"Matched Set" ~ Chapter 2

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 2

Buffy chose her usual table; the cozy booth she always sat at whenever she came to The Espresso Pump to see Giles perform. Tonight, however, the warm gooey sensation that filled her loins whenever she listened to him sing a love song--which of late she fantasized he was singing only to her--was a long way removed. Tonight, she felt absolutely miserable. There would be no waiting for him to finish his set and join her, all sweaty and flushed and adorable; no pre-ordering a pot of his favorite tea to have waiting to soothe his parched throat; no quiet time for the two of them as they transformed into something closely resembling an ordinary couple. There would be none of these wonderful things, because Giles had failed even to show up.

Putting down her mug, her third major caffeine intake since arriving, Buffy blew a lock of hair out of her eyes and cast another disappointed glance at her watch. It was coming up on midnight, and although his statement of The Pump's 'Elvis Night' had been true enough, her inner voice doubted the validity of his so-called scheduled appearance, either in his awful white jumpsuit or not. Presently, there was some other guy filling in, murdering a version of 'Can't Help Falling In Love' . . . and just the thought of Giles singing that to her brought her misery full circle.

She felt rejected and betrayed by the knowledge that he had lied to her about having 'other plans' for the holiday eve, presumably to get out of having to spend it with her. She had been sitting there for hours and there was still no sign of him. Damn him. She should have just gone to the campus party with her friends and forgotten about ever having any stupid feelings for him.

If only it were that simple. If only love was like a light switch--something she could turn on and off whenever it suited . . .

Buffy sighed, wanting to be angry with Giles, but the emotion fell flat. She blew out a long, frustrated breath, then winced, her hand automatically going to the cracked rib in her side. It still smarted, despite her superior healing abilities. Giles would have a cow upon learning of her stupidity; the way she taunted the vampire who injured her and took him on without a weapon. He would tell her she was 'bloody insane.' And maybe he would be right.

"Love makes you do the wacky," Buffy murmured dejectedly, as a forty-ish brunette waitress passed by the table on an errand collecting empty coffee mugs. "Excuse me . . ."

"Yes, hon?"

"Can I get another low-fat mochaccino, please?"

The waitress, whose nametag proclaimed her as SALLY, gave her an apologetic look. "Sorry, hon, but we're getting ready to close."

"Oh." Feeling completely ditched now, Buffy sat back with a sigh. If Giles didn't feel that way about her, well okay, there was nothing she could do to change it. But if by her outburst at his apartment last night she had somehow destroyed even their very platonic friendship so that now he lied so he didn't have to spend time with her, then she knew she would just crawl under a rock and die. "Oh . . ."

"Friend or fan?" Sally asked astutely, tearing Buffy's check from her pad and sliding it onto the tabletop.

Buffy glanced up with a frown. "Excuse me?"

The waitress offered a knowing smile and slid herself into the other end of the booth. Putting down her tray of empties, she said, "Hon, I've seen that look enough times tonight to realize Rupert's no-show disappointed half our regular customers."

Enlightened by the news that Giles actually did have a scheduled gig and hence she wasn't as betrayed as she first thought, Buffy sat up a little straighter. "Giles--Rupert," she said, stumbling over the unfamiliar use of his given name. "He really was supposed to sing tonight?"

"Isn't that why you came?" Sally smiled saucily, giving Buffy the impression that she wasn't the only female in Sunnydale enamored with the errant Mr. Giles. "Half the women here only came to listen to him sing." She winked, punctuating the idea, then leaned close to whisper, "I suspect one or two of the men, too."

"So he didn't blow me off," Buffy murmured, her heart rising out of its gutter of self-despair. Given her previous feeling of betrayal and hopelessness, it was a ridiculously uplifting and giddy realization to know that Giles had not lied to her. He was supposed to sing tonight! He really did have 'other plans'!

So . . . where the heck was he?

'Ohmygod, something's happened to him!'

And being Sunnydale, she had no doubt it was something of the bad. The thought burst her happy bubble like a pin in a balloon. Giles was never late for a gig, nor was he a no-show to an appointment without an explanatory phone call. In a rushed movement that only aggravated her injured rib, Buffy grabbed her coat and slid out from behind the table. She clutched up her check, excused herself from the puzzled waitress, and rushed to the cashier to pay it.

If something nasty had happened to Giles while she had been throwing her little self-pity party, then she would never, ever forgive herself.

