"Matched Set" ~ Chapter 1

SPOILERS: loose Season 5, after "The Body" but before "The Gift"
RATING: FR-T for mature themes, mild violence, language.
DISTRIBUTION: KoalasPlace.com, Dword's theLIST, HeadQuarters. Anyone else, ask and it's yours!
DISCLAIMER: Without Prejudice. Buffy the Vampire Slayer characters and concepts are copyright ©1997-2002 20th Century Fox, WB Television, Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, UPN Television. No Infringments of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission. The story and all other characters are mine.

Chapter 1

Books.

Everywhere she looked, there were books. Books stacked on the floor, on the couch, and on both of Giles' desks. Pausing halfway through the front door, Buffy frowned as she did a quick survey of the mess; there were even books on the pass-through counter into the kitchen.

"Giles?" she called out. She continued into her Watcher's home, closing the door behind her to shut out the crisp October night.

"In here," a familiar British voice answered from the inner depths of the small but comfortable Spanish-style apartment. "Make yourself at home. Shan't be a moment."

Realizing he was down the hall in the vicinity of the bathroom, Buffy shrugged. Sidestepping the unsteady towers of ancient texts, several of which looked ready to topple if she dared pass too close, she carefully found her way to the couch. A big bowl of Halloween candy sat on the coffee table, along with a rubber spider in a fake web, and a short stack of centuries-old volumes that looked like they had just been literally unearthed.

Zeroing in on the chocolate, Buffy broke into a grin. The holiday wasn't until tomorrow night, and although his living room looked in need of a serious bookectomy, Giles seemed both ready and anxious to greet his inevitable trick or treaters. He had really loosened up these past couple of years. Of course, it helped matters a lot that the things that went bump in the Sunnydale night considered the idea of Halloween crass, and stayed in their cozy crypts and caves and sewers while the humans played 'monster'. She and Giles both got the night off.

Moving some books, Buffy sat on the couch, tucking one leg beneath her and helping herself to a Hershey's Kiss. At times like this, when there was free chocolaty goodness for the taking, she was glad Giles saw the wisdom in spending extra cash for the 'the good stuff'. No sugary imitation Tootsie Rolls here! The man had taste, not to mention a sweet tooth of his own. His theory was that if one had to eat leftover candy oneself, then it might as well be palatable.

"You wanted to talk to me?" she called, intently peeling back the silver foil of her Kiss.

"Actually, I wanted your opinion," Giles said. His voice was closer than before, suggesting he had joined her in the living room.

Having just unwrapped her teardrop-shaped sweet, Buffy swiveled to look over the back of the couch at him. But her playful smile froze on her face at the same moment her hand with the chocolate stalled at her lips. She was thankful she hadn't actually popped it in her mouth, because she surely would have choked at the outrageous sight before her.

Rupert Giles was sans glasses, wearing a white, sequined, flared-leg jumpsuit opened all the way to his waist, which if nothing else gave her a revealing look at the salt 'n' pepper chest hair she knew was there but had never before scored such a good look at. Through it dangled a gold chain of costume jewelry with a TCB moniker, and when he strummed a chord on his acoustic guitar she noted the chunky 70s-styled rings adorning almost every finger.

Giles grinned broadly, oblivious to her expression of open-mouthed shock. "The Espresso Pump is having an 'Elvis Appreciation Night', and it gave me an idea for a Halloween costume. What do you think?"

Eyes finally reaching his face, Buffy realized he had even donned some really awful mutton-chop sideburns to complete the look. "I'm . . . speechless," she admitted truthfully.

"Thank you," Giles said in his best Elvis voice, "thank you very much."

"That wasn't a compliment," Buffy clarified.

"Oh?" A slow frown replaced the goofy grin on his face. Realizing she was completely serious, Giles put down his guitar and moved around to join her on the couch, scooting books onto the coffee table to make room. "Oh," he said again, this time in resignation. Sitting, he began peeling off the adhesive, jet-black sideburns.

"Remember the sombrero?" Buffy asked pointedly, referring to his disastrous Halloween costume from a few years ago. "No one took you seriously in that get-up either."

"At least it was a step-up from Anya's bunny suit."

"That's only a matter of opinion."

"But this is Elvis, an American icon." Giles scrunched the fake sideburns into a sticky faux fur ball, obviously disappointed. "I rather thought you'd be impressed, considering you've actually started to come watch me perform."

"Impressed with the singing, yes," Buffy admitted. What she didn't say was that Willow had been right all along, that hearing him croon a love song to a captive audience turned her insides into a warm gooey mess. She could still kick herself for waiting until just recently to check out his part time musical gigs. Oh, what she must have missed! "You can sing 'Love Me Tender' to me anytime. But if you had to dress like Elvis, why couldn't you do young Elvis? Not middle-aged, declining Elvis."

