"Beholden" ~ Part 1

SUMMARY, THIS PART: At 22, Buffy finds herself an ex-Slayer and college graduate in search of a normal life. For years, Giles has been reluctantly playing the role of a father for her, but when her mother suddenly remarries, Buffy has a real father figure in her life. Meanwhile Giles, who is unemployed, injured, and aware that Buffy is slipping away from him, is spiralling into serious depression. But a single event is about to change everything . . .

SPOILERS: Season 3, then branching into AU.
PAIRINGS: Buffy/Giles, Willow/Xander
RATING: FR-AO for adult content, mature themes, violence, and language.
DISTRIBUTION: KoalasPlace.com, Gabi's B/G FanFic Archive. Anyone else, ask and it's yours!
DISCLAIMER: Without Prejudice. Buffy the Vampire Slayer characters and concepts are copyright ©1997-2000 20th Century Fox, WB Television, Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy. No Infringments of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission. I just borrowed them to put them through a little hell. The story and all other characters are mine.

Part 1: End of the Line

Moonlight touched the rain-slicked streets of Sunnydale like a gentle caress of a lover's kiss. Rupert Giles looked down at those streets, three floors below the marble terrace of Grayson Hall, and contemplated, in all seriousness, if such a fall were high enough to guarantee a broken neck. After a lengthy pause, which an observer, had there been one, may have mistaken for indecision, Giles scoffed at the notion and withdrew from the handrail. With his luck, he would probably just break his other leg, thus reducing himself to be even more dependent on the rest of the world.

Tightening his grip on the cane in his left hand, he drained the alcohol from the champagne flute held in the other, then placed the glass on the balustrade beside his growing collection of empties. Several more glassfuls would no doubt help to dull the ache in his injured leg, and, if he drank enough, the ache in his soul.

Before him, through open French doors lavishly adorned with white lace and roses, a wedding reception was in full swing, the cheery interior lighting presently pushing an unwanted triangle of brightness up against the familiar dark and solitude of his terrace. He should go back inside. He should smile cordially, mingle with the other guests, and pretend everything was fine. But the silhouetted terrace better suited his present mood, the moonlight cultivating the despair in his heart, and the raindrops, so recent, falling in lieu of his own unshed tears. When had the world of light and laughter grown so in contrast to his life of obscurity and gloom?

With a scowl, Giles glanced down at the invading patch of light, just inches beyond the toes of his polished black shoes. It was odd, these days, to feel such an affinity with the darkness, to be so comfortable in the night, considering he had spent the better part of his adult life fighting the creatures and demons that dwelled within it. But his time as Watcher had passed, the Sunnydale Hellmouth sealed for good. The vampires and demons, which had been partly responsibility for bringing him to California so many years before, had literally packed up their bags and left for greener pastures. Evil, in all its many guises, was now fought elsewhere in the world, by those more capable and better suited to the job.

'Those more able-bodied,' Giles thought grimly. 'Those who don't hide in the darkness, wallowing in self-pity.'

Turning back to the moonlit street, he tugged at the collar of his tuxedo in a vain attempt to loosen it. Bloody rented monkey suit, he couldn't wait to get home and shed it. But the Summers-Holbrook wedding was a formal event, and required black tie despite personal discomforts. Until the evening was over, he would just have to make do, if he wanted to save face.

With a maudlin smile, he gave up on his collar. It was not the first time since sustaining the life-altering injury to his leg that Giles had considered ending it all, nor the first time that a social gathering, such as this, had inspired it. Nothing like a personal demonstration of how bloody worthless one's life had become to induce thoughts of suicide. The incessant pain was another inducer; pain brought on three years ago, after an encounter with a gang of over-enthusiastic vampires, in particular with one wielding a sledgehammer, had left him with a shattered left femur. Living with that pain was unpleasant, true enough, but it was the loss of mobility that had enforced the unwelcome changes. Like the way he had given up his cozy, Spanish-styled condo for a boring single-story home, when the simple task of climbing the stairs to his loft became a near impossibility. Like the pity he now saw reflected in the eyes of others, how Buffy and her friends obviously considered him to be a waste of space.

And they were right. He had not even been capable of holding a part time position at the college, teaching history, when getting out of bed in the morning became too much of an effort. He had no job, no friends beyond his small circle of over-tolerant young people, who themselves were going their own ways in life, no direction. In fact, the only thing Giles did have going for him, was his steady downward spiral into deep depression.

A cheer went up inside the reception hall. At least out on the terrace, the cacophony of happy-sappy wedding music was blessedly subdued. Giles shook his head in abject amazement. Who would have thought that Joyce Summers would actually marry that pompous antique dealer? What was his name; the chap with whom she had been arguing, incessantly, for the past two years? Yet, here they were, as of a few hours ago, husband and wife.

Yes, indeed, here they were. Tonight, Joyce took a new husband, and Buffy gained a stepfather.

Half turning, Giles parked himself on the marble balustrade next to his collection of empty champagne flutes. Indifferent to the precarious nature of his perch, he contemplated Buffy, and his waning role in her life. At 22, Buffy had seen more death and destruction than most people saw in a lifetime, yet through it all, or maybe because of it all, she had developed a strong maternal streak, which to Giles' surprise, had led to a desire to work with children. Kindergarten, preferably, and to achieve this objective, upon graduation from UCS she had taken a part time job at her mother's gallery while she pursued a formal teaching degree.

It was also a period of physical adjustment for Buffy. She had recently lost her Slayer strength, permanently and irrevocably this time, as a natural part of the Slayer equivalent of 'old-age retirement'. That, in itself, should have been cause for celebration, if only for the simple fact that Buffy had cheated the odds and survived long enough to retire. But her adjustment was proving to be a difficult one, as she faced life, with all its mundane little problems, sans the finely honed skills and taken-for-granted strength to which she had become accustomed. Unofficially, she had served longer than any Slayer in recorded Council history, and it angered and saddened Giles that such a wonderful achievement should be the thing to bring them both so much grief.

As if Buffy needed to deal with more changes in her life, now she had a new father figure, a role Giles had been playing for years, despite the wail in his heart. It was how their mutual friends regarded their relationship, even though, in actuality, that relationship defied standard categorization. Having left behind the official liaison of Watcher/Slayer, Giles and Buffy had progressed through being so much more than 'just friends', moved slightly to the left of father/daughter, yet still remained a long, long way from becoming lovers.

Rubbing his hand over his brow, Giles sighed despondently. No matter what they meant to each other, he would always be there for her. Case in point: his attendance tonight. It was only because Buffy had literally gone down on her knees and begged him. Moral support, she said. So she didn't have to attend her mother's wedding with only her mother's friends for company, she said. Yet earlier, while watching her flirt with one of her mother's said male friends, it had been quite clear that she did not actually want or require his support, moral or otherwise. Right then, Giles suspected her invitation had come from pity, a kindly act to help relieve the boredom of his bleak little life.

And as if to add insult to injury, Philip What's-His-Face, the berk who had gained her favor, looked to be in his late forties. His age, damn it!

'Jealous, old man?' his conscience asked.

"No," Giles said to the darkness. That was insane. A 'father' did not become jealous of his 'daughter's' choice of men. That prerogative belonged to lovers. Disapproval, then. 'Friends' disapproved. Yes, that was it. He strongly disapproved of the prat.

'And if the bastard so much as even looks at her in a lewd manner, so help me I'll . . . '

Giles sighed again, reining back the errant emotion. Over the years, he had watched Buffy fall in and out of love with more worthless cretins than he could count. But she was an adult, and it was not his place to interfere with her love life, not even when she gave herself to those undeserving pillocks, heart, body, and soul. It always broke his heart whenever one of them broke hers.

The truth of the matter was that Buffy no longer needed him. She had moved on, or was attempting to, anyway. She had taken his well-intended 'fatherly' advice to put vampire slaying behind her and try to live a normal life, and was pursing that goal, without him. Only a fool would stay, and Giles foolishly had. For a life without Buffy was one not worth living, no matter the role he was reduced to play, or the screaming ache buried deep in his heart. It was why he had not returned to his native soil when his official Watcher duties had expired, and why taking a header from a third story balcony was not a bona fide solution.

Only Buffy kept him tethered to that elusive world of light and laughter. Only Buffy kept him from plummeting all the way into the deep, dark pit of total despair . . .

"Thought I might find you out here."

Giles looked up, tucking his melancholy thoughts behind a ready smile, as the object of both his joy and his misery strode out onto the to rain-washed terrace. As always Buffy was a vision of loveliness, absolutely breathtaking.

"I'm sorry," he said, shifting his seat on the balustrade. Looking down, he dug the tip of his cane into the marble by his shoe. "I didn't mean to be a--"

"--party poop," Buffy cut in gleefully.

He couldn't keep the grin off his face; she just had that affect on him. Buffy Summers was every bit as intoxicating as the fine champagne he had consumed. "If you say."

"I say," she returned. With a lopsided smile to prove she was only teasing, she pushed another full flute into his hand, unaware of his collection of empties or the buzz he was already working on.

As she raised her own glass for a swallow, his eyes took an involuntary wander. Her golden hair hung free and unrestrained over her bare shoulders, and her satin gown hugged her shapely curves in a most provocative manner. The way she moved, the way she smiled; she exuded sex appeal. Whether or not she intended it, Buffy presented herself as enticing package to be unwrapped and enjoyed. It was no wonder she had men flinging themselves at her feet.

"What?" she asked self-consciously, noting his stare.

Giles raised his glass, hiding his definitely-not-paternal appreciation behind the action. "Nothing."

"You missed them cutting the cake."

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"No, you're not." She stopped before him, and looked into his eyes--the only woman, ever, to possess the ability to look right through into his soul. "What're you doing out here anyway? All by your lonesome? When there's dancing and good times to be had."

"I was . . . just thinking."

"Brooding, more like it."

"Buffy . . . "

"Admit it. You're out here brooding, while I'm stuck in there fending for myself." She took another sip of alcohol, then smiled outrageously, giving Giles the distinct impression that this was not her first glass of champagne, either. "That wasn't the deal, y'know."

Stung by the memory of her recent flirting with a man close to his own age, Giles squared his shoulders, feeling oddly defensive. "You didn't look as though you needed, or wanted, my company."

Buffy frowned, but it came out as a pout. Yes, indeed, she was well on the way to being soused.

"Philip Mac--Monk--Mancuso," she said, stumbling over his surname, "is precisely the reason I brought you along. You're supposed to be my date. You were supposed to rescue me."

Swallowing champagne, Giles cocked an eyebrow at her choice of words, and let his look say it all. Just last night, she had reiterated, yet again, that their attendance together by no means fell into the category of 'a date'. Oblivious to his non-verbal rebuke, Buffy upended her glass and chased the last drop with her tongue. Inexorably drawn to watch, Giles suddenly forgot what they were talking about.

Finally spying the empty flutes beside him, Buffy broke into giggles and reached around him to add hers to the collection. "You've been a busy boy out here. Naughty Giles. Now who's gonna drive us home?"

Rescuing her glass before the whole lot ended up on the street below, he grinned drunkenly and said, "Of the two of us, I suspect you're correct in assuming that someone is going to wake up tomorrow morning feeling abysmal, but from experience I know it shan't be me." Her expression, as her inebriated brain attempted to process what he just said, amused him further. "Buffy, I do believe you're smashed."

"Am not," she protested. Then she smiled, leaning into him. Since Giles was already seated on the marble balustrade, she ended up between his legs with her hands flat against his chest. Eye to eye, nose to nose. "Not totally anyway." Shying away from the closeness she had inadvertently created, she said, "Ooh, look! Cake!"

Buffy darted inside, as a circling waiter, this time bearing slices of wedding cake rather than champagne flutes, passed by the French doors. She was only gone for a moment, then swaggered back out onto the rain-washed terrace with her cake plate in hand, triumphantly eating a forkful of her prize.

Still sipping the champagne she had brought him, Giles playfully asked, "Don't I get any?"

"Sure you do." Innocently returning to her previous position between his legs, she surprised them both by lifted her laden fork toward his mouth.

Their eyes met over a hefty lump of cake topped by fluffy white frosting, their gazes caught and held by the sudden intimacy of the moment. Hesitantly, Giles opened his mouth to accept the forkful of cake, oblivious to crumbs dappling the front of his rented tux, and the blob of frosting left at the corner of his mouth. His whole attention was riveted to the sensual way Buffy's lips and tongue mimicked his as she fed him.

She smiled, her eyes dancing with devilish delight as he swallowed, her empty fork in one hand, her cake plate still in the other. Noting the errant bit of frosting at the corner of his mouth, she leaned in closer, without conscious thought to her actions or the repercussions, and diligently licked it clean.

Something, more potent than anything Giles had ever felt before, broke free of restraint and stirred into life, quickening his heartbeat and making his blood roar through his veins.

Withdrawing slightly, Buffy met his gaze in the moonlight of the terrace. The significance of what she had just done was not lost on her, and Giles abruptly realized that, right now, as insane as it may be, she craved the very same thing he did. Time slowed for them, until the undisguised lust in her eyes made his breath catch in his throat. He wondered if Buffy could see, in his eyes, just how much he mirrored the emotion.

