"Creed" ~ Part 2

SUMMARY, THIS PART: A month later, Giles returns to Britain in search of his wife and child. Enlisting the help of old friends and allies, he makes a desperate power play to rescue Buffy and Carma from the Council's stronghold . . . only to discover that things are not what they seem.

SPOILERS: Season 3, then branching into AU.
PAIRINGS: Buffy/Giles, Willow/Xander
RATING: FR-T for mature themes, violence, language, and drug abuse. This story is very dark and contains major angst!
WARNING: Character death.
DISTRIBUTION: KoalasPlace.com, Gabi's B/G FanFic Archive.
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 2: Power Play

Returning to his homeland should have been a joyous occasion, but instead his heart was full of loathing. Giles limped out of the Arrivals terminal at Heathrow International, and stopped curbside to take in familiar surroundings. The air smelled of jet fuel wafting on car exhaust. Airport hustle and bustle seemed to share worldwide similitude, with security personnel, porters, taxi drivers, and travelers all jostling each other for the better field position in front of the terminal entrance.

People behaved like ants, steadfast in their trajectories in and out the building behind him, all on their individual little missions and oblivious to the concerns of others. Had they even bothered to look, the impression Giles gave, attired in one of his most expensive suits beneath a topcoat and scarf, was that of a business executive returning from a trip abroad. No one would suspect the truth behind his solitary sojourn onto British soil, or the darkness which had lived inside him since the abduction of his wife and daughter four weeks ago.

Four long weeks. He owed his life to the Philadelphia paramedics. The gunshot wound inflicted by Ethan Rayne had perforated his femoral artery. Left to bleed to death, by the time he was wheeled into the trauma center on a stretcher, he was slipping in and out of consciousness, unaware of his condition or surroundings. Even now, the whole experience seemed like a surreal nightmare of jumbled images and sounds.

Giles looked at the sky. The gray January afternoon suited his dour mood. God, how it appalled him to be here alone. He and Buffy always talked about visiting Britain together. He had long wanted to share that side of himself with her; for her to experience his boyhood haunts, to meet his father before it was too late. In hindsight, he wondered if perhaps the wiser thing would have been to bring Buffy and Carma to London instead of to Philadelphia, and hidden them right under the noses of the people who wanted them. Maybe, then, things would have turned out differently.

But self-guilt and second guesses were futile exercises; hard lessons learned in the weeks spent flat on his back in recovery and rehabilitation. That he had not been a very good patient was no surprise. Giles had more important things to do than lay there like a bloody corpse. Heavy doses of pain medication had successfully suppressed this insistence to be discharged; in fact, it had been necessary to keep him sedated most of the entire first week. He had made good after that, however, upon realizing that fully recovering from the gunshot wound was his first priority. His lame leg was another story, and the visit from an orthopedic surgeon, with his 'brilliant' conclusion that there was nothing to be done, was surely a waste of everyone's time.

Still, the hospital stay had afforded Giles time to re-energize, to regroup physically and mentally, and to plan his next move. And plan he did. Had they even an inkling of his scheming, of the dark revenge dominating his thoughts, then they would never have let him out.

Being in London, as much as Giles detested it, was Step One in getting his wife and daughter back. He had not involved the US authorities in their kidnapping; what would have been the point? He knew who the kidnappers were, and that they were outside the laws of normal society. The Watcher Council enforced its own rules, lived by its own creed, and they had successfully done so for countless generations. The police would have been more hindrance than help, which is why, when two detectives from the local Philly precinct visited his hospital bedside, he told them he lived alone, the evidence of a family--Buffy's clothes and other personal belongings--explained by another lie; that his wife had recently left him. Giles insisted that he had simply come home and surprised a burglar. Given the neighborhood, the cops bought it without question, and his case was written off as yet another an attempted robbery gone wrong.

And Ethan? Oh, yes, Giles had a long list of scores to settle with Ethan Rayne, when he found him.

"Where to, Gov?"

The cockney accent broke his reverie. Giles turned, his cane in one hand and his suitcase in the other. The man was a stereotypical London cab driver; short, stout, and balding, and fighting the cold by blowing puffs of hot breath into fingerless gray wool mittens.

"I'm interested in visiting The British Museum," Giles said. "Do you know of a good hotel somewhere near there?" It had been a while since his last visit to London, and places and things--not to mention people--had a way of changing in one's absence.

Local time was only early afternoon, and it had been a long flight from New York. The last two hours had seemed particularly cramped, as the escalating throb in Giles' lame leg could readily attest. In the morning, he would take the first steps in achieving his goals by seeking out an old friend and ally, but until then he would convalesce, albeit reluctantly, in a hotel room.

"The Royal Arms is four star all the way, and overlooks the Museum." The cabbie nodded purposely at his cane. "Should make it easier for you, Gov."

"Sounds ideal," Giles agreed. A four star hotel? Yes, it was time to indulge in a little luxury after the slum he and Buffy had been forced to live in for the past six months. He handed the little man his luggage--a modest leather valise purchased just yesterday--and stepped forward as the rear door of the black cab was politely opened for him.

"Righto, Gov. 'Ave you there in a jiffy."

* * *

Giles slept until ten the following morning, more jet lagged than he believed; he would not allow himself to consider his tardiness the fault of the pain pills he had swallowed before bed. Showered, shaved, and dressed in a double-breasted charcoal suit, he called room service for a pot of breakfast tea and two toasted crumpets, downing brunch with three more pills before setting out to meet with a face from the past.

The British Museum was his old stomping ground, and, as his cabbie had indicated yesterday, an easy walk from his hotel room, even for a cripple. The outside looked the same as he remembered, with its worn flagstone steps leading into the Front Hall via towering Victorian columns, but the interior had been totally revamped. Gone were the British Library galleries where he had once held court as Head Librarian--or 'curator of the stacks' as he more mockingly became known--replaced now with something auspiciously called The Reading Room. However, the renovation that completely awed him was the Great Court, a two-acre public square enclosed by a spectacular glass dome roof, situated directly on top of where the old central courtyard had once stood.

Reigning in his admiration, sternly reminding himself he was not there to sightsee, Giles found the elevator--galled by the fact that he had to use the elevator--to the fourth floor. The Assistant Librarian's office was in the Paul Hamlyn Library wing of the Court, and as he rapped lightly on the closed half-glass door, he suddenly wondered if his unannounced visit would reward him with an empty room. Perhaps he should have made an appointment?

"Come in."

Relieved, Giles pushed open the door. She was seated at an expansive cherrywood desk, engrossed in the contents of a manila file folder. Without looking, she held up her hand to forestall his greeting while she finished reading the last paragraph.

"Just a moment . . . " By her flippant attitude, he deduced that she thought him to be someone else.

Giles quietly closed the door, and moved forward. He stopped directly before her desk, and stood balanced on his cane with both hands until she was ready to acknowledge him. Good Lord, was she wearing tweed?

"Okay, sorry, honey, I just needed to . . . " Her sentence faded as she looked up for the first time, whereupon her frown of concentration transformed into the biggest grin he had ever seen. "Giles!" She rushed around the desk to envelop him in a mammoth hug. "What are you doing here? When did you arrive in London? Where's Buffy? And Carma--I'll finally be able to meet her!"

"Hello, Willow," he said, returning the grin despite the blackness in his heart. It was good to see her again. He squeezed her upper arm, and kissed her cheek.

When he released her, Willow found his fingers and entwined them in her own, reluctant to let him go. The hell of it was, now that he was here, he was not entirely sure he should have come. She would be a valuable ally, yes, and she would want to help, yes, but he now wondered if involving her was in Buffy's best interest, or his own.

Willow beamed, delighted. "It's so good to see you again!" She stepped back, taking his hand with her, and sat on her desktop with it clasped lightly in her lap. "You look good. Maybe a little thin. Have you lost weight?"

"It's good to see you too. I, um . . ." He indicated the manila folder on her blotter, steering the conversation away from his recent unhealthy lifestyle. "I trust I'm not disturbing you?"

As if suddenly remembering her work, Willow half turned to regard it. "Oh, that, no, sorry." She smiled again, pushing a lock of flaming red hair back over her ear in a gesture that took him back about fifteen years. "I thought you were Xander come early. He's meeting me for lunch."

Giles nodded. "I see. Um, how is . . . Xander?"

"Oh, you know." Willow shrugged. "Xander is Xander."

"Quite." He abruptly felt awkward, tongue-tied, incompetent in the art of casual conversation.

Willow immediately sensed his hesitation. "What's wrong?" She frowned, gently shaking the hand she still held as if to shake the answer from him.

"Buffy . . . " he began, but the words would not come. Giles pulled away from her touch, unable to look her in the eye. How did he admit that he had allowed her best friend to be abducted, whereabouts unknown? Reaching for the guest chair, he lowered himself into it, and sat with his lame leg outstretched.

"She didn't--? You didn't--? I mean, you guys are still--? Aren't you?"

"Yes, yes, we are," Giles said, deciphering the unfinished questions that pertained to his present martial status.

"Good," Willow said, relieved. "I mean, I thought so, on account of you still wearing your wedding ring and all."