Giles tossed the fur ball at the rubber spider in exaggerated defeat. "Perhaps because I am middle-aged and declining, as you are so fond of reminding me."

Finally popping the Kiss in her mouth, Buffy licked the melting chocolate off her fingers and leaned back against the couch. She had hurt his feelings, but better she be the one to tell him he looked ridiculous in that outfit than some stranger keeling over with laughter on his doorstep tomorrow night. Besides, he had asked.

"Well, you could do James Bond," she suggested, guiltily wanting to make it up. They had grown very close this past year, their relationship stronger than ever in the aftermath of Watcher/Slayer breakdown and total rebuild. In the months following her mother's death, and Buffy's own subsequent reinventing of herself as adult guardian to her kid sister, her relationship with Giles had been sprouting in all sorts of previously unimaginable directions. Feelings had surfaced within her; feelings that just a few years ago she would have labeled as 'a total wig'. "He's not only super cool spy guy," she added hesitantly, "but almost as drop-dead gorgeous in a tux as you."

She bit her lip, instantly regretting she had revealed too much. Luckily, Giles gave a curt smile, indicating he thought she was teasing. Again. On one hand, it was just as well he had no clue that she really did consider him, when dressed in a tuxedo, as 'to die for' as they came. But on the other, having her compliments persistently shot down in flames was beginning to get a little frustrating. Unfortunately, Buffy didn't have the nerve to set him straight. In truth, there were lots of recently noticed things about Rupert Giles that were now on her 'every woman's fantasy' list, which was where her steady supply of 'old and declining' remarks came in; as self-defense against all the unexpected feelings she was suddenly having. Just a few weeks ago, she had finally figured it why.

She was in love with Giles!

The notion, still so new, almost made her choke on her chocolate. A month ago, Buffy would have considered the idea of waking up and finding herself attracted to Giles completely ludicrous, and yet here they were; magnet and steel. Sparks were flying, even if the man in question had yet to notice them. Until he did, she was in a sort of holding pattern, desperately wanting to make the first move, but too afraid she would scare him off.

After all, their relationship had its roots in some very old-fashioned protocols and traditions. They had started this gig as Watcher and Slayer, two people united by a common destiny not a physical attraction, and a 16-year-old schoolgirl getting down and dirty with a 40-something Englishman just wasn't what the Watchers Council considered a proper liaison between its Chosen.

But things had changed over the years--she and Giles had changed--and the Council was now a long, long way away. More importantly, she wasn't 16 anymore, and somehow what had once been an obvious chasm between them now seemed less of an 'abyss' and more of a 'slight gap'. If only she could get him to see that . . .

"Um, what's with all the books?" Buffy asked, waving at the homeless stacks, some of which probably contained those prehistoric Council policies that stood between her and her man.

"What? Oh, yes, there are rather a lot of them, aren't there."

Glancing at Giles as he continued to pick the persistent dabs of adhesive gum from his cheeks, Buffy just barely resisted the urge to reach out and help. To do so would be to cross the line into uncharted territory, and she had no idea if either of them were ready to deal with the consequences of invaded personal space.

Finally giving up on the adhesive, Giles sat back with the candy bowl on his lap, an action that allowed the open front of his Vegas-styled jumpsuit to gape invitingly. "I'm having some bookcases refinished," Giles explained offhandedly, as he unwrapped a piece of chocolate for himself. "Should have them back in a few days."

Buffy tore her gaze from his chest, aware that she shouldn't be thinking what she was presently thinking. "Meantime we play dodge the leaning tower-o-books?" she asked, trying to distract her thoughts from the path they had started to wander. That way only led to restless nights and cold showers.

Giles tossed the chocolate in his mouth. "Something like that."

"And here I thought the public library caught you with another sidewalk sale. You and I both know you can't resist a book bargain."

"Quite. Although none of these volumes," he said indicating the precariously balanced book stacks, "are as innocent as ex-public-library literature."

"Let me guess. Prophecies of gloom-and-doom from your very own personal collection?"

He hesitated for the slightest second, his expression frozen with something akin to real horror. Then he smiled, in a totally boyish way that made her heart do an unexpected flip-flop.

"With a few highly-sought Council volumes and the odd Watcher's journal thrown in, yes," he agreed, sounding unperturbed, if not a little smug, about his covert possession of Council property.

Giles had come a long way from the by the book, tweed-clad, officially assigned Watcher she had first met in high school. Over time, he had mellowed into the role of her best friend and closest confidant. She owed him everything. Giles alone kept her sane; Giles alone completed her.

'He truly is my other half,' Buffy thought. Her gazed traveled the books piled around them, their cracked leather covers testament to their age and their importance. 'Had any other Slayers ever fallen in love with their Watchers?'