Since neither of them had a free hand, they simply leaned toward one another, inexplicably drawn by their mutual and unexpected need. Had either given thought to the implications of what they were about to do, then both would have stopped immediately. But this was not a time for rationalization. This was a stolen moment, a precious, illicit instant when 'want' and 'desire' were the only things that mattered.

Giles met her halfway this time, still too much a gentleman, despite the alcohol, to not give her the opportunity to back out if she changed her mind. But Buffy didn't back away, and he witnessed, at close range, the delicate way her lashes fell closed on her cheeks, and the slight tilt of her head, an instant before he, too, closed his eyes in sweet anticipation. Their lips touched, lightly at first, testing each other for the very first time, before settling more firmly into a deepening kiss.

She tasted sweet and tart, of sugary vanilla frosting spiced with the fruity tang of champagne, and it didn't take long for him to begin devouring the erotic flavor of her. Buffy reciprocated, hungrily drinking him in, her tongue seeking his as a partner for a passionate dance. Since their mouths were their only point of physical contact, Giles thought to free up his hands and gather her into an embrace. Letting go his cane, he blindly sought purchase for his champagne flute on the balustrade . . . but instead knocked over the entire collection of empty glasses. They scattered like crystal bowling pins, and the noise of them crashing, sequentially, on the concrete below instantly shattered the amorous spell they had both fallen under.

Breathless and flushed, they parted, embarrassed, as reality kicked back in. Buffy bowed her head, unable to meet his gaze, and busily stirred the frosting-cake mixture on her plate into an unpalatable mess. Giles floundered, frustrated, having no clear explanation to offer for his wanton, and totally inexcusable, behavior.

"Buffy, I--"

"Don't say it." She still refused to look at him, and instead pointed a forkful of cake-mess at him in an accusatory gesture. "I don't wanna hear you say you're sorry because you kissed me."

"But I--"

"No!" she insisted. Finally, she looked up, shaking with emotion. "Just . . . don't. Okay? Just forget it ever happened."

Beseeching, he held her gaze in the moonlight, his heart pouring out of his eyes. He didn't know what else to say, except apologize for his momentary lapse of sanity. What in God's name had possessed him to kiss her like that?

"Buffy," Giles began again. He reached for his cane and pushed to his feet. The touch of his hand on her shoulder brought her reluctant gaze back to his, and he was appalled to find her almost in tears. He shook his head, searching for words that would magically return their prior status quo, and make everything all right again. But no power in Heaven or on Earth would ever make him forget that kiss.

She shrugged away from under his hand, still holding his gaze and breathing hard. In one brief instant, with one brief act, they had torn down the barriers of 'father/daughter', crashed right on through the roadblocks of 'just friends', and were now careening, wildly out of control, straight towards . . .

When she turned and fled, his whole world turned upside down.

"Buffy!"

But nothing would ever be the same between them again.

* * *

Buffy's heart raced, pounding the blood and desire through her veins at such breakneck speed that she thought she was about to do one of those girlie-girl things she had missed between the ages of 16 and 22, and actually faint.

'Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod.' She had kissed Giles! And not just kissed, but kissed kissed! She couldn't wait to tell Willow!

Pulling up short as she reached the tables in the main reception area, Buffy took a deep breath and forced herself to calm down. It was better than the alternative, the collapsing dead away under the impact of Giles' kiss, and then having everybody in the place ask her what was wrong--including her mother.

Tell Willow what? That she enjoyed kissing Giles? And that she wanted to do it again?

No, that was crazy! It wasn't that it had been a bad experience, quite the opposite actually, rather that it had put her into this tailspin of emotions that she never, once, saw coming. All she had seen was the truth in Giles' gentle green eyes, felt his tender yet passionate response to her, and caught a tantalizing glimpse the forbidden fantasy, if she were to succumb to him completely . . .

Okay, now she was having decidedly naughty thoughts as well. Definitely too much champagne for Buffy . . .

Realizing she was creating a bit of a stir with her heavy breathing and restless stance, Buffy headed across to the table where she had been sitting, seeking privacy. Maybe rushing to tell Willow she had kissed Giles wasn't such a good idea after all, at least not until she figured out exactly what that meant, and where it was going, if it was going anywhere at all. She had told him to forget it, and it was with a lance through her heart that she wondered if he would.

Beside, Willow had enough 'man troubles' of her own, what with Xander having joined the army. He was presently in Georgia, at Fort Benning to be precise, and what Willow related of his daily woes only convinced Buffy that every thing she ever heard about Boot Camp was true. Willow missed him, but Buffy missed them both, since Willow was presently living in San Francisco. She had moved there last summer, after nailing a job writing software code for some big conglomerate. What she really wanted to do was become a Watcher, although Buffy couldn't, for the life of her, understand why.

Sitting alone at her table, Buffy put her plate of now completely gross cake-mess aside, and sighed, suddenly despondent. From their frequent phone conversations, it was obviously that Willow missed Xander terribly. She didn't mean to be, but Buffy couldn't help from being jealous of that relationship; the closeness and devotion you got when you fell in love with your very best friend.

"Why so glum, cara mia?"

She looked up, surprised. It was Philip Mancuso, charming, handsome, Italian, friend or acquaintance of her mother's, or her new stepfather's--she wasn't sure which. He pulled out the chair beside her and sat with his hand covering hers on the white linen tabletop, just as the band tuned up in preparation of a new set.

"I was just thinking," Buffy admitted truthfully, the champagne having loosened her tongue, "that love really bites."

Philip laughed. "I understand, precisely, what you mean."

The band began to play an irresistible Latin rhythm, immediately encouraging dancers out onto the hardwood floor in the center of the room.

Philip tugged on her hand, trying hard to pull her from her suddenly blue mood. "Dance with me?"

"Oh, I don't think--"

"Come," he said with a sexy smile. "I will teach you all you need to know."

With a flush, Buffy allowed him to pull her to her feet, wondering if he talking about dancing or . . . other things. Philip was Giles' age, not that that bothered her, and if she danced with him, if she closed her eyes while he held her in his arms, maybe she could pretend she was dancing with Giles . . .

* * *

Giles fought with his conscience, whether or not to go after Buffy. Should he let her be, with the hope that in the morning she would remember none of it? Or should he give chase now, when they were both still obviously under the influence of too much champagne, and pursue the matter further? Would that make matters better, or worse?

They had shared a kiss. Not a friendly peck on the cheek or quick smack on the lips, either, but a real kiss, one reserved for lovers only. It meant something--it definitely meant something--but Giles was at a loss unraveling what. So far, he could only be certain of one thing; kissing Buffy had brought consequences neither of them was ready to deal with.

The very memory of her lips against his left him breathless. How many nights had he awoken, sweating, from illicit fantasies of kissing her? And more. Lord, so much more. He had never before let himself hope that she had done the same, but now he had good cause to wonder. Had his ever been the face to come to her in her dreams? But Buffy's reaction seemed more in keeping with a nightmare rather than a dream come true. Did he really repulse her that much?

By the time Giles decided to seize the moment and to go after Buffy, he found her, once again, taking refuge in the arms of another man. Philip Mancuso no less, whose Mediterranean good looks and Italian accent had obviously helped charm many a woman off her feet and into his bed. But tonight Mancuso would strike out where Buffy was concerned. Giles would see to that.

Luckily, the clinch Buffy and Mancuso currently shared was on the dance floor rather than in a cozy corner, so it could be excused as perfunctory, as opposed to romantic. But as Giles reached the edge of the hardwood dance floor, the mood shifted dramatically. The overhead lighting lowered, subdued to match the slow love song the band began to play. Couples instantly melted into each other, relishing the intimate contact in such a public place.

Watching Buffy fall into Mancuso's waiting arms made Giles seethe with something he did not stop to identify. Limping purposefully between the closely swaying bodies blocking his path, Giles muttered rough excuses to those he inadvertently disrupted, and headed steadfastly toward the similarly embraced pair on the other side of the floor. Buffy, her head resting against Mancuso's arm, spotted him coming. Her eyes widened at his approach, as if suddenly fearful of his intent.

Aware, then, that he wore the look of Ripper-in-predatory-mode, Giles endeavored to school his expression into a more genteel one, even if it was at odds with all-out jealousy churning in his gut. He stopped, leaning on his cane, and tapped the other man's tuxedoed shoulder. "May I cut in?"

Turning with Buffy's hand held possessively in his, Mancuso frowned, and sized up Giles with a single glance. "And you are . . . ?"

"Her date," Giles said, with a pointed look at Buffy. He was satisfied at the way the man swung back to her, stunned and looking for confirmation, but Buffy glanced down, obviously embarrassed. Like a slap in the face, Giles realized that she had not even seen fit to mention him.

Bowing out gracefully, Mancuso back-stepped. He gently shook her hand he still held, trying to snag Buffy's attention. It worked, and she shyly looked up.

"May I call you, cara mia?" he asked politely.

"No," Giles said emphatically.

"I'd like that," Buffy answered with a hesitant smile.

In one last proprietary act, Mancuso lifted her hand and gallantly kissed it. Giles rolled his eyes, but bit back a scathing comment. 'What a git.' With a charming smile for Buffy, and a disparaging glare for Giles, Mancuso backed into the crowd of dancers, heroically parting them like Moses did The Red Sea. 'Bloody great poof.'

Putting his cane forward, Giles quickly slotted himself into the other man's place. He smiled at Buffy, feeling enormously pleased with himself for having squashed that little tryst before it even began.

Hands going to her hips in a gesture of defiance that no amount of alcohol could subdue, Buffy looked up with a scowl. "Well, that was slick, Giles. Whadda you do for an encore? Drag me back to your cave by my hair?"

Annoyed, he frowned. "You just told me to come and rescue you from that pillock. No good getting pissed because I obeyed your commands."

"That was before we--" She stopped herself, but she didn't need to say 'before we kissed' for Giles to understand the connotations. The Kiss had changed all the rules. "Before," Buffy concluded stubbornly.

"Put your arms around me," Giles ordered softly, suddenly aware of they were collecting the unwanted attention of the wedding guests around them. These people were all friends of either the bride or the groom. Giles didn't personally know any of them, and could care less what they thought of him, but for Buffy's sake, he did not want to cause a scene.

"Excuse me?" Buffy asked incredulously, as if she hadn't heard right.

Giles motioned discreetly at their audience, most of who were staring and/or exchanging unfavorable whispers with their partners. In the same lowered tone, he said, "Unless you want to bring your mother and new stepfather running to find out what all the commotion is about, then I suggest you shut up and dance with me."

Pouting again, she stepped into his embrace, loosely clasping her hands at the back of his neck. Even though it had been his idea, Giles instantly regretted his foolhardiness. Very aware of touching her, he tentatively put his free hand on her hip, and kept an acceptable distance between them. In what he hoped would be perceived as an unassuming manner, he directed her into a slow but sensual sway with him. After a moment, they both relaxed, their hearts following the words of love and bittersweet melody toward the fantasy place where their bodies so wanted to go. It was easy, in the dimmed lighting, in the warmth of each other's arms, to forget where they were, and, more importantly, who they were. Watcher/Slayer, father/daughter, friends or lovers, it mattered not, because for the moment, they were simply just a man and a woman, finding comfort and companionship. And perhaps even love.

That, of course, was true enough. It was no secret that Giles loved Buffy, and had for many years. But there were many different types of love, from that of close friends, to two people who had shared so much of themselves through sacrifice and triumph, to the simple, intrinsic way a father loved a daughter. Giles had always believed his affection for Buffy fell into the latter category, but after The Kiss, the definition no longer seemed appropriate. Perhaps, it never truly had been . . .

As if to affirm this idea, Buffy took her arms from his neck, and instead wound them around his waist. With a small shiver, which had nothing to do with the current temperature, she laid her cheek against his chest, and slowly slid her hands inside the jacket of his tux. Only the thin cotton of his dress shirt kept her hands directly off his skin, but even so, the heat of her leisurely caress left a burning tingle in its wake.

Instinct made him draw her closer, until the feel of her small body pressed to his threatened to strip him of all remaining common sense and leave a knot of raw desire in its stead. There had been parties and social gatherings attended together in the past, so it was not the first time they had shared the closeness of a slow dance, or the embrace of a caring friend. But this time, after having kissed her, after having felt Buffy return his passion with equal fire, this time the friction of their bodies moving against each other meant far more than it ever had before.

Giles stifled a gasp into her honey-blonde hair, struggling with the abrupt realization that he had been fooling himself for years. His was no 'father's love'. Not at all.

Her hair felt like soft spun gold beneath his cheek, making him long to touch it, to run his fingers though the silken strands and lose himself in it--in her. But the still-rational part of Giles knew that his amorous, and seemingly uncontrollable, emotions of the moment were the direct result of his over-indulgence. The alcohol had broken through his well-maintained walls, released him from his inhibitions, and, when partnered with the romantic atmosphere of the wedding itself, had bought desires to the fore that were better left buried. Perhaps it was the same for Buffy, too, since her rapid shifts from 'ardent want' to 'cold rejection', then back again, confused him no end. Perhaps she, too, was fighting to keep the inner truth at bay.