Giles glanced at the gold band on his finger. It was all he had left of Buffy and the love they shared. He swallowed the lump that came to his throat. "It's not a problem with 'us', it's . . . "

She gave him a second and when he didn't continue, prompted, "What?"

It still took a long moment for him to answer. "They took her," Giles said finally, staring resolutely at the rug on the office floor. Pursed lips held back the simmering grief that wanted to break the surface of his composure. "The Council has Buffy and Carma." The hand holding his cane tightened until his knuckles were white. Taking a deep breath, he looked up, his voice tight with conviction as he added, "And I want them back, Willow. I want them back."

* * *

Despite Willow's flippancy, Xander was very unlike Xander of old. Vocationally, the young man had done extremely well for himself. After skipping college, he had given four years to the US Army, honing his natural skill for all types of weaponry and his keen aptitude for matters of security. On the family stability front, it seemed to have all clicked into place when he married Willow. The Harris' had moved to London before all this madness with the Council had started, primarily for Xander to accept a prestigious, although not enviable in Giles' book, position as freelance security consultant to The Ministry. Xander in a suit and tie, legally carrying a concealed firearm, kept stealing Giles' attention. That the young man was responsible for the safety and well-being of a number of Britain's visiting dignitaries simply made his head spin.

They spent lunch, at the insistence of the Harris', moving Giles out of The Royal Arms Hotel and into the spare bedroom of their modest South Kensington flat. Although comfortable, it was no four-star hotel room, but when compared to the Philadelphia slum where he and Buffy gone to ground it was a virtual palace. Giles was grateful for their generosity, and for their willingness to help.

Over tea, a tradition which under other circumstances he would have been delighted to learn they had embraced, Giles recounted the past six months of his life. Carma's uneventful but joyous birth; the completely unexpected custody claim from the Watcher Council; the decision to leave Sunnydale because of it; laying low and living like indigents; Buffy's abduction; the discovery of some barbaric bounty for both mother and child; and finally, Ethan Rayne's treachery.

The disclosure left Giles emotionally drained, his heart heavy. Sitting on their couch with his bad leg propped on a plump ottoman, he fought to steady the hand holding his half-emptied teacup and saucer. The china tinkled as he reached to place it on the end table next to him, motivating Willow to relieve him of the effort. Leaning forward, Giles ran a shaking hand through his graying hair and sighed, louder and more despondently than he had intended.

There was stunned silence as Willow and Xander exchanged appalled looks.

Almost without thinking, Giles reached to the inside breast pocket of his suit and withdrew his bottle of prescription pills. He shook three onto his palm, and washed them down with a quick swig from his discarded tea cup, before reclining against the cushions. There, he pulled off his glasses, and rubbed the sting of tears from his eyes before they betrayed him completely.

"We had no idea," Willow offered sympathetically. "We phoned home just a couple of days ago, and Buffy's mom--"

"--knows nothing of this," Giles cut in levelly. The only time he and Joyce had ever seen eye to eye over matters pertaining to Buffy, they had been under the influence of some Ethan-altered chocolate bars. Ever since college they had bickered, and heatedly so, over what was right for the young woman they both so dearly loved. Giles had not informed Joyce of the kidnapping for the same reasons he had not informed the police; she would be more hindrance than help. And the last thing he needed was to do this with his antagonistic mother-in-law dogging his heels. "Joyce believes we are still living in . . . well, to be honest, I'm not sure what she believes. We never told anyone about Philadelphia."

'Unless Buffy broke that rule of survival too,' he thought grudgingly. It would be oh-so-convenient to point his finger and place blame for this insanity on someone else, but in truth, deep down, Giles knew on whose shoulders culpability rested.

"I just meant," Willow started again, "I hope you don't think that we . . . that I . . . knew about this, and didn't tell you . . . "

"Of course not." Giles had been instrumental in helping Willow apply to the Watcher Council years ago, at a time when he still believed in, and approved of, their creed. The Council held many strings, and appointing her a position at The British Museum when she moved to London had only taken a minor tug. They viewed it as part of their basic training, while the candidate awaited full sanction.

In hindsight, he wished he had never submitted her application.

Willow glanced at Xander. "What can we do to help?"

Then again, her current position with them was precisely the reason that had brought him to her door. Giles had long ago lost contact with his peers and mentors, all of whom were now either dead, or refusing to speak to him after his much publicized 'disloyalty'. Willow, on the other hand, had access to knowledge of the Council's present activities. Superficial knowledge, of course, for she was not yet privy to the elite inner circle of its hierarchy to know of its more treacherous behavior, but knowledge nonetheless.

"I need to know exactly where Buffy and Carma are being held," Giles explained. He reached inside his suit again, this time for a folded scrap of paper. "I wrote out a list of places to check, all of the Council's known haunts--the estates they own and such--everything I could recall." He handed the note to Willow. "But as you're aware, they have associates worldwide, so I'm not entirely sure they're holding them here in England."

"What made you think they were?" Xander asked, sipping tea like he had been doing it all his life.

"Ethan. He told me the Council took Buffy to London, and I have to assume he brought Carma here as well, in order to collect his bounty." Giles shook his head, suddenly despondent. "But that was a month ago. To be honest, I'm not certain of anything anymore."

Xander nodded. "Trail's cold." The looks that statement earned him were from opposite ends of the emotional scale, and prompted him to add, "But not so cold that we can't heat it back up again."

"What will you do when you find them?" Willow asked. "Buffy and Carma, I mean."

Giles' eyes grew dark. "Take them back. By force if necessary."

"By yourself?" Xander asked doubtfully.

"Yes."

The Harris' traded concerned looks. Thankfully, neither of them pointed out the obvious; that with his crippled leg, Giles was no budding commando. Not to mention that single-handedly taking on an untouchable institution such as the Watcher Council bordered on insanity, if not suicide.

"Willow, I . . . " Giles began quietly. What he was asking of her was outright betrayal of her position. Her career was on the line here; she would never fulfill her dream of being a Watcher if she helped him. "I will respect your decision to say no, but . . . will you help me?"

She looked at her husband, reaching for his hand.

Xander, reading the unspoken acceptance her eyes, grinned at Giles and answered for them both. "Well, G-Man, I'd say that means the Scooby Gang is officially back in action."

* * *

Even with Willow's talent for hacking sensitive computer files, it took three days to access the Council system and accumulate the necessary information; three very long and frustrating days during which Giles came close to contracting serious cabin fever. At his own insistence, he remained within the confines of the Harris' small flat, reluctantly allowing Willow and Xander to do the leg work without him. Willow had informed him that Council representatives often dropped by her office unannounced, to check on her progress, and Giles feared the repercussions should the people holding Buffy and Carma captive get wind of his presence. Or his plans.

The waiting drove him to the brink and threatened to push him over. He spent countless hours pacing, which only aggravated his leg, which in turn caused him to curse and pace even more. He popped more pills than medicinally acceptable, some needed and others out of sheer and utter boredom. So it was with immense relief, on a number of different levels, that he sat down with Willow and Xander on the evening of the third day, and put together a strategy.

Through methods Giles knew better than to ask about, Willow unearthed the possible location where Buffy was being held. It was likely, although not confirmed, that Carma was there too. Part of him fretted over this, the lack of knowledge to the whereabouts or well-being of his baby--right now, he could only pray she had been reunited with her mother. Perhaps that was the Council's reason for taking Buffy; they needed a mother for the newborn Slayer. It made sense, and was the least hideous of the alternate explanations he had hypothesized.

Xander, with the means and tools of his profession at his disposal, gathered some very useful intelligence data. Situated in Bath and dating to the 16th century, the manor house had originally been a coaching inn, then a private residence, until the Watcher Council's purchase of it and its rolling botanical grounds just over a hundred years ago. Since, the four-story, stone mansion had worn many different faces, including a retreat for Watchers, the personal playhouse for the Council's more licentious members, and now a prison. Despite the idyllic country setting and Old World opulence and charm, that's all it was--a jail--and looking at an external surveillance photo of the building, Giles silently vowed to break his wife and baby out of it, or die trying.

Tactical recon indicated a limited number of persons currently in residence--which was good--but a heat sensor sweep revealed that there was a guard on duty around the clock outside a third-floor bedchamber--which was bad. Xander's planning put even the SAS to shame. With his maps and surveillance photographs spread before him on the coffee table, he certainly appeared to know what he was doing. When quizzed on the overwhelming abundance of intel he had gathered in such a short duration of time, the young man's only response was an unpretentious, "This is what I do. And I do it really well."

Although grateful, Giles wondered what this new, quietly confident Xander had done with the awkward boy he had known in high school.

Insertion and extraction points for the mission were the same; a safe house in the Cotswolds. He, Xander, and Willow would drive there tomorrow afternoon, whereupon the two men would launch their assault on the manor house after dark.

Giles immediate balked at that part of the plan. While he appreciated Xander's offer and could definitely use his expertise, he was not prepared to put the young man's life on the line. "Xander, this is not your fight."

Xander shrugged. "It is now."