Not that Buffy could see a teenage Slayer falling for her 'old and gross' Watcher, but as the girl matured into adulthood, love undoubtedly became a whole new ballgame. True, some Watchers were women, and many of her predecessors never lived to see eighteen, let alone her present ripe old age of twenty, but had any ever taken their relationship to the next level? Had any of the previous Chosen Ones ever been intimate?

"Would you like a Kiss?"

Heart in her throat, Buffy's head snapped up from her contemplation of the books. "What?"

"A Kiss," Giles repeated, innocently offering the candy bowl.

"Oh, right. Thanks." Buffy hastily fished a piece of candy from the bowl, attempting to regain her composure, but her body temperature had shot up ten degrees and her cheeks were flushed with embarrassment.

They ate chocolate in heavy silence, until, aware of the way Giles' gaze took on bigtime curiosity, she deflected the question she knew he was going to ask by swiftly changing the subject.

"Y'know, you really should consider getting Willow to scan all these into a computer." She waved extravagantly at the books around them, and he obediently turned his interest to the unsteady towers occupying his desks, the coffee table, and most of the vacant floor space. "And then burn them."

Her ploy worked, because Giles immediately forgot about her and instead looked thoroughly affronted. "I'll have you know that burning books of any kind borders on blasphemy! Not to mention that most of these are irreplaceable, original volumes with no duplicate copies--"

"I meant 'burn the information onto CDs'," Buffy interrupted, more calm now the tables had been successfully turned. "Not burn the books. Willow says we could look up stuff real quick, so we'd be able to get the big scoop on the big bad even faster."

"We do not need to 'look up stuff real quick'," Giles said testily. "Watchers and Slayer have been making do for centuries, and I see no reason for a change now. Especially since virtually all species of demon known to mankind make a habit out of clinging to old ways and traditions, which is why ancient weapons, like crossbows and wooden stakes, are quite sufficient to defeat them."

She grinned affectionately. "Whoa, retro-Giles alert! Next you'll be breaking the tweed out of mothballs."

"However," he continued, ignoring her in favor of sarcasm, "should we run across an adversary with its own web domain and email address, then I shall be sure to take your idea under advisement."

Buffy laughed, not put off by his dry British wit. She had not only come to expect it, but enjoy it. Getting a rise out of Giles remained one of her evil little thrills. And besides, she had successfully diverted the focus from herself. "I hate to be the one to tell you this, but this isn't the dark ages anymore. It's the 21st century. It's . . . The Jetsons vs. The Flintstones!"

"Ha bloody ha. And I suppose that makes me 'Fred'."

"There's a word for people like you, Giles," she teased. "Technophobic."

"I am not--" he began defensively, but then decided not to rise to her obvious bait. "I've dabbled with computers, as you well know. And while I can appreciate the merits of what you're suggesting, I simply don't see the need to make myself a slave to technology because of the present century. Books have served me well enough this long, as I'm certain they will continue to serve my successors for generations to come."

"Okay, enough already! Bring him back!"

Giles turned a puzzled frown on her. "Bring who back?"

"My Giles. My 'I-actually-own-a-tee-shirt-and-jeans' Giles. I want him back." With a fond smile, Buffy half-raised her hand to comb her fingers through his gorgeously unruly hair, only to belatedly snatch it back. "I like the new and improved Giles a whole lot better," she added, covering, "and for a moment there, you started to sound like the old 20th Century fuddy-duddy librarian Giles."

His frown transformed into another smile, this time crinkling the corners of his eyes with undisguised affection. "I rather like being . . . 'your Giles'."

Buffy gave him a warm grin. "Me too."

He offered the candy bowl again, and for the following few moments they shared chocolate in companionable silence. Things were good between them. Platonic, yes, but good all the same.

Things were uncomplicated like this.

Nice.

Buffy glanced at Giles, watching his profile as he unwrapped another Hershey's Kiss and ate it in silence.

Okay, frustrating as hell.

She bit down on a groan, again turning to chocolate as a substitute to what she really craved--him. Unfortunately, the only time she ever got close to having him was when they trained. Hand to hand sparring with Giles had become a physical need in her daily routine, for it was the only time when the Council-drawn line between them was sufficiently blurred and contact was allowed. She knew the solid feel of his muscles under her hands, and the powerful way his body folded around hers from behind. She knew his masculine scent as a rich spice to her senses, but still she wanted more. Protocol be damned; she wanted it to be real.

"Do you have plans for tomorrow night?" Giles asked conversationally.

Buffy shrugged, reigning in her hormones lest they embarrass her again. "Willow and Tara have invited Xander and Anya to some Halloween bash over at Porter Dorm. They asked me to go too, but . . . I don't know. I haven't really been up for partying in a long time."

"Perhaps you should. I'm sure Dawn wouldn't mind. In fact, I dare say she would welcome the opportunity to 'do her own thing'."