Buffy sighed, her breath a hot and moist whisper against the front of his shirt. She moved her hands again, either deliberately or involuntary, until the heat they were generating between them turned molten and fused every nerve ending in his body. Just when Giles thought he was to become the next statistic of Spontaneous Human Combustion, the love song ended and the house lights came up. When they parted to arms length, he immediately missed her warmth, her nearness, as if something vital to life itself had been taken from his grasp.

"Buffy . . . " Giles began, seeking approval, or disapproval, or something--he wasn't entirely sure what he was after. But the point became moot when Buffy skillfully avoided his gaze.

An unexpected, but mercifully short, fanfare accompanied the announcement that "Mr. and Mrs. Colin Holbrook" were about to leave the building. Drawing in a breath that looked as shaky as it sounded, Buffy hedged a glance in Giles' direction, before moving off to bid farewell to her mother and new stepfather.

The newlyweds were leaving tonight for their honeymoon, and so they had reappeared wearing ordinary street clothes. The formally attired wedding guests congregated with them in the foyer of Grayson Hall, whereupon there was the traditional removing of the garter by the groom, and the bride's toss of the bouquet.

Hanging back from the festivities, Giles allowed Buffy, and just about everyone else, to chase the happy couple down the red-carpeted stairwell and outside into the street. The reckless surge down the steps would do nothing to relieve the ache in his lame leg, and he certainly did not want be called to explain the smashed champagne flutes on the Hall's front path. So instead he milled in the foyer, awaiting Buffy's inevitable return, both anxious and dreading what would happen when she did.

* * *

Buffy's heart sang with unexpected happiness as she threw another handful of rice over the departing bride and groom, who somehow managed to escape the crush of well-wishers and into the back of her new stepfather's personal limousine, without looking too much like a walking advertisement for Uncle Ben. That was one good thing about her new step-dad, Colin. He certainly knew how to impress a woman, and he had the cash to back it up.

'Two good things, then,' Buffy amended cheerfully. Because after a chauffeured limo ride to the airport, the newlyweds had two first class seats to Fiji, for ten gloriously fun-filled days, and no doubt nights.

Buffy grinned wryly. Fiji, wow! Beach, sun, aquamarine water, hot male bods in even hotter male swimwear. She hadn't known the exact location of the south sea island, and felt all of twelve years old when Colin caught her looking it up on a map. But he had been real nice about it, minus the initial thirty seconds of merciless teasing. That was Colin--a nice guy, once you got past the fact that in the two years she had known him, he and her mom had argued just about every time Buffy saw them together.

'Must be love,' she decided. For her mother's sake, Buffy truly hoped that, this time, it was. Her mom deserved to be happy, to be loved by someone who worshiped and adored her for simply being 'Joyce'. Someone who gave without question, and expected nothing in return.

"Love you, Mom," she called. "Have a good time!" With a quick wave and a cheeky smile to her mother through the car window, Buffy watched the vehicle pull away, trailing soggy paper ribbons and a string of empty aluminum cans that were totally beneath the dignity of a real stretch limousine, even if it was traditional. She threw one last handful of rice, as, through the back window of the car, she watched her mother and Colin lean in for a kiss.

Why couldn't she find a great guy like that? With her Slayer years now behind her, Buffy was just like any other young woman, in search of a man with whom she could share her now ordinary life, and be loved a little in return. Well, okay, be loved a lot in return! If only she could find someone who would be there for her, no matter what, and add more to her existence than just provider of the muscle now needed to open stuck jam jars.

Buffy chewed her lip, remembering lunch today, and how she had almost come to tears over said stuck jam jar. If anyone had told her the adjustment to civilian life would be this difficult, then she would have fought much harder to remain The Slayer. Unlike the Cruciamentum, when she had temporarily lost her strength as part of the Watcher Council's stupid 'rite of passage' test, this time her prowess was gone for good. She used to be Buffy the Vampire Slayer, feared by vamps, demons, and the minions of Hell, revered by mere mortals and the men of the Council--even if they didn't like her style. She used to be a legend in her own lifetime. Now she couldn't even make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich without help. It was pathetic.

Thank God for Giles, her resident lifeline and sanity keeper. Although, even his well meant suggestions that she try to find her life again, that one she had prior to discovering she was The Chosen One, sometimes made her angry, and a little sad. Was he really so blind to the fact that that self-centered little girl was well and truly gone?

As the limousine slipped from sight, Buffy turned from the curb, and headed back toward the foyer with some of the other lingering guests. Couples, she noted, watching them fall into pairs. They were all couples. Somewhere, out there, there had to be a guy for her, too. She just had to find him.

Someone like Philip Mancuso, maybe. Even though she seriously doubted Philip, whom she had only met a few hours ago, would actually turn out to be her elusive Mr. Right, she was willing to give him a chance before totally writing him off. He was nice, in a nice-older-guy sort of way, clever and charming, and kind of fun to be around. That's why she had given him her phone number earlier, when he asked--well, her mother's phone number, since she had agreed to house-sit while the newlyweds were away. When they returned, Buffy fully intended to move into a place of her own. Meantime, if Philip did call and ask her out, she decided she was going to say 'yes'. After all, Colin Holbrook hadn't started out as her mother's dream date, either.

Still, there was an obvious obstacle with Philip, and it was not their twenty-seven-year age difference or the way her mother would have kittens if they ever became romantically involved. Rather, it was that they didn't seem to have anything even remotely in common, apart from a mutual physical attraction; a flaw that had stymied true conversation from the get-go. Flirting was one thing, but building a solid relationship with a man took far more than just good looks and witty dialogue . . .

Abruptly, Buffy stopped, forcing the couples to part around her. Her shoe crunched on something underfoot, something she didn't have to pick up to identify as a tiny piece of shattered crystal from the dropped champagne flutes. Guiltily, she looked up at the marble balustrade fronting the silhouetted terrace above. Her thoughts immediately turned to Giles, and the sweet, longing way he had kissed her in the moonlight.

She still had no idea what that had been all about. Or why, when she danced with him, she had the insanely passionate desire for him to kiss her again.

Kissage . . . and more.

Betrayed by her own heart, Buffy closed her eyes, and fortified herself with a gulp of cold, damp air. No, that was just too totally weird. This was Giles she kept fantasizing about, ex-Watcher, friend-and-mentor, nose-stuck-in-a-book Giles. Okay, to be fair, she admitted they had come a long way from the early days of tweedy-British-high-school-librarian Giles, who, back then, displayed all the passion of a cement garden gnome. But Giles was . . . well, Giles.

Except he wasn't. At least, not anymore. Having done some major growing up in the past few years, Buffy now understood that beneath the exterior of good, old-fashioned dependability she had long ago painted on him, Giles was a man, with manly wants and needs.

And desires. Definitely desires. Ones she would dearly love to satisfy--

"Stop!" she said aloud, admonishing her rampaging hormones. Embarrassed, she glanced about to see if anyone had heard her shouting at herself, but the other guest had all returned inside and she was, thankfully, alone.

Buffy chuckled, and concluded that if nothing else, Giles was, as usual, right. She was far too blitzed to be having this conversation with herself. The champagne had allowed her to participate in something magical, but totally stupid, out on the terrace, and again on the dance floor in the warmth of his embrace. But it wouldn't--couldn't--ever happen again.

Putting both the terrace and the dance floor out of her mind, she skipped up the steps and into Grayson Hall. When she woke up tomorrow, sharing bigtime smoochies with Giles would seem like nothing more than a dream--although an unexpectedly nummy one at that. Tomorrow, things would be comfortably back to how they were before, and she and Giles would revert to being . . . well, whatever it was they were to each other. That subject was just too complex for her inebriated brain to get into right now.

Breath catching, Buffy stopped in the foyer. Her stomach turned over as she spotted the broad line of his tuxedoed shoulders. Giles stood with his back to her, unaware of her scrutiny as he admired a jade vase on a waist-high Greek pillar. Idly wondering if he had any idea how scrumptious he looked in that tux, she donned an expression of false confidence, and started across the checkerboard tiles to meet him.

Yep, tomorrow things would all be cool, their brief encounter forgotten.

Provided, of course, she could first get through tonight.

* * *

With the wedding officially over, the attending guests began to gather their belongings, and bid farewell to friends and acquaintances. Fighting down a streak of impatience, Giles frowned at the decorative vase on the pillar before him, and wondered, not for the first time that minute, what the devil had become of Buffy. He was certain that all of the other guests who had chased the bride and groom to the car had already returned. What on earth could she be doing out there by herself?

At least he could breathe easy, knowing she hadn't accidentally run into Philip What's-His-Face again. While waiting, he had seen the sodding berk leave with an attractive blonde, not much older than Buffy. At first he thought it was Buffy, since her back was to him, then he spotted the flowers she carried and realized she was the young lady who caught the wedding bouquet. Still, Giles had been in half a mind to intervene on her behalf, let her know exactly what she was getting into with a philanderer like Mancuso . . . until he realized his reaction was out of pure and simple spite. He did not know the other man personally, his background or his track record with the opposite sex, and so his rush to pass harsh justice seemed, perhaps, a little unfair. Still, it nagged him to know that, had he not intervened when he did, the young woman going home with Mancuso could have been--

"Hey," came a familiar voice from his behind his shoulder.

The unexpected touch of her hand on his back startled him. He would have thought, given their growing familiarity over the years, that he would, by now, be comfortable with and accustomed to the exchange of physical contact, but after the terrace, everything seemed blown out of proportion. His senses were on Full Alert, every nerve ending tingling with anticipation. This condition was not the fault of the champagne he had consumed, but attributed, rather, to the stunning revelation that he was completely, unequivocally, in love with her.

Giles swiveled on his cane, burying his affection beneath a scowl of irritation for her tardiness. Until such time that they sat down, with clear heads, and discussed The Kiss, or until he was certain Buffy reciprocated the emotion, he thought such a tactic for the best.

"Are you ready to leave?" he asked, a little terser than intended.

Buffy frowned, instantly picking up on his sour mood. "What's your rush? The night is still young."

"Buffy, it's after midnight."

"Well, in Australia it's still young, I bet," she countered, testing the waters with a cheeky smile.

Giles glared a moment longer, then he broke into a sheepish grin. He was never able to stay miffed at Buffy for very long, especially not when she smiled so radiantly at him. "Actually, I believe it would mid-afternoon, not evening."

"Show off."

Raising his free hand, he flicked some grains of rice out of her hair. "I suppose we could stay a tad longer, if you wish."

"No, that's okay," she said, capturing his hand and giving it a friendly little squeeze. She yawned in a way that seemed completely spontaneous. She was coming down from her champagne high, fatigue settling in its place. "I'm actually kinda tired. Let me get my purse, and we can go."

* * *

The drive to the Summers residence lacked conversation, with Buffy, usually one to ramble in a sticky situation, remaining remarkably zip-lipped. Not that Giles blamed her, for the situation was, indeed, a sticky one.

In the course of what little dialogue had been exchanged, they both skillfully managed to avoid the subject of The Kiss, even though it was clearly a topic they very much needed to discuss. Giles needed to know what it meant to her, if indeed it meant anything at all, because when he pulled up in front of 1630 Revello Drive and looked over at Buffy's profile bathed in the dimness of the dashboard lights, he suddenly, desperately, found himself wanting to kiss her again.

Looking past her toward the house, Giles cleared the emotion from his voice and said, "Perhaps you should have left a light on."

Buffy glanced out the window, at her house sitting in total darkness, before looking back at him. "I meant to. Guess I forgot, in the chaos that was my mother acting like a lunatic this afternoon. You'd think she'd never been married before."

Giles chuckled. "No matter," he said, turning in his seat to open his door. "I'll go in with you."

Buffy jumped as if she had been stuck with a pin. "No, that's okay!"

Hand on the door handle, Giles paused to throw her a frown.

Awkwardly, she added, "I mean, it's late. You must be tired. I know I am. We should just probably just go to bed." Eyes widening, she corrected, "I mean, your bed. I mean, you . . . in your bed. I mean--"

"Buffy," he said with an understanding smile to put her at ease. They really did need to sit down for a serious discussion about what had happened between them. "Yes, I am tired. And yes, I intend to go to straight to bed . . . when I get home. But I shall sleep far better knowing you're safe. At least permit me to escort you as far as the front door."

That said, he climbed out of the car before she could protest. The path was still wet from the rain shower earlier, and the damp lawn and garden helped permeate the air with a fresh, earthen scent. Crickets, busy with their concerto of night music, played in accompanied as they headed toward the house; Giles limping on his cane, and Buffy slowing to keep pace.

He purposefully kept a discreet distance between them, a separation of few feet, which seemed appropriate and placed her just out of his immediate reach. But, when he struggled to mount the steps onto the porch, Buffy shattered all his good intentions by taking his arm to offer help. Without meaning to, Giles once more found himself with his arm around her waist.

They stopped on the WELCOME mat in front of the door, both hyper-aware of each other in the darkness of the overhang, and tried, desperately, to reestablish some of that unintentionally lost space. Slowly, Giles turned to face her, his free hand reluctant to leave its place on her hip. Buffy's own helpful hands lingered on his arms, which put them an almost-but-not-quite embrace.