Over the years, the young man had learned to impersonate his wife's 'resolve face' quite well. Taking note of it, and that it would simply be a waste of breath to argue, Giles accepted Xander's offer to help, and then listened carefully as he continued with the planning.

To limit casualties, on both sides, they planned a stealth mission rather than a firefight, and in keeping with this Xander suggested using pepper spray and flashbangs over guns. He quickly explained that flashbangs were just what their name suggested; distraction devices that when tossed into a room or hall prior to entry, stunned potential hostiles with a bright flash and loud bang. In other words, stun grenades. The precious seconds it took to recover meant the difference between peaceably overpowering the enemy, and charging in with guns blazing.

While it was true that Watchers, in general, did not normally walk around packing high-powered weaponry beneath their tailored suits, Giles refused to take 'normally' into consideration. Nothing about this entire predicament was normal, and he did not want to be caught in a potentially hostile situation without the necessary firepower to back him up.

"What about guns?" he asked.

"I told you," Xander said confidently. "I think we can do this without firing a shot."

Giles grunted in half-hearted agreement. Easy for Xander to say, but Giles no longer possessed the simple human ability to run for cover. "Nonetheless," he pressed, "I do believe I'd feel more comfortable with some sort of weapon at my disposal."

"I'll be carrying one, just in case. We'll be fine. And you'll have pepper spray."

"Xander, I want a gun."

"Giles!" Willow said, suitably shocked.

"Willow, I never sent Buffy into battle unarmed." He turned a meaningfully expression on Xander. A 9mm Ruger semi-automatic pistol had made him feel safe in the tenement in Philadelphia, and he now felt vulnerable without it. Although he hated to admit such a drastic change in his demeanor, the days of using knowledge as his primary defense were long gone.

"But this is different," Willow argued. "These are people, not vampires."

"They're monsters in their own right." Unable to hold the redhead's appalled gaze, Giles looked away. No doubt she was wondering just when he had turned into such a heartless bastard--he often wondered that himself. But at some point during the briefing, Giles had begun to have serious reservations about his competency for successfully pulling this off. Now Xander was forcing him to voice his doubts aloud. "I'm . . . a cripple, Xander. I need a gun."

"No, you don't." Much to his dismay, Xander grinned. "We've got that covered. What you need is a little WWW."

"What the devil is that?" Was this more of Xander's hostage-rescue-speak? An acronym for some newfangled assault rifle, perhaps?

"Willow's Wiccan Whammy," Xander explained cheerfully.

"Good Lord . . . " Giles looked at her.

Willow smiled at the surprise on his face. "That's right. I've been working on something special for you, Giles. And I think you're gonna like it."

* * *

The safe house turned out to be an unimposing little cottage on the outskirts of Bibury, a small town in the Cotswolds, and Xander pulled his borrowed, nondescript van into its cobblestone drive, as planned, right around sunset the next evening.

"I'll get our stuff," the young man volunteered, pocketing the ignition keys. He opened his door to the chill of the coming evening, and the crunch of fresh snow underfoot. "You guys go on inside."

Eager to be free of the van's confines, Giles did not argue. He climbed out with Willow, leaving Xander with the luggage, and took in the scene before him. Oddly enough, for a moment he felt as though he had just stepped into painting by Gainesborough. The wood-shingled, single-story, limestone cottage sat nestled in the midst of a lovingly maintained garden that, come springtime, would no doubt boast a delightful array of flora. It sat fairly well centered in a picturesque clearing, the boundary of which was clearly defined by a high stone wall arcing north to south, thick woods to the west, and a quaint little churchyard to the east.

All told, the moment gave him pause. Someone actually lived in this picture postcard setting. For months own his life had been filled with nothing but depressing darkness, hunger, pain, and sacrifice. Just looking at this delightful little home, bathed in the wash of the setting sun, somehow gave him hope again that life could, indeed, be warm and cozy.

With an encouraging smile, Willow latched onto his arm. "Come on, it's cold out here." She dangled a door key from her gloved hand. "Let's get inside before Xander decides he needs our help."

"I heard that," Xander called from somewhere around back of the van.

"You have the key? That is, no one lives here?" Giles asked, confused. The place seemed too well kept to be abandoned.

"A caretaker comes in three times a week," Xander said, reappearing briefly to laboriously set a huge burgundy suitcase belonging to Willow on the cobblestones. "Looks after the place when there's no VIP hiding out or kicking back. I pulled some strings, so it's ours for the next couple of days."

Of course. He was forgetting Xander's job, minding visiting bigwigs. He glanced at the cottage again, and this time the fairytale shattered, too fragile to exist in the harshness of the real world. It was more like 'tax dollars at work', as they said in America, traditional English luxury maintained for diplomatic reasons.

Despite this, the interior proved charming, immediately welcoming guests into a small but cheery parlor. From here, one could reach either of the two bedrooms, the kitchenette, and the water closet. Someone, presumably the caretaker, had thoughtfully left a pile of kindling in the fireplace, and a neat, triangular stack of exactly cut logs beside the hearth.

Leaving the door just barely ajar for her husband, Willow pulled off her mittens and rubbed her hands together. "Let's get that fire started."

"Indeed." Giles limped toward the fireplace, intent on the chore. Charming though it was, the inside temperature was that of a refrigerator.

"You sit," Willow instructed, diverting him to one of the two plump armchairs that faced the hearth.

Giles frowned. "I'm not an invalid, Willow."

"I never meant that you were. But it was a long drive, and you must be tired." She pushed him down into the chair without much effort, and set his cane aside. Argument closed. "Let me get this going and then I'll make us some tea."

Despite himself, Giles' protest died unsaid, his focus claimed by the chair's instant comfort, the way its curvy softness molded so perfectly to his shape that he could easily believe he had been sitting there his entire life. Relaxation washed over him in unexpected waves, making him feel suddenly very tired. And far older than his 54 years. He yawned, belatedly trying to hide it from Willow's 'told-you-so' smile.

As Xander delivered the first lot of luggage, Willow found a box of tapered matches on the mantel and struck one to the kindling. She was adding a log when Xander returned with the second load. By the time he came back for the third time with the final suitcase, the fire was ablaze, and Giles felt totally reduced to the invalid he proclaimed he wasn't.

Getting to her feet, Willow crossed to where her husband stood just inside the door, sorting the abundance of luggage. "Why do women always need six times more suitcases than men?" Giles heard him ask.

Tuning out Willow's no doubt creative reply, Giles found himself mesmerized by the dancing flames. The heat licked at his exposed skin, and penetrated his bones, making him feel undeniably sleepy. No doubt the bed would be as deliciously comfy as the armchair. Guiltily, he started. He had no right to be sitting here, warm, relaxed, and comfortable, when Buffy and Carma were . . . were . . .

Not knowing their fate was almost unbearable. He could only pray that although captive, they were being well treated. Giles reached into his jacket for his pills. There was a dull ache in his leg, nothing too severe, which was simply the result of the journey down the M4. But it was something he needed to overcome before the raid on the Watcher's compound later tonight, so he shook a few pills out onto his palm.

"No, wait!" Willow caught him by the wrist, preventing him from swallowing his usual three.

Giles looked up at her, more annoyed than surprised.

She backed off, releasing his wrist. "Please don't take those."

"Willow," he said reproachfully. She had been a regular visitor to his hospital bedside in the weeks following the leg injury, when he had been trussed in more splints and bandages than an Egyptian mummy. She should not need reminding of the pain he lived with every day since.

"I know, but I told you. Your system needs to be . . . clean . . . when I perform the ritual. You haven't taken any today have you?"

"What ritual?" Giles asked, in lieu of confessing he had snuck three with lunch, despite her request for him to remain drug free for twelve hours. It was a task easier said than done; he needed his pills. And surely three wouldn't hurt? Medication issue aside, he was beginning to grow a little impatient with all with the childish secrecy surrounding their little Wiccan surprise. Why couldn't they just tell him what they had planned?

"You'll see, G-Man," Xander answered, coming up behind his wife. He draped his arm over her shoulders and gave her an affectionate squeeze. "But first, we eat. Who's for pizza?"

* * *

After a mishmash meal of pizza and Greek takeaway, Giles readied himself for Willow and Xander's surprise. Under other circumstances, he might have been an encouraging participant, but on this night his temperament for magick was far from enthusiastic. The clock was ticking, and he was anxious to get on with the matter at hand, which was to rescue Buffy and Carma. The thought of his wife and child spending one minute longer than necessary in the Council's care simply added fuel to his already riled impatience.

At Willow's instruction, he reluctantly took a bath in some herb-scented water that she told him helped purify his body on the outside. If nothing else, it seemed to relax some of the tenseness in his muscles. Around nine-thirty, Giles limped out to the parlor, dressed in a simple white, cotton robe Willow had laid out for him, his damp hair curling in ringlets. Willow and Xander had prepared the room his absence. The furniture had been stacked to one side, and the rug rolled to reveal swept wooden floorboards underneath. There were no electric lights on in the cottage, the only illumination provided by a sliver of moonlight, delicately filtering in through the drawn curtains, and the orange glow of embers in the fireplace. Impatient to get underway, Giles was torn between the here and now of Willow's spell, and getting on with the more urgent task of search and rescue.