"Dawn's already 'doing her own thing'. She asked if she could go to a sleepover party across town."

"What did you say?"

"I told her she could, provided she left phone numbers of all attending partiers and their next of kin, and a detailed printout of the evening's exact itinerary."

Giles chuckled at her over-protective mother-hen act. "Then perhaps you should take the opportunity to have an evening out, too."

"Can't. It's a couples thing and I don't have a date. Unless . . . " Buffy balked, her heart skipping into double time as she summoned up the nerve to ask the question her heart longed to ask.

"Surely, there must be someone," he cut in, referring to her lack of a significant other.

"Actually, no. There isn't." She had been flying solo for a good while now. Giles knew that. She shouldn't have needed to reiterate there had been no one since Riley Finn left, but the doubt in his voice called for a little reaffirming. Realistically, she couldn't blame him for thinking maybe she had a secret honey on the side, since she had never even mentioned Riley until Giles met him at her 19th birthday party. And true, she did have her sights set on this one gorgeous fella in the hope of spending the rest of her life with him, but he was presently sitting on the couch beside her, completely oblivious. "Besides, I'm really not interested in going to some silly party. I don't even have a costume." After a hesitant pause, Buffy added, "See, I was actually kinda hoping I could . . . come over here and hang out with you."

Giles remained silent, still staring at the candy bowl on his lap.

"I could bring a scary movie?" she suggested hopefully, but his silence made her heart begin to sink. "And more chocolate. You can even do Elvis for me, if you want."

"Oh no, this," he said, plucking at the lapel of his gaudy white jumpsuit, "goes back for a refund in the morning."

"Then it's a date?"

Giles kept his gaze diverted. "Buffy, for the past twelve months, you and I have done nothing but 'hang out' together every spare waking moment. Training, studying, more training." He paused, and chanced a look at her. It was almost apologetic. "I do wish you'd reconsider. A little socializing with your friends might actually prove . . . fun."

"I don't wanna have fun, I wanna be with you." Off his expression, she sheepishly added, "That really didn't come out right."

"Yes, well, I'm flattered . . . I think . . . but you're young and attractive, and--" He stopped suddenly, as if he felt he had already said way too much.

Forlorn hope swelled in Buffy's chest. Suddenly, she found herself standing on some very iffy ground. Giles had paid her a compliment. A personal one. An intimate one. He had noticed the sparks between them. Maybe what she wanted wasn't so far fetched after all. Maybe he wanted it too. Maybe here, tonight, all her fantasies were going to come true at last.

"You think I'm . . . attractive?" Her mouth went dry. She watched Giles swallow, his gaze again fixed on the chocolate bowl before him. She waited, holding her breath. He had only to give her some indication that he shared her feelings, and she would surrender to him, gladly and completely.

When Giles did finally look at her again, he continued his sentence without confirming or denying his comment. "And spending all your free time with an old chap like me, instead of your peers, will hardly allow you the opportunity to--" He looked away again. "--to meet that nice young man."

Then it hit, the full blinding force of bitter disappointment, and Buffy lost her footing on all her dreams and unspoken desires. "But I don't want to meet a nice young man." It just came out, spoken from the heart, without a thought to the fallout it might cause. "I wanna be with you."

Giles remained stubbornly mute, showing no emotional reaction at all save for a tiny muscle that rippled, almost imperceptibly, in his jaw. He sat forward to park the candy bowl of teardrop-shaped chocolates on the coffee table, which only served to increase the physical distance between them. "I'm afraid I have plans."

His words were such a slap in the face that Buffy backed off, stunned. God, she'd just put her heart out there and he hadn't even acknowledged it. "I wasn't just talking about tomorrow night. Giles, there's something I've been wanting to tell you--"

"After the trick or treaters, that is," Giles continued, completely ignoring her. He still refused to meet her gaze. "I have a late night gig at the coffee house. Elvis Appreciation Night and all."

Broken, Buffy folded in on herself and tried to keep it together. In less than a minute, Giles had made it perfectly clear that he shared none of the feelings she had for him. He didn't love her, at least not in the way she wanted him to, and there was nothing she could do to make him. Worse still, his casual disregard for her confession made her feel juvenile and dumb, like some silly schoolgirl caught out over some silly crush.

Unshed tears suddenly stung her eyes.

"I have to go." The force of trying to keep her distraught emotions bottled up when they wanted to explode drove Buffy to her feet. She spun rashly, desperate to escape total humiliation in front of him, and inadvertently brushed against a tower of his precious books. It was enough to cause the entire stack to tumble. "I'm sorry."

Giles moved to rescue a couple of fallen texts. "No harm done."

