work.

* * * * *

The day passed without success. Willow found a baby book and from that they determined that Leo was probably no more than four months old, based on the length of time and degree to which he was able to focus his eyes, and considering his height and weight. Beyond that, they were clueless: no one could find any definitive answer for why an apparently healthy, happy baby would be randomly left on a stranger’s doorstep.

That night – Friday – Riley was on duty. Tara and Willow had their Wicca group, and Buffy went out patrolling. Xander and Anya alone had settled in for the long haul, much to Giles’ chagrine. Anya was still perched on her boyfriend’s lap, while Leo slept peacefully in a bassinet Riley had scavenged from campus. Giles was cleaning up the considerable chaos that had been left between the baby and his other “children” when he looked up to find Anya and Xander kissing passionately on his sofa. Anya shifted position.

“Ow! Xander, you’ve got something in your pocket. Your poking me,” she exclaimed, utterly oblivious to her volume. Giles rushed in from the kitchen.

“That’s it – out! It’s all under control, I’m completely fine, the baby is sleeping soundly.”

“But you need help,” Anya insisted.

“I do not need help. And you haven’t helped since you arrived, anyway. You sit on my sofa giving Xander a – a lap dance, while everyone pretends not to notice.”

Xander looked hurt for a moment, and Giles rolled his eyes, making the effort to soften his tone. “Really, Xander – go home. I’ll call you if I need you,” he paused, then added generously, “And I didn’t mean to imply you’ve never been helpful. Just, not – ”

Xander interrupted with a rueful grin. “Oh, no – I know, G-man. No help was given today; I’m okay with that. It’s just…” he grimaced, looking significantly toward the girlfriend still planted firmly on his lap. “Well – I kinda need a minute before I’m good with the walking.” Giles stood for a moment, completely clueless, before understanding finally sunk in. Shaking his head in exasperation, he returned to the kitchen, calling over his shoulder.

“Good Lord. Just so long as your condition *fades* and isn’t… remedied in some way. I’ve spent quite enough time cleaning up bodily fluids today.”

A few minutes later, he heard the door open and close, and he was alone. He’d just fixed a cup of tea and was preparing to sit down with a book when Leo started up again.

This time, it took very little to make the infant settle down again. Giles may have had little experience with children, but he was a quick study. Watching Riley, he’d found that Leo didn’t like bouncing but was particularly fond of being walked about the room; changing diapers wasn’t nearly as horrific an experience as he’d first imagined; and heating the formula was equally painless.

He settled on the sofa, Leo cradled in one arm. The blue eyes fluttered sleepily and would just close before the boy would jolt himself awake, eyes widening stubbornly. Giles grinned despite himself.

“Don’t want to miss a thing, eh?”

He ran a hand over the tiny head, amazed at how soft, how fragile it felt in his hand. How had people survived all this time, when they started out this utterly helpless? The baby continued to stare at his caretaker, reaching out with a delicate hand until Giles obliged by letting the infant curl its fist ‘round his index finger.

“And you’ve got a grip, too. Where do you belong? I imagine someone must be missing you quite a bit by now.”

The front door opened suddenly, and Giles looked up – careful not to startle the baby – to find Buffy standing in his doorway. He smiled a soft welcome, keeping his tone even so as not to disturb his charge.

“Welcome back. It seems Leo and I have managed to drive off everyone else.”

A smile fluttered on her face, then faded, and Giles realized immediately that something was wrong.

“Buffy?”

She took a step inside, and he saw the stain of blood coloring the side of her shirt for the first time. He rose quickly and went to her, trying not to jostle the baby. Using one arm to support Leo, he wrapped the other around Buffy’s shoulders, helping her to the couch.

“What happened?”

She managed a faint smile, rolling her eyes at him. “I got distracted; then I got poked. Just another Friday night on the job.”

He smiled gently, relieved at her tone. “I’ll just find something to dress the wound.” Before she could protest, he leaned in and settled Leo in her arms. Determined not to provide an easy out, he strode quickly away and went for his first aid supplies.

When he returned, the sight made him stop where he stood. Buffy sat with her head bowed attentively, her eyes fixed on the child in her arms. Murmuring something the Watcher couldn’t hear, the cadence and rhythm of her voice nevertheless soothed him; he could only imagine what it would do for an infant. Entering the room slowly, it was only when he was a few feet away that he saw the tears streaming down his Slayer’s face.

“Buffy?”

She looked up, her blue-grey eyes filled to overflowing, and shook her head. Getting to her feet quickly, she pushed the bundle back into Giles’ arms.

“I can’t, Giles. I – I’ve gotta go.”

And she was gone.

Again.

* * * * *

Ten minutes later, Leo was asleep; Giles placed him gently in the bassinet and went to the door. He already knew that Buffy was there, feeling her presence as surely as his own breath, as acutely as the ever-increasing creaks in his aging bones. Sure enough, she sat silently on his doorstep. Waiting. Light from his flat spilled into the night, casting her face in shadows; he noticed – not for the first time, certainly not for the last – the weight that had been added to her shoulders since their first meeting four years earlier. She didn’t look up when she spoke, drawing intricate designs in the dust at her feet.

“You didn’t come after me.”

He cleared his throat, always torn between the truth and some vague, comforting lie where she was concerned. As ever, he opted for the truth.

“I was rather occupied, if you hadn’t noticed.”

She looked up then, the tears and the darkness making her face at once younger and yet much, much older.

“I noticed.”

He leaned down, offering his hand; when she accepted in order to pull herself up, he was amazed yet again that the hope of so many lay with this fragile slip of a girl. When they went inside, she leaned into him more heavily than he was used considering their relationship, and Giles found himself thinking of the women he’d known over the years. A glimpse of shapely thigh, satin slip of white breast, Olivia’s dark head against his chest… Jenny, lying broken on his bed.

And yet for all those pretenses at intimacy, not one of those women had the slightest idea who he was, *what* he was. Destiny was a burden, but the heaviest weight was the solitude inherent in the role. He wrapped his arm just a hair tighter around the one person who felt that burden even more acutely than he.

“These dramatic exits are becoming something of a habit for you.”

She rolled her eyes, the rueful grin a welcome reminder of her spirit. “I know, I’m a total diva. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

He motioned to her side. “Why don’t I take care of that; you talk, I’ll bandage.”

The shirt she was wearing was a button-up over a form-fitting tank top. Once the over-shirt had been removed, there was a moment’s hesitation in which she met his eye, the silence heavy between them. It seemed to him in that moment that a question had been asked; but Giles knew neither what the question was, nor how to possibly begin to answer it. They both looked away at the same time.

“If you’d rather do it yourself...”

She shook her head, looking at him once again; her eyes never left his face as she pulled the shirt up to reveal her firm, tanned stomach. The question was there again; she was searching for something he didn’t know how to give. Reassurance? Safety? Standing there with her partially clad in front of him, he was anything but assured. Safe only because of an iron will and a British upbringing that strictly adhered to putting propriety far before need or desire. And still, her eyes on him.

“I trust you.”

Seating himself on the coffee table in front of her on the sofa, he tried to pinpoint the moment his life had turned to this; the moment dressing someone’s wounds began to feel like foreplay. The moment his Slayer, his duty – his destiny, – had gone from an attractive teen to a desirable young woman. He found himself recalling his reaction to her at the prom, and quickly ducked his head to gaze more intently at the gash in her side, just to hide the flush climbing his cheeks.

Giles gently dabbed at the wound, placed in her left side just below the ribcage, with an alcohol soaked cotton ball. Buffy hissed at the pain, drawing a quick breath, and he cursed himself silently for his preoccupation.

“I’m sorry. It’s fairly deep; shall we make the trip to hospital?”

She shook her head, her body still tensed with the pain. “I’ll be okay. I bleed like a normal girl, I hurt like a normal girl… But it won’t be long ‘til Slayer healing kicks in. Normal’s just a temp-gig for Buffy.”

He smiled, with an affirming nod. “Aptly put, as always.” He waited until she’d relaxed slightly and given the go-ahead, before resuming his ministrations. His attention safely on the task at hand once more, he prompted her back to their earlier conversation.

“So, do you want to tell me what’s been going on with you? The exits, the tears…”

When she sighed, he looked up briefly with a smile, noting the furrowed brow, the way she bit her lower lip as she considered the question.

“I don’t know. I’m a spoiled, selfish brat. Except I wasn’t – like two days ago, I was totally normal, happy-go-lucky Slayer. And then little Napoleon there,” he stifled a smile at the way her voice paved over the name, “shows up, and I’m a crazy, green-faced monster.”

He straightened to look her in the eye, reaching automatically for the ointment at his side.

“Green-eyed, actually.”

“What?”

“It’s not green-faced, it’s green-eyed monster.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Who ever heard of a green-eyed monster? There are tons of green-faced monsters, but demons usually have black eyes. Sometimes blue. Or yellow, maybe. But – ”

“Buffy.”

She closed her mouth firmly at his gentle reprimand, waiting for his response. With his gaze safely on task once more, gently dabbing salve into the now-sterilized wound, his words came easily.

“You are neither spoiled nor selfish. Nor have I ever known you to be happy-go-lucky, whatever that means. You are stubborn, pedantic, occasionally flighty, often vain, and pig-headed,” she opened her mouth to protest but was stilled at his glance. He glanced at her for just a moment before looking down once more as he risked the next words.

“You’re lovely,” he flew past the word, his heart beating as quickly as if he’d dared a kiss. “Too big-hearted for your own good, sadly challenged in your musical tastes, frightfully under-read, and – as you mentioned previously – you have been, on at least one occasion, a brat. But neither a spoiled nor a selfish one.”

There was a long silence, before Giles finally finished dressing her side and dragged his eyes up to hers. A soft smile lit her face, something he couldn’t define – wouldn’t let himself define – altering the way she looked at him.

“Stubborn and pig-headed mean the same thing,” she pointed out, making an obvious effort to keep her tone light.

“Yes,” he agreed. “But in your case, one adjective can’t begin to cover the formidable strength of your will.”

There was another pause. He began to gather the first aid supplies when the gentle pressure of her hand on his arm stopped him.

“You think I’m lovely?”

As if on orders from some demon-god in a hell dimension, Leo took that as his cue to awaken. Loudly. Vehemently. Another tense moment passed between Slayer and Watcher, their gaze locked, before Buffy sighed in exasperation, nodding her head toward the bassinet.

“Now you see why I don’t like babies.”

Giles managed an awkward smile, completely at a loss as to what had just happened, and went to try and quiet his new charge.

* * * * *

Leo required a changing and a bottle; it seemed he had no need of, or interest in, sleeping any longer. While Giles walked the infant ‘round the room, Buffy motioned to the bath.

“Do you mind if I grab a shower? I’m all sweaty and sticky – and I think I got demon goo on me during patrol.”

Giles looked up in surprise, glancing at the clock. “Of course. But won’t Riley be expecting you?”

“He’s on ‘til two; when he works that late, he usually just crashes out at the frat after.”

The baby started to whimper and Giles shifted the bundle in his arms, stifling a yawn. Buffy smiled sympathetically. “Once I get out, we can take shifts; I’ll watch the little monster and you can get some sleep.”

“You’re sure?” He studied her intently. She shrugged, rolling her eyes.

“What? I can handle vamps but I can’t take on a little toothless demon for an hour or two? Please.”