She was a golden-haired goddess, and he wanted nothing more than to lay with her in the moonlight and shadow, worshipping her until dawn chased away the magic of the night. Buffy's chin lifted toward him, allowing him to see, in her eyes, a passion mirroring his own.

"I, um . . . " Giles began, hastily breaking eye contact. Quickly, he reclaimed his hand. "Perhaps you should go turn on some lights."

But Buffy stepped toward him, rather than toward the door, and slowly slid both arms around him, her hands inside his jacket again. Her touch was tentative, featherlike, but the heat from her body roused him in ways he had never imagined possible.

He moaned, unable to call it back.

"I changed my mind," she said huskily, rubbing her cheek against the roughness of his shirt. After a moment's hesitation, she tilted her head back so that he could look into her eyes again; so he could see there was no mistake about her decision. "I want you to come in."

Entranced, Giles gazed down at her, his hand rising of its own volition to caress her face with the backs of his fingers. Buffy closed her eyes, melting against his touch and purring like an affectionate kitten. She pressed a gentle kiss into his palm before seeking his gaze again. There seemed nothing more natural, now, than to kiss her tenderly, so he slowly lowered his head toward her waiting lips.

But the moment was not to be.

Struggling with his morals, Giles pulled back. It was the champagne, he kept telling himself. They had both had a little too much to drink. This wasn't right. Not like this.

Buffy's wounded expression made him turn away, rather than face the rejection in her eyes and know he had been the cause. Cold, night air sucked the memory of her warmth from him. He screwed his eyes shut, as his heart screamed in pain, waging a war of emotional turmoil that ripped his insides apart.

"Giles?"

He said nothing, his throat too constricted to even breathe.

"Don't you . . . want me?" The note of desperation in her tone cut him to the quick.

"Buffy . . . " he managed hoarsely. With every last shred of self-control he possessed, Giles turned to face her in the moonlit shadows. "Please believe me when I say that nothing on this earth would give me greater pleasure than to . . . stay. But it would be completely unforgivable of me to take advantage of you like this." Watching tears well in her eyes, he fought hard to keep the quiver from his voice. "In the morning, you'll see it was for the best."

He willed his leaden feet to move, to take a step away. God help him if she touched him now, if she rushed into his arms and begged him not to go.

"Please," he said, his voice thick. "Please go inside. I shall wait here, until you turn on a light and I know you are safe."

Buffy's lower lip began to tremble. She looked so hurt that he could hardly stand it, could hardly stop himself from giving in to what they both so badly wanted. The solitary tear that rolled down her cheek made him turn his back again.

Giles felt his resolve slipping; he couldn't take much more. "Buffy, for God's sake, GO!"

He hadn't meant to sound so harsh, so callous and uncaring, and when Buffy turned and fled from him for the second time that evening, he wondered, despondently, just whose arms she would seek comfort in this time . . .

* * *

Buffy hummed a merry tune as she watered the houseplant in the corner of the living room, having actually remembered to do so. Two days and counting, and nothing had died, burned down, blown up, overflowed, or just plain broke while in her obviously excellent care. She was really quite pleased with herself, even if there was still another eight days to go before her mother and Colin returned from their honeymoon in Fiji. Glancing around at the mess, however, made her frown. Despite her efforts, she was definitely going to have a major house-cleaning the day before they came home. Filling in full time at the art gallery, then taking her classes at night, didn't leave much time for life's little essentials--the necessary eating, sleeping, and three hours spent talking to Willow--much less for picking up her laundry and washing dirty dishes.

Willow. Willow was her friend and confidant, but considering Giles' no-nonsense refusal of her invitation to . . . come in . . . the other night, she had been too embarrassed to confess anything about kissing him, or the dreams she'd had since, let alone even get around to blaming it on too much champagne. Instead, Buffy mentioned Philip, when Willow asked how the wedding went, which at least made conversation easy and allowed them something in common; commiserations over their respective 'man trouble.' Buffy just wasn't sure who she was commiserating about. Philip . . . or Giles.

The phone in the kitchen rang. Buffy straightened with the water can, and pulled the slice of peanut butter toast she was eating for dinner from her mouth. She tensed, as seemed her new custom these days whenever it rang, and prayed to God it wasn't Giles. Again. He had called her yesterday, just as she dreaded he would, the morning after she had shamelessly thrown herself at him and he had resolutely rejected her.

What a disaster. They spent the entire ten-minute phone call grunting and sighing at each, solely in an effort to relieve some of the embarrassingly awkward silence. When he finally worked up the courage to suggest they get together to talk in person, she told him she had an appalling headache from the champagne, which was only half a lie, and hung up on him, her nerves completely shattered. She had been letting the answering machine screen her calls ever since, fighting down a hearty dose of The Guilts whenever she heard Giles' voice and pretended she wasn't home.

'He must think I'm so the local slut,' she thought dejectedly, listening as the machine picked up on the sixth or seventh ring. It was certainly the picture she had painted for him; first shamelessly flirting with Philip Mancuso, then him--not to mention the other dozen or so guys who had passed though her life over the years. She couldn't blame Giles for the fatherly lecture he obviously intended to give, the one she so rightly deserved for her disgraceful behavior. Nor could she blame him if he never wanted to have anything to do with her again.

And that hurt. Bigtime.

"Good evening, cara mia, I was hoping to catch you at home. Alas, the loss is entirely mine."

Buffy's heart leapt her throat. Philip! Accidentally sloshing water from the can onto the rug, she hastily ran for the phone. She lifted the receiver, just as he told the machine he would call back another time. "Hello?"

"Ah, Buffy, hello to you, too. Am I . . . interrupting something?"

"Um, no. I was just getting ready for class." She held her breath without realizing it. Philip Mancuso had called--he had actually called her! "It's a thing I do three nights a week," she babbled. "Go out. Learn stuff."

He chuckled lightly, a low, throaty rumble that reminded her of Giles. "May I ask what time this class is over, and if you would care to dine with me for a late supper?"

Buffy gushed with excitement, butterflies fluttering into life in the pit of her stomach. He was asking her out on a date! "Nine-thirty, and I'd love to."

"Benissimo! Then, perhaps, we could learn a little more together," he said, with a lewd inflection that made her blush.

They chatted another ten minutes, reestablishing the pleasant companionship they had first found at the wedding reception. His Italian accent gave her chills, the same way Giles' British tones did, whenever he spoke so passionately about his books, or some such thing. Buffy gave directions to her mother's house--twice, when Philip confessed to being too distracted by her to remember what she told him. They were to meet there after class and go for dinner, until she realized that if she didn't get off the phone, she would miss her class altogether.

Seconds after hanging up, the phone rang again. Such was her dreamy mood, Buffy instantly snatched it up, without waiting for the answering machine. "So, what do I have to do?" she teased. "Draw you a map?"

There was a long pause, in which Buffy's good mood came crashing down from cloud nine. The caller was obviously not Philip.

"Buffy, um, hello . . . "

She tensed, her muscles seizing up into a tight knot, cursing her haste for not screening the call first. "I'm sorry, Giles, but I can't talk now. I'm late for class."

Hand shaking, she lowered the receiver back toward its cradle, but when she heard the urgent, tinny sound of his voice, she reluctantly lifted it back to her ear.

"I understand, I won't keep you, but . . . Buffy, we need to talk. Can I . . . drop by your house later? After your class?"

"No, I'm . . . I have plans later on. Sorry. And tomorrow, I'm working the whole day at Mom's gallery again. Probably be so beat when I get home, all I'll want to do is sleep."

"Buffy," he said bluntly, "I do believe you're avoiding me."

She blushed, embarrassed that she had been so obvious. Defensively, she said, "I'm not avoiding you. I just don't seem to be able to find the time to talk to you right now. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

"Sure. Look, I gotta go, Giles. We'll talk . . . sometime. Bye."

She hung up on his protest, and chewed her bottom lip when she was flooded with an unexpected sense of inner doubt. No question about it; she had gone from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, to Buffy the Total Bitch.

* * *

'We'll talk . . . sometime.'

Giles slowly hung up his telephone, wishing someone would just shoot him and put him out of his misery. There was a wealth of meaning in the word 'sometime', and he wondered, forlornly, if Buffy had any idea of its true impact, or the unwanted memories it instantly resurrected. Jenny Calendar. Dear sweet, Jenny, God rest her soul, had brushed him off in an almost identical manner after the incident with Eyghon.

Despondent now, he limped into his kitchen, and set about making himself a comforting cup of tea. What he really wanted was a shot of bourbon, or two or three, perhaps even enough to drink himself into unconsciousness. At least then, his thoughts would be free of Buffy Summers, if only temporarily.

She evidently had no idea how he truly felt, as if their stolen moment on the terrace meant absolutely nothing to her. Perhaps, he had been correct in assuming that, given her champagne consumption that evening, she remembered none of it the morning after. Perhaps he, too, should pretend it never happened, and cease pursuing the matter.

Only it had happened, and it had meant something--at least to him.

Tea made, he returned to the living room and settled comfortably on the couch, with his lame leg propped on an ottoman and his cane within easy reach. The book he had been reading before now failed to hold his attention, which, ever since the wedding reception, had been annoyingly focused on one thing--kissing Buffy.

With a sigh, he wondered if he were forever doomed to a life of cold showers . . .

Sipping his tea, Giles sought distraction. The touch of the remote brought the television to life, just as the grandfather clock standing in his hall chimed seven o'clock. The garish strains of the local news blared at him, making him slosh his tea and scald his hand. Hastily reaching for the remote again, he muted the sound, and frowned, annoyed, as the news anchors introduced their top story in blessed silence.

His stomach rumbled, reminding him he had not yet eaten, and so he sat, drinking his tea, while endeavoring to find diversion from his heartache by pondering his current epicurean options. Having spent the past two days in an utter quandary about Buffy, he had foregone even the simplest of life's responsibilities, including shaving, doing laundry, and visiting the grocery store--

The silent picture that flashed across the television screen unexpectedly caught his full attention. Fumbling to find the remote again and un-mute the sound, Giles missed most of the report. The picture depicted a somewhat grisly murder scene--Weatherly Park, if he were not mistaken--with the reporter standing in the foreground as a sheet-covered body was lifted into the ambulance behind him.

" . . . is the second murder in two nights," came the reporter's voice when Giles finally turned up to sound, "both victims attractive young, blonde, women, with nothing in common other than their similar physical appearance. Sunnydale Police have issued a statement for all young women matching the victims' descriptions not to go out at night alone, because it looks as though we have a serial killer on our hands. Back to you in the studio, Bob."

Setting his forgotten tea on the end table, Giles sat back, appalled. As if the residents of this town had not suffered enough over the years, first with the Hellmouth and the vampires and demons it drew, now with a human killer on the loose. And he was certain the murderer must be human, since the Hellmouth had been sealed, and there had not been a reported vampire or demon related death in over six months. With Buffy's recent retirement and subsequent loss of slaying abilities, the Watcher Council would no doubt have dispatched her successor to them post haste, had they felt there had been any real threat.

On the television, the local news anchor again cautioned all young women matching the description to heed the police warning. For emphasis, the station flashed up smiling photographs of the two victims . . . which caused Giles' insides to freeze up entirely. A block of cold ice knotted his stomach, as the chilled hand of fear gripped him in a vice-like grip.

"Oh, dear Lord," he breathed, staring at the pictures of the murdered women, who were so hauntingly familiar to him that they could have been her sisters. "Buffy."

Buffy, who, with her similar youth and beauty and without her Slayer strength and abilities, was a prime target for this bloody maniac.

Grabbing his cane and struggling to his feet, Giles rushed to fling open the lid of his weapons locker. Since his lame leg hampered his dexterity with a sword, from it he took his crossbow, the most effective weapon he had against vampires and humans alike, and a few spare bolts. At this stage, he had no real intention to shoot to kill, but rather to simply deter. Unless, of course, Buffy's life depended on his actions, then nothing would stop him from taking aim directly at his quarry's heart. Transferring his weapon of choice into a soft-sided bag, he threw in a couple of wooden stakes and a vial of Holy water, just to be on the safe side.

Then, grabbing his car keys and his jacket, Giles disappeared out into the night.

* * *

Moonlight shone down on them; a time for lovers. Buffy tried to disguise her restlessness, clutching Philip's arm as he walked her from his car to her front door. Their late meal, after class, had fully sated her hunger, at least physically. Emotionally she still felt raw, unfulfilled, and spending the night in this man's arms, if she decided to ask him in, would not change a thing. She didn't love him, even if she did find him attractive, and it was the difference that, come morning light, would again leave her soul empty and alone.

"I had a really nice evening," Buffy began conversationally. "Did I say that already?"

"Several times," Philip agreed with a laugh. "Are you trying to convince me, cara mia, or yourself?"