"Sit here," Willow, now attired in a robe of red and gold satin, instructed. She guided him to the center of the cleared floor space, and helped him down onto a large soft cushion that had been added to the proceedings just for him.

A protest rose within Giles when she took his cane. When she placed it near the stacked furniture, well out of his immediate reach, a pang of hesitation followed. He was helpless without the cane. "Willow, are you quite certain--"

"Relax," she said with an easy smile.

Xander, likewise attired in a long red robe, sat cross-legged at his side. The confident nod he threw was vintage Xander. "Yeah, G-man, you're in good hands."

Giles opened his mouth to rebuke the nickname, as he always did, but fell silent without uttering a syllable as Willow began to cast the magick circle. She set crystals of varying colors, stones, and small flowers to mark its boundary around them. He recognized some of the crystals--bloodstone, agate, and jasper, all conducive in the healing of the physical body. A small flutter of something positive chased through him, and he glanced over to his cane. If it all went to plan, he would be walking away from this without it. He would be able-bodied and strong, and Buffy and Carma would have a better chance.

Willow chalked out a pentacle, its five points representative of the four elements and the spirit. Colored candles were lit, and set to mark the circle's cardinal points. "In this scared Space and Time, we call now The Old Ones; the Goddess of the Moon, Seas and Rivers; the God of the Rayed Sun, of Valleys and Forests; Draw near us during this, our circle."

Giles grew restless again. Now that he was this close, he did not want Buffy to suffer a moment longer than necessary in that wretched place. Add to that his current position was not particularly agreeable with his leg, which had already begun a fierce, protesting ache. Fleetingly, he thought of his pills, left in his coat pocket in the small bedroom he hoped, later on, to be sharing with his wife and child.

Willow knelt at a small cloth covered altar, which held her ritual tools of magick. They included a fat blue candle, her Book of Shadows, and a glass half-filled with some sort of viscous liquid, which Giles sincerely hoped he would not have to drink. She raised her arms, palms up, the wide sleeves of her red robe bunching at her elbows. Xander moved to light some incense in an earthenware bowl, as she intoned, "With smoke and flame, this spell's begun; O Goddess great, let thy power come."

The scent of Frankincense permeated the air. A low, intense hum seemed to saturate the room. Glowing embers of light formed deep within the centers of the arranged crystals, and began to pulsate.

Picking up a wand that looked fashioned from an oak branch, Willow stirred the liquid in the glass. "In this night and in this hour, I call upon the Ancient power. O Goddess Bride and Consort Bright, I ask thee now to bring your light."

Moonlight suddenly bathed them in a bluish haze, its lucid sheer creeping across the magick circle and spearing through the side of the glass she held. Turning to Giles with the blessed potion in hand, Willow ripped the white material of his robe, starting at the hem and exposing his leg from ankle to thigh. Under normal circumstance, his modesty would have objected such a move, but the pure power of the moment freely overcame that.

"Let thy healing power begin."

Her words caused sudden, intense pain to bore through his useless limb. Sweat quickly beaded his forehead. If this was how she 'cured', then he would hate to see her 'cripple'. Giles twitched reflexively as she anointed his lame leg with the warm, gooey contents of the glass. It smelled faintly of rosemary, and God only knew what else.

"Let this man be whole again."

Willow laid her hands on the deformity which passed for his leg. Palms well lubricated by the oily substance, she started at his ankle and slowly smoothed her the way toward his naked thigh. Her touch was like wildfire, searing muscle and fusing bone. When she reached his knee, she paused to channel all the energy in the room. Ahead lay the grotesque knots of his shattered femur.

Giles groaned, sweated, and gritted his teeth in an attempt to stop himself from crying out. Such was his suffering that he wanted to yell at her to stop. This wasn't working. It was only making the pain worse. He had not realized he was leaning on Xander for support, or clutching the front of the young man's robe, until Xander's hold on his shoulders tightened in anticipation of the grand finale.

"Heal on the outside and heal within," Willow said, continuing her ministration toward his thigh. Something potent ripped at Giles. The bumps of deformed bone seemed to vanish in the wake of Willow's hands, realigning and reknitting in a manner that was in direct violation of the expertise of every reconstructive surgeon he had ever visited.

It was exquisite agony, and induced a scream of blood-curdling proportions. Xander held tight to reduce his accompanying thrashing.

"Night to Day to Day to Night; Relieve this man of his Cursed Plight!"

Giles' anguish escalated to the throes of full-blown torture. Shrouded in a pain, unable to withstand it a moment longer, he slipped into merciful oblivion.

* * *

It was still dark when Willow woke him with a gentle hand. Giles found himself atop the covers of a soft but unfamiliar bed, still wearing his ripped white robe. He moaned with fatigue, rubbing his hand over his face as light from a bedside lamp spilled into his eyes. Although his body demanded rest, he was glad Willow woke him.

"How long have I been out?" he asked tentatively.

"About half an hour," she said. "How do you feel?"

Wearily, Giles stopped to assess himself. For the first time in years, he had awakened without pain. "Better."

"Whole?"

Experimentally, he sat up, allowing Willow's helpful hand even though he did not feel he needed it. "Stronger," he agreed positively. "Definitely stronger."

"Stand up."

Giles met her eye to eye in the soft lamplight. It was Now-or-Never time. Even if she had not healed his leg enough for him to walk unaided, she had taken away his pain, and for that he was very grateful. "Willow, I won't blame you if--"

"Stand up!" she repeated, then tempered the order with a smile.

Tentatively, his bare feet reached for the floor, his right making contact first, then his left. His gaze found hers again, mirroring her expectancy. Inhaling a deep breath, Giles pushed to standing.

Astonished, his mouth dropped open. "It worked . . . " He was freestanding on two good legs! Breaking into a broad grin, Giles literally jumped for joy. "Willow, it worked!"

"You had doubts?" Willow asked loftily. Then she grinned broadly, her euphoria matching his own. Her powers had certainly grown over the years.

"I could kiss you," Giles said, taking her hands as he sat back down on the bed. He spotted his jacket, laying across the footboard. Letting go of Willow, he stretched out across the quilted coverlet, jubilantly reclaiming his bottle of pain pills from the inside pocket.

Willow watched with a satisfied smile. "Yeah, you sure won't be needing those anymore." But her elation quickly disintegrated as he cupped two pills in his hand, then swallowed them in quick succession. "What . . . are you doing?"

Recapping the bottle, Giles looked up as if he had not understood the question. "What?"

"Giles, you don't need those anymore. You're healed."

"Willow . . . " he began reproachfully, out of habit. But he suddenly could not continue, because he suddenly did not have a viable excuse. She was right; he was not in any pain. So why had he taken them?

"Oh my God," Willow said softly, her eyes widening as the truth hit her squarely. "I should have seen it before. You're addicted to them. You're addicted to pain killers!"

Giles frowned, instantly on the defensive. "Don't be absurd."

"Okay, then," Willow said. She put out her hand, palm up. "Then you won't mind if I flush them."

Giles continued to frown at her. "Actually, I would," he retaliated loftily. Indignant, he set the pill bottle on the nightstand by the bed, and, employing one of his best glares, dared her to touch it. "My medication is far too expensive to . . . flush."

Her reaction to the word 'medication' made him glance away, guilt ridden for a reason he was unwilling to stop and analyze. He found brief distraction in the wedding band on his finger. Buffy would have told him if he was abusing his pills. Wouldn't she? Of course she would . . . if she had noticed, what with all the other turmoil going on in their lives. He should have been the least of their problems.

"Giles," Willow began in a quiet, concerned voice. She sat next to him on the bed, and took his hand in both of hers in an effort to snag his attention, but he refused to look up.

"Willow, please," he implored, although he knew she would not be so easily deterred. "I'm all right. Honestly. Besides, this is not an appropriate time to discuss it. Xander and I--"

"--still have an hour before you leave," she finished for him. "And you're not all right."

"Willow . . . "

"It's nothing to be ashamed of--really--considering what you've had to live with all these years. Lots of people become . . . dependent . . . on prescription medication."

The accusation was gentler this time, and instead of riling his temper, it drove his gaze to the evidence, right there on the nightstand. Giles swallowed hard. What if Willow were correct? What if there was something to her charge of him abusing prescription narcotics? Good Lord, he had not even been able to resist taking them for the measly twelve hours prior to the healing spell!

But no, it was ridiculous. More than that, it was unthinkable. He could not possibly be addicted.

Giles smirked. "You've got it all wrong."

"I don't think so. But you're the one who needs to acknowledge you have a problem, before we can do something about it." A tug on his hand finally pulled his reluctant gaze back to her. "Xander and I will help all we can, Giles. We love you."

Giles screwed his eyes shut. His fingers tightened around Willow's. He simply could not deal with this right now. Right now, he had to concentrate on the difficult and dangerous task which lay ahead. Willow had given him back his mobility, and in doing so, she had also renewed his confidence. Buffy and Carma were waiting. Now was not the time to think about himself, or his own needs, only those of his captive wife and child.