* * *

"Giles?" Buffy called, poking her head around his front door. It had been unlocked, but that was nothing out of the ordinary; a locked door would have rattled her more. Still, caution prevailed until she gave the place the thorough check. As she crept into the dark apartment, she guiltily wondered if she were rescuing her Watcher from an unknown fate, or just breaking and entering his home while he slept upstairs.

A high-pitched woman's scream made her jump a mile. Instinctively diving into action, Buffy rushed into the living room with her stake held ready, only to discover the source of the scream had been the television, where one of the local channels was broadcasting an all-night horror film fest for Halloween.

Relaxing only marginally, she moved forward in the flickering light, eyes alert and weapon raised, ready to take on whatever nasty jumped out at her. Probably not a vampire nasty, unless Giles had suddenly taken to inviting bloodsuckers in for high tea, but a nasty nonetheless. Sunnydale had lots of different kinds.

Something soft and gooey squashed underfoot. Shrugging off a silent 'eww', Buffy dropped to one knee to examine it. From the sweet cocoa smell, she identified the squishy mess on the rug as a patty of chocolate. More precisely, given the embedded silver tinfoil, a squashed Hershey's Kiss--the same Hershey's Kisses she had shared with Giles last night. She examined the rest of the surrounding area in the near darkness, finding lots of squashed patties and page-strewn books. Whatever had jumped him, had done so while he was eating Halloween candy . . .

'Or--' The thought stopped her cold. 'Or giving it out.'

Straightening, Buffy glanced at the television, and then back at the unlocked door, slowly putting the pieces together. Some big-ugly-nasty had jumped her Watcher under the pretense of getting him to open his door for trick or treat candy.

It sounded logical, given the spilled chocolate and the toppled towers of his beloved books, but as Buffy made a quick circuit of the downstairs rooms just to make sure Giles wasn't lying injured and unconscious in one of them, a nagging hole ate into her theory. As a rule, demons and vampires didn't venture out on Halloween--which wasn't to say they couldn't, just that they usually didn't--much less execute the kidnapping of her Watcher for no accountable reason. As she scooted up the stairs to check the bedroom loft, she wondered what the real deal was, because there was certainly something underhanded going on, and somebody was going to be sorry when she found out what.

With relief at not discovering a body, she returned to the living room to stand amidst the squashed chocolate and book mess. Giles' bedroom, like the rest of his house, was in pristine condition. The struggle had happened here, in the--

A white business envelope on the coffee table suddenly caught her eye. It had her name on it, the large block handwriting neat and precise, but unfamiliar. Diving for it, carelessly knocking aside one of the last upright stacks of books, Buffy ripped open one end. A single sheet of folded notepaper fell out, along with something that made a tight knot of fear clench her stomach. Choking back a sob, she unfolded the note to read it:

'Be at the maintenance hangar at the Sunnydale Airport by dawn, or I start sending him back in pieces.'

It was unsigned, but whoever wrote the demand obviously meant business, if the other item in the envelope was any indication. Staring at the small metal object in her hand, Buffy almost broke into tears. It was Giles' pinky ring, and thankfully--this time--his finger wasn't still in it . . .

* * *

It was a trap, of course. The whole thing reeked of a classic setup; hold the Watcher hostage and the Slayer will soon come charging to the rescue.

Buffy dropped into a crouch beside the brick pillar sign welcoming visitors to the Sunnydale Regional Airport, and scanned for signs of life--or unlife, as the case may be. Her sharp eyes skimmed across the deserted parking lot to the passenger terminal, which only saw moderate activity on a really good day. At 1:10am, it was totally deserted. The lone taxi rank was empty; the bus stop also devoid of any stragglers caught without a ride. Sunnydale didn't see big commercial jets fly in since the single runway wasn't long enough to accommodate them, rather just a few local private planes, and the odd commuter jet chartered by businessmen smart enough to skirt the mass confusion and costly delays of a stopover at LAX.

Luckily, there were no floodlights throwing annoying pools of light all over the place, just a few regular watt lamp poles dotted around at irregular intervals. In the dimness, she could just make out the middle section of the runway stretching horizontally past the front of the passenger terminal, its ends still concealed in the darkness to her left and right. The airport wasn't large enough or busy enough to warrant a proper control tower, so a limp windsock, standing bullseye in a large yellow circle out in midfield, was the sole sentry for pilot navigation.