But in Buffy's eyes, there was a lot more to it than just toppled books. Those old tomes were them, the paper and ink representations of all the Watchers and all the Slayers, the archaic protocols and traditions, and the forces of darkness that bound them together. Seeing them collapse was a stark reminder of their chosen destinies, and that their relationship--like their very lives--were forfeit to a higher cause. With those books, everything she thought she had built with Giles, and everything she ever dreamed she might one day share with him, had just come crashing down.

Giles straightened with a book in each hand, still avoiding her eyes. In fact, he seemed to be doing his best to avoid noticing how very close she was to tears. He looked ridiculous, standing there like a poor man's imitation of The King toting ancient prophecy. She just wanted to throw her arms around him, and stay with him forever.

"I'm sorry," Buffy murmured again, then rushed for the door before her heart completely broke.

* * *

Torn, Giles looked up as Buffy fled out his front door, a lump the size of a baseball stuck in his throat. She disappeared into the October night without looking back, the door gently swinging closed on its hinges behind her.

'Well, that went swimmingly,' he thought sarcastically, kneeling to collect up the last of his scattered books and rebuild the stack. His heart screamed at him to go after her and say the words she so desperately longed to hear, but his head quickly stopped him. 'Tough love' was the only form of love he could ever hope to give her.

He had to be strong for them both, even if it meant she would think him an insensitive bastard. Giles bit back his self-loathing for ever letting it come to this. Buffy didn't take rejection well. She was too ruled by emotion, too passionate a young woman to not react on instinct. It was both her strength and her weakness. It was why she had survived as a Slayer.

God help him. A Watcher in love with his Slayer. Not the first time in Council history it had happened, but no one need point out to him that such a relationship had always ended in tragedy.

God help them both.

The pitted leather cover of the ancient tome in his hand caught his eye. It was the Pergamum Codex, the book reputed to contain the most complete prophecies of the Slayer, once thought lost in the 15th Century but given to Giles during his first year tenure at Sunnydale High by the vampire, Angel. Among its many accurate foresights was a recount of Buffy dying at the hands of the Master. Although she had subsequently been revived, the actual prophecy had been fulfilled, which was why the new quatrain Giles had translated compelled him to distance himself from Buffy, before it was too late.

Reverently, Giles laid the precious volume on the stack, and then continued to place other less valuable books on top of it. Buffy's cheeky remark about his own 'personal collection of gloom-and-doom' prophecy had been like a knife in his chest. She could not possibly have known how right she was.

He had read the Codex's latest divination so many times he could recite it in his sleep. 'She who walks in darkness, in the shadow of the first' was without doubt a reference to Buffy. But it was the last part, which included him, that troubled him enough to ignore the wail in his heart and the protest in his soul: 'She will draw life from the one who watches and protects, and he will be her undoing.'

Given their present closeness, its interpretation was clear. It would be terribly easy to let their relationship expand to the next level, but the Codex foretold that if he allowed them become intimate, it would mean her downfall, or even her demise. He wasn't completely sure of what dire outcome would befall her, only that 'undoing' did not sound particularly good. That was the problem with ancient prophecies; they were always a bit vague on specifics.

Fear and helplessness rose within him, the feeling identical to the night when his 16-year-old Slayer had bravely faced the Master and her fate. 'This is the Codex,' he reminded himself emphatically, as he placed the last book on the tower to complete his task. His own words of that night came back to haunt him, filling in the rest of the thought. 'There is nothing in it that does not come to pass.'

Miserable now, Giles took himself back to the couch, where he sat, wretchedly, staring at the bowl of chocolate. What a bloody mess. Buffy was almost 21, an adult, and allowing himself to love her was no longer a question of morals or ethics, but one of life or death. It was a bloody cruel twist of fate, that now he could, he never would.

Letting go a sigh, Giles ran both hands through his hair, his clenched fists each finding a handful and ending the movement with a frustrated tug. He should never have let things go this far. For months, he had been getting some very clear signals from Buffy, and to say he had misinterpreted them would be an insult to the entire male population. He dreamed about her, damn it, until his body ached for the release that she alone could give. Whenever they were together, it took every ounce of his willpower not take her in his arms and worship her with wild abandon until they both succumbed to blissful exhaustion.

His arms fell limply to his sides, his hair mussed from the futile exercise. "Face it, you randy old bastard," Giles said to the quietness of his living room, "you should never have let yourself fall in love with her."

Hearing the truth aloud did nothing to ease the pain, or the regret. He should have kept his distance, the way he had been trained to do. He should have simply loved her from afar, chaste and unrequited. Hell, he should have left Sunnydale when the bloody Council fired him. But Buffy needed him and so he stayed. Now he had to face the consequences. He had to push her away, and watch her find happiness in the arms of another man.

Despondent over the thought, Giles reached for another piece of candy, and sat staring morosely at the silver teardrop in the palm of his hand.

A man who could give her more than just chocolate kisses . . .