"Later," he said, his voice slightly hoarse with emotion. He met Willow's concerned gaze once more, and let a candid smile acknowledge that he was at least willing to discuss her claim further. "We'll talk about this later."

"Promise?"

"I promise." Reaching up, Giles planted a kiss on her forehead.

"I'll have you know," Xander said, suddenly coming into the bedroom with a bundle of clothes, "that if you were any other man kissing my wife, I'd have to shoot you."

Giles exchanged one last knowing smile with Willow. Respecting his option to place Buffy and Carma's well-being above his own right now, Willow let the subject drop. For the moment. He had no doubt that she would return to it at the first opportunity. And then there would be Hell to pay.

Despite his quip, Xander was professional, and focused on the rescue mission ahead. The clothes he tossed beside Giles mirrored his own all-black attire; pants and ribbed military-style sweater, boots and a full-face balaclava. A pouched belt rounded out the checklist of assault gear. Free of his burden, Xander pulled a firearm from the holster under his arm, checked the ammunition, then proceeded to screw on a silencer that was almost as long as the gun itself.

Giles eyed the belt, identical to the one around Xander's waist. A small lockpick kit and an elongated cylinder containing the pepper spray hung on one side, and on the other, a couple of flat, rectangular devices, which he assumed were the infamous flashbangs, and a pair of steel handcuffs.

Solemnly, without a word, Xander handed over the weapon he had just checked.

Taking it, Giles looked at him in surprise. Just when he was beginning to believe in his ability to complete the task ahead without a gun, he had one. Then again, perhaps now that he was not dependent on one was precisely the reason Xander allowed it. Carefully, he weighed the weapon his hand, familiarizing himself with its feel and balance, as the young man proceeded to go over its specs.

"Heckler & Koch M23-SD," Xander said. "It's rugged, reliable, and accurate. The suppressor virtually eliminates muzzle flash, while providing about 35 decibels sound reduction over unsilenced version. In short, it packs a punch and it's discrete. Just . . . don't kill anyone with it, okay?"

But Giles wasn't making any promises.

* * *

The front entrance was unlit and deserted; the Council was not expecting company in the hours after midnight. Dressed alike in black, Xander and Giles crouched in the bushes across from the main door to the manor house, and went over the next step in their plan.

"Test, test," Xander said quietly. He looked at Giles, absently touching the radio piece in his ear. "Can you hear me?"

Giles nodded, having heard the voice over his own earpiece, as well as across the few feet that separated them. "I suppose I should say something spy-ish like 'check'."

Xander nodded. "That'll do. Now, radio contact is only in case we get separated. And if something goes really wrong, don't hesitate to bail. Okay?"

"Understood," Giles said. He was not about to make an issue out of technicalities, but he did not intend to leave the grounds without Buffy and Carma, whatever the circumstances.

Nodding again, Xander pulled his black balaclava down over his face, the ski mask instantly transforming him into a visage of unknown terror. Giles followed suite. Together they stood, guns drawn in a macho show of power play, and, bending low at the waist, ran for the corner of the Cotswold stone facade.

Veneered timber paneling awaited on the inside, once they had picked the lock on the back door to the kitchen and moved into the hall. Everywhere Giles looked, the style was grand and the furnishings elegant, yet nothing could disguise the ambient hostility that hung in the air. The place reeked of it.

It appeared they had picked a good night for a raid, the residence virtually empty. The house lights had been dimmed for the evening, making deep shadows in the nooks and crannies of the old mansion; easy places of concealment. Once, while skirting the smoking room, they overheard muffled male voices through the ajar double doors, but saw no one as they stealthily made their way up the staircase to the third floor and their primary objective.

Mindful of his intelligence data, Xander paused before rounding the ornately carved banister into the open of the dimmed upper hallway. As expected, there was a guard. He was sitting on a plain wooden chair just to the right of one of the bedchamber doors, arms crossed with his chin resting on his chest. He appeared to have dozed off on the job. Surely they would not be this lucky? With a flick of his hand to follow, Xander lead the way forward at a catlike prowl. About halfway along, he traded his gun for the canister of pepper spray slung at this belt, and aimed it, ready.

Giles, bringing up the rear, found his attention unexpectedly divided between the guard they approached and the stairwell behind. He let his fingers flex and tighten around the butt of his gun, his integrity at war with his determination over whether he really intended to use it. Despite his earlier claims, Willow was right. These were mortal men, and his nature was not that of a cold-blooded killer. But if he were pushed over the line? If the men in this house pushed him?

They were only three feet from the sleeping guard when Xander trod on an old floorboard that squeaked loud enough to be heard all the way to Hell and back. Both men tensed as the dozing sentry stirred. They held their breath. Just when they thought he was going to slip back to slumber, unaware of their presence, the man opened his eyes and glared right at them.

Acting on instinct and adrenaline, the guard's right hand reached inside his suit jacket, presumably for a gun. Countering that move, Giles raised his own weapon and pointed it directly at the man . . . just as Xander let loose a spray of pepper directly into his face. Blinded, the guard immediately forgot about his gun and clutched both hands to his tearing, stinging eyes. Reflex took him to his feet, whereupon his thrashing caused him to kick over the chair. It and his screams were sure to bring reinforcements running.

Moving forward as Xander grappled with the Watcher, trying to peacefully subdue him, Giles did the only thing left open to him. Throwing his gun into his right hand, he pulled back his left fist and slugged the guard in the jaw. Hard. Enough to spin the man around, cross-eyed, whereupon he toppled to the floor, unconscious.

Shaking out his fist, Giles smiled grimly, aware the expression was all but lost beneath his ski mask. "I really rather enjoyed that," he said. It was true; he had been wanting to hit one of these bastards for quite a while now.

"Try the door," Xander said, already trussing the inanimate guard's legs and arms with the Swiss-made, reinforced handcuffs from his belt.

Stepping over them, Giles reached for the closed bedchamber door. He turned the handle, but nothing happened. "Locked," he reported quietly.

Finished with his burden, Xander sided up to him and removed the lockpick kit from his tac belt. Silently, he went to work, just as he had on the kitchen door downstairs. Moments later, he stepped back again. "Try it now."

Giles did, unsurprised when the latch clicked softly under his touch. Xander really had changed--thank God. Slowly, half fearing what he would find on the other side, he pushed open the door.

Darkness greeted him; thick, impenetrable darkness infused with the stale stench of solitary confinement. Holstering his gun, Giles moved cautiously into the room. Directly before him, lit by the triangle of amber light from the hall, was a large four-poster bed, its intricate cherrywood columns holding up a full lace canopy. The bedcovers were rumpled, as if someone had recently slept there, but it was presently unoccupied.

He found a lamp on the night table at its side, but the small watt bulb did little to chase the gloom from the depths of the cavernous 16th century chamber. Turning, Giles peered into its shadowy corners, searching for Buffy and Carma, praying that this was the right room, that the Council had not moved them in the few days interim since Xander had gathered his intel, that they were still alive.

Movement in one corner caught his eye, and, heart in his throat, Giles swiftly crossed to investigate. She sat huddled, legs drawn to her chest, her feet bare and her clothing disheveled, frightened out of her wits.

Giles fell to his knees, aghast. It tore him apart to see his once strong and invincible Slayer reduced to this, broken by the same institution--the same creed--that had made her so formidable. "Buffy . . . "

Instinctively, he reached to take her in his arms, but she shied from his touch, terrified.

"No, please, no," she whimpered, fearfully hiding her gaze under a curtain of unkempt blonde locks. "Please!"

Suddenly remembering his identity was masked, how he must appear dressed head to toe in black and invading her bedchamber at this time of night, Giles pulled off his balaclava. "Buffy, it's me."

It took a moment for the sound of his voice to register. When she looked up, confused, he noted the purple swelling on her cheekbone where someone had hit her. Tenderly, Giles raised his hand to cup her bruise, torn between compassion and rage. "My God, what did they do to you?"

Buffy put a frail hand over his. "G-Giles?" There were tears of joy in her eyes as she threw her arms around his neck.

His eyes closed in relief as she clung to him. He had spent the past four weeks of his life wondering whether or not he would ever hold her in his arms again. He hugged her for a scant stolen moment, then gently pushed her away. Now was not the time or place for a reunion; they were still deep in enemy territory.

Giles managed to capture Buffy's maudlin gaze with his. "Where's Carma?" There was no bassinet in the room, so presumably the Council detained the baby elsewhere in the house and used Buffy as a day nanny. "Do you know where they're keeping her?"

Buffy's words, delivered with a disbelieving, betrayed look, drove a lance through his chest. "She's not with you?"

Appalled, Giles couldn't answer. It was just too abominable to think of. If Buffy had no knowledge of their child's abduction or subsequent whereabouts, if the Council did not have the Carma somewhere in this manor house, what had Ethan done with her? Where in God's name was she?

"Guys, time to move," Xander, watching the door, called softly.

Distraught, Buffy grasped the front of his black sweater with both hands and confirmed his worse fears. "Giles, where's my baby?"

As much as it distressed him, Giles did not have an answer. "Shh, shh, later," he said to forestall further discussion.