* * * * *

While she was showering, Leo was getting his second wind. When he wasn’t crying, he was cooing or squirming, but he was rarely still. Giles, on the other hand, was exhausted. He tried telling stories, tried conjugating Latin verbs, tried reciting everything he knew about the Watcher’s Council. Any one of these things would have been sufficient to put Xander into a prolonged coma; Leo, however, seemed transfixed.

Finally, Giles sank into his easy chair and began to sing softly. Miraculously, tiny lids fluttered over tiny blue eyes. Giles stopped, and the blue eyes flew open again. The Watcher ran the back of his hand gently across the small forehead, continuing the song. It was one of a set he was planning for the Espresso Pump tomorrow night – at sight of the wall clock, he groaned inwardly. Make that tonight.

When the song – Freebird, one that had been stuck in his head for some time, before he finally taught himself how to play it on the guitar in recent weeks – began to fade, Leo protested with a small cry sure to escalate within seconds. Giles obligingly went back to the song, fully aware of the sound of Buffy entering the room, but unwilling to risk the baby’s wrath by stopping.

She came ‘round and curled up on the sofa, her hair still damp, wearing a pajama top she must have found in the hamper. It swamped her, the shirt falling almost to her knees.

“I could have found you something clean,” he whispered, his voice still in sing-song in an attempt to fool Leo into continued reticence.

She smiled, shrugging. “It’s okay. This one’s good – it’s got Watcher-smell goodness goin’ for it.”

Leo’s eyes opened again and Giles sighed, looking at Buffy apologetically. “Kid knows what he wants, anyway. Back to the song, Watcher-mine.”

Trying to ignore his embarrassment, he lowered his eyes to Leo’s face and began to sing again, softly. When it seemed the infant was finally, fully asleep, he looked up to find Buffy still watching him. He raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

She stumbled for a moment, searching ineptly for words. “It’s just… I… I wish I could live here forever.”

He smiled, though he couldn’t mask his confusion. “I hadn’t realized you’d grown so fond of my flat.”

She shook her head, looking away. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, small.

“That’s not what I meant.” She stopped herself; he said nothing, refusing to prompt. After a few seconds, she broke.

“I mean… live *here*. This moment. Your voice… new baby smell. No demons, no destiny. Just you and me, playing house.”

Something clicked. Giles stood painfully, his muscles cramped from a long day and far too many blows in recent years. Laying Leo gently in the bassinet, he turned to his Slayer.

“Something’s been amiss with you since he arrived.” She said nothing, seeming to have no response, and so he continued. “If you don’t like children, that’s fine – I confess a certain distaste for them myself,” he gestured toward the bassinet, “present company excluded.”

The room fell silent; Buffy came to stand beside him, looking in on the sleeping baby. Giles said nothing for a moment more, watching as tears filled her blue-grey eyes and rolled slowly down her cheeks.

“I don’t believe it’s a dislike of children that has you so thrown.” He took a step forward, feeling suddenly as though he were speaking to a wild thing. No sudden moves, no loud noises; it had been ages since he’d had a moment alone with her as he’d had this weekend. It was heaven; it was hell. But he couldn’t lose her now.

“You can’t miss something you never had,” she whispered.

He smiled softly, shaking his head. Laying a hand on her shoulder, he turned her so they could look one another in the eye. “Ah, but I’m afraid that’s something of a myth.” He gently lay his hand on her face, brushing tears away with his thumb before taking a step back, gesturing toward the sofa. “You’re speaking of your future?” he guessed.

The tears fell freely now; she brushed them away brutally, raking the back of her hand across her eyes, always ruthless when it came to her own comfort. She sat on the edge of the sofa, staring silently at the floor. Giles said nothing; simply sat beside her and waited.

“I’ll never have this.”

A few feet away, the wall clock counted out the seconds; Giles despised it, in that instant. The crass reminder of the passage of time, the fact that he was getting older and history was against them both. There would always be something waiting in the shadows, for the moment when he wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t vigilant enough, wasn’t… good enough, to keep her safe.

He cleared his throat, intending to placate her with some trite assurance that this too would pass. It would look better in the morning. She looked into his eyes, and the words died on his lips. She hadn’t believed him at sixteen; she certainly wouldn’t believe him now.

“That may be true,” he admitted.

She nodded, seeming almost relieved that he hadn’t argued. “I thought I could be better than it. Just get by every stupid clause in the Slayer contract: no friends, no fun, no fashion-sense.”

He smiled despite himself. “And you’ve managed on those counts, quite handily.”

“By the skin of my teeth, Giles. How many times have I almost gotten Xander and Willow killed?”

“And how many times have you saved them?” he returned evenly.

Curling further into herself beside him, her knees up to her chest, she was silent for a moment more before she finally allowed herself to voice the real question.

“Why don’t I love Riley, Giles? Why can’t I just be a normal girl, who loves a normal guy? And we stay together and have normal babies and feed them corn and talk about cows?”

He stifled a grin at the strange picture that was Buffy’s version of domesticity. “Well, charming as that sounds… Is that what you really want from life? Slayer destiny aside, if you had your choice, is Iowa farm country truly where you see yourself in ten years?”

She stared at him for a long, silent moment, her eyes still filled with tears. When she moved in closer, he could smell his shampoo in her hair; imagined that he could hear her heart, though he knew that was impossible. Her face was tilted up to his, and Giles found himself utterly transfixed when her hand came up to trace the line of his jaw. There were certain things that he should be saying in this situation; there was protocol to follow. He tried to remember what that protocol was, closing his eyes as her fingers traced his hairline, his cheekbones, and finally brushed against his lips, her touch at once light enough to be mere imagination, and heavy enough to irrevocably change their world.

“Buffy.”

She dropped her hand into her lap silently, and he opened his eyes just in time to catch the look of horror as she realized what she was doing. Before he could address – or even begin to absorb – what had just happened, she stood abruptly, her expression now completely closed.

“I’ll take Leo for a while; you should get some sleep.”

“Buffy, we need to talk – ”

Turning her back on him, she made a beeline for the bassinet. “Not an extended offer, Giles. Get some sleep before I make another one of those diva exits I’m getting so good at.”

He nodded silently, too tired, too utterly baffled, to argue. At the top of the stairs, he looked down to find Buffy still standing over the bassinet, though her attention wasn’t on the baby. Following her gaze, he felt his heart still and shatter in slow, ruthless shards when he realized that she was watching the clock. The seconds rang out in the silence; the mysterious baby they could not claim and would not keep slept on; his Slayer wept and he had no idea how to stop the tears or save a life destined to end too soon. Exhausted, defeated, Giles took the final steps to his room and prepared for bed.

* * * * *

Once Giles was upstairs, Leo didn’t seem to have much interest in getting up again. Buffy took a few minutes to pull herself together, refusing to think about what had just happened. Because she couldn’t explain it; not even a wild shot in the dark. She’d been totally fine with life as the Chosen One, action-packed college drama, and then it all had to change. All because of some drooling mystery baby, bent on turning her life sideways.

Except that she had to admit, if she were being totally honest, it wasn’t all of a sudden. It wasn’t just having a baby here – and it wasn’t the realization that she *couldn’t* have that down-home Iowa goodness life Riley was always raving about. It was so easy to blame the whole Slayerdom, “one girl in all the world” thing. But now that she actually had a shot at a normal life – whatever the hell that meant – she didn’t even know how to go about it. Or if she even wanted to.

And why did the feel of Giles’ hand on her face, his lips under her fingers, make her feel like going Caveslayer all over again?

At the memory of what she’d almost done, the fact that she’d been about half a millimeter from actually kissing her Watcher, Buffy cringed. Not because it was gross – god, she’d give half her collection of stylish yet affordable boots just to be able to write it off to the ick factor. But no… if she were being totally, brutally honest, she was more turned on in that split second than she’d been the whole school year with Riley.

Things unraveled from there – actually, Buffy unraveled from there. The apartment was completely silent, Leo was out for the count, she couldn’t make the tv Xander’d dug out earlier in the year come in… and she kept coming back to her future. No riding off into the sunset for Buffy. It seemed like Riley was the only shot at future she had, and that wasn’t much of a shot considering that five minutes into his Norman Rockwell routine she always found herself wishing a Chaos Demon would show up just for a creative diversion.

Willow was moving on; she had the whole Wicca thing, she was getting stronger and older and way more stylish. Even Xander had Anya. But Slayers didn’t get to move on – she’d stay in Sunnydale and try to keep it from being sucked into hell. And one day, when Willow and Xander were off living their lives and Riley was part of the monster-elite squad, and Giles…

At thought of her Watcher, Buffy’s breath came harder. Not in a sexy way, either – panic wrapped around her heart as tight as a demon’s fist. Ex-Watcher, she reminded herself brutally. She tried to imagine what her final battle would be like; if he would be there. Would she even know she wasn’t coming out of it? Would there be a prophecy, like the first one? And if there was, who would read it to her? She barely even knew Giles the first time, and he still wouldn’t let her go without a fight. The next time – and she knew there’d be a next time; there were books and Slayer lore and big demon trilogies all about it – who was to say he’d even be around? He had a life now, no Slayer paycheck to keep him tied to death and demons and a spastic co-ed constantly in turmoil.

The Watcher-less Slayer. Her breath came harder, tears beginning again; she could almost see it. She’d go out on patrol one day, and just… wouldn’t come out. No poof like the vamps got, no clean getaway. A broken body and nobody would know, no one would have a clue that there’d even been a destiny. She’d just be another dumb Sunnydale headline, some clueless girl who stayed out too late and got eaten by wild dogs. The end.

Her heart was racing as she counted out the days she had left. She was nineteen now; most Slayers didn’t make it past twenty-five. None made it past thirty. And without a Watcher… Would Giles read about her, she wondered? Get a call from her mother some cool fall day? And he’d come to the funeral, of course… Suddenly, she didn’t know what was scaring her more: the idea of her own death or the idea of losing Giles before the final curtain even came down.

Fifteen minutes passed – she knew, she counted all nine-hundred seconds – before Buffy finally forced herself off the couch. Picking up Leo’s bassinet, she gazed in and was amazed to find he was still asleep. She went to the stairs and stood on the bottom step, her breath coming in strangled gasps as her future played out in a thousand hopeless scenarios in her head. Finally, her own terror won out: she took the stairs slowly to Giles room and stood silently in his doorway.

She was about to go, one hand on the doorframe, the other holding the bassinet, trying to somehow control her breathing, get a grip on herself, when she heard him.

“Buffy?”

He heard her stop, sensed her fear the way he’d always sensed everything about her, an intuition he could neither define nor deny. Reaching for the lamp on his bedside table, he switched it on and fumbled for his glasses. When he’d finally focused enough to look at her, he scrambled to a sitting position.

“Buffy – what is it? Are you all right?”

Tears ran unchecked down her cheeks, her breath coming in shallow gasps; her hands shook so violently that he couldn’t imagine how the child sleeping peacefully in the bassinet hadn’t been jolted awake.

Giles stood, giving only momentary thought to the fact that he was wearing only his boxers, and took the bassinet from her. Placing it carefully on a chair by his bedside, he put a hand at the small of Buffy’s back, motioning her to the bed. She had yet to speak, but now she tried to find words for what was happening – at the effort, her breath came harder. Giles attempted a soothing smile.

“Ssh. Don’t speak, for now. Sit.” She did so, her shoulders hunched, arms across her stomach. He sat beside her, running a hand in small circles at her back. Unsure of what else to do, he continued speaking to her in a quiet, even tone.