To her left, probably a good quarter mile away, the distinct silhouetted hump of a large building rose out of the airfield grounds. This, she assumed from its remote position, must be her objective--the maintenance hangar. Three smaller hangars squatted around the larger one, these more than likely housing sleeping aircraft. A myriad of concrete roads crisscrossed the grass between the hangars and the terminal, like stone arteries of a silent heart; the taxiways and aprons needed to ferry planes and support vehicles from one point to another.

The entire airport was enclosed in an eight-foot high chain link fence, which might pose a problem to anyone lacking super Slayer agility. The only problem she could foresee was the possibility of a security van or a night watchman making rounds, and the airfield grounds, by design, didn't have any conveniently placed clumps of trees where she could hide or take cover. Foliage didn't go over real big with planes trying to land and take off. So she decided against trying to cross the open area inside the fence, but rather to skirt the perimeter on the civilian side, then vault the chain link somewhere closer to--or even behind--the maintenance hangar.

The target area now scoped and the semblance of an attack plan now formed, Buffy took final stock of her inventory. A wooden stake rested up each of her sleeves, and the vials of Holy water she had in the pockets of her jacket could be lobbed like grenades, if needed. Completing her arsenal was a loaded crossbow, her weapon of choice for this rescue mission since it was effective against vampires and demons alike. With its spare bolts cradled beneath the stock for fast reloading, the weapon was as efficient as it was deadly in her well-experienced hands.

Pausing, she pulled out the chain around her neck. On it, a new item joined her customary silver cross. Giles' ring. Absently holding it to her lips, Buffy knew it was time to 'go commando.' She frowned at the phrase: not that she was going to forego her underwear. It was just time to do this and do it right. It was time to rescue the man she loved.

Tucking away the chain and letting Giles' ring rest against her heart, Buffy silently pulled back from the brick WELCOME sign. She crossed the road running parallel outside the airfield, and cautiously started following the fence line while keeping to the safety and concealment of the brushes and shadows. Caution was the name of the game, even though her instinctive reaction after discovering Giles' abduction had been to go rushing to find him and to hell with whoever or whatever got in her way.

Her first impulse had been to fight, to kick some major vampire and/or demon ass. But the year she and Giles had spent exploring her inner Slayer had taught her how to harness the power of both her body and her mind. Following her emotions--fighting without thinking first--would only serve to get her killed, and in this case probably Giles, too. Stupidly taunting that vampire in the cemetery had shown her the wisdom of that, and she still had the busted rib to remind her.

As such, Buffy had first taken time to return home to gather her weapons and decide her course of action. Like an injured athlete preparing for a prize meet, she had taped her ribs to the best of her ability. At least now she could fight with a little less pain. She had also taken time to change her clothes, although this chiefly because the low cut, figure-hugging dress she had worn to The Espresso Pump was designed for winning a war of a different nature. Black was her chosen commando color; black leather pants, black turtleneck sweater, and black knee-length duster. With her blonde hair tucked securely into a matching black wool cap, she blended perfectly with the night, successfully making herself a hard target should the creeps holding Giles have the foresight, or the smarts, to post a lookout. They knew she was coming before sunrise, yes, but they didn't know exactly when, and she intended to use this small element of surprise as best she could.

The people--things--who had taken her Giles from her were so gonna pay!

Buffy stopped upon reaching her objective, squatting in the undergrowth across the road from the airport's perimeter fence. From this vantage, she scrutinized the back and nearside of maintenance hangar, set approximately two hundred yards inside the chain link. The building itself looked to be about three stories of camo-green sheet metal siding, with no windows and no discernable doors either. A shaded electric bulb hung at the apex of its roof in back, spilling an unwanted puddle of light onto the ground below, while the side of the hangar--the one she could see from her current angle--remained silhouetted in darkness. Presumably, the main door was around the front, with another light affixed at the roof's apex, if the diffuse glow peeking around the front corner was anything by which to judge.

There were no signs of movement of any kind or any indication that she was expected, let alone that this was even the right place. That suited her just fine; no witnesses limited civilian casualties. But how was she going to get in? Waltzing right through the front door was hardly her idea of a surprise attack.

Moving forward along the street, Buffy checked out the far side of the hangar. It too, was unlit and in darkness, but its sheet metal sides bore one distinct exception. A window, its wood-framed, frosted-glass pane hinged at the top, and propped open at the bottom by a metal support. It was set too high in the wall for a normal human to reach, much less use to gain access into the hangar, and Buffy was banking heavily on the fact that the creeps holding Giles had dismissed it as a plausible way in. If she could use it, then she could probably catch them off guard.