Pulling free of the condemnation in her eyes, the blame for not having taken better care of their child, he instead focused on the job at hand. Three strides took him to the four-poster bed, where he roughly stripped off a layer of blanket. The temperature outside was frigid, and the spaghetti-strap, satin chemise Buffy wore would have her freeze to death long before they reached the warmth and safety of the cottage. He wrapped her in it double, then scooped the bundle into his arms, just as Xander beckoned him to hurry.

Buffy's arms went around his neck. "Your leg!" she said, astonished.

"Willow," he explained, taking a step. He grimaced as a twinge ran up his leg, but ignored it in favor of carrying the woman he loved to safety.

* * *

They were almost home free. Ahead lay the manor kitchen, and beyond it the door leading to the rest of their lives. Xander, taking point, with his gun drawn and at the ready, was a few yards ahead of Giles and Buffy. Hampered by the blanket-wrapped bundle of Buffy, Giles relied completely on the younger man's skill to get them out of the mansion alive.

Suddenly, it happened. A door opened outward into the hallway between them, effectively blocking Giles' view of Xander. As he pulled up short, a man appeared, wearing night attire and an expression of surprise that matched his own. Giles, his arms laden with Buffy, recovered first. He recognized this man, this Watcher, who had once been sent to Sunnydale to replace him. Before him, mouth agape, stood an older, but no less irritating, version of Wesley Wyndam-Price.

"Good Heavens! Rupert Giles!"

Belatedly, Giles remembered his balaclava, left on the on the floor of Buffy's bedchamber.

Wyndam-Price looked down. "And your leg! How?"

His identity blown, Giles reacted before his adversary had a chance to attack--or in his case, snivel and call for assistance. Taking one step back, he spun with Buffy in his arms. Attune to his intentions, she extended her foot, which pirouetted neatly around to connect solidly with the back of Wesley's head.

Watching the little wanker sprawl on the floor, cold-cocked, gave Giles a grim sense of satisfaction. Xander appeared on the other side of the swinging, a curious expression on his face. Noting the prone body on the floor, he raised speculative eyebrows.

Giles nodded for him to continue. "Go!" Stepping over Wyndam-Price, he followed Xander to the deserted kitchen. "We still make a good team," he told Buffy, snuggling her closer to his chest.

"He deserved it," Buffy returned tightly, looking over his shoulder at the man on the hall floor. She tucked her head against his warmth. "And much more."

By the time they reached the gravel drive outside, the peaceful night stillness had given way to angry shouts and slamming doors. The alarm had been raised, and it was no bet that within a few seconds there would be men chasing them; perhaps men with guns and the inclinations to use them.

They ran for the bushes, hastily beating a path through the cultivated shrubbery with the force of their bodies. Xander stopped to wait for them, then motioned them past. Giles heard Xander's flashbang go off behind them, buying precious seconds. He reached the trees just as a spray of bullets from an automatic weapon breezed his ear and chewed into the bark.

Xander acknowledged him with a slap on the back as he skipped past, uninjured. "Whoa, these guys are playing for keeps!" He bowled another flashbang, doing a Test Match cricketer proud, before taking the lead again. "Come on."

Breathing hard and sweating from exertion, Giles stumbled at the ensuing bang, and almost toppled Buffy from his grasp.

"Are you okay?" she asked, holding tight as he righted himself.

Giles grunted in answer. Through the trees just ahead sat Xander's borrowed, nondescript, getaway van, and not a moment too soon. The all-too-familiar spasm running up his leg made it feel like it was on fire.

* * *

Hours later, as dawn approached, Giles lay awake in the darkness of the safe house cottage. Still dressed in his black pants and sweater, he rested on his side watching Buffy sleep, on top of the same bedcovers presently shielding her from the cold. Stressed from her ordeal, Buffy had dozed fitfully on the way back to Bibury. Exhaustion had dampened her reunion with Willow, too, but there would be time for that in the morning, after she regained some of her strength. He, on the other hand, was unable to sleep, his heart still heavy with loss despite the knowledge of Buffy curled beside him, just beyond the reach of his fingertips. Carma was still missing, and sole responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders.

Giles rolled onto his back, and stared at the shadows playing across the ceiling. He had brought this misery to their door long before the baby's abduction. It began when he fathered the child. A Slayer. An exceptional Slayer. Had he not proven the superiority of Buffy's genes, then chances were the Council would never have looked twice at their lives.

He rubbed tired eyes, and let go a shaky breath.

Buffy stirred under the covers. Attired as she was, in sweatpants and a t-shirt borrowed from Willow, and a huge black sweater courtesy of Xander, he guessed it was probably not from being cold. Intuitively aware of his presence, she snuggled to fit herself to him, her head on his shoulder and her arm over his waist. Giles drew her as close as the blankets between them would allow, his hand finding a familiar resting place on her hip. He nuzzled the top of her head with his cheek and closed his eyes. After weeks spent sleeping alone, it felt good just to lay with her again.

"What are you thinking about?"

Startled, he glanced down. Buffy was looking up at him with round, trusting eyes. "I'm sorry," Giles said. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't. I've been drifting in and out." She raised her hand to trace a delicate finger along the furrows creasing his brow. "Must be important," she said knowingly.

He took her hand, kissed it, and then brought it to rest over his heart. "It's nothing. Go back to sleep. You need to rest."

Buffy lifted her head to look at him more squarely. "Not until you talk to me."

He attempted a half smile. "About what?"

She pulled her hand from his, and settled herself further across his chest. "Carma."

Filled with guilt and unable to hold her gaze, Giles closed his eyes.

"They took her, too," Buffy guessed. "You did everything you could to stop them, but failed. And now you're beating yourself up over it."

The touch of her finger, tracing the rigid set of his jaw, brought his eyes back to hers.

"I'm sorry about how I reacted before," Buffy admitted. "Whatever happened, I know it wasn't your fault."

"We'll find her," Giles insisted, mustering conviction from deep down in his soul. He gently swept the backs of his fingers over the ugly bruised on her cheek.

"I know." Even in the pre-dawn darkness, he could see the open trust in Buffy's eyes. "I love you, you know."

Giles held her gaze for a long moment, then pulled her down to answer in kind with a tender kiss. Buffy responded, running her hands through the hair at his temples, making him realize just how much he had missed her. His hand skimmed under the restricting blankets, and down over her back in a slow, loving caress. She murmured something against his mouth as he intensified his exploration, something he mistook for consent.

Abruptly, she yanked on his hair, and broke the kiss with a resounding shout.

"No!" Buffy sat up, her back to him.

Rising to an elbow, Giles touched her arm, stung when she twitched away. "I'm sorry, that was . . . presumptuous of me."

"No, it's not you, it's . . . " She sniffed, and hastily wiped something from her cheek. "It's just . . . "

As non-threateningly as he could, he embraced her from behind. "I know," he whispered in her ear. "I know."

Resting his chin on her shoulder, Giles rocked her gently. Earlier he had helped her bathe, taking the sponge from her shaky hands when she vainly tried to scrub away the memories of her incarceration. Eyes bright with tears, Buffy allowed his touch, and as he gently washed the filth from her body, he became privy to a discreet account of just what she had been through. Ugly bruises marred her skin, scattered across her body in places where no bruises should be. They, and her disheveled appearance, made his worse-imagined scenario into a vivid reality. He knew, with a certainty that needed no verbal confirmation, that she had been raped.

Bastards!

Watcher/Slayer unions were rare, and for years there had been unpleasant, yet unsubstantiated, rumors about some of the more the insidious practices of his peers. Now he knew the whole repulsive truth. The Council believed that by pairing ex-Slayers with carefully selected members of its elite, they insured future generations of a more superior breed of Watcher, if not a more robust breed of Slayer.

It was perversion in its simplest and most diabolical form. A group of immoral old men, kidnapping a young woman, and sanctioning her imprisonment while they took turns--

"I need a glass of water," Buffy said hoarsely, pulling away from him again.

"You stay. I'll get it." Giles moved to get off the bed, but an unexpected stab of agony in his left leg stopped him cold. With effort, he held onto a moan.

"No, it's okay," Buffy said, oblivious to his pain. She didn't look at him as she rose from the bed and headed for the door, absently pushing up the long sleeves of Xander's sweater. "I can manage."

* * *

The cottage sat in darkness, the coals behind the fireplace screen having long ago burned down to glowing embers. Buffy padded silently on the cold, wood floor, past the closed door of Willow and Xander's room, and on through the parlor to the small adjoining kitchenette.

Finding a glass, she filled it over the sink, the tremble in her hand betraying her fraught emotions. She bit down on her lip, hard enough to draw blood, hoping the physical pain would dull the mental anguish. She couldn't even stand to let her own husband touch her. Buffy plucked at the front of her oversized sweater. She couldn't even be in the same bed with him without wearing her 'armor'. Giles' kisses, his caresses, no matter how loving and unthreatening, invoked terror.

Terror of the weeks spent locked in that bedchamber, enduring--

Placing the untouched glass on the counter, Buffy pressed her hands to her face and choked back a sob. Wesley Wyndam-Price's face swam before her mind's eye. "No," she whispered in a small, terrified voice, in much the same way as the first time her former Watcher had come to her . . .