“You’re all right. Everything’s fine, just concentrate on breathing for a moment.”

She nodded. When he sensed that she’d gained some control, he looked at her quizzically.

“Did you have a dream?”

She shook her head, rubbing the tears away and attempting a laugh that came out far too harsh for one so young. “No. If it were a dream, it would at least make sense. I could blame an actual thing. But there’s nothing – no dream to read, no demon to slay.”

Concerned that her breathing was becoming erratic once more, he ran a hand lightly down her hair. He could feel her shoulder blades through her shirt; moved his hand down lower, tracing the knobs of each of her vertebrae, and wondered how he hadn’t noticed how thin she was getting. As she quieted once more, he became aware of the physical fact of her, the feel of her golden hair twined ‘round his long fingers. The delicate, sweet smell that was hers alone. She shifted where she sat, her tear-stained cheeks turned up to him, and he sat up straighter beside her. His hand paused when their eyes met, his fingers lingering at the small of her back as though memorizing her form.

“Do you feel better?”

She nodded silently, studying him with a strange mix of curiosity and something he might have taken for desire, had he not known better. This was Buffy; he was her Watcher. Very old. Very… gross, wasn’t that the term she’d used?

“Do you want to talk about it?”

A small shake of the head; they sat in silence for a moment more before Buffy stifled a yawn. He noted the circles under her eyes, trying to remember when he’d lost sight of his Slayer so completely that she could lose weight and sleep and peace of mind, and he would have no indication of her decline.

“You should rest. I can take Leo and go downstairs; you take the bed, try to get a few hours’ sleep before morning.”

He started to rise and she stopped him with a hand on his arm, but wouldn’t meet his eye when he turned to her.

“Don’t go. I… I don’t really want to be alone right now.” It cost her something to say the words; as soon as they were spoken, she seemed even smaller. He should have insisted, he knew that, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. Instead, he nodded quietly.

“You should lie down, at least. I won’t leave; just close your eyes.”

Obligingly, she scooted up until she was sitting at the head of the bed. Giles checked on Leo, relieved to find the infant still sleeping soundly. He retrieved a t-shirt from his dresser, pulled it on, and then sat down on the edge of the bed.

His feet were still planted firmly on the floor, the light on, his face away from hers; one more moment to listen to reason. They were adults; he was not her father, whatever that prat Travers may have said to the contrary. Buffy shifted beside him, stifling another yawn, and he sighed. Lay his glasses on the night table, massaging the bridge of his nose briefly before turning to her.

“Do you prefer the light on or off?”

She smiled – a genuine smile, quieter than the vibrant one he’d come to love, but a smile all the same. “Are you staying?”

He nodded, and she lay down immediately, curling up to the pillow on the opposite side of the bed.

“Off.”

He obliged, and the room fell dark. A few feet away, the baby slept on. Downstairs, in the walls, above him, were all the creaks and moans to which he’d become accustomed in his years living alone here. Lying down awkwardly on his back, holding himself rigid in a vain attempt not to stray from his side of the bed, he felt Buffy shift.

“Are you all right?”

She rolled over; he could feel her breast against his arm, and swallowed tightly. This wasn’t what she needed – she needed comfort right now. That was his job: to care for her, so that she could continue to perform her duties as a Slayer. Acting like an oversexed adolescent wasn’t helping in the slightest. With a heavy sigh, he rolled onto his side, facing her, and gently put his arm out so she could use it as a pillow.

It was all she’d been waiting for, apparently. As soon as he’d made the gesture, Buffy curled tightly into him, her face in his chest, arms wrapped around his waist. He smiled in surprise as she tilted her head up to look at him, her breath warm on his neck, her voice soft with humiliation at her own vulnerability.

“I feel better now. I’m sorry – I don’t know what’s with the monumental Buffy-wiggins fest lately.”

“I suspect you’ve a lot on your mind. Has that type of…” he tried to think of a word for what he’d witnessed and finally fell to her own term. “…wiggins, ever happened before?”

He felt her shrug her thin shoulders under his arm. “I don’t know. Not like that, I guess. But I usually – I’m not usually quiet like I was downstairs.”

Understanding finally reigned. “You had time to think,” he guessed.

She pulled back slightly so that she could look at him. In the darkness, his eyes adjusted until he could track the strand of hair that fell across her forehead; the soft line of her mouth; the shine of her eyes on him.

“I try to avoid that whole thinking thing,” she quipped.

“And what thoughts, exactly, pushed you too far?” He pressed on, refusing to let her dismiss this.

He was met with another shrug, then silence. He’d almost given up, thinking she’d gone to sleep, when he finally got his answer.

“I don’t want to die,” her voice a whisper, the words haunted.

Instantly, he was back in the library. Buffy, a thousand years younger than she was now, hurling his useless books at him. “Tell me my future,” she’d shouted. And here they were, four years later, and he couldn’t provide any more comfort, any better answers.

She was still looking at him intently, waiting for his response. Her body was pressed against him, small breasts firm at his chest, naked legs against his own; it was pointless to imagine she hadn’t noticed his physical reaction to her presence, the fact of his erection pressing against her thigh. Pointless to continue the farce, the silly play in which he was the responsible caretaker and she the flighty teen. He’d sent her off to battle how many times now? Tended her wounds when she returned, fought at her side during the worst of it. Wept in her arms, when the day was done and another woman lay dead in this very room.

“And I don’t want you to die,” he whispered quietly, the words heavy with the truth they held.

Her arms tightened around him for a moment before she remembered Slayer strength and relaxed her grip. She settled her head below his chin again as he stroked her hair in silence. And more time passed.

A few minutes later, Giles was still wide awake, and becoming increasingly aware of the havoc having Buffy this close was wreaking on his body. He shifted subtly, trying not to awaken her, but as soon as he moved she spoke.

“Sorry – we’re all tangled up. You can get comfortable; I’m okay now.”

He rolled onto his back in relief, letting her settle with her head on his arm. At least no direct contact to more sensitive areas, now – his erection began to subside, and he felt himself relax. Buffy tossed restlessly beside him, nearly taking out a tooth with her elbow; he cleared his throat.

“Is this a unique Slayer ritual to prepare for bed, or are you in the throes of another – er – wiggins.”

“I can’t sleep,” she grumbled promptly.

“Perhaps if you just lie still for a moment. I don’t believe your body realizes you’re actually attempting sleep; the way you’re thrashing, I shouldn’t be surprised if your system’s preparing itself for a full-on apocalypse.”

She sat up, punched her pillow so hard it made him cringe, then lay back down again. Shifted. Sat back up, staring at him.

“You know, I don’t really get what the big deal is about babies.”

He sighed. “You do realize it’s nearly four a.m.?”

“I’m not tired anymore. Do you get the baby thing? Why didn’t you ever have one?”

Curling her knees into her chest, she studied him intently until he realized it was a losing battle. He pillowed his arms behind his head, considering the question.

“To be perfectly honest, it just never seemed the right time.”

“But you’ve had chances before.”

“Yes, Buffy. Old and gross as I may be, I have been in relationships in the past.”

He could almost see her eye-roll. “That’s not what I meant. And hey, I never said you were old and gross.” She paused, recapitulating before he could argue. “Okay – I said you were old. Which was totally dumb, anyway. And I said *it* was gross. And by *it* I’m pretty sure I meant Olivia.”

“I would hardly call Olivia gross.”

“Well, I would,” she griped. “Standing there all ‘Rupert what about your moldy cheese?’ In *your* shirt. And no pants. Who does that?”

Tilting his head just slightly, he waited for her to register her own words. When she didn’t, he coughed subtly, glancing at her bare legs before looking away quickly when he felt another unwelcome surge of desire.

“Besides yourself, you mean?”

“That’s different.” He was about to belabor the point when he was stopped by her next words. “I’m yours… You’re mine. That’s the way it works, right down to Watcher shirts.”

“So I suppose the next time I’d like to borrow your sling-back heels…”

She laughed outright at the image. “All yours.”

Silence fell once again, Giles beginning to feel his exhaustion return. “You really should try and get some rest.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “I just… Every time it gets quiet, I start thinking again.”

“About?”

She lay back down, this time on her side of the bed, resting her own arms beneath her head in an uncanny imitation of Giles’ position.

“I don’t know. Everything. Angel. Riley. School. The whole Slayer package: constant carnage and early death.” She paused. “You.”

He turned his head to look at her. “What about me?”

She wouldn’t meet his gaze; removing her arms from behind her head, she stretched them out in front of her, studying her hands, her arms.

“We’re different.”

He would have been tempted to smile, had it not been for the gravity in her voice.

“Yes, I expect we are, a bit.”

“And not just the slaying demons and vamps, either. It’s not like I go: Okay, vamp-time. Stake one, set the other one on fire, decapitate a demon or two, and then just turn it off and go to dinner.”

He said nothing, recognizing that the realization she was coming to was one she had to make on her own.

“When Oz left, Willow said he told her he was a wolf all the time. He just didn’t know what to do with that, how to deal.”

“And you’re a Slayer. All the time,” he completed for her.

She rolled onto her side, supporting her head with a hand as she gazed at him curiously. “Do you think that’s why I don’t want what other people want? House, garage, two and a half sticky kids?”

He smiled, once again charmed at her unique perspective on things. “If you wanted home and family, I suspect being a Slayer would be much more difficult. It may be that you’ve adapted to what you recognize your destiny holds: a Slayer’s life is not conducive to the rigors of domesticity.”

“So it’s Darwin for superheroes, is what you’re saying. I’m here to make sure everybody else gets a happy ending, but I’m not even supposed to want one for me.”

Downstairs, the clock rang out four chimes. Giles tried to think of an answer to her question, a way to reassure her. Finally, he sighed.

“Do you know what you need?”

“Twenty years of therapy and a magic eight-ball?” she returned dryly.

He smiled, taking her arm and pulling her to him until she was once more lying with her head on his chest. “Yes, on both counts. But right now, you need to go to sleep.”

He’d no more said the words, Buffy settling obediently in beside him, before the baby announced in incontrovertible terms, that he was up. A disoriented whimper escalated quickly to an all-out howl, and both Buffy and Giles cringed as one at the racket.

“You want me to take this one?” she offered.

He sighed. “No, no. You’re the Slayer; if you’re overtired, the world is invariably doomed. I’m merely a former Watcher and retired librarian. It’s much safer this way.”

Rising slowly, wincing at Leo’s hearty protestations, Giles lingered for just a moment, concern apparent on his face.

“You’re all right now?”

She nodded, a soft smile on her lips, something indefinable lingering between them when their eyes met. “I’m all right now. Wake me up if you get too tired,” she yawned widely, curling up in his bed. By the time he’d fetched Leo and made it to his bedroom door, she was asleep.

* * * * *

Giles was in the shower when Buffy left the next morning; he came out still rubbing his damp hair with a towel, just in time to hear the front door closing behind her. It was nearly ten o’clock, and he’d gotten a grand total of two hours actual sleep in the past twenty-four. There had been the vague hope that perhaps when Buffy awoke, she would relieve him so he could get a few hours to himself; that, apparently, had been a rather silly dream. Reminding himself sternly that she was the Slayer, and did require some sacrifice, did little to freshen his spirits.