She smiled in lieu of answering. Small talk was definitely their thing. Secretly, Buffy had hoped for a little more this evening, a conversation with a bit more bite, yet all she had gotten from him were his trademark charm and wit as he watched her eat. He actually hadn't eaten much of his own dinner, rather pushed the food around his plate to make it appear as if he had. Buffy noticed, but shrugged it off as the result of either pre-dinner snacking, or high-strung nerves about their first official date. Maybe that was the reason for his lack of candor--he was shy! Although, that didn't seem to fit, considering his extroverted personality. Maybe he was just a super private person, and it would take several more dates for him to really be comfortable talking to her.

As they continued up the path, Buffy's thoughts guiltily drifted to the other night, when it had been Giles escorting her home. Her house, again, sat in complete darkness, because she had been in such a rush to make her class on time that she had, again, forgotten to leave on a light. Giles had offered to wait while she went in, making sure she was safe, and Buffy wondered if Philip possessed the same manners, or if he expected more.

'On our first date?'

"I am hoping," Philip said, astutely, "that your silence does not mean you have decided not to invite me in?"

"Philip, I . . . " Something moved on her front porch, restlessly stirring the shadows. A big, black, hulking something, that as a Slayer she would have taken to mean nothing more than annoying, I've-got-better-things-to-do trouble. Now, as a defenseless young woman, she took it to mean big-black-hulking trouble.

Buffy stopped, dragging Philip to a halt with her.

"What, cara mia?" Noting her wide-eyed terror, his brown eyes quickly scanned the porch ahead of them.

She knew he saw it too, whatever or whoever lurked there in the darkness of the overhang, because she felt the muscles of his arm tense beneath her hand. It rose from the swing, where she and her mother had wasted countless hours eating ice cream and lamenting lost loves, and lumbered steadily toward the steps like a cloud of black terror.

Frightened, knowing she no longer possessed either the strength or agility to defeat even a single vampire, not to mention that she didn't have a weapon, Buffy was about to suggest they run for their lives, when the figure stepped into the moonlight.

Recognition, stark and irrefutable, slapped her across the face. Buffy was so relieved, and so angry, that she could have spat nails. "Giles!"

But she wasn't the only one incensed. The look on Giles face matched anything that came out of her deepest, darkest nightmare, an expression she could only describe as 'murderous'. And it was directed straight at Philip.

Disentangling herself from Philip's arms, Buffy struck a defiant pose with her hands on her hips. Still flustered by Giles' unintentional scare, she had little time for his petty show of 'overprotective father', or whatever the hell it was. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"Looking for you," Giles said, still glaring at Philip. He finally dragged his 'homicidal maniac' scowl away from the other man, and instead turned it, full force, on her. "Where the devil have you been? It's almost one."

"I'm not a ten-year-old, Giles. I'm allowed to stay up past midnight, if I want."

"You shouldn't be out this late." His eyes flicked over Philip again. "Although I don't imagine, given your current state of post-pubescent hormonal overload, it even occurred to you that it would be prudent to keep up with current events."

To say she was stunned by his verbal attack on her character was an understatement. Buffy gaped, agog. "How dare you!" she shot back, more bothered by his slander than she cared to admit.

"Oh, I'll dare," Giles insisted dangerously. He stopped, leaning on his cane, and dropped the black nylon sports bag held in his free hand next to his feet. The bag he used to carry his weapons.

Weapons!

Buffy tweaked, not to the actually threat but rather to Giles' proposed existence of it. Old instincts kicking in, she turned to a very confused looking Philip, taking his arms. "I, um . . . something's come up. Thanks for a nice time. Goodnight."

Standing on tip-toe, for Philip was every bit as tall as Giles, she gave him a quick kiss on the lips, then faced her ex-Watcher, no matter his bad mood, ready for business. Buffy had not even taken a step away, when two strong arms grabbed her and spun her back around. Caught off guard and swept into Philip's powerful embrace, Buffy could do nothing except go with the flow, and quickly found herself bent over backwards and thoroughly kissed. It was the sort of kiss that made a girl go completely senseless and weak at the knees, the same sort she had shared with Giles out on the terrace . . .

When Philip released her and gently stood her back on her feet, the only word that her addled brain could form was a totally reverent, "Wow."

"Lei sono molto bella," Philip said, and although she had no idea what it meant, Buffy blushed anyway. "I will call you tomorrow, cara mia." Lifting her hand, he bestowed a light, farewell kiss on the back of her fingers. "Until then."

Off on a cloud, Buffy was only vaguely aware of Giles shuffling restively behind her, even less aware of the derogatory comment he muttered under his breath. With a wink, Philip straightened. He threw one last cold and challenging glare at Giles, then turned and headed back to his car.

Still too captivated to remember she had been in the midst of a rather intense argument with her former Watcher, Buffy dreamily watched him go. She wondered, suddenly, if perhaps Philip Mancuso were, indeed, her Mr. Right. He was certainly charming, and, despite his inability to share something of himself in conversation, had tonight proven himself a perfect gentleman, opening doors, holding chairs, and generally treating her like a princess.

As his car pulled from the curb, Buffy chewed her lip, doubtfully concluding that Philip was more like the frosting on a birthday cake. Metaphorically speaking, he was that sweet treat with no substance, that, as a kid, you always wanted first, and always wanted more of, even when your parents warned that too much would eventually make you sick. As an adult, she wanted more than just the proverbial frosting on the proverbial cake; she wanted the cake, too.

"Bloody dago twit," Giles mumbled.

She felt the heat of his body as he moved up behind her shoulders, his belittling remark bringing her back from Fantasy Land with a jolt. Buffy rounded on him, immediately on the offensive. "What's wrong with you? Huh? Apart from the fact that you're acting like a stupid jerk."

He looked down his nose at her in the moonlight--she really hated when he did that. "You were the one about to do the mattress mambo with a man you barely know. Personally, I'd say that more than qualifies in the 'stupid' department."

"Give it up, Giles. You're not my dad."

"Nor have I ever wanted to be," he snapped in reply.

Buffy hesitated. Well, that was new. She always thought that was exactly how he perceived his role in her life, especially after they both officially quit the Council. Yet now, every time he opened his mouth, he acted less and less like a concerned father, and more and more like--

Her breath caught at the realization, and she dared let herself hope. "Giles, are you . . . jealous?"

She watched the hard glare on his face soften in the moonlight sheen, as if he were about to admit feelings normally kept well hidden, admit that The Kiss had meant as much to him as it had to her. She pinched her lower lip in her teeth in anticipation.

He either chickened out, or blew it off, because his expression quickly reverted to what she perceived as a very father-ish frown. "Don't be absurd."

Buffy turned away, not wanting him to see the disappointment in her eyes. To let herself think, just for an instant, that Giles was even remotely interested in her as a potential lover gave her unexpected, fluttery chills of unthinkable delight. Hearing him deny it brought her back down to earth, hard.

"Then what are you doing here?" she asked gruffly, saving face.

Giles took her by the arm, and began manhandling her back toward the porch, his roughness presumably to make a point. "I'm sorry my appearance nixed your plans for the evening, Buffy," he said, dripping sarcasm, "but I thought you might like to know your life may be in danger."

Unimpressed by his mood and liking it less with each passing moment, Buffy shook her arm free of his grasp. She indicated his weapons bag, still sitting where he dropped it on the path. "Why? Do we have some renegade vamps back in town after a trophy?"

The both stopped at the bottom of the steps. The idea of vampires coming after an ex-Slayer's head, literally, was a serious threat. With a shiver, she recalled the documented report Giles had read to her from one of his predecessor's journals, concerning the fate of one of the few other Slayers to actually retire. Retirement, as they both knew, was not the typical way a Slayer's career ended, and the written account of a gang of snarked off vamps taking revenge on the poor girl after she lost her powers did not sit well with either of them.

Giles sighed, dispelling his anger, and scrubbed a weary hand across his unshaven face. In watching him, Buffy experienced a small pang of guilt. Right now, so early in her adjustment back to an ordinary life, was a dangerous and vulnerable time for her. Giles had obviously been sitting on the porch in the cold and dark, waiting, for several hours, and despite his present grumpy bear temperament, he had done it out of concern for her well-being.

"I don't know, exactly, what we have on our hands," he confessed jadedly. "The seven o'clock news reported a possible serial killer on the loose, and the police--"

"Wait. Possible serial killer? As in human? As in not a vampire?"

"Not that I am aware of. I, um . . . missed most of the report--"

Her voice rose. "As in, nothing to do with an ex-Slayer who just retired?"

"Buffy . . . "

"What you're telling me is, you interrupted my date because of some half-story you half-saw on the seven o'clock news, which might, but in all probability doesn't, have anything even remotely to do with me." She folded her arms, making a point of her own. If Giles wasn't interested in her, fine, but no way he was getting away with chasing off a potential love interest without a damn good reason. "Way to go, Mr. Play-It-Safe."

Not to be put off, Giles squared his shoulders and gave her his best glare. "Buffy, this alleged serial killer has twice demonstrated a penchant for young, attractive, blonde women."

"Okay, I get it. If you look like the victim, watch out for a possible boogie man."

"I'm serious. You may be in real danger!"

"I said okay! Okay?" If he had come bearing even the slightest bit of proof of head-hunting vampires, then she would have seen his untimely intrusion as totally legit. But this, this was nothing more than a complete waste of time--his and hers. "God, Giles, you're worse than my mother!"

He glared at her a moment longer, then threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Fine. Have it your way. Just go inside, deadbolt the door, so I can go get some sleep."

But Buffy wasn't through with this argument yet. She folded her arms, staying put. "You chased off Philip to tell me this? To tell me to go inside, by myself, so you can leave? Well, thanks a lot!"

"Ah, Philip, yes. And here I'd quite forgotten the little sod's name. Thought it was Casanova." Leaving her, Giles limped back to collect his weapons bag. "I'll wait in the car."

Infuriated, Buffy wanted to scream. Instead, she stormed up the steps, fumbled to find her house key in her purse, then wildly pushed open the front door. Stamping in, she slammed it shut behind her with enough force to rattle the windowpanes. Flicking on the entry way light, she set the heavy deadbolt, as instructed; no one was getting past that tonight, human or invited vamp. Stomping off, she hit the light switch in the living room, then the one in the kitchen, and the hall, before completing the circuit back to the front door, where she threw her shoulders against the solid oak in utter frustration. Listening, she heard the unmistakable sound of Giles rattle-trap of a car start, then drive off.

As the sound of the engine faded into the distance, Buffy wiped a single hot tear from her cheek, and headed upstairs to a cold and empty bed.

* * *

The hour was late, and the moon hung low in the night sky, ready to surrender to a dawn no more than an hour or so away. Across town, in the wooded area the locals called Weatherly Park, a man and a woman shared a passionate kiss beneath a lonesome street light.

Aware of their seclusion, the man broke the kiss and pulled back, just far enough to admire the woman's face. His hands moved in a gentle caress on her back, encouraging her to remain in his embrace. A hand under her chin brought her gaze up to his. So beautiful, so drunk. He smiled to himself, but she returned it, mistakenly believing it meant for her. To think he had found her sitting in a bar. Just sitting there, as if waiting for him. For destiny.

His hand strayed to her silken locks, his fingers delighting in the feel of her golden-spun hair. He closed his eyes, pulling her close again. Her nearness exhilarated him. She could be no more than 24 or 25; blonde and petite, like the others, and absolutely ravishing. So much like his fantasy, yet so real, and in his arms. Erroneously thinking his attention was that of a prospective lover, she responded in kind, her tiny hands beginning a slow moving caress across his back, unperturbed by the coldness of his undead body.

"I live close by," she said, unsure. "Would you like to . . . to . . . you know?"

He smiled gently. Little trollop. Nuzzling her neck in a show of affection, he inhaled the intoxicating scent of her. Beneath a fuzzy layer of alcohol, her blood called to him, its siren's song loud and unmistakable in the dwindling light of the moon. He touched his lips to her throat, feeling the strong, rapid beat of her pulse push that blood through her veins, just waiting for him to set it free.

To feed. To feast. To kill.

Drawing on willpower alone, he lifted his head. No, not yet. As if confused by his actions, his partner donned a look of desperation. She wanted him, sexually, and the peak of passion had always proven to be the headiest feast of them all.

"I want you," she admitted huskily, confirming his suspicions.

The vampire raised his hand to tenderly brush her sweet, young cheek. It was not a lie to tell her he felt the same, but simply the honest truth. "I want you, too," he said. Stepping away, he cast a glance at the sinking moon, and knew he would have to make this quick. He took her hand, giving her an encouraging smile as he tugged on it a little. "Take me home, cara mia, so I might have all of you . . . "

* * *

By mid-afternoon the following day, Giles had made his decision, one as drastic as it was necessary, one he should have made months, if not years, ago. He listened carefully as the fellow on the other end of the telephone verified the details, repeating back the information he had just given.

"That's correct," he told the man when he was finished. "And I will have a cashier's check to give your courier when he arrives. COD, yes. Tomorrow morning would be perfect." He jotted down his contact's name and phone extension beside the monetary amount he had been quoted, keeping a record in case of an unforeseen problem. "Thank you, you've been most helpful."