Lowering her hands with a ragged breath, Buffy stared, blankly, out the kitchen window, looking for distraction. The coming dawn had already painted the horizon with delicate splashes of purple and orange. Like bruises, she thought. Bruises on the sky.

God, was she loosing her mind?

* * *

Giles watched, transfixed yet appalled, as his femur bone broke and misaligned, forming grotesque knots beneath the smooth material of his black trousers. Sweating and mute from the sheer agony of the experience, yet compelled to watch regardless, he fought to hang onto a thread of consciousness as his healed leg reverted to its former condition. His vision tunneled down to a pinpoint of white hot pain, allowing him to relive the night, a decade ago, when the Avery twins--a couple of good looking boys in life, and in death--and their gang had injured him so completely.

That night, Buffy had stormed the Avery's hideout, solo, in her usual gung-ho way. By the time Giles arrived as backup, she was manacled to a brick wall in a four-point fashion, with heavy duty chains and locks. It took time, but he managed to release all but one ankle, just as the gang returned from their hunt for new toys. Giles still remembered the horror that slithered through him upon realizing what they had in mind for Buffy. Not content with chaining her up, they intended to show her what it felt like to be staked . . . by hammering eighteen inches of galvanized steel fence post through her limbs, and into the bricks behind. It came close to a vampire interpretation of crucifixion, and Giles could not think of a slower, more painful, more horrific death. He tried to stop them, of course, buying time for Buffy to free herself by taking on three of the five, including the one with the sledgehammer.

In the darkness of the quaint little English cottage, Giles convulsed as his femur bone continued to pop and refuse into its former state. The projector in his mind's eye replayed the visual that accompanied the agony--the swing of the sledgehammer as it arced down, again and again, shattering bone and pummeling flesh, breaking the fingers and the arm that tried in vain to stop it. Pain. So much pain. He heard himself begging for mercy, pleading for his assailant to simply kill him. He saw the vamp with the hammer smile, showing his fangs before he cruelly beat him again. Back then, Giles thought the torture would never end, and right now, he thought exactly the same thing.

But it had ended then, with his Slayer triumphant, and it did end now, both instances leaving Giles drained but nonetheless grateful for its blessed conclusion. Still on his back, he moaned softly in the darkness of the unfamiliar bedroom, amazed that he was not screaming instead. Throwing his arm over his sweat stained face, Giles knew the brief respite Willow had granted him was gone, that once more he was crippled. In hindsight, he didn't know what he regretted most; that he had not listened to Willow when she requested he remain drug free, an impurity of body which surely contributed to the spell's reversal, if not caused it, or the fact that he had not been granted one night, able-bodied, and the opportunity to make love to Buffy, just once the way she deserved . . .

* * *

Still staring blankly out of the kitchen window, Buffy sniffed back her tears, and endeavored to pull herself together. They would get through this. Together they would make it, they always had in the past. She knew Giles would never intentionally hurt her, especially not in lovemaking. He would never force himself on her the way Wesley and the other men of the Watcher Council had done, invading her bedchamber night after night, day after day, without thought or care for her physical or emotional well-being.

She wanted, so much, for Giles to be the one to touch her. So much, it hurt. But the memory of cold caresses, of violating hands and repugnant kisses would simply not go away. The idea that she might need psychological counseling to overcome the experience brought a fresh flood of tears to Buffy's eyes.

Determined to return to Giles, and love him the way her heart longed to do, Buffy stripped off Xander's sweater. But despite her desire for Giles, just thinking about the touch of his hand, in a manner even slightly approaching intimacy, repulsed her to a point where she felt physically ill.

Her hands shook as she again reached for the glass of water on the counter. As she brought it to her lips, there was movement behind her.

An unfamiliar reflection in the windowpane startled her. Buffy whirled in surprise, dropping the glass. It shattered at her bare feet as the intruder stepped from the parlor shadows.

"Hello, Buffy," the man said charmingly. "I trust I'm in time for breakfast?"

Buffy shivered. Before her stood Ethan Rayne.

* * *

Giles lay on the bed, recovering as the agony in his leg diminished to a bearable ache. On the nightstand sat his prescription pill bottle. If there was ever a time he needed to take them, it was undeniable right now. But at the sight of it this time, rage welled within him instead of need, and he flung the brown plastic bottle across the room. If only he had the strength of will, or the presence of mind, to have done that yesterday.

If only . . .

The silence of his self-pity was abruptly shattered by the warning sound of breaking glass. Pulling himself together, for he was no stranger to dealing with the familiar pain in his leg, Giles struggled to rise to sitting. It stuck him then, that Buffy had not returned from her simple errand of fetching a glass of water.

Something was wrong.

"Buffy?" he called, although perhaps not loud enough for his voice to carry all the way to the kitchenette.

Regardless, she answered. "Giles!"

The distress, clearly evident in her tone, had him levering himself to the side of the bed before he even thought about the logistics of such a move. It was simply an involuntary reaction to go to her. But his cane hung on the back of the bedroom door, a place where he had hoped to leave it, on the other side of the room. It was a span no more than six feet, a few unnoticed steps when he had earlier carried Buffy in from her bath. But as with everything one took for granted when healthy, it presented a major challenge for the handicapped. The distance from the bed to his sole means of physical support was now a yawning chasm.

Gritting his teeth, Giles clawed his way to his feet . . .

* * *

"Giles!" Buffy called again, unable to control the quaver in her voice. Eyes glued to Ethan's as he continued a slow but menacing advance, she backed up until the kitchen counter stopped her retreat. "GILES!"

Ethan stopped and smiled wickedly. "By all means, do call your old man." He half turned from her, adopting a less threatening stance, but clearly enjoying the panic he inspired. "We need to have a little chat."

The parlor light flicked on, and Giles limped out on his cane. "Buffy, what--? YOU!"

Ethan turned with his nefarious smile in place, as Giles crossed the parlor in an angry, hobbling gait, a smile which quickly withered as a hand clamped around his throat.

Momentum on his side, Giles slammed Ethan backwards into the wall, hard enough to shake a nearby picture frame from its mount. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't break your bloody neck, right now, and be done with it?"

"Because then," Ethan wheezed, clawing to loosen the vice grip of fingers wanting to strangle the life from him, "you would never know what they did . . . with her."

Buffy was the first to catch on. "You know where she is? Where? Where's my baby?"

Giles immediately let him go. Hearing the desperation in Buffy's voice, seeing the frayed sliver self-control she was just barely holding on to, he limped to where she stood and put his free arm around her before she lost it completely. Almost at breaking point, she rested her head against his chest, and attempted to regain her composure in the face of the enemy. The door to the other bedroom opened, admitting Willow and Xander into the parlor. They stopped short to assess the situation, for the moment helpless spectators to whatever was about to unfold.

"Oh, how touching," Ethan mocked, watching Giles comfort Buffy. "Actually, no. 'Pathetic' is a more apt description. Although I must say, it is refreshing not having to dodge flying head kicks for once. Being kidnapped seems to agree with you, Buffy."

Buffy stiffened with a quick flash of her old spunk, prompting Giles to halt her half-hearted advance. If there was one thing Ethan had always been good at, it was riling Buffy's temper. Had she been anywhere near her normal disposition, the man would be a smudge on the wall by now, even without her Slayer strength to back her up.

"If you have something to say," Giles grated at his old friend, "say it."

Ethan seemed amused by the unspoken threat. "Or else . . . ?"

Buffy beat him to an answer. "Or else we get reacquainted with a flying head kick or two."

She feigned a menacing move, and this time Giles did not attempt to hold her back. He knew she was not physically or emotionally capable of successfully taking Ethan at that moment, but gambled on the fact that Ethan had sampled Buffy's temper before.

The bluff worked, and Ethan immediately backed off. "Very well. I know all about your Watcher Council's plans for your baby. And I know exactly where they sent her . . . for safekeeping."

"Then tell us!" Buffy yelled, the despairing mother in her slipping easily to the fore. Giles rubbed her arm in a small effort to console her.

Watching, Ethan just grinned. "In due time. Right now, I could murder a cup of tea."

Releasing Buffy, hoping she would stay put, Giles turned to negotiate. If Ethan thought he could breeze in like the old friend he wasn't and expect them to be hospitable, then he was more delusional than Giles thought. He limped a few steps forward, deliberately positioning himself as Buffy's shield should there be a real threat. Ethan appeared to be unarmed, but gut instinct told Giles there probably something nasty tucked inside that expensive silk suit. Perhaps even his own handgun, which Ethan had already demonstrated a capacity to use without conscience.

Attuned to the same wavelength, Ethan nodded at his good leg. "I see you've recovered from our last encounter. Bravo. I was concerned the paramedics wouldn't reach you in time."

"No, you weren't."

Ethan smiled. "You're right. I wasn't."

"What do you want?" Giles asked carefully. He'd sooner kill the bastard than talk to him a minute longer than necessary. But it was necessary, if Ethan indeed possessed the information he claimed.