Leo was up. Babbling incoherently – occasionally with what Giles thought might be some belligerence – the boy waved his tiny feet in the air, mesmerized at their movement. When feeding was a necessity, he demanded it with no regard for Giles’ pounding head; the Watcher found himself wondering how he had come to this place. Rupert Giles, future fighter pilot (or grocer, on the quieter days) was now caretaker to seemingly a dozen children of varying ages, none of whom had the slightest idea who he was or what he wanted. His thoughts returned unbidden to Buffy, nestled in his arms just hours earlier. Even she hadn’t the vaguest notion that he was anything but a convenience, a security blanket on her darkest nights.

At mid-morning tea, Willow and Tara arrived on his doorstep. With bakery bag and fresh coffee in hand, they practically bowled him over to get to the baby.

“Good morning,” he grumbled at their retreating backsides.

Tara looked over her shoulder with an apologetic smile; he was struck suddenly by how lovely, how utterly un… Scoobylike, for lack of a better word, she was. The unassuming grace, the quiet wisdom, was immediately calming to him. “S-sorry, Mr. Giles. How are you this morning?”

He managed a dry smile. “I’m all right, thank you. And now you may both go back to pretending I don’t exist; you’ve gone quite beyond protocol by inquiring.”

Willow grinned at him, settling on the sofa beside the bassinet. “Somebody needs a nap, and it’s not the baby.”

Before he could reply, the door burst open and Anya stood with a giant panda bear and two wrapped presents in her arms. At sight of the witches already in possession of their charge, she glowered unhappily.

“Xander!”

Xander staggered in with another armload of gifts. “You bellowed?”

“They’re here. When you were slobbering all over me this morning, didn’t I tell you we didn’t have time for – ”

Giles coughed in obvious alarm. “You have gifts,” he managed, just barely succeeding in cutting Anya off before something truly horrifying was revealed.

Xander dumped his presents without ceremony beside the door, nodding. “Yeah. We went to the toy store this morning,” he panted.

“Babies like toys.” Anya informed them imperiously. She strode over to the bassinet, still carrying the panda bear, and danced it with overwhelming enthusiasm over Leo’s head. Willow glared at her, backing out of the way only because she was clearly in physical danger if she chose not to.

“You’re scaring him.”

“I am not. He likes it. Doesn’t he, Xander?”

Xander was still gasping for breath at the door, but he managed a nod. “Yeah. I’m sure he’s not at all freaked by the giant alien bear practically giving him a lap dance.”

Giles took a moment to recover from his horror at their behavior, before letting relief take its place. He grabbed his cup of tea and made for the stairs.

“All right. Ground rules are as follows: Feed and change the baby when it’s required. Do not jostle, shake, or terrorize the baby,” this directed at Anya, who glared at him but remained blessedly silent. “I’ve made some inquiries around town with regards to his parents; if one of you would be so kind as to answer the phone if it rings, I would be grateful. And now,” he sighed. “I am going up to bed.”

Willow looked at him in surprise. “Bed? You can’t go to bed – it’s noon. That’s not very Watcher-y.”

He rolled his eyes, too exhausted to even attempt cheerful banter. All-nighters as a Watcher were inevitable; as a babysitter, they were utterly unacceptable.

“Formula is in the refrigerator; nappies are under the counter. He’s been fed and changed in the last half-hour.” Giles yawned widely, stumbling slightly on the first stair. “I have an engagement this evening; if one of you would be so kind as to take Leo during, it would be appreciated.”

“What kind of engagement?” Anya demanded immediately.

Giles sighed, his foot on the stair and his mind sinking quickly into an exhaustion-riddled stupor. “A singing engagement, actually. At the Espresso Pump.”

Xander nodded approvingly. “Nice; Giles got a gig.”

“Quite,” he managed, turning his back on them once again. Realizing suddenly that Buffy had yet to return to his flat since vanishing this morning, he paused once more.

“Has anyone heard from Buffy?”

Four heads shook as one. Willow added, “I haven’t seen her since she took off yesterday for patrol. You haven’t heard from her?”

He nodded, flustered, trying to determine how much to say about the previous evening. “She stopped in after patrol; there was a small incident, and she needed a bit of bandaging.”

“Is she okay?” Xander had finally regained his breath and waded through the three women to gain access to Leo. At Giles’ words, however, he looked up in concern.

“Yes, she’s fine. Slayer healing and a bit of peroxide did the job handily.”

A brief silence followed, before Tara met his eye; he saw the way the young woman studied him and looked away quickly. It may be easy to hide from the others, always completely immersed in their own worlds, but this one was quite different. She smiled softly, understanding lighting her features before she kindly looked away.

“I’m sure she’s all right.”

Willow nodded, already dismissing the information as of no concern. “Oh, yeah. We know how the Buffster bounces back; she’s probably with Riley right now, bouncin’ away.” Her eyes widened, a furious blush climbing her cheeks. “That didn’t come out right.”

Giles couldn’t squelch a faint smile at Anya’s response, as he turned from them once and for all and made for his room.

“I don’t know, it sounded fairly accurate to me. I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

* * * * *

It seemed moments later – though in actuality it had been nearly two hours by his clock – when Buffy burst through the front door of his flat. He lay still, torn between going down to greet her or remaining happily oblivious in his bed. Her scent remained on his pillows, in his sheets; his sleep had been peppered with her image. A languid flush of warm blood ran through him at the memory of some of those images: His Slayer, golden hair tickling his nose, his eyelids, as she straddled him. Her hand on his face, teeth on his earlobe, her firm, silken body moving against him… His morning – afternoon, actually, he reminded himself grimly – erection stirred, hardening even further.

These were not new images to him. Unwelcome, wholly unsupportable, utterly inappropriate… but not new. He’d scanned Watcher’s Diary after Watcher’s Diary searching for evidence that others had faced this same dilemma, and had been rewarded for his efforts. For the most part, the Diaries remained strictly on task, quoting vampire statistics and demon spells; there were, however, inevitably lapses. Reading between the lines, trying not to infer too much without cause, Giles nevertheless found passages speaking of the strong physical attraction Watchers inevitably nursed for their Slayers. Theirs was not a paternal bond, despite what the Council might think to the contrary. It was a bond borne of life-and-death struggle over an extended period of time. It was blood, and pain, and destiny. The Watcher relied on his Slayer for survival in much the same way that the Slayer relied on her Watcher for guidance, support and understanding. He dared even venture that there were a number of Watcher-Slayer duos who’d entered into a physical relationship once the Slayer had come of age; some, perhaps, that hadn’t even waited for that.

Despite the knowledge that the children were downstairs, Giles found he couldn’t quell his growing desire. Completely against his will, more images from sleep filled his head: Buffy crawling up the bed to him on hands and knees, her eyes never leaving his own. Strong hands taking him, her soft mouth searching him out…

Think of cricket, he warned himself desperately. Babies. Demons. He listed prime ministers in alphabetical order. At Maggie Thatcher, his blood blessedly began to cool. He was certainly not opposed to taking his pleasure by his own hand; however, there was a time and a place. Saturday afternoon with the Slayer and her crowd just an open door away was decidedly *not* that time.

Before his thoughts could return to dangerous territory once more, he rose. Stretched his long frame, pulled on his robe, and went to the door. Opening it more fully, voices floated clearly up to him. At their words, he stopped.

“I think it’s kinda sexy.” Willow’s voice, quite clearly.

“Yeah, Will, you pretty much spilled that the first time we saw him.” Xander.

“And a few times since then.” Tara, though her voice was so soft that he had difficulty hearing her at first.

“I just hope he doesn’t do that song.” Buffy. Voice matter-of-fact, low; he knew he should announce his presence, but curiosity bested him. Leaning against the doorframe silently, he waited until she’d continued, prodded on by the others.

“You know - *that* song. The song about the bird.”

A blank silence in which Giles supplied the answer internally; moments later, Xander spoke it aloud. “Freebird, right?” A pause, before the boy’s reluctant admission. “I kinda like that one.”

“And I bet it sounds nice when he sings it.” Willow pressed on, and he had a moment’s clarity to silently thank the girl for her sweetness before he was assaulted once more by Buffy’s words.

“Well, I think it’s dumb. The whole thing’s dumb – the song, the lounge lizard act, all of it. The whole mid-life crisis thing is totally cliché,”

Giles shut his bedroom door again softly, something hard pressing into his heart. He was a fool; an old, doddering fool. To go about thinking that he could do anything with his life outside the destiny that had been thrust upon him, was ridiculous. Trying to deny how deeply Buffy’s words had cut, he took a moment to gather himself once more before going downstairs.

* * * * *

Xander stared at Buffy like she had three demon heads.” That seems a little harsh, Buff… And I go out with her,” he pointed to Anya, who smiled winningly until she realized the point he’d made.

“Hey!”

“Sorry, An. It’s just… I don’t know, I think Giles is handling himself pretty well. So you don’t like ‘Freebird’ – I mean, I admit some Skynard leaves me cold. But that’s no reason to judge a man’s whole life.”

“Sh – she’s not,” Tara interrupted hesitantly, then blushed when everyone’s eyes went to her. “I mean…” she searched for what she was trying to say, her attention on the floor until understanding finally dawned. “What don’t you like about the song?”

Buffy shrugged, trying to stay nonchalant when the memory of his voice, those words, made her heart beat like an African drum. She’d woken to his voice in the shower that morning. Lying there totally curled in her Watcher’s smell, the feel of him there beside her, she’d closed her eyes and floated in the song. Until she realized what he was saying.

“Just… It’s a dumb song. Why wouldn’t that girl remember him? And why does he have to go, anyway – it’s… dumb,” she repeated lamely. “How does he know it wouldn’t be totally perfect if he stayed. Or – or they could go together. But, no – he’s gotta go be all manly with his Motorbike magazine and his jogging and his stupid new girlfriend and – and she has to stay behind and – ” she stopped short, her eyes widening in horror when she realized how much she’d given away.

“Be all Slayer-y?” Willow completed the thought for her quietly.

The others stood by in silence, until they heard Giles coming from his room. Buffy took one wild look up the stairs, caught a glimpse of Watcher leg descending, and headed for the door.

“I thought I heard Buffy.” He attempted indifference. Settled on cavalier. Anya was staring at him – not an unusual thing for the girl, as she had yet to master the niceties of being human. It was, however, decidedly unnerving; he pulled his robe tighter, concerned briefly that he may have unknowingly revealed himself.

Xander coughed. “Uh – she was here. She left. She had… you know. Demons to fight.”

“Rights to wrong,” Willow added.

They looked at Tara, who looked back helplessly before “Vamps to dust,” with a ‘Did I do all right?’ smile. Willow nodded her approval.

“Plus, she didn’t want to see you,” Anya added, oblivious to the others’ desperate attempts at tact.

There was another horrified silence, before Willow rushed in. “That’s not true. She just had to go.”

Giles attempted a smile that failed, then turned his back on them and went to the kitchen for tea. “It’s quite all right. I’ve a fairly thick skin after all this time with you lot. If I’m rather a laughing stock in her eyes…” he swallowed, fighting to keep from becoming someone they would pity. “…it certainly isn’t the first time.”

“You’re not a laughing stock!” Willow appeared in front of him, forehead furrowed in distress. “Totally not laugh-y material – you’re the Watcher.”

“Not a lounge lizard,” he finished for her.

Xander came to stand beside Willow, looking equally horrified. “You heard that? I thought only Slayers had uber hearing.”

“I don’t have uber-hearing… I was at my door. It’s a small flat. I heard the entire conversation.”