Giles hung up the phone, his heart a little heavier than expected. Rubbing his hand over his three-day growth of beard, he stared at the scribble on the notepad. It bore his future, in plain black and white. It was for the best, this decision of his. Buffy no longer needed him, and after last night's rather heated demonstration, proved that she no longer wanted him in her life, either. She had been ready to jump into bed with that . . . that . . . Italian! Why should he care, when she so obviously cared nothing for him? Why should he stay?

Why did he feel like such a coward, running away?

'Because you are, old man. In the game of love you are a sodding great berk.'

There was no one to blame but himself. Last night, when Buffy had surprised him with her question of whether or not he was jealous, she had given him the perfect opportunity to confess. Instead, he had stupidly denied what his heart told him, and hid behind some very paternal-like anger. If he had just admitted his feelings, then maybe, this morning, things would have been very different. But Buffy had enough on her plate right now, with her new stepfather, her career, and her life, without the burden of his true feelings, feelings she could never--would never--return.

Running his pen across the page, Giles underlined the travel agent's information, twice, as if the second time actually helped ease all those unspoken regrets. It was a done deal. Chin up, and stiff upper lip. Lord, he was such a fool.

Perhaps he should have just flung himself off the terrace the other night, spared his heart this misery. If only he had found the courage, he may have very well done so.

The small, brown plastic container by the base of the desk lamp caught his eye. Trading his pen for the bottle, he uncapped it and tipped a few of his prescription pain pills onto his palm. Without realizing what he was doing, he upended the entire contents into his hand. Giles stared at the tiny, white pills. There were twenty-two, one for each year of Buffy's life.

Was there no release from her spell?

Of course, looking at his pills, he realized that there was one rather simple answer right there in the palm of his hand. Indeed, probably half this lot would be enough to do him in. He wondered, bleakly, who would miss him, who would mourn? Suddenly, he understood. It did not take courage to take one's own life; that came with living it. To end it took desperation, and total, hopeless despair.

Annoyed with his maudlin thoughts, Giles funneled all but one of the pills back into the bottle, then swallowed that one without the need for liquid. Trading the bottle for his cane, he pushed to his feet, and limped down the hall toward the bathroom.

Through the hours spent wrestling indecision and implausible solutions prior to his telephone call, the day had somehow managed to slip away. It was already after two, and if he wanted to make the bank before closing, then he had better get a move on. He still needed to shower and shave before he would be anywhere near presentable to the world, having neglected the same ablutions yesterday as well. Buffy would, no doubt, find some suitably disparaging remark for his slovenly appearance--

Buffy again. He had to tell her, of course, tell her was leaving Sunnydale. Leaving her. No matter how much it hurt, he had to face her. Giles had too much respect for Buffy to let her learn of his departure after the fact, from some realtor hammering a FOR RENT sign in his front yard, or some such thing.

And Willow and Xander; he would call each of them on the telephone tonight, break the news, say goodbye . . . and perhaps drop a few hints that reason they missed each other so terribly, was because they were in love. Hah! He was one to talk, considering he had been in love with Buffy for years without ever seeing it.

Closing the bathroom door out of habit rather than necessity, Giles methodically began to strip. Yes, he would call Willow first, if only to be sure he knew how to get through to Private Harris at Fort Benning . . .

Then, of course, there was the dreaded packing. How on earth did one pack an entire household into so many cardboard boxes in the space of just a few short days? He would crate his library for shipping, and his weapons, but perhaps he should just donated the rest to charity, along with the furniture, thus forcing himself to return home in miserable defeat, with nothing more than the clothes on his back and what little else he could actually carry. After all, the fewer memories he took with him, the easier it would be . . .

Shuffling from his clothes and onto the handicap seat in the shower stall, he turned on the water, hoping its therapeutic spray would help divert his thoughts. After a few minutes, and with no relief in sight, Giles reached out, and turned off the tap marked 'hot'.

* * *

Buffy was bored. She sat at her mother's desk, in her mother's office, with a leaning-tower-of-Pisa stack of invoices and shipping manifests obscuring her view of the door.

Pisa. That was in Italy, right? No points for guessing where her mind had wandered.

In fact, her entire brain was off on a Mediterranean cruise today, as the mountain of unfinished paperwork before her could readily attest. Now it was nearly time to close the gallery for the day, and Philip still hadn't called.

Why hadn't he called? What was he doing? Certainly not working? Or was he? Did he live and work in Sunnydale, or what he just visiting town? She had no idea, because he hadn't voluntarily told her anything even remotely personal about his life. Nothing. Big fat zippo for the Buffster! Even if she had asked, she probably wouldn't have gotten an answer.

She assumed they had plans for a date tonight, especially since she didn't have a class. Did they? Didn't they? Where did she stand with him? What should she wear? Surely he understood the destination determined the fashion, which in turn determined the time a woman needed to get ready . . .

God, maybe Giles called him . . .

Angry now, Buffy flung her pen at the pile paperwork in utter disgust.

Maybe Giles, still doing that stupid-dumb-jerk act of his, had called Philip, and threatened him to stay away from her.

But . . . why would Giles do that? It wasn't like he had ever threatened any of her other boyfriends. In fact, he usually never said anything in either approval or disapproval. Why was he so damn over-protective now?

Head in a quandary, Buffy looked down at the notepad she had been doodling on while daydreaming about Philip. Shocked, she gasped at what she saw. It must have been a holdover from her Slayer abilities, like when her dreams manifested into prophecy, for her subconscious had drawn dozens of hearts all over the page, arrows through some, flowers around others. And in each and every one, she had written the answer to her question; 'Giles L Buffy' and 'Buffy L Giles'.

* * *

Dusk had fallen by the time Giles reached his front door. After getting his cashier's check to pay for his plane ticket, he had thought it prudent to stop by the grocery store for minimal supplies, lest he again be forced to eat baked beans on toast for his dinner. Stooping, he retrieved the evening edition of the SUNNYDALE PRESS off his mat where Jeremy, the paperboy, left it these days; special delivery on account of his leg, which earned the boy an appreciative tip each week. Popping the tri-folded newspaper on top of the groceries in his sack, Giles braced his shoulder against the wall, and fished in his pocket for his keys.

His gaze came to rest on the news headline that was visible: THIRD MURDERED WOMAN FOUND. Their local serial killer had struck again. Dear Lord, three victims in as many nights. And undoubtedly, if he read the article, he would discover the unfortunate woman matched the description of the other two. Buffy's description.

Finally shouldering open the front door, Giles shuffled his way inside, making mental note to telephone Buffy after dinner. She did not have a class tonight, he was certain, and so if she refused to pick up upon hearing his voice on her machine, then he would just make it his personal business to drive over there and check on her.

Flicking on the entryway light, he stopped dead in his tracks. There was a stranger sitting on his couch! A man, he guessed, although that was about the extent of it. The fellow's long black coat successfully concealed his body, while his face remained hidden in the shadow cast by the wall at his back. He was evidently not a prowler, because he seemed completely at home just sitting there, waiting. As if to prove as much, the intruder launched a pretentious 'O' of cigarette smoke into the shaft of fading light in front of him.

Giles tensed, but waited for his uninvited guest to make the first move.

Sitting forward into the light, obliterating his carefully blown smoke ring in the process, the man turned to him with a wide, friendly smile.

"Hello, Ripper." Ethan Rayne pointed his burning cigarette at the grocery sack Giles still held. "Am I in time for tea? Good, I'm bloody famished!"

They stared at each other for a long moment, before Giles moved, limping toward the kitchen with his crumpling bag of foodstuffs. "Get out, Ethan, you're not welcome here," he said, flicking on both the kitchen and the living room lights.

"My, my, who's got a bee in their bonnet, then?" Jumping up, in what Giles considered a rather exaggerated reminder of his two good legs, Ethan crossed to lean against the kitchen door. He indicated his almost spent cigarette. "Um, ashtray?"

"Don't have one," Giles returned, unpacking his groceries. "When did you start up that old habit again, anyway?"

Taking a final drag, Ethan flicked the butt into the sink. There was a satisfying little sizzle, as it extinguished on some leftover drops of water. "When did you start caring?"

Giles handed him a quart of milk, and indicated the refrigerator with a flick of his head. "You're right. Lung cancer suits you."

Putting the milk away, Ethan chuckled. "Always the kidder, Rupert."

"Don't bet on it."

"So where's your lovely Slayer this evening? Sorry, ex-Slayer," Ethan corrected, automatically taking the eggplant Giles shoved at him. He hesitated, wondering with what he should actually do with it, until finally he just put it on the platter with some fruit.

"Buffy is not a possession, and she's certainly not mine." Realizing the wealth of truth in that statement, Giles ducked his head.

"You two have some sort of lover's tiff?" Ethan asked astutely.

Faster than either of them thought possible, Giles rounded on his old friend, and got right in his face. "You'd be advised to mind your mouth, 'old chum'. Especially if you want to leave here with all your teeth still in it."

Breaking into a slow smirk, Ethan showed those teeth. He obviously considered Giles, in his present handicapped state, more bark than bite. "She has got your knickers in a twist. What did the little vixen do this time?"

Giles summoned up a Ripper look, which was a far more effective warning than any mere words.

Backing down, Ethan held up his hands. "All right, all right. I'm not here to gossip about your love life, anyway . . . or sad lack thereof."

Ignoring the gibe in favor of his groceries, Giles asked, "Then what does bring you to town?"

Reaching inside his coat for his cigarettes, Ethan thoughtfully shook one from the packet. He was patting his pockets for his lighter, when Giles noticed and drilled him with a 'do-it-and-you-eat-it' look.

With a grunt, Ethan pulled the unlit tobacco from his lips, and said, "I'm in a bit of a pickle, old man." Parking his hip against the counter, he folded his arms and smiled cordially. "And I'm rather afraid I need your help."

* * *

Surprise caught Buffy as she opened her front door. There, in the darkened overhang of the porch stood, "Philip!"

"Good evening cara mia."

When he hadn't called by the time she closed the gallery, she had talked herself into believing that was it. The incident with Giles, last night, had completely scared him off. Arriving home, she had tackled the punching bag in her basement, letting loose all her pent-up frustrations over him, and Giles, even though these days, she could no longer knock the stuffing out of it. The exercise had left her feeling better, emotionally, but now her knuckles were sore, despite her taping job, and she'd definitely discovered a few new muscles she never knew she had.

And her sweaty, baggy, workout clothes were definitely not her choice of attire for a prospective suitor to see her in on just their second date!

Buffy blushed, looking down at her stinky clothes, but couldn't stop her pout of rejection from bubbling to the surface. "You said you'd call. You didn't. I thought--"

"I am a cretino," Philip declared. "I was detained all day, attending some . . . personal business." Donning a forlorn look, he produced a single, long-stemmed red rose and a heart-shaped box from behind his back. "Forgive me, cara mia?"

Buffy studied him for a moment, the sincere look accompanying his apology all but lost to the night shadows. He looked a little . . . well, dangerous . . . standing there in the moonlight, in his black shirt and trousers, and dark gray tie. And totally totally scrumptious. It was hard to believe this guy was actually Giles' age.

'Although, if Giles ever decided to dress to kill, he'd look even better.'

The brief memory of Giles in his tuxedo at her mother's wedding reception flashed through her mind. God, he looked a hottie in that! He definitely needed to wear a suit more often. This from the girl who, in early days, when suits and ties were all that Giles ever wore, made sarcastic remarks about clothing boutiques selling these things called 'jeans and sweaters'. Lately, though, Giles seemed to live in casual attire, so much so, that Buffy actually missed seeing him sharply dressed.

'Maybe I need to take him shopping sometime . . .'

"Buffy?"

Buffy blinked away her wayward thoughts, and was embarrassed to realize Philip was waiting. Smiling, she reached out to take the gifts he offered. A man bearing chocolate couldn't be all bad, after all. She took a whiff of the delicate fragrance of the rose, then looked back at Philip, still waiting expectantly on her porch. Despite her lengthy association with Giles and his adorably stuffy British aplomb, sometimes the proper etiquette still managed to catch her unawares.

Remembering her manners, Buffy stepped aside, allowing him access. "I forgive you. Please, come in."

With an appreciative smile and seductive glint in his brown eyes, Philip sauntered across the threshold.

* * *

"The thing is," Giles said in utter frustration. He put down his tea and ran his hands though his hair. "I've been playing her bloody father for so long, even I believed that's what it was. I can hardly blame her for thinking the same thing."

Ethan, sitting across from him on the couch, quietly sipped his own tea. "But it wasn't--isn't paternal love."

"No. At first, maybe--I don't know. But not now. Nothing's been the same since she kissed me."

"Buffy kissed you?" Ethan's surprise earned him a glare. "Sorry. I mean, I always suspected, I just never really thought . . . "

"What, you think I'm too old for her?"

"Not at all. I just can't believe you took this sodding long."

They had fallen quickly and easily back into a natural rapport over a pot of hot tea, just like the 'good old days' and despite the Sworn Mortal Enemy status that presently existed between them. The bizarre thing was, now that he had started, Giles did not seem to be able to stop himself from telling Ethan everything. Perhaps it was what he needed, to spill all the pent-up emotions, get the burden off his chest, appease his soul. And even though his unlikely confessor had turned out to be a two-timing, back-stabber like Ethan Rayne, he did feel marginally better.