* * *

Buffy ran through the moonlit cemetery at full tilt, high on adrenaline of a dark and primal nature. A few yards ahead, the guy she was chasing threw a glance over his shoulder, his human eyes wide with undisguised fear. The expression didn't faze her. He was a vampire, after all, and she was a vampire slayer. He had just reverted to his human face after watching her dust his three buddies in quick succession. Scared witless, he had taken off running for his un-dead life, Buffy close on his heels and badly wanting to introduce him to Mr. Pointy.

In truth, she could have staked the vamp a block or two ago, but something inside her had warmed to the chase. She was in love with a man who wasn't in love with her. Rather than spend the night crying into her pillow, she decided that slaying as many vampires as she could track down was an alternative way to work off emotions. As such, she had let go everything she had learned from Giles about controlling the killer instinct of her inner Slayer, and was now simply enjoying the exhilaration of the hunt; something that felt so right, so ingrained in her very being, yet suppressed for way too long.

Giles didn't love her.

Using a headstone as a springboard, Buffy launched herself toward her quarry. Her head-high tackle took him down, grinding his face in the moist earth of a newly turned grave, before both of them rolled to their feet. The vamp spat out dirt as the Slayer settled into a fighting stance. Although she held her stake raised and ready, she hoped he would put a little effort into self-preservation. She really wanted to hit something, and her blood roared through her veins like a battle cry. With that in mind, she lowered her weapon and instead encouraged him to fight her.

"Wanna play, Fang-face?" she goaded the frightened vampire. In a move that went completely against everything she had ever learned about the art of Slaying, she tossed her stake to one side. It clattered harmlessly onto the cement covering a nearby plot. Raising both empty fists, she announced, "Buffy wants to play."

Now that she was weaponless, the balance shifted. The vampire snarled dangerously, his human face contorting into his true demon visage upon realizing his survival odds had just greatly improved. He rushed recklessly at her, but Buffy easily deflected his attack by grabbing his arms, dropping to the ground with her foot in his stomach, and tossing him backwards over her head. It was a move she'd practiced hundreds of times with Giles, and the look on his face as she triumphantly sat on his hips was always priceless.

But Giles had pushed her away. He'd told her to go find someone else to love.

Buffy scrambled to her feet, her unshed tears fueling her heart's despair. She and the vampire squared off again, circling each other like warring predators. The vamp lashed out with a few well-thrown punches that she blocked--all but the last in the series, which caught her in the side and cracked a rib. The pain fazed her for a moment, allowing the vamp the chance to fling her over a headstone. She stumbled and landed in a heap, drawing in a deep breath that made her grimace. Buffy's hand instinctively went to her injured rib, just as the vampire latched onto her throat and hauled her to her feet. Feeding on the pain rather than letting it be her downfall, she retaliated with several solid punches to her quarry's mid-section. When he let her go and doubled over, she grabbed his forearm and neatly flipped him to the ground again.

"C'mon, you can do better than that," she taunted, her foot on his chest. She gave the forearm she still held a little twist, satisfied at the protesting grate of bones. "I mean, you're fighting for your life here."

She should have staked him there and then, but with her weapon out of reach, it wasn't a viable option. Instead, Buffy released her adversary and backed off, waiting until he had regained his feet and reset his dislocated shoulder. The vamp howled at her in blind rage, but when he lunged, Buffy smiled.

The fight to the death was on, and her blood sang its ancient praises.

* * *

"She's magnificent," Ethan Rayne whispered breathlessly. He winced slightly, watching Buffy belt the helpless vampire with yet another powerful, bone-snapping punch. "I told you she was magnificent."

His companion was less impressed with watching one of his kindred being pummeled into mush. "She's dangerous," he corrected. "A killer."

"Well, that does tend to be what a Slayer does best," Ethan said, his eyes never leaving the fight scene some twenty yards in front of their hiding spot at the corner of a mausoleum.

Watching the Slayer in action was like watching an exquisite ballet . . . if ballet was a violent and bloody fight to the death. Buffy's precision roundhouse kick caught the vamp in the side of the head with enough force to crack any human opponent's skull. Instead, it sent her undead adversary sprawling to the ground for the umpteenth time. She waited for him to get up, which the poor devil did, unaware that the courtesy was only so she could have the pleasure of knocking him down again. She was being particularly ruthless tonight, toying with her kills, playing a deadly game.

Despite himself, Ethan felt for the hapless vampire, as he continued to watch Buffy mercilessly pound the stuffing out of him. "I dare say your mistress will be pleased," he whispered over his shoulder to his companion. "As promised, it truly will be the 'hunt of a lifetime'."

When his unlikely ally failed to answer, Ethan finally looked around, the sounds of Buffy beating the vampire to a bloody pulp loud in the silence of the deserted cemetery behind him.

Tay, his reluctant vampire ally, glared at him furiously. "Yes, but for who?"