“So you know that sub-consciously the lyrics to your song made Buffy lose her mind and think you were going to leave her because all men that she loves do.”

Four heads turned as one to stare in amazement at Anya. She looked back at them, curious at first and then appearing increasingly uncomfortable. Shifting where she stood, she added, “Leave her,” to clarify. “I can be intuitive,” her voice rose defensively.

Xander went to her, his face softer, more adult, than Giles had ever seen. “That’s my girl,” he whispered, so softly that it was barely heard by the others. Anya smiled sweetly, her attention only on her lover.

“I did something good?”

He shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t say that – could’ve just blown something up that wasn’t ready to blow at all.” Xander looked at Giles and the older man was struck once more by the level of maturity in the boy’s eyes. Man’s eyes, he corrected himself sternly. “Or, you could’ve just done something very good.”

Giles turned to Willow and Tara for confirmation. “You believe that’s why Buffy doesn’t like my singing.”

“She doesn’t not like your singing,” Willow stopped, confused at her own words.

“That means she does like it,” Tara explained gently. Willow nodded, pointing to her friend.

“Right. Listen to the Wicca wisdom here. She just doesn’t like that song.”

“Because of its connotations.”

Anya turned to Xander impatiently. “Didn’t I already say this?”

“Because she fears that, like her father, I will step out of her life and abandon her.”

Willow grimaced, Xander shifted, Anya snorted outright. Tara looked at him again. “I – I don’t know if that’s what we mean, Mr. Giles. I don’t know B-Buffy very well, but… I – I don’t think I ever looked at my father the way Buffy looks at you.”

“Thank god,” Anya added.

Giles looked at them all in complete bafflement. “But Riley – ”

“Is the one guy she’s safe with, because she doesn’t give a flyin’ fig-newton if he stays or goes,” Willow asserted.

“And you’re already halfway out the door,” Xander added, “At least, in that tangled world that’s Buffy’s crazy Slayer brain.”

Silence fell once more. Giles went to the tea kettle, turning on the water as he looked about his flat for answers. Baby toys and baby clothes were strewn from one end of the place to the other; he thought of the life he could have. It wasn’t out of the question for him to leave this place. Rationally, the Council had relieved him of his duties; Buffy would do well to move on from whatever fondness her friends perceived she’d developed for him. He could have a normal life; he could choose it, here and now. Go to England, give up on demons, provide Olivia with a safe, pleasant upper-middle-class life in Bath. In twenty-four hours, he’d proven that he could do domestic; he could change nappies, heat formula, be only mildly miserable about it. Buffy would forget about him in short order, he was sure. There would be a long line of Finns to come; one of them, eventually, would make her feel safe enough, special enough, to truly steal her heart.

The thought was ice-water in his veins. He had no interest in life with Olivia, no desire for it. And a long line of Finns left him with unmistakably homicidal urges. Clearing his throat, he turned back to Buffy’s friends - *his* friends, he told himself quietly – trying to keep the curiosity and naked vulnerability from his eyes.

“This – these… feelings, you believe Buffy may have for me?”

He fixed inexplicably on Tara, still the outsider, the one who could perhaps remain impartial. “Doesn’t it seem rather selfish to prey on her feelings when she’s perhaps more vulnerable than usual?”

Anya piped up. “She’s the Slayer. She could rip your heart out with her bare hands; crush your insides between her thighs. Not even vengeance demons have her kind of power. I’d be far more concerned about my own survival, if I were you.”

A smile flickered on Tara’s face; Giles watched in surprise as Willow’s hand brushed against her friend’s, and he felt the power move subtly through the room at the contact. The blonde looked away quickly when she realized that he’d seen, then forced her gaze back to his own when she spoke.

“I think maybe she’s only vulnerable right now because of what she thinks she’s about to lose.”

“So stands to reason that if you’re the guy causing the heartache and you can take it away…” Xander shrugged, shaking his head in disbelief. “And I can’t believe I’m saying this, because – hello, the monumental wiggins I’ll be living with for years to come just staggers the mind – but it seems like you should be the guy to step up and fix it.”

Leo whimpered from the other room, still in his bassinet and utterly abandoned. All four of the young people raced to his side at the sound; Giles was left alone in the kitchen. Meditatively, he poured water for his tea; took a breath, straightened his shoulders. And formed a plan.

* * * * *

Once he’d determined his best course of action, Giles’ afternoon and evening progressed quickly. At his request, Xander and Anya took Leo out for the afternoon; Willow and Tara would care for the infant that night. In the meantime, something unforgivably adolescent had turned his stomach wrong-side out. He spent nearly an hour choosing an outfit for his performance at the Espresso Pump that night. And then there was the issue of Buffy herself; regardless of the kind of attention he might pay to ensuring he do everything perfectly, there was no guarantee that she would even be there.

In fact, there was no guarantee that the others were right about any of this in the first place. They could just as easily be completely off the mark, he reasoned. In which case he’d come off as a lecherous old fool.

Or, - and for some reason this scenario caused more anxiety than any other he could imagine – she might simply choose to ignore his request entirely, thus proving beyond a doubt that he was, truly, merely a convenience.

But he ought to at least try, oughtn’t he? If she felt as the others said she did; if she saw him as anything other than her Watcher, her safety net… didn’t she deserve to know that he felt the same? Sighing, he finally decided on a royal blue shirt and a pair of blue jeans, an outfit Buffy had commented on once before. Hoping he didn’t look a complete prat, he put in the earring he’d retained since his Ripper days, and checked his reflection before reaching for the phone. It wasn’t a complete disaster, he noted in surprise. Anyone but Buffy might even venture to say he looked… almost dashing.

Almost.

Taking a breath, he dialed her number.

* * * * *

Buffy answered in the middle of a chocolate frenzy. Babies and vamp attacks and future and the feel of Giles pressed against her had finally pushed the Slayer over the edge. She sat on her bed with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s “Everything But The…”, a box of Little Debbie’s Ding Dongs, half a heart full of chocolate-covered cherries, and a Slayer-sized bellyache.

“Buffy.”

She sat up from slouching on her pillow, her heart going into overdrive – though that could have been the fact that she’d eaten like twice her body weight in sugar in about an hour.

“What’s wrong?” Already in Slayer mode, she tried to imagine battling demons right now. Maybe she could hurl on them instead of actually fighting them. Slayer hurl had to have some kind of kick to it, didn’t it?

She could feel Giles’ smile through the phone; could picture the way he rolled his eyes up into the back of his head before saying anything.

“Everything’s fine, Buffy – nothing with which to concern yourself.”

“Oh. Good.” She paused, totally confused now. Since Giles wasn’t jumping in with an explanation, she finally added, “So – did you call for any special reason?”

“Y – yes, of course.” She closed her eyes and saw him: the blush climbing his cheeks, the way his long fingers would massage the bridge of his nose. “I just – I wanted to know if you had plans this evening?”

She danced around it for awhile before she finally admitted that, no, she didn’t have a thing. Riley had been begging for a round of Naked Commando-Slayer Twister, but the thought just left her cold. She was up for chocolate and some serious vamp carnage come nightfall; romance was way at the bottom of the agenda.

But this wasn’t romance, she reasoned. This was Giles. He wouldn’t tell her anything, just asked her to be at the Espresso Pump for his second set, at nine. She tried to get out of it, suddenly sucked under at the memory of his voice in the shower, her friends’ faces when she’d started babbling… But Giles cut her off before she could back out.

“Please, Buffy – I ask very little of you.”

“Except long hours of training and an early, painful death.”

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Well – yes, apart from that. But that’s more the Council’s agenda than my own. I, as a solitary entity in your life, ask very little.”

Thinking how true this actually was, Buffy nodded silently before adding, “I’ll be there, Watcher-mine. Count on it.”

* * * * *

Patrol was a total non-event that night. Buffy went out around seven, hoping to lose at least a little of the bloat she’d gained from the chocathon earlier. No such luck: no vamps, no demons… not even a mugger. She was back in her room by eight, searching through her stuff for something to wear. Which would be way easier if she had a clue what she was in for. Watcher-Slayer bonding usually meant sweats and no jewelry that could get snagged or used as a weapon. Somehow, that m.o. didn’t sound right for the Espresso Pump.

For the sixty-nine jillionth time since Giles had called, Buffy wondered what this was all about. Demon news definitely wasn’t a dressy affair. Plus, if it were something Slayer-related, he would’ve just told her over the phone. She knew she’d gotten carried away when she was talking to the gang earlier, but she was pretty sure she’d covered all right. Especially since she wasn’t even really sure what she was covering; had anything really changed? There’d always been warm and fuzzies where Giles was concerned – he was like her people-sized version of Mr. Gordo. Safe, and comfortable, and predictable.

Except that lately, Giles wasn’t any of those things. Last night in his arms, she definitely wasn’t responding to him the way she responded to a stuffed pig. Hello – totally disturbing image there. She pet Mr. Gordo, just to reassure him that her wrong thoughts really had nothing to do with him. Still status quo for the Pig and the Slayer.

The Watcher, though… now that was a different story.

* * * * *

For Giles’ part, he hadn’t the faintest notion of how he was going to survive the evening without passing out or becoming physically ill. Stage sickness was not uncommon to him; there was the usual unsettled stomach, the welcome surge of adrenaline… This, however, was something akin to a Vandlar demon nesting in his intestines. His head was pounding, his palms were sweating; finally, obviously concerned for his well-being, Willow took him aside.

“Hey, Giles,” she looked at him curiously with those big eyes of hers; he nodded, his attention fixed on Tara holding Leo across the counter in the kitchen. The blonde girl bounced Leo in her arms gently, her entire demeanor the picture of calm; he took a breath, turning to Willow.

“Yes?”

“How ya doin’, Big Guy?”

He attempted a smile. “Fine, Willow. Just fine.”

“You don’t really look fine.”

Tara called over to them. “You do look kinda pale, Mr. Giles.”

“Do ya need to throw up?” Willow asked solicitously.

Actually, the thought had occurred to him; nevertheless, he shook his head as though the question were ridiculous.

“I’m honestly fine. Just a bit of stage fright, I’d expect.”

Both Willow and Tara looked at him doubtfully. Finally, he shrugged.

“This is absurd. This entire evening, the entire *notion* is utter madness. Buffy is nineteen… she has her whole life in front of her.”

Willow studied him sadly; he was reminded suddenly of the small girl with the long red hair who’d shown him such kindness when he’d first moved here. There was an understanding to her now, a weight to her gaze borne not of years but rather of experience.

“Whole lives can be pretty short here.”

Tara looked at him solemnly. He nodded silent agreement; swallowed the lump in his throat; pushed aside the boiling in his stomach, and stood up straighter. He was acting like a blushing virgin, for Christ’s sake. And if Olivia’s brief return to his life had proven nothing else, it certainly had served to remind him that he was *not* a blushing virgin.

If Buffy wanted him, she could certainly do worse; whether she did or did not want him, however, was of little consequence. A decision had been made. Giles pulled on his jacket, grabbed his guitar, and headed for the door, resolving once more to follow through on that decision.

* * * * *

8:10 p.m.

Half an hour after Giles left, his phone rang. Tara looked up helplessly from the sofa, seated with Leo cradled snugly in her arms. Willow grinned at the picture as she picked up the phone.

“Giles residence.”

There was a pause on the line, then what sounded like a sniffle, before a woman’s voice finally spoke.