Wringing his hands, Giles diverted his gaze from the amused gleam in the other man's dark eyes.

No, he didn't. Who the devil was he kidding? He was as frustrated as hell.

"So . . . a Watcher in love with his Slayer," Ethan said, then corrected himself. "Pardon me, ex-Watcher, ex-Slayer. Well, I dare say it's not the first time in Council history that's happened. But isn't there some sort of . . . Watcher's Creed concerning fraternization? Specifically, any child born of such a union?"

Giles scoffed bitterly, still too emotionally wound up to have any time for some ancient Council doctrine. "And this berk she's interested in? He's our age, Ethan. My age! So she obviously doesn't give spit about the age difference." He glanced away again. "I'm such a bloody fool."

"Yes, well . . . " Sitting forward, Ethan rested his empty cup on the edge of the coffee table that separated him from Giles. "As entertaining as this little revelation has been, and before you actually beg me to shoot you, this really isn't what I came here to talk about, Ripper."

At the use of his nickname, Giles restless gaze flicked back to his uninvited guest. Ethan claimed his full attention by slowly reaching for something inside his black coat. Half-expecting that something to be of the nasty variety, Giles' curiosity peaked when Ethan extracted an ordinary looking paper envelope. He offered it across the coffee table, and Giles took it with some hesitation, and a healthy dose of skepticism.

Inside were half a dozen 4x6 color snapshots, which, to say the least, left a lot to be desired for Ethan's skill as a photographer. They were all dark, grainy, and slightly out of focus, as if they had been taken at long range, though a zoom lens, minus the support of a tripod.

Giles squinted at one, trying to discern exactly what he was looking at, and why it was so important to Ethan. From the thick, black border and the crisscross in the center of the frame, he deduced that it was some sort of surveillance photo, which had been shot from outside a house, at night, looking in through an unshaded window. Inside, were three people--two men, and a young girl--completely unaware they were under observation. The two men looked to be in some sort of confrontation with each other, while the petite, dark-haired girl sat meekly on the couch by herself. Giles flicked through the first three or four photos, all similar in composition and subject, as if they had been taken in quick succession without much change to the details.

"You recognize the chap facing the camera, of course," Ethan said.

Eyes narrowing, Giles studied the fuzzy features, the stocky build, and the pretentious three-piece suit. Recognition clicked, and he nodded resentfully. "Quentin Travers. Part time Council bigwig, and full time prat." His scrutiny shifted to the young girl. "Good Lord, she's a Slayer? But she's so young!"

"Thirteen," Ethan confirmed. "And yes, Pippa Renata was a Slayer, for all of about a week. She's dead, I'm afraid."

Giles winced, lamenting as both a Watcher and a man. To lose someone so young, while in one's care, must be the absolute end of the world. And although it was a tragedy that deserved due respect, he had a sneaking suspicion that there was a lot more to this morbid tale than Ethan was currently telling.

"This other chap," Giles continued, indicating the back of the other man in the shot with Travers. "He was her Watcher?"

"No. He was her father."

Shocked and appalled, Giles tossed the photographs onto the coffee table. They fanned before him, but Ethan made no move to retrieve them. "Judging from the way he was arguing with Travers," Giles said, "I'm guessing he didn't want his daughter to fulfill her calling?"

"Absolutely detested the idea. Her Slayer training was non-existent." Ethan pulled out his pack of cigarettes, and leaned back, crossing his legs. He looked far too relaxed, and Giles had a bad feeling that the other proverbial shoe was about to drop. "He and Travers almost came to blows over the matter. Pity your Council didn't just let them fight it out. Would have saved me all this bloody trouble."

Giles frowned again. "What trouble? What's going on?"

"I took those photographs," Ethan admitted loftily. "In Naples. About six months ago."

"And since we both know you're not likely to be winning a Pulitzer for them," Giles said sarcastically, "what is it that you aren't telling me?"

Ethan suddenly sat forward, looking more than a little uncomfortable. "Rupert, you must understand. It was a business arrangement. Had I known they intended to suck the poor girl dry, I swear I would have never taken the money."

"You set her up," Giles announced coldly. His temper, and his contempt for the man he used to call his friend, flared until it was all he could do to stop himself from giving Ethan a damn good thrashing. "You bastard, you led a gang of vampires right to that poor child's door!"

"I'm afraid it's a bit more . . . complicated than that."

"Oh, I can hardly wait."

"Her father, Filippio Renata, wanted revenge, so he went after the vampires who took his daughter's life. But, of course, the fool had no idea what he was getting into, and was simply no match for them."

"They killed him."

"They turned him," Ethan corrected evenly. "And now he's even more obsessed with exacting his revenge. He's insane, Rupert, and he's unstoppable."

"And he's after you." Giles actually smiled at the thought. "Because you are ultimately responsible for the death of his daughter. Just desserts, I'd say, 'old man.' I won't help you."

"He's after me, yes. And anyone else he can find to blame. Travers and the rest of the Council spring to mind. See, ultimate responsibility is not actually mine. Even before he was turned, Renata believed it lay squarely on the shoulders of only one person. The Slayer whom Pippa replaced." Off Giles' doubtful look, he added, "The same Slayer who just retired."

Realization came crashing down. "Buffy?"

"Bravo." Ethan extracted a cigarette for his pack, tapping it against his hand while he waited for Giles to put it all together.

This time, Giles did not stop him from lighting up. He was too preoccupied; his mind was racing ten miles a minute as the consequences of Ethan's words hit with full force. When Buffy 'died' at the Master's hand, a new Slayer had been called to duty. Kendra. And out of Kendra's death, came Faith, and so on and so forth. A new line had been established, and so the next new Slayer should have been called from it. Buffy had always joked about having already had her Slayer Activation Card punched, but apparently that was not true. Destiny had just taken a slight detour, until she was ready.

"W-we didn't think . . . " Giles stammered. "That is, we both believed her retirement--"

"Buffy is the end of her line," Ethan interrupted. "Renata is obsessed with this, and he will not stop until she is dead. Or worse." He took a slow drag on his cigarette, blowing a curling puff of smoke toward the ceiling. "So you see, Rupert, old mate, my problem is your problem. Share and share alike, don't you know?" With a gregarious smile, he flicked a hand at the photos still fanned on the coffee table. "I suggest you take a look at the last one. That's him. That's Filippio Renata. At least it was, before he became a vampire."

Reluctant to throw his lot in with a scumbag like Ethan, but knowing that the more facts he had, the better chance Buffy stood, Giles spread the fan with his fingers and picked up the last photo on the table. He knew the man's face instantly, the dark, Mediterranean good looks that so perfectly complemented the Italian accent, and in the few seconds it took him to look at the picture, his blood ran so cold that it felt like needles of ice were slithering through his veins.

Abruptly, the identity and the modus operandi of the local serial killer became perfectly clear. Buffy didn't bear a striking resemblance to the murdered girls, but rather they all looked like her. As obsessed as Ethan had said, Filippio Renata--or Philip Mancuso as he was known here in Sunnydale--was exacting his insane revenge for his daughter's death by 'killing Buffy', over and over, in the form of her unfortunate look-alikes.

"Bloody hell," Giles swore in a low voice, staring at the photograph in his hand. He regarded Ethan with a look of pure terror. "This is the man Buffy's dating!"

* * *

"Philip," Buffy said, trying to get his attention and dissuade his roving hands. They were sitting together on the couch, the lamplights dimmed to a romantic glow, and what had started off as an affectionate little cuddle as an apology for his lack of communication, had quickly escalated into a full-fledged grope fest. At least on his part. "PHILIP!"

She managed to elbow him away and scoot down the couch a bit. Modestly rearranging her disheveled workout clothes, Buffy began to have serious doubts about the wisdom of letting Mr. Hormones-and-Hands into her house. Good manners had gone out the proverbial window; there was nothing remotely gentlemanly about the way he was feeling her up. It was completely out of character from the man she knew. Or didn't know, as the case may be, since he had been so secretive about himself in the short time she had known him. Maybe this Italian Sex Machine was the real him, and the Really Nice Guy was just an act. After all, she'd read all about Italian men in COSMOPOLITAN. The only thing she knew for sure was that she didn't like the way she was being treated.

Trying hard to remain gracious, Buffy skillfully avoided him as he made another grab at her, this time by springing to her feet.

"I really need to take a shower," she said as an excuse to escape his company. Only belatedly did she realize that that was not the most intelligent thing to say to a man who was already displaying an urgent need for wild, animal sex. "I mean . . . "

"Permit me to join you, cara mia, so I might wash your back." On cue, Philip came to his feet in front of her. He was a big guy, like Giles, and there was no way she could fend him off without her Slayer strength. He leaned down towards her, aiming his lips at her neck and his hands at her breasts. "And your front . . . "

Buffy stiff-armed him away, then back-peddled to increased the distance between them. "No, I don't think so."

"You reject me?" He threw her an angry, spiteful look, his mood taking an unexpected one-eighty into unknown territory. "You think you can just flirt with me, and then say 'no'?"

Buffy rocked from foot to foot, unnerved by his abrupt hostility, and at how fast this was all spiraling out of control. It was rapidly turning into 'A Situation'. He was being totally unfair, since the groping contest had been entirely a one-sided event. No flirting on Buffy's part, at least not tonight. But the bloodthirsty look on his face told her, quite clearly, that he thought very differently. He was ready to fling her to the floor and take what he wanted, regardless of what she had to say or think about it.

Fear welled its way to the surface, and Buffy moved back another cautious step, mindful of his superior body weight and strength. She suddenly realized that knew absolutely nothing about the 'real' man she had invited into her house, and this new 'him' was really starting to wig her. In the blink of an eye, she understood the reason behind her attraction to Philip. So much of him reminded her of Giles, and if she could not have the real thing, then she would settle for this meager substitute. When Philip touched her, she thought of Giles' hands. When he kissed her, she thought of Giles' lips.

But Philip wasn't Giles--Giles would never treat her this way--and now she was about to pay the price for stupidly pretending that he was.

'Ohmygod! I love Giles!'

To Philip, she said, "I think . . . you'd better leave . . . "

"You are mine, Slayer," Philip said, in a flat tone that made her blood run cold.

Shocked by his use of her former title, Buffy stared up at him, without comprehension, until the unthinkable happened. As his face contorted into the same hideous mask she had spent the better part of her teenage years watching turn to dust, it all became perfectly clear. Philip Mancuso was just another disgusting vampire, out for one thing.

"And I will have you, before I drain you dry," he said, showing his fangs in a lewd grin.

Well, two things.

'Men, they're all the same, dead or alive'.

Buffy stood rigidly still, while her brain kicked into double-time. All her weapons were upstairs, undisturbed for months in the footlocker by her bed, so her eyes danced furtively around her mother's living room in search of feasible alternatives. Nothing obvious leapt out at her. She thought of the staircase out in the hall, with its wooden spindles and newel post, but without her Slayer strength to break off some stake-like splinters, the idea was basically useless.

With a hearty laugh for her look of sinking terror, Philip moved. But Buffy, infused with a healthy dose of adrenaline, moved even faster.

As a result, Philip came up with a fistful of her baggy workout tee-shirt and no real purchase on her. Buffy twisted, trying to escape his grip before he could use his strength and advantage to--literally--reel her in, and managed to evade him by slipping out of her shirt. Stripped down to her bra, and with no time for modesty, she turned and ran.

She wasn't sure which way to go--outside, where she could possibly call to her neighbors for help, or upstairs, where she had all the right weapons but not the muscle to use them. Buffy scooped a lamp off the corner table as she passed through the arch separating the living room from the foyer, turned, and threw it at her pursuer. She was more than a little perturbed to find him that close in her wake, even more so when he swatted the lamp away without even slowing down. Backing up, she started throwing anything and everything that came to hand--her mother's vases, books, antique statues, another lamp. If nothing else, the crashing of glass and pottery should alert someone to the fact that something was happening in here . . .

* * *

Giles lifted his loaded crossbow from his car trunk, and nestled it in the crook of his arm. With one hand on his cane, and his free hand resting on the open lid, he looked across at the Summers' house. It sat in the same eerie darkness as it had the past few times he had been here, and gave him pause to wonder if he had been mistaken about Buffy's night class schedule, and that she simply wasn't home.

Behind his shoulder, Ethan selected a sturdy looking battle-axe from the assortment of weapons laid out in the trunk, hefting it in his hand like a gallant Medieval knight. Giles glanced at him warily, not certain he liked the idea of having Ethan Rayne standing at his back with something that lethal in his hands. The man was not what one would call 'ally' material, but to be fair, it had not exactly been Ethan's choice to accompany him, either. As much as Giles detested the notion of his old friend as backup, he did know his own limitations. And if Buffy was is as serious trouble as he assumed her to be, then Giles needed all the backup he could coerce.

"Doesn't look as though anyone's home," Ethan said, putting voice to Giles' thoughts.

Giles zipped open the nylon sports bag in which he carried his other vampire fighting paraphernalia, taking a small bottle of Holy water and a couple of wooden stakes for himself, and passing a crucifix to Ethan.