Ethan smiled. The vampire minion had a point. Buffy and the demon huntress seemed well matched. "That, my friend, remains to be seen."

The fight sounds grew suddenly, deathly silent, and Ethan looked back in time to see the remains of the unfortunate vampire shower down in the moonlight, rather as if someone had just thrown a vase of crematorium ash into the cold night air. It settled around the triumphant Slayer, presently down on one knee, as she brought her stake up in what appeared, to Ethan, to be a regretful gesture.

Remorse? For a vampire? No, more likely she regretted that the fight was over so soon, her bloodlust unquenched. But he was not one to pass judgment, and instead continued to observe, impartial and silent, as Buffy raised her bruised and dirty hand to brush the hair out of her bruised and dirty face. When she climbed to her feet, she did it with one hand pressed against that fractured rib, which if didn't heal sufficiently within a day or so, might give the demon huntress an unfair advantage.

But no matter, may the best bitch win.

Ethan watched, almost mesmerized, until Buffy did something he had never before believed her capable, or ever thought he would be privy to witness. She dropped her stake, and just stood there in the middle of the cemetery, in the moonlight, and let the tears come.

Taken aback by the unexpected show of raw emotion, Ethan frowned in genuine concern. What the devil was going on? She couldn't have some sort of sodding Slayer breakdown now. His life depended on it!

"Let me take her," Tay said, making a move forward.

"No." Ethan stopped him with nothing more than a firm hand on his chest, well aware that the vampire could rip his arm off like the drumstick of a Thanksgiving turkey. But Milady's minion had been assigned to aid him in the live capture of the Watcher and Slayer as quarry for her hunt. As long as the vampire remembered who was in charge, they would get along famously. "Not yet."

Before his companion could notice the Slayer's bizarre behavior and kill him on the spot for false claims of her warrior title, Ethan grabbed his arm and turned him away from the scene.

"Why not? She's alone, and has expended energy in a fight to the death," Tay argued. "Now is the perfect time. It won't be easy to take her once she's rested and at full strength."

"Which is why we're not going to try."

"You have a plan?"

Safely out of Buffy's earshot, Ethan strode quickly across the dew damp cemetery lawn, pushing the limits of his newly gained authority. Two more appointed lackeys waited at the rented BMW parked just outside Restfield's wrought iron gates. The were not vampires, but big, brute-ugly demons with rows of needle-like quills running down their backs and arms that could be raised defensively, much like dogs raised their hackles. They spoke no language Ethan could understand, but obeyed his orders nonetheless through some sort of mental telepathy. He only had to think it, and they would comply. Certainly handy chaps to have under one's command, even if they were hell on designer label shirts.

"You'd better have a plan, sorcerer," Tay growled menacingly. "It's both our heads on the line, remember?"

"Relax," Ethan said confidently. He smirked, the expression made more sinister by the eerie shadows and the moonlight glinting off the granite headstones. "Tomorrow night, I promise, the Slayer will come to us."

* * *

On Halloween eve, Giles sat in his living room surrounded by his teetering stacks of books, squinting at the television in between answering the door to some of Sunnydale's littlest, cutest monsters. Beside him, a pile of discarded candy wrappers bore testament to the fact that he had eaten more chocolate than he had given out, but better to lose oneself in an abundance of sweets and a horrid Hollywood vampire movie--even if he couldn't see it very well without his glasses--than to dwell on Buffy and the seemingly irreparable damage he had done to their relationship.

He sighed miserably, wondering how he could have been so cruel. It had been out of necessity, of course, for he firmly believed that by ignoring Buffy's feelings he had given her a way out, an escape clause from any long-term humiliation, and most importantly, a way to save face the next time they met. Better that, than to reject her outright. This way, she could offer any excuse for her hurried, teary-eyed departure, and he would accept it without question, the truth remaining safely buried just below the surface. Buffy, however, had undoubtedly not seen herself as a recipient of his good intentions, rather the victim of them. In his heart of hearts, Giles secretly hoped she would simply knock on his door, despite his cold-shoulder.

He had even donned a tuxedo for her, optimistic believing it would be like waving a white flag . . . not that the damn rented monkey suit was the most comfortable attire in which to lounge. At least it was a proper shirt and trousers--it didn't pull and gape like the jumpsuit, which he vowed never to don again, Elvis Appreciation Night or not--although he would have to change before his late night gig at The Espresso Pump lest he take on the appearance of a right proper lounge lizard. Buffy would have a fine time making fun of that.

The thought of Buffy's teasing made him smile fondly, then frown regretfully. There had been no word from her all day, the phone uncharacteristically quiet and the machine bleakly devoid of messages. The silent treatment simply wasn't like her--she usually spoke her mind--so it was a clear indication of just how deeply he cut her.

Lord, he had really done it this time . . .