“Is this the home of Rupert Giles?”

“Yes – can I help you?”

“Is he there? It’s urgent that I speak with him.”

Willow’s eyes widened with concern. “He’s actually out for the night. But I could get a message to him – or maybe I could help you myself.”

There was another long pause, followed by louder sniffling and then a big, wet sob. Willow gulped, catching Tara’s eye.

“Who is it?” the other girl mouthed. The red head shrugged as the woman on the line finally found her voice again.

“He – I heard that he might have something that belongs to me.”

Willow perked up immediately. “Oh – hey, right. The thing that belongs to you… and Giles took it. I mean,” her hands flapped wildly as she back-tracked. “Not took because – hello, Giles, totally not a burgl-y guy. But he found it. Except he didn’t have to look very hard, ‘cause someone just left it right there and – ”

“So he does have Mason? My baby?”

“Mason, huh?” She nodded over to Tara, who smiled, whispering the name into the bundle in her arms.

“Yeah, he’s right here. But – why…” she swallowed, trying to find a diplomatic way to phrase the question. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“If it’s all right,” the woman sniffed one more time, but seemed to pull herself together after that. “…I just need my boy back. I can explain once I’m there.”

Willow hesitated, putting a hand over the receiver to whisper to Tara. “She wants him back. Now.”

Tara bit her lip, gazing back at Leo – or Mason, she reminded herself.

“Are you sure it’s his Mom?” she whispered back.

Willow shrugged. “I don’t know; she sounds really upset.”

“Maybe we should call the police. They’d probably know what to do.”

The redhead’s eyes widened in alarm. “No way – then you get Family Services, and there could be a horrible foster family and they’ll make him sleep under the stairs with the cows and – and it could be years before he gets home again. Don’t you ever watch Lifetime?”

The woman on the phone cleared her throat. “Hello? Is there anything wrong?”

Willow thought about it for another thirty seconds before she finally made a judgment call.

“We’ll meet you at the Bronze at nine – do you know where that is?”

A minute later, everything was arranged. Willow hung up and looked at her girlfriend triumphantly. “I always knew there was a reason they called me the smarty-pants of the Scoobs.”

Tara smiled at her enthusiasm, but quickly became serious again. “That does sound good, Will – but don’t you think it might’ve been better to go somewhere where Giles and Buffy would be?”

Willow shook her head staunchly, a hint of resolve face turning her eyes to steel. “Nope. We just go public, have Xander and Anya hidin’ out in the shadows. And if this lady is anything but totally up and uppy, we’ll be somewhere where she can’t make a scene.”

“But Buffy – ”

The redhead held up her hand, her chin up and her jaw set; Tara fell silent. “Deserves a night off. And so does Giles. And a Buffy-Giles night off together… you saw how much Giles was looking forward to it, all British and stuttery.”

“I thought he was always all British and stuttery.”

“Yeah, but he wore jeans tonight.” She grinned, snuggling in next to her girlfriend and the baby as she continued. “That’s like twice as British and two-point-three times the stuttery goodness.”

Tara giggled. “Well… I guess if you’ve done the math, we’re probably all right.”

* * * * *

8:50 p.m.

Buffy’s room was trashed when she finally left the dorms. Skirts and dresses hung from lampshades; blouses were draped over both beds; bras and panties of every color the good folks at Crayola ever imagined polka dotted the carpet. The Slayer had finally settled on a simple, flowered silk sundress – pretty enough to make an impact, but simple enough not to look like she’d tried too hard.

She was headed down a dark alley when she heard the footsteps behind her. With a resigned sigh, she turned to find a fully vamped-out newbie heading straight for her.

“Okay. So – we’re gonna do this fast, because I’ve got a thing and my hair is totally perfect right now.”

“It does look nice,” he observed. The vamp-face lumpies faded, leaving a not-unattractive guy in his mid-twenties or so.

She smiled sweetly. “Thank you. Are you new?”

He looked disappointed. “That obvious?”

A shrug. She shifted, getting impatient. The right pun and a quip or two post-battle were one thing, but the witty banter got old fast.

“You still have some stuff.” She nodded to the dirt in his dark hair; he brushed it away quickly, looking at her to see if he’d gotten it all out. “That did it,” she confirmed.

“Thanks. It’s hard to get out.” He paused, looking her up and down. “Y’know, you’re kinda cute. This is nice.”

She managed a smile. “Yeah, it’s great. That doesn’t mean I’m gonna let you go, though.”

He vamped out again. “Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna fight you to the death, Slayer.”

Buffy rolled her eyes; the vamp caught the expression. “Too over the top?”

“Just a little. But you’re new – the attitude takes time.”

“You headed to the Bronze after this?”

He began to circle; Buffy followed his lead, staying out of his reach. Her purse held the standard stake and holy water; around her neck was the crucifix Giles had bought her to replace the one from Angel. It was completely black outside, no stars, no moon, no passersby. Perfect for a quick dusting; if this guy would just shut up and fight already.

Finally, the vamp led with a right hook that Buffy avoided easily; once he was off-balance, she caught him in the side with a round-house kick that sent him reeling. He staggered to the side of the alley, doubled over.

“Damn; it’s a good thing I don’t breathe anymore. You could kill someone that way.”

She just looked at him; if vamps could blush, she was sure he would’ve done just that.

“Right; guess that’s the point.”

His words from before suddenly registered; she narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Why – what’s going on at the Bronze?”

He shrugged, playing dumb. “I don’t know. I just thought, y’know, nice place to kick back. Have a beer, maybe dance a little… Steal a baby or two.” The words caught her off guard – the vamp took the advantage and dove in again. This time, there was no blunder; he grabbed her arm and pulled her to him, holding her tight as he prepared to drink.

Buffy wrangled her leg around his, using the leverage to knock him off center. The vamp stumbled, lost his hold, and in the split second it took for him to recover, was dust.

She brushed herself off, glancing at her watch. 9:05. There was no way she couldn’t *not* go the Bronze – the vamp had said something about a baby, and Buffy had a sinking feeling she knew just what baby he was talking about. Giles’ words ran through her head: “I ask very little of you.” She’d promised him. But… Wasn’t he the one who was always telling her she had to take her duty seriously? Maybe she could do both. Get to the Bronze, save the day, then get to the Pump before Giles’ set was over. Wasting no more time on debate, she pulled herself together and started for the Bronze.

* * * * *

9:10

Buffy stood outside the Bronze for a few seconds, listening to what would soon prove to be total chaos. She winced at a thump, experience immediately translating it into the sound of a body being hurled against the wall. Taking a breath, she kicked the door in and stepped into the free-for-all.

Xander went flying past her, managing a subtle wave and a “Hey, Buff,” on the way.

“What the hell’s going on?” she shouted after him.

A big demon with nasty boils on his gray forehead had followed up on the Xander-attack, and now had her friend by the shirt, pinned against the wall. Buffy raced after them, tapping the demon persistently on the shoulder until the nasty lug turned around to cuff her away. As soon as he did, she kicked him for all she was worth; he was immediately airborne, landing in a heap against the opposite wall. Xander smiled sheepishly.

“Another minute and I would’ve had ‘im.”

“Heads up!” A voice shouted from the balcony. Buffy looked up to see Riley tossing another of the boil-y demons down, almost on top of them. She and Xander stepped out of the way quickly as Riley leaned over the railing, calling down to her. “Hey – I thought you weren’t feeling well?”

She rolled her eyes. Great. Demons she could handle, but she was *so* not up for the boyfriend Guiltfest. Riley’s attention was diverted by another demon hurling itself at him, so Buffy went back to her original question.

“Xander – what is this?”

She barely broke eye contact with him as another attacker – this one a vamp – came from behind. Flipping him over her shoulder, she grabbed a stake out of Xander’s hand and nailed her attacker in the heart in a single, fluid move. Xander smiled a little wildly.

“Nice! Uh – you should ask the girls. They told us to be here; we came. I don’t really know what’s happening.”

Following his nod toward the corner by the dance floor, she saw Tara and Willow standing together, the baby in Willow’s arms. Buffy side-stepped a scuffle between one of the Initiative boys and a vamp, led a couple of civilians to the door, and finally reached Willow and Tara.

“Buffy! You’re not supposed to be here – I mean, yay! ‘Cause with the demons and the vamps and the Hellmouth-y badness… It’s good you came. But you’re supposed to be on a date. With Giles.”

Which was exactly the minute that Angel showed up. Or, at least, it was the minute that she noticed him. And he noticed her. He’d taken on two of the demons with a long-sword and what looked like a garbage-can cover, but he almost lost the whole battle when he heard Willow.

He lopped off both demons’ heads with one fell swoop, and came to stand beside the three women.

“Wait – you’re going on a date with Giles?”

Willow smiled weakly. “Oh – and hey, guess what. Angel’s here.”

“Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?” Buffy demanded, stopping just short of stomping her foot.

Anya walked up to them with an ax in one hand and a beer in the other. “The bartender got disemboweled – drinks on the house!” She took a long pull from the bottle, then turned to Buffy. “Right – what’s going on. It’s exactly as Xander told me with that little red-haired girl; this is what happens when you take babies.”

Tara smiled hesitantly, raising her voice so Buffy could hear her over the noise around them. “Mason’s mother called – or, we thought it was Mason’s mother.”

Willow nodded enthusiastically; Buffy took a minute to check the surroundings before she let herself get too firmly pulled into the story. It seemed like the Initiative was doing a pretty good job of fending everyone off; Wesley was off in the corner fencing with another vamp – once Angel realized the ex-Watcher was about to get sliced and diced, he took off to the rescue. Turning back to Willow, the Slayer tried to focus on what she was saying.

“Hey, here’s a question: Who the hell’s Mason?”

“Leo,” Tara offered.

Buffy nodded. “And his mother came to get him.”

Willow shook her head wildly. “Called. And it wasn’t really his mother – it was this band of demons who are out to get him ‘cause he’s the only heir of their sworn enemy and so the *real* mom hired Angel, and Angel figured Slayer/Watcher combo would be good to keep the little guy safe,”

Tara interrupted, a hand on Willow’s arm, studying the redhead with concern. “Breathe, Willow.”

She took a gulp of air and was about to launch into more explanation when Buffy held up her hand. “I’ve heard enough. All I need are the vital stats: Baby good, demons bad. And what’s the deal with all the vamps?”

Wes came over, sweaty and discombobulated but looking pretty good considering a year ago he was a smarmy British mama’s boy. “They seem to be working for the demons,” he managed to gasp. “We may have underestimated exactly what it would take to protect the boy.”

Music started from the stereo, the bass deafening; up ‘til then, Leo/Mason had seemed too shocked to cry, but at the noise he started a hearty wail. Buffy shouted above it, to Wes.

“We can’t take them all on. What’s gonna stop this?”

Wes shook his head. “I’m not entirely certain – in the texts that I’ve read, these demons are highly organized. Destroy the leader, and their infrastructure will crumble.”

Buffy took another few seconds to assess the situation; even though the good guys seemed to be holding their own, she wasn’t sure that was going to last all that much longer. Remembering Giles’ advice in sixteen dozen training sessions over the years, she closed her eyes, letting the feel of the fight wash over her. There was a rhythm to battle that was almost soothing; she fell into that rhythm, slowing her breath, keeping her heart steady, and then opened her eyes. Chaos become clarity.