"All the same, we're going to check," Giles said, stuffing the smaller items into the pockets of his tweed coat.

As he slammed the trunk lid shut, Ethan chortled nervously. "Place looks secure enough. How about we just go somewhere, and I buy you a beer instead?"

As if on cue, there came the unmistakable sound of breaking glass.

Fear swelling in his chest, Giles took a firm grip on his crossbow, and used it to prod his reluctant associate in front of him. "Move it, Ethan! Now!"

As they neared the house, there came the distinctive sounds of a struggle from within, culminating in a woman's scream. Buffy's scream. Mounting the porch, and oblivious to the pain the simple exertion of the steps caused him, Giles tried the front door.

Locked. Of all the times for Buffy to actually heed his warning!

Anxiously peering through the middle of the three, rectangular, glass inserts, Giles pounded on it with is fist. "Buffy!" He couldn't see her, but he could hear more sounds of breaking glass coming from the darkened room off to the left. The living room. He pounded again. "Open the door! BUFFY!"

* * *

Inside, Buffy heard Giles' voice and turned toward it, both shocked and hopeful. She had demolished half her mom's furnishings in her defense of the slow advancing vampire, who was no doubt getting his jollies by toying with her this way. Smashing everything but the kitchen sink across his head had done little to dissuade Philip, so out of desperation, she had tried screaming her lungs out . . . which upon hearing Giles call out to her, she decided was maybe not the futile girlie-girl approach she first considered it to be.

"GILES!" she called, but was silenced from making any further pleas for help by the clawed hand that belted her across the face.

Buffy went flying, landing dazed a heap halfway out into the foyer, her ungraceful slide bunching up her mother's imported Turkish rug. Dazed, struggling to pick herself up, she tasted blood from a split lip, and felt its warm trickle slide down her cheek from a gash above her eye. To her right, sat the staircase; to her left, the front door. And straight head, sauntering toward her out of the shadows of the living room, the vampire who so obviously intended to rape her before he killed her, even if he had to pummel her into unconsciousness first.

"Why do you fight me, cara mia?" Philip asked. Reverting to his human face, he stopped, looming over her. "I know you want me. You have from the first night we met."

"BUFFY!"

She again looked toward the sound of Giles' urgent voice, this time locking gazes with him through one of the front door's decorative glass inserts.

"Open the door!" he urged, noting the vampire with a look of dread.

Philip cocked his head towards the door, which held steadfast despite Giles' renewed assault. "Him? He is why you reject me?" he asked perceptively. "He is a Watcher, cara mia. Filth, like the rest of them. And he will pay, like the rest of them . . . but ladies first."

"You know about Watchers?" Buffy asked, not really caring, but trying to buy herself a little time. Head still ringing, she crab-crawled away as Philip squatted in front of her. "And Slayers?"

"My little Pippa was a Slayer, don't you know."

Oblivious to the sound of Giles breaking out the glass panel with the stock of his crossbow, Philip gently reached out to wipe the fresh blood from Buffy's cheek. She tried not to flinch by his unexpected show of tenderness, only to be totally grossed out when he licked his fingers clean, savoring the warm, salty taste of her with a disgusting moan of pleasure.

"I tried to stop it," he continued idly, closing his eyes. He sniffed the coppery scent of her trickling blood, as if he were sampling the bouquet of a fine wine. "I tried reasoning with Mr. Travers and the Council, but they would have none of it. Duty, they said. Responsibility." He looked directly at her, a hungry gleam in his brown eyes. "But you know what, cara mia? Neither duty nor responsibility killed my little girl . . . you did. You and your filthy bloodline, when you retired."

"I-I had to, I lost my strength!"

"As did my Pippa. She lost everything, including her young life . . . when she was brutally murdered by those who have become my kin." He vamped out again, showing his fangs in a resentful snarl. "That's something of an irony, wouldn't you agree?"

"You're insane . . . "

"Kiss me, cara mia."

With lightning speed that no mere human ever had a chance of avoiding, Philip lunged for her, grabbing her bare upper arms with a steel grip that was going to leave bruises. He drew her to her feet with him, pulling her close against his repulsive features, and in the process, unwittingly presented his back as a target to Giles. Buffy squirmed, but he held tight.

"I will make slow, passionate love to you," he promised, "and you will come screaming my name, whilst you die in my arms . . . "

There was a brief whistle of an arrow, then the solid thud of it hitting flesh, and Philip howled in agony. Throwing Buffy aside like she were a rag doll, he spun to face the direction from which it had come, and angrily tried to reach the crossbow bolt sticking out of his back.

"Buffy! Open the bloody door!" Giles yelled through the broken panel, struggling with something--presumably to reload the crossbow.

Rising to her hands and knees, Buffy scooted under the distracted vampire's flailing arms and threw herself against the door. Face to face with Giles through the tiny broken panel, she felt his warm breath on her face as he quietly told her to hurry. But her fingers felt like they were made from Play Doh, and she fumbled with the lock, and then the heavy deadbolt that, just the other night, Giles himself had insisted she use . . .

* * *

"Hurry, Buffy," Giles said quietly, trying not to let his panic show. But despite the sudden calmness in his voice, he was all thumbs as he tried to reload his crossbow. The tiny glass insert in the door had hampered his aim, but he would get a clearer shot when Buffy unlocked the door. He needed to be ready to take it. Over her shoulder, he saw the vampire pull out his first arrow, and furiously throw it aside. It, of course, needed to go through the creature's heart to kill it; all Giles had done make the thing extremely pissed off.

When Buffy finally pulled the door wide open, Giles gave up on the half-cocked crossbow and instead fumbled in his coat pocket for good, old-fashioned wooden stake. The vampire growled, low and dangerous, and began slowly stalking toward them, out for blood.

"Bugger this!" came Ethan's high-pitched voice from behind, and without turning, Giles knew his old chum had just bolted like a scared rabbit.

'Bloody typical!'

Without wasting time or energy on Ethan, Giles pushed the second stake and the vial of Holy water into Buffy's hands. Limping past her on his cane, he drew back his hand to swing at vampire's chest. He knew that, in all likelihood, he had only this one chance, with momentum and surprise on his side, to stake it. If he failed, he and Buffy were both as good as dead.

With a wild battle cry, Giles mustered all his strength and let his arm arc toward his target. But the vampire, with its inhumanly faster reflexes, caught his wrist and stopped his deathblow mid-swing. The creature snarled in his face, applying pressure to the wrist it held, until Giles felt tendons begin to rip and bones begin to crack. Unable to maintain his grip on his weapon by sheer willpower alone, Giles gritted his teeth and watched his fingers flex open, until the stake clattered harmlessly to the floor below.

"Filthy Watcher," the creature snarled at him, kicking the stake away. It went skittering off into a distant corner that may have well been a mile away. The vampire clamped its free hand around his neck, then let go of his injured wrist, thankfully before it broke. "You want to go first? So be it."

Giles felt the steeled fingers press into his windpipe, constricting his breathing. "Buffy! Get out . . . of here!" he managed to wheeze as the vampire tightened its grip. Whether or not she heard, Giles didn't know. Looking straight into the hideous face, at close range, he was only aware of one interminable thing. He was about to die.

The thing lifted him, one-handed. As his feet left the floor, Giles let go of his cane, using both his hands in an instinctive attempt to loosen the crushing hold around his throat. But his struggle was in vain, and his oxygen-deprived lungs soon began to heave. Just as he thought he was about to black out, something flashed in the corner of his eye. A liquid something, followed by an inhuman howl. The vampire released him, throwing him across the room like an angry child might discard an unwanted toy.

Giles landed hard, in the midst of broken pots and lamps and general destruction littering the living room floor. An excruciating pain snaked through his lame leg like a bolt of white-hot lightning, and he couldn't stop himself from crying out. Cut and bruised, he gulped down air, as a pair of gentle hands reached out and helped him to sit.

"Ohmygod . . . are you okay?" Buffy asked with genuine, selfless concern.

Stifling another groan at the fire in his left leg, Giles looked over Buffy's shoulder, back through the archway to where the vampire was still reeling from the Holy water she had thrown. The creature had its face in its hands, moving about in an aimless, moaning fashion, with wisps of foul-smelling smoke rising from between its clawed fingers. When it stopped and straightened, its face hideously burned and disfigured, Giles realized that Buffy's comfort and concern was just a tad premature.

"Go," he ordered, eyes locked on the approaching vampire. When Buffy made no attempt to obey, Giles pushed her away, firmly not gently, and instead locked eyes with her. "GO!"

"I won't leave you!"

"Give me your stake."

"That's suicide! You're in no condition to take him on!"

"Neither are you."

A dark silhouette fell over them, like the cold blanket of death itself. Buffy looked up as the vampire stopped and leered with its sickeningly disfigured face. There was nothing but insanity and rage in its cruel, black eyes, no lingering vestige of Philip Mancuso, or the man and loving father he had once been. Just this thing, this demon inhabiting human form, ready to rape and kill.

"Watch me," Buffy said determinedly. Rising to one knee, she thrust up her arm, and buried the stake Giles had given her under the vampire's ribcage.

The creature fell back a step, clearly surprised by her unanticipated attack, its hands hovering around the six inches of tapered wood protruding, at an angle, from its chest.

All three of them waited, expectantly, but nothing happened.

Nothing.

Although her aim had been true, Buffy no longer possessed the strength needed to pierce the creature's heart using that particular technique.

"Damn," she said, an instant before all hell broke loose again.

Insane enough to ignore the stake still stuck in its chest, the vampire swatted her away, as if she were nothing more than an annoying gnat. Buffy again went flying, only to land with a painful thud, this time against the living room wall. She slid down it in silence, crumpling in an ungraceful heap by one of her mother's demolished plants, unconscious. Enraged, Giles flung himself at the creature's knees, using his body weight in a makeshift tackle. Without the support of his cane, it was futile for him to even try to get to his feet, but if he could bring the vampire to the floor, he felt certain he could finish what Buffy had started, and drive home the stake.

But the vampire refused to be toppled. It counter-attacked with a brutal kick, catching Giles in the left thigh. Engulfed in a cocoon of exquisite agony, Giles let go of his quarry in favor of his lame leg. Waves of pain washed up and down his body, threatening unconsciousness, almost as bad as the night when the vampire with the sledgehammer had first shattered his femur. Taking advantage of his defenseless state, the vampire hoisted him off the floor, lifted him--horizontally--above its head, and again tossed him as if he weighed nothing.

But Giles did weigh something, and this time gravity and force sent him careening through one of the plate-glass living room windows at the front of the house. With an almighty crash, Giles landed on his back with the wind knocked out of him, his head and shoulders hanging awkwardly out past the line of the wall and onto the porch. Glass, wood, and aluminum framing rained down on him, and, despite his groggy condition, Giles had the presence of mind to raise his arms to protect his face from the falling shards.

As the debris finally settled, Giles found himself dazed, cut and bleeding, and only vaguely aware of the vampire moving in for the kill. Lowering his arms, he received shock number two, when he looked directly up into the face of Ethan Rayne. He stood on the dark front porch, and contrary to belief, had been watching the proceedings through the window Giles just crashed through.

"Sorry, old man," Ethan said in a tone that held little apology. He smiled nefariously, dragging the Medieval battle-axe he still held back over his shoulder. "Nothing personal, but this is just too good an opportunity to miss."

Giles eyes widened in alarm. Ethan meant to behead him!

Adrenaline kicking in, Giles rolled sideways, just as Ethan swung the axe in a graceful arc . . . just as the vampire lunged at him and inadvertently took his place on the chopping block.

There was a sickening sound of severed flesh and bone and spinal column, and the vampire's head bounced down the steps and onto the Summers' front lawn.

Slowly picking himself up out of the wreckage that now bore little resemblance to an actual house window, Giles glared at Ethan with a murderous look of his own. "You bastard . . . "

"What? I s-s-saved your life!" Dropping the axe, Ethan backed away with a look of real fear in his eyes. He pointed at the twitching, headless torso, which had not yet exploded into dust. "I meant to do that, really," he explained. Then he tried a hesitant little smile. "Rupert, old mate, you don't honestly think I intended to . . .?" He stumbled over his own feet, and tripped backwards down the steps, sprawling on his ass beside the severed head. Looking at it, then back at Giles, Ethan quickly scrambled to his feet. "Oh, crap!" he muttered, then took off running.

Giles dragged himself to his feet using the demolished window frame, and, in his present state, had little choice but to watch Ethan flee. That bastard had a strong sense of self-preservation, but one day his luck would run out. Giles had no doubt that their paths would cross again, and maybe, on that day, to the victor would go all the spoils . . .

A soft moan alerted Giles to a more urgent matter. Turning, he discovered Buffy coming round and struggling to sit up. Dragging his useless limb through the rubble, and ignoring the protests coming from just about every part of his body, Giles crossed to collapse at her side.

"Buffy," he whispered, concerned. Reaching out, he gently touched her bruised and bloodied face.

She moved a little, trying to untangle her body from the awkward twist that it had fallen in. "Ow," she said plaintively. She winced. "Ow again."

"Are you hurt?" Giles asked urgently, running his hands down