Meantime, caution was in high order. History proved that this man did nothing free, and that his loyalty was a seesaw that routinely tipped to the highest bidder. Money or power--it didn't matter, as long as it benefited him. There was no real bargaining with the likes of such a conceited bastard, no matter how sweet the deal. One could only appeal to his greed and self-confidence, then be prepared when the other shoe dropped. And the last time Giles checked, Ethan and the Watcher Council had become quite chummy.

"Well, I could say your first born," Ethan continued in an annoyingly flippant manner, "but then I already took that. How about two million pounds instead? No, wait, I already took that too." He smiled evilly and stroked his neatly trimmed goatee. "'Revenge' has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

* * *

Outside the cottage, a black Mercedes spewed gravel from its tires as it skidded to a stop, just beyond the high stone wall running north-south on the well kept grounds. Three men in suits hurriedly exited the doors, front and back, two of them armed with high-powered assault rifles.

* * *

"Wait, you want us to help you take revenge on the Watcher Council?" Buffy asked incredulously. "Giles, I don't trust him."

"Nor I." To Ethan, Giles said, "The first time my back is turned, you'd stab a knife in it."

"Quite possibly so. Still, better 'the devil you know', right old man?" Ethan paused. "My dear Rupert, Buffy. You're not looking at the big picture here. My revenge is simple, your part it in simpler still. All you need do is listen, and we shall both benefit."

"Go on," Giles said flatly, ignoring the alarmed look Buffy threw his way. In light of what he had learned that evening, the notion of any sort of revenge against the Council, indeed the very word, left a sweet taste on his lips. And that, perhaps more than Ethan's bold reappearance and even bolder offer of an alliance, unsettled him.

"Yes," Ethan agreed. "I see the idea appeals to you, Ripper. You and I are not as different as you would like everyone to believe." Pausing, Ethan moved back a few paces into the parlor, before turning to face them with his hands clasped at his back. "I'm prepared to tell you, right now, everything I know pertaining to your little bundle of joy. Interested?"

* * *

Two of the men took up their positions along the stone wall, loading ammunition and adjusting night vision scopes. The third man, their leader, stepped between them, raising a pair of binoculars to his eyes to peer at the cottage. Excellent. There was a light on.

"Remember," Wyndam-Price said evenly, as he watched the pantomime unfolding in front of the kitchen window, "your targets are Mr. Rayne and Mr. Giles. Buffy and the others are not to be harmed."

He lowered the field glasses, glancing right then left at his armed colleagues. Rayne had been a persistent problem for weeks, and after the raid earlier tonight, Giles had joined him at the top of the Council's expendable list.

"Your orders are to shoot to kill, gentlemen." Unconcerned, Wesley returned the binoculars to his eyes. "You may fire when ready."

* * *

"Why should we trust you?"

"Because like it or not, dear Buffy, there is no one else." Ethan smiled cordially. "'I'm all you've got', as you Americans are so fond of saying."

"Then tell us where she is!" Buffy yelled, close to tears again.

Despite the ingrained need to go to her, Giles never took his eyes off the other man. "You took Carma and sold her to the Council. Why would you want to help us get her back?"

"Because your Council owes me, and refuses to pay." It was the first thing Giles had heard that sounded like the truth. "It's quite simple, old man. Helping you hurts them. And that--"

Ethan never finished his sentence. Two high-powered rifle slugs shattered the kitchen windowpane and thudded into his chest. He toppled backwards to the floor without a sound, felled as quietly and expertly as a tree in the forest.

Xander reacted first. "Get down!" He threw Willow to the floor, disappeared into their bedroom for a scant second, and then raced across the parlor, bent low, toward the cottage door.

Hardly conscious of Xander's actions, Giles wheeled on his cane to address a more important need. He turned to where he had left Buffy standing . . . in front of the shattered kitchen window. Their gazes found each other across the distance which separated them; a span so small yet currently so unattainable it may have been miles rather than just a few feet.

"Giles!"

"Buffy, get down!"

Instead of ducking for cover, she moved to bridge the gap between them . . . just as twin projectiles again pierced the glass window at her back.

Giles caught her as momentum slapped her body up against his. Unsteady on his crippled leg, they crumpled awkwardly to the wood floor in a tangle of each other's arms, unaware this accidental position took them out of the line of fire. He was only vaguely aware of Willow's hysterical outburst, or of Xander opening the cottage door and running out with his gun. His whole attention was riveted on the young woman in his arms.

Something warm dampened his hands, and when Giles lifted one to look, he was dumbfounded to find it covered with blood. Buffy's blood. Two stains appeared on the front of the borrowed t-shirt she wore, spreading outward until they joined, growing across the white material like a crimson flower in bloom. Head against his chest, she lifted it to look at him with wide, frightened eyes.

"No." Giles shook his head in complete denial. "Oh, God," he murmured, distraught. "Willow, call for an ambulance!" Suddenly, he was angry. "Don't you do this to me, Buffy. Don't you dare leave me this way!"

"Promise me," she whispered raggedly, her eyes never leaving his. A single tear rolled down her cheek. Automatically cupping her face, Giles used his thumb to wipe away the wetness. "Promise me . . . you'll find Carma."

"We'll find her together," Giles said meekly. His very being was ripping apart, his emotions pummeling each other at a furious pace; shock, grief, anger, hurt. "Just hold on!"

"Promise me!" Buffy clutched a weak handful of his black sweater.

"I promise," Giles said, the tears of reality spilling unbidden from his eyes. He wrapped her closer, trying to tether her to his world by sheer physical force. But he was loosing her, fast, no matter how tightly he held on. "I swear it, even if it takes the rest of my life."

"She needs you." Buffy raked in a stunted breath before continuing. "Be there for her. Just like . . . you were always there . . . for . . . me . . . "

The pain exploding in his heart was almost unbearable. Giles let his tears flow unchecked, and stroked her golden-silk hair with a bloody and shaky hand. "I love you," he told her one last time.

Buffy's peaceful smile was forever etched in his memory. She released her grip on his sweater in favor of touching his cheek in a featherweight, ethereal caress. Then he heard her expel her final breath. He watched as her hand fell limply from his face, held her gaze with tear-blurred eyes as she gracefully slipped out of his life.

"Oh God," Willow gasped, on her knees and sobbing into her hands.

Emotion choked Giles to the core. He crushed Buffy's lifeless form to his chest, his cheek on the top of her head, and rode out a trembling wave of deep, uncontrollable remorse.

Sometime during this, Xander returned to the cottage. "They got away, but not before I got a good look at one of them--our old friend Wesley . . . " His voice trailed off as he noted Buffy's body.

"Xander?" Willow called desperately. Solemnly, he crossed to her, and pulled her into a hug to absorb her tearful lament, just barely holding onto his own.

Time stood still for grief and pain. Neither of them noticed Giles gently lay Buffy on the floor, or him struggle to stand, or limp purposefully the few feet to where Ethan had fallen.

Miraculously, the bastard was still alive, although just barely. Straddling his fallen comrade, Giles reached down and roughly grabbed two fistfuls of his bloody silk shirt. Running on adrenaline and oblivious to the agony in his leg, Giles hoisted the man's upper torso several inches off the floor and got right in his face.

"Where is my daughter?"

Ethan stared at him, his eyes wide with terror and his entire body convulsing, wracked by the throes of his pending death. From the look in his eyes, it was quite clear he knew he was dying. He reached upwards, wanted help Giles couldn't give, his clawed fingers covered with his own bright red arterial blood.

"Tell me, you bastard!" His rage shook the dying man. Ethan Rayne was scum and deserved no less than this fitting death, but not before he disclosed the information Giles was so desperate to learn. Tiny bubbles of blood popped and frothed at Ethan's mouth as he attempted to speak, but the only sound to come out was an unintelligible gurgle. One or both of the sniper's bullets had punctured his lung, and he now lay slowly drowning in his own blood.

Giles shook him again. "TELL ME!"

Ethan coughed, spilling out blood, sputtering incoherent and meaningless noises. Still gaping at Giles, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he hissed his final threat to the world in a single exhaled breath.

Giles remained as he was for a moment, in Ethan's face and challenging him to talk. When he realized it was all over, he straightened slowly, slackening his grip and letting Ethan's body again become the centerpiece of his personal crimson puddle. Stone-faced, he turned and limped across the parlor to the cottage door. He didn't say a word, didn't acknowledged Xander and Willow or the anguished expressions on their faces, didn't look back. He simply reached for the door that Xander had left ajar, and pulled it wide open.

"Giles!" Willow called, mourning on her face and in her voice.

Xander stopped her from giving chase. "Let him go, Will."

"But he . . . doesn't even have a coat."

"He'll be okay," Xander said, watching Giles leave the cottage. He didn't bother to close the door, but left it swinging freely his wake. He hobbled straight ahead on his cane, as if he had no direction left in his life, absently headed towards a copse of trees nestled on the western perimeter of the cottage grounds. "I'll bring him back in a few minutes. He just . . . needs to be alone right now."

And so, as dawn made a spectacular entrance over the Cotswolds that day, Rupert Giles shunned the hand Fate had dealt to him, and limped, ever deeper, toward the lingering blackness of night.

END OF PART 2