Standing by the stage was a single demon, larger than the others, protected by a ring of vamps. Buffy signaled to Angel, fighting a few feet away; he followed her gaze, catching on immediately. Wes was on the same page. With a look to their leader, the three squared up and prepared to fight.

* * * * *

9:35 p.m.

Giles glanced at his watch. He’d put off beginning his second set a full ten minutes, knowing Buffy’s penchant for tardiness. There was a moment of concern, wondering if perhaps she’d run into trouble along the way. The concern, however, soon gave way to annoyance; now, half-an-hour into the set, annoyance was replaced with resignation.

The Espresso Pump was teeming with patrons, all completely attuned to his playing. In the past, he’d become accustomed to playing pubs in London, where his band was just another distraction from the locals’ main objective: getting heartily, blisteringly drunk on a Friday night. Here, however, there was no din to shout above, no concern for flying fists or broken bottles; he was the center of attention.

Despite this, as the evening wore on, Giles found himself sinking into an increasing malaise. He enjoyed this part of his life immensely; felt more fulfilled, more truly himself, than he ever had in the library. But he was still an outsider here. He glanced at the set list taped to the neck of his guitar: Five songs remaining. “Freebird” had been the last, however he’d crossed it out this afternoon, replacing it with a song he’d only just learned, barely had time to practice, but nevertheless could not escape. It was Buffy’s song; had been from the moment he heard it, from the bittersweet pang of the tune itself to the elegant melancholy of the writer’s lyric.

It appeared, however, that she would never actually *hear* her song. Wherever she was, she wasn’t here; his hours of preparation, primping like a schoolboy, had been. And as the evening wore on and he re-experienced the disappointment that had become so common in his relationship with the Slayer, he began to wonder if that truly was such a terrible thing.

An attractive brunette he’d chatted up during the break caught his eye as he launched into a rendition of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” She was from Devonshire, actually… Lovely brown eyes, trim figure; they’d spoken of home with the same degree of wistfulness, the same dry irony. Did he really miss bangers and mash? Kidney pie? Cold days and endless rain? Dear lord… there were times he missed them all so much he could weep upon waking to another mild, weatherless California morning. With no idea the weighty implications of her inquiry, the woman had asked what kept him in Sunnydale.

Giles, alone and aching, could not for the life of him seem to answer the question.

* * * * *

9:40

“You look like hell. And I should know - been there once or twice.”

Buffy slowed slightly, but she couldn’t even get up the energy for a good sigh. Typical. Totally freakin’ typical. Racing for the Espresso Pump after an all-out war at the Bronze, she was uber-aware of how to pot she’d gone since striking out less than an hour before. Her dress was torn, her hair was a mess, she was pretty sure she had demon blood on her… She totally didn't need this.

“Spike,” she muttered, the name tasting the way she imagined dirty laundry might taste.

“Where you off to in such a hurry?” The blonde vampire picked up his pace to walk with her.

“None of your business.”

“I don’t want to step on your toes, but you’re looking a little trounced upon, Pet.”

At this, she stopped. This was really way too much. She could be home right now, finishing off Ben & Jerry’s… But no. She had to be the Slayer. She had to save demons and slay babies and… Whirling in her tracks, Buffy drew the last stake from her purse and aimed it, stopping the blow a millimeter from Spike’s heart. He shrieked, jumping back and landing just off-balance enough to send him reeling onto his skinny (but shapely because – hello, who was she kidding) vamp butt.

“Are you insane? You could have killed me!”

“Kinda the point.” She put the stake away again and got back to the business of trying to get to Giles before it was too late. Sacrificing dignity completely, she took a breath and started out at a full-on run.

Only to be stopped by Spike, running right alongside her.

“What’s got your knickers in a twist, then?”

“I’m late, Spike – I don’t have time for your whole fangless fury deal tonight.”

He caught her by the arm, forcing her to slow down. “What – got a hot date with your Wonderboy? A bit of White Bread whimsy on the menu tonight?”

She jerked her arm away. “If you must know, I’m meeting Giles.”

The Espresso Pump was only a couple of blocks away now; Buffy wondered if she could actually hear Giles playing if she just listened hard enough, what with the whole super Slayer hearing and all. But only if Spike would shut up, of course. Maybe she could send Slayer sonar waves to Giles, to let him know she was on the way. They needed a signal. Or he needed to stop being so 1982 and just get a cell phone already.

Spike was looking at her in that way he had… like he knew something. That tilt of the head, the little secret smile. “What?” she demanded.

“Nothing. Just looks to me like you’ve finally got your lily-white thighs atingle over the right fella is all. I only hope it’s not too late.”

That did it. She grabbed him by the shirt and landed a solid left-hook that he blocked pretty nicely, before he tried to get into the action with an uppercut that was totally unsuccessful because before it ever hit Buffy, the chip kicked in. Screaming in pain, holding his head in both hands, he took a step back.

“Bloody hell! I can’t even defend myself without my bleedin’ cranium exploding.”

“Serves you right.”

She’d picked up her pace again; only a block to go. And yet, mysteriously, Spike refused to get lost. Giving in to curiosity, she turned to him.

“What did you mean by too late?”

He looked confused for a minute, before he traced the conversation back. “Oh – right, the Watcher. Just that I caught a glimpse of him in there earlier with a lovely little English bit… Seems like since he’s not owing you anything anymore, it’d be almost kinder to just let ‘im go. Toddle off to merry old and make dainty British babies; no more demons, no more blows to the head – a man his age can only take so much of that, y’know.”

Buffy shook her head in frustration. She didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or stake something. After the battle was over and the head Manicotti (or something like that) Demon had been slain, there hadn’t even been some dramatic scene. Angel was there, all dark and broody; Riley was there, all… not dark and broody. But all it took was a few words with Willow, and it was clear. Her best friend had pulled her aside, eyes wide with concern for Giles.

“He really wanted you to be there.”

That was it – she got it. It was all right there in Willow’s eyes: All the times Buffy’d let him down before, all the thoughtless things she’d said to him, the way she’d fought him at every turn. And it never mattered to him; he was still always there, always the one to pick up the pieces when the whole Slayer melodrama kicked into overdrive. One little sentence from Willow, and Buffy knew what she needed.

Now, though, Spike’s words sunk in. What she needed was maybe the last thing Giles did. More lumps to the noggin, more late nights worrying about whether she was alive or dead… and then being there for the day when she finally didn’t come home. That song he sang – the fact that he wanted to be somewhere else, there was a whole life he hadn’t lived, just because of her. She’d never deserved someone like him, but she’d always been too selfish to admit it before. Maybe now, she should just suck it up and do the one thing that would actually prove that she…

She stopped walking. Stood up straighter, ignoring Spike's eyes on her. The realization had been slow; it had been creeping around in the dark, knocking on the door to her brain and then running off to hide in the shadows. But it was dead certainty now. No more Queen of Denial for her; if she’d just totally blown off Angel and pretty much dumped Riley and didn’t even think twice about either, she finally understood why.

She was in love with her Watcher.

Now she just needed to figure out what the hell to do about it.

* * * * *

9:50

He wasn’t watching the door any longer, refusing to be a witless prat a minute more. A battle waged within; there was the inevitable worry that she was in danger, so much a part of his daily life now that it was second only to breathing. But there was also a kind of strangled resignation about it. Now he knew. It had been absurd, at any rate – he was a Watcher, she was his Slayer. This fantastic notion that she might be romantically inclined toward him was simply a way to justify his utterly inappropriate feelings toward a girl more than half his age.

Looking up as he finished the second-to-last song, “Have a Little Faith in Me,” he caught the brunette’s eye again. Managed a vague echo of the Ripper grin, and made his decision. He would tell the others in the morning: he was going back to England. There was no reason for him to stay.

Waiting for the applause to subside, he made a quick mental adjustment to his set list and cleared his throat.

“I hadn’t intended to finish with this song – or, rather, I suppose I *had* intended, initially. Changed my mind, and…” he shrugged ineptly, “Well, changed it again. Of late I seem rather drawn to it. It was a favorite, in my youth – several centuries back now.”

He strummed the first few chords to “Freebird,” losing himself to the rhythm, refusing to acknowledge the weight that settled on his shoulders now that the final decision had been made. There was another ripple of applause as the crowd recognized the song, before it died away and all was silent. And in that silence, beneath the music, a knowledge borne of centuries of Watchers and Slayers before him, made him raise his head. He looked up, and she was there.

Covered in filth from whatever demon battle he’d missed, she stood in the doorway. At the song, her eyes filled with tears; her hand was on the knob, about to flee yet again, when he stopped playing abruptly. There was a cry of protest from the room as one, but he had no care for the lot of them; all that mattered was that his sudden silence had turned Buffy where she stood.

Giles met her eye briefly with a smile, his eyes softening at the confusion, the naked hope on her face. Then, he looked away, clearing his throat awkwardly as he turned his attention back to the puzzled audience.

“It seems I’ve changed my mind again. Perhaps that one’s best left to the past.” He shifted on the stool, making himself comfortable once more, trying to ignore the blush that was burning from his neck to his hairline. “At any rate, this is a tune I heard a few weeks ago, and the words struck me. It reminds me rather a lot of someone I know.”

He started playing. Buffy remained standing, her hand still on the door; Giles risked a glance up, caught her eye, then looked down at the guitar again.

“And if you run out one more time,” he said casually, not looking at her but leaving no one with any doubt as to whom he was addressing, “I swear to the gods and all their minions, I will take you over my knee before this night is out.”

He glanced up in time to see her flush crimson as the crowd turned their attention to the disheveled woman at the entrance. Obediently, she sank into a chair by the door. Clearing his throat, utterly unable to watch her reaction to the song, he felt the music quiet him as it never failed to do. And he began.

If you could paint her, she’d be a Picasso –
She’s got a few things out of place…
Like when she smiles, it’s slightly out of line;
It’s half-awkward, yet half-grace
While you’re unraveling this mystery
Of how she fits in time and space,
She’ll drag you into this lover’s tale
Though she will not give you a reason
And if you fight her tooth and nail,
She won’t give up until you lose.

She couldn’t feel her toes. All the blood had stopped flowing, time had stopped, while he sang to her. Except that he wouldn’t look at her – which was actually okay, because she didn’t know how to meet his eye now. Not with this between them. Once he started singing, everyone ignored her; she was able to sit, completely anonymous (well, not completely anonymous because of the flyaway hair and the ripped dress and the – hello – way Giles had spoken to her when she came in. But close to anonymous). Just sit there, and watch the man who made his living watching her.

It was kind of a revelation.

Up until that moment, fate had always seemed kind of a… bad. It meant spilled blood and long hours, demon prophecies and an early, painful death. But in an instant, while Giles sang words she couldn’t even imagine were meant for her, fate became something more than just a four-letter-word.

She wants the last word
The last dance
Thinks it’s absurd that you’d believe in second chances
You’re a lost cause
Yet here she is.
And that is the mystery…
Here she is.

When he finished, the crowd went nuts. Buffy tried to get to him, but found herself pushed aside by a bunch of middle-aged women; not necessarily unattractive women, but seriously pushy all the same. She wasn’t sure what she would say to him; it seemed a completely insane turn of events, because all of a sudden she wasn’t even sure that what she wanted was to *say* anything. Tonight, she could think of a whole lot of better ways to express her appreciation.