There came a knock on the door and hope briefly welled within him, as it had all evening whenever the trick or treating neighborhood children called. With his living room in darkness save for the flickering light cast from the old black and white movie, Giles stood with his candy bowl and went to answer it. Years of living on the mouth of Hell had taught him some pretty standard precautions, in this case looking out the door's peephole before he actually opened it. Not that a vampire could enter one's domain without specific invitation from the rightful owner, but there were many other demons and hell beasts, drawn to Sunnydale's mystical energy like moths to a flame, that could.

Even though, by tradition, the night-dwelling denizens of Sunnydale did not usually venture out on Halloween, he still looked first, spying not Buffy as his heart hoped, but four local youngsters standing in the light of his porch. They were in full costume--a pirate, a superman, a prisoner, and a hockey-masked-killer--all carrying plastic pumpkin pails for their candy booty as they impatiently chorused, "Trick or treat?" in their high-pitched, pre-adolescent voices.

One hand straightening his black bowtie while the other balanced the candy bowl against his hip, Giles endeavored to put on a cheerful face. Despite his personal melancholia, he would not spoil the holiday for others. In a town marred by too many 'unexplainable' deaths, festive occasions tended to be far too few. These children deserved more.

Unlocking the door, he flung it open with a flamboyant, "Happy Hallowee--!"

But he stopped short upon finding himself confronted not by costumed children as seen through the peephole, but by a vampire in full game face, two unidentified demon heavies, and . . .

"Ethan Rayne," Giles muttered. Although not particularly surprised, he was a little curious about the spell his former friend had cast to create the illusion of children. If nothing else, he had to applaud the man's ingenuity.

"Trick or treat, Watcher?" growled the vampire in a grim parody of a candy-seeking child. He smiled in amusement, showing his fangs, although he had no choice but to remained, uninvited, on the other side of the threshold.

Not so Giles' old chum-turned-nemesis, who stepped through the open door with a deceptively friendly smile on his face. Deceptive, because the last thing Giles expected was the first thing Ethan did. Without any preamble of the false camaraderie they usually exchanged, Ethan drew back his fist and punched him. Hard. Caught off guard, Giles took the punch full in the face. He went down backwards, spilling chocolate from his bowl all over his chest and tasting blood from a split lip. He looked up with contempt in his eyes as Ethan triumphantly stood over him.

"Trick, I believe," the sorcerer answered with a smirk.

Before Giles could react, the two unidentified demons stomped inside, their flat, elephantine feet squashing patties of chocolate into the rug and knocking his precious towers of books in all directions. They grabbed him by the arms and hauled him to his feet, holding him immobile between them. Giles attempted to break free, but they were far too strong, and he could not possibly escape their hold without dislocating one or both of his arms in the process. Still, the demons considered his struggles a threat, for both instinctively raised the quills running down their leathery backs and arms.

Calmly walking up to him, Ethan began straightening Giles' lopsided bowtie. "My, my, don't you look smashing. Although for the life of me, I can't decide who you're supposed to be. A pitiful groom without his lovely bride, perhaps? Where is your charming Slayer tonight, then?"

"What the devil do you want, Ethan?" Giles grated out. He twisted in an instinctive effort to evade capture, and came perilously close to brushing against one demon's extended quills.

"Um, I wouldn't, if I were you," the sorcerer suggested knowingly. "Their quills are tipped with a rather nasty poison. It won't kill you, but it will make you terribly ill." He stepped closer to gloat in the face of his enemy held so helplessly between his two dense-but-faithful minions. "And believe me, Rupert, I do like my merchandise to be in usable condition when I deliver it."

Without further word, the quill demons again picked Giles up, carried him backwards a few paces, and slammed him into the wall. The force of the impact knocked the air from his lungs and brought down a shower of plaster dust from the crown molding above. A leathery forearm thrust across his throat, the quill demon leaning on it to apply pressure. Giles gasped as his windpipe compressed.

Ethan looked to his vampire colleague, shifting impatiently from foot-to-foot outside the door. On cue, the vampire produced a small wooden box with an ancient symbol adorning the lid. From it, he took a syringe and a vial of bright green liquid. Ethan put his hand across the threshold to receive them, then turned to Giles with an expression that made the Watcher's blood run cold.

The quill demon with the forearm across his neck lifted the offending limb, and instead grabbed his jaw in its huge leathery paw to force his head to one side. Struggling was instinctive, but just as futile as before. Realizing the demon held his throat exposed for the injection, Giles couldn't stop anxiety rising in his stomach. He watched awkwardly, from the corners of his eyes, as Ethan calmly loaded the syringe.

"Don't worry, old man," his former friend said, nonchalantly tapping the side of the needle. He held it up in the flickering light of the television and squirted a small stream of florescent green into the air. Meeting Giles' gaze with a cold smile, he said, "This won't hurt . . . much . . ."