But then there was fifteen minutes of waiting while everyone drooled over him – rightfully so, but Giles looked like he was in the fifth level of hell (which, according to Angel, was way worse than regular hell). Every so often, he’d look up like he was checking to make sure she was still there; their eyes would meet, and one or both of them would look away, grinning like idiots. Blushing like virgins. Idiot virgins – as Giles would say: The earth was definitely doomed.

Just when she thought she’d finally get him all to herself, a pretty, dark-haired woman went up to him. Touched his arm, that way that women do when they’re interested and they want a man to *know* they’re interested, without coming right out and saying so. Buffy took a step closer, catching a whiff of a British accent. Where the hell were these women coming from? Didn’t they know that that ocean separating them from Sunnydale was there for a reason? Buffy stopped outright at the look in Giles’ eye; not like he wanted the woman, necessarily. But like he could, in the right situation. And fate was a four-letter-word all over again, only this time it was preceded by a whole bunch of other four-letter-words, for emphasis.

* * * * *

They walked in awkward silence back to his flat once Giles had finally disentangled himself from the crowd at the coffee shop. Buffy managed an awkward sentence or two, hesitantly complimenting his performance before she was quiet once more.

Giles was in agony. He’d been so sure when she first appeared that evening; there had been no question in his mind that this was meant to be. But now… she walked beside him, carefully separate, a thousand worlds’ distance between them. After a few minutes, some of the realities of the night became apparent – namely, the chill in the air and the rather thin summer dress Buffy was wearing. Without giving it any real thought, he removed his jacket, wrapping it ‘round her slight shoulders.

At the contact, Buffy stopped walking. They were only about a block from his flat; around them, the street was mercifully empty. Through the smog of southern California, Giles even imagined he could see a star or two. Imagined he could hear her heart, her blood; knew he could feel her. The heat that was the fact of her, the eyes that seared through him… She looked up at him, searching yet again for that something he couldn’t define, before she looked away.

“We should probably… keep going. Avoid the Big Bads if we can.”

He nodded, mute, and turned away once more. Just a couple of houses from home, she turned to him once again, her brow furrowed in a mix of puzzlement and consternation.

“Giles, what’s a chippie?”

Unable to squelch a smile, he immediately began running through demons whose names sounded similar to chippie, trying to determine to what she was referring.

“Chiplar, you mean? The chiplar demon - ”

She rolled her eyes impatiently, a faint pink flush climbing her cheeks. “No, *chippie*,” she insisted. “As in… chippie. Like that chick.”

A Watcher eyebrow went up, signifying his complete bafflement. She sighed dramatically.

“You know – the one tonight.”

Lacking any further elaboration, Giles struggled a moment more before understanding dawned. “You mean Valerie?”

And still more eye rolling. “Yeah. Valerie. Would you say she’s a chippie?”

He looked away in an effort to hide his grin, managing after a moment to look somewhat stern. “I rather think not, as a chippie is a slang term for a prostitute.”

They walked on, Giles determinedly waiting her out before she finally stopped walking altogether, just outside the entrance to his building.

“But you liked her.”

He nodded, uncertain of where this could possibly lead. In his experience as her Watcher, he’d found Buffy’s logic process a labyrinth of epic proportion.

“Yes, I suppose I did. She was very pleasant.”

“And British.”

“Yes.”

“And your age.”

He frowned. “Buffy, what – ?”

The youth had gone from her when she looked at him again; he was reminded yet again of the burden that was hers alone. She might have played the role of petulant teenager with aplomb in the past, but the reality of the mantle that she wore had matured her in ways few her age would ever understand.

“What is it?” he said softly.

She straightened, her eyes a century beyond tired, no softness to them. No pity, for herself or for him; just a matter-of-fact world-weariness that cut him far deeper than simple fury might.

“You should go. Be with her.”

He managed a smile, trying to lighten her mood. “Buffy, I only just met the woman. I imagine she might be somewhat alarmed if I were to arrive at her doorstep this evening.”

A moment’s silence passed between them, before she spoke again.

“You could get out now,” she said quietly. “Get away from me – have a life. Go back to England, drive on the wrong side of the road, drink too much tea…”

She started up the stairs to his flat still speaking, Giles following behind. At the door, she turned and he was mesmerized by the single tear that fell down her fragile-looking cheek. Just the fact of it; the idea that humans were so very complex that their emotions could transform something as solid, as limitless, as those eyes, to liquid.

Taking a step forward, he reached out and wiped the tear away with his thumb. Felt the coolness of it versus the heat of her skin, moving his hand ‘round to stroke her hair gently. She swallowed, trembling visibly now, and continued.

“You could have a garden. And horses.”

At his slow grin, she stopped speaking, glaring up at him. “Giles, I’m serious.”

He put on a somber face, taking another step to close the distance between them. “Yes, I know.”

“You could have anything you wanted.”

She stepped back, the surprise on her face almost comical as she realized she was backed against his door. The heat between them was a physical force to either fight against or revel in. Giles chose the latter, taking that final step until he was mere seconds from her. Placing his hands on the door, on either side of her head, he leaned in.

“Anything?” he whispered into her small ear, losing himself in the smell of her hair, the feel of her firm body pressed to his.

“Wh – what?” she managed, no longer fighting him, her body moving forward to brush against his own, sending his senses reeling.

“You said I could have anything I want.”

She nodded blindly, her head moving against his mouth as he continued to speak into her ear. “I meant – anything else. England. Horses.”

“I don’t want England,” he breathed, needing suddenly to touch her, taste her, feel her move beneath him. “I could have horses here.” He felt an almost insane urge to laugh out loud. “And half of Sunnydale drive on the wrong side of the road. This is what I want.” He moved back slightly so that he could look at her, her eyes closed, lips half-parted, body taut with unspoken desire. Her hair was pure gold in the lamplight; he brushed it back behind her ear, then leaned in and whispered, “You are the only thing I want.”

She turned her head to meet his mouth at the words, wrapping her arms ‘round his neck and pressing herself to him. The kiss started hard, brutal, but when he realized the fight was won, he softened… Nipped at her bottom lip gently, his tongue exploring, tasting a world that was at once terrifyingly new and yet strangely familiar. Ancient. His.

He lifted her so that she was even with him, pressing her against the door as the kiss intensified. He was hard, more ready than he’d been since adolescence, his erection straining painfully against his jeans. Buffy pulled back suddenly, a wondering smile on her lips, in her eyes, as she studied him and he gently placed her back on solid ground.

“You’re sure?” Teasing, now. Her hand slipped down his shirt-front, fingertips playing at the buttons before traveling further down and brushing ever so casually against his cock. Smiling at his sudden intake of breath, she continued watching him as she spoke.

“Because we could stop,” a fingertip traced the outline of him in his jeans. “Now,” her touch more firm now, her hand around his length until he pressed into her grip, near madness. “Never mention this again.” Her fingers found the button to his jeans; he recovered something of himself, grabbing her hand in his own with an ungentlemanly growl.

“Inside,” he managed, basic conversation skills completely eluding him as he fumbled the door open and pushed her inside.

Which was when they realized the lights were on. And there was some noise coming from Giles’ apartment. Not just a little noise, either; there was a whole Scooby-gang ho-down happening. It quieted to less than a dull roar when a half-dressed Slayer and a fully-turned-on Watcher came stumbling over the threshold, though.

Willow was the first one to find her voice. “Hey, guys. We were afraid you’d be all sad and baby-less…”

“I think they’re handling it pretty well,” Xander noted.

“They’re going to make their own,” Anya announced. “Very practical. No pesky child endangerment laws to consider.” She took a sip of her drink before adding, “And more orgasms this way.”

Tara grabbed Willow’s hand and started for the door before turning shyly. Even in his state, he didn’t miss the obvious signs of both girls’ tears. “You’re really all right, Mr. Giles?”

He smiled at the girl kindly, overcoming his initial horror after a moment. Studying Buffy standing disheveled beside him, her hand clasped in his, he nodded. “Yes, I expect so. Quite all right, Tara. Thank you. But what about you? You and Willow actually spent more time with young Leo than I.”

Her eyes filled with tears in an instant; he noted the way Willow’s hand tightened in the girl’s and smiled inwardly. “W – we’re all right. It was just fun to be so needed.”

Willow’s brow immediately furrowed. “You’re needed. Hey! Totally needy girl, right here. And you know way more spells than me. Plus, you’ve got a better room. Not that I wouldn’t hang out with you if you didn’t know more spells or have a better room,” the redhead added hastily. “And it’s not that I *need* you around but don’t *want* you around – no codepend-y thing,”

Giles cocked his eyebrow at Tara, who grinned with a shy giggle, pulling Willow out the open door as she continued to ramble, “… and I like my room, too, but yours has nice colors and all those herbs and – hey, do you still have that book I loaned you the other day…?”

Buffy closed the door behind them, then turned to find Anya watching the two of them curiously from the kitchen while Xander scavenged in the fridge.

“Don’t you guys have… somewhere to be?” she asked, trying totally without success to keep the impatience out of her voice.

“Not at all, actually,” Anya said flatly. “We went grocery shopping this afternoon. Xander says I can’t spend anymore of his money on shoes until I get a job of some kind, so that’s out. And we had sex this morning, so he won’t want to do it again until at least…,” she glanced at the clock, “…one a.m. Give or take.”

At his girlfriend’s words, Xander emerged from the fridge with his face bright red from either embarrassment or frostbite. “Well, guess we better go.”

Giles leaned back against the door with his arms crossed over his chest, having recovered at least a little of his dignity. “So soon?”

Anya protested until Xander grabbed her and whispered something in her ear. Her eyebrows shot up before she looked at him suspiciously. “But it’s only ten-thirty.” Giles opened the door as Xander took Anya’s arm and pulled her outside, Anya shouting after him, “If this is a trick, there’s a special hell for your kind. And I mean that literally.”

And then there were two.

Before she could re-think or rationalize or send him into the arms of the highest bloody bidder, Giles acted. Going to her, he looked into her eyes as he put a finger to her lips.

“Don’t speak,” he ordered.

“But – ”

“Ssh,” he said sternly. “This is what I want. I have no reservations. I am more than of age, and I seem to have all of my faculties, despite multiple blows to the head over the years. I don’t wish to be with someone else, nor do I have any desire to leave the country at the moment.”

She nodded her understanding, but remained obediently mute as he continued.

“You are of age?”

She nodded again, with a slight smile.

“And you are not under the influence of any intoxicants: alcohol, drugs, demon spells?”

Her grin widened, tickling the fingertip still pressed to her lips as she rolled her eyes. She shook her head no, and their eyes locked. He became serious.

“And you’re certain you do not feel compelled in any way because of my former authority in your life, to continue this…?”

She took his hand in her own, pressing it to her lips in a quiet kiss before she stood on her toes to wrap her arms around his neck. Her lips brushed against his as she spoke.

“Giles. First off… you couldn’t have compelled me to *slay* something if I didn’t want to, and that’s my *job*. Second…” she sighed, pressing her hips seductively against him. “… Shut up and kiss me already.”

Grinning, he swept her into his arms and up the stairs, grateful for the early run that had become part of his morning regiment of late. Barely winded, he reached his bedroom door and studied the woman in his arms. At her attention, she grimaced.

“Giles, if you ask me one more time if I’m sure, I swear I’m just gonna have my way with you.”

Eyes on hers, a devilish glint to them, he paused. Injecting false weight to his words now, he asked once more. “Are you sure?”

She kicked her legs, struggling in his arms. “That’s it – le