She frowned, not liking all the 'ifs' and 'probablys' in her battle plan, but the alternative at this point was to receive little pieces of Giles in the mail for years to come . . . and that was definitely not what she had in mind as a lasting relationship with him. Slinging the crossbow across her back, she approached the chain link fence. One silent jump, flip, and crouch landing later, she was in . . .

* * *

*SLAP!*

"Come on, old man. Wakie, wakie." Getting no response, Ethan sat back on his haunches and pouted. His prisoner, despite having his wrists bound behind the office chair on which he sat with a lovely pair of titanium handcuffs, was definitely spoiling the fun by remaining unconscious.

'Well, trial and error,' the sorcerer decided. 'One has to learn by one's mistake', which in this case had been to follow Tay's suggested dosage of the knockout drug in the capture of Watcher and Slayer. Vampire prat. Rupert's constitution was nowhere near as resilient as Buffy's. Half the dose would have felled a bloody horse; it would be a miracle if Rupert recovered by next week!

Grabbing Giles by the lapels of his black tuxedo, Ethan tried shaking him back to consciousness. He would never admit this mistake to his uneasy, undead ally. The bargain was for Watcher and Slayer, the undefeated, evil-fighting, super duo. The truth of the matter was that only half of the lady demon's intended hunting fodder possessed super-human powers, and the longer the ruse held the better Ethan's overall chances of coming out of this agreement alive.

Annoyed now, he raised his hand to deliver another sharp slap across the face. If Giles failed to wake up by tomorrow morning . . .

He was about to swing again when his captive roused groggily and dragged his head back to center. "Hit me again," Giles warned, his voice thick and his eyes unevenly open, "and I'll spit in your eye."

Ethan felt awash with genuine relief. "Welcome back." Giles' head lolled again as he fought to hold on to his elusive grip on reality, prompting Ethan to take his former friend's face in his hands in an attempt to tether him to the here-and-now. "Stay with me, Rupert, you don't want to miss all the fun."

Defiant, Giles rattled the handcuffs against the metal frame of the office chair. "I'm quite certain I don't like your idea of fun."

"Buffy's on her way," Ethan said with an amused smile, confident that the envelope he left had been discovered and duly acted upon. Leaving Rupert's ring with the demand had been an impulsive, yet ingenious, stroke--even if he did say so himself.

Enjoying the anxious look on captive's face, Ethan pushed to his feet. In an idle show of dominance, he turned his back on his prisoner, and looked out the window fronting one whole side of the maintenance hangar's tiny back office. Through it, he watched Tay and the two quill demons restlessly pace the oil-stained concrete between the stacked crates, tool carts, and other repair machinery as they awaited the Slayer's imminent arrival.

'Amateurs,' he thought disdainfully. Not one brain between all three. Not that he was overly concerned. If one, or all, happened to be dispatched during the impending battle, then it would save him a whole lot of trouble.

Ethan's gaze flicked less confidently to the small private jet parked near the massive rolling doors at the front of the hangar. It had been refueled and stood waiting to fly them back to the hunting lodge out in--well, he wasn't entirely sure of its location, since he, much like his own prisoners, had been taken there while drugged and in handcuffs. The nighttime flight back into Sunnydale had yielded few landmarks useful to plot a course, just lots of blackness broken by unhelpful clumps of lights as they flew over small towns. Given the flight time to southern California, his best guess was somewhere out in eastern Wyoming or west Washington State. Wherever the hunting lodge was really didn't matter, because it was undeniably out in the proverbial middle of the nowhere.

It was not a place to where Ethan was eager to return, but the choice was out of his hands. Any indication that he was not loyal to Milady's cause, and the vampire would gleefully have him for lunch. Unlike the usual lot of basically stupid demons and vampires he had encountered in his time, the lady huntress and her minions were remarkable advanced in the technology department. He had glimpsed some rather impressive hardware at the hunting lodge, and even now, Tay kept in close contact with his mistress via cellphone. Not to mention the private jet.

Ethan's reluctant gaze traveled over the sleek, white fuselage again. The pilot--another human reluctantly doing Milady's bidding in exchange for his life--was already on board, unwilling to engage in physical combat, but rather insisting he was just there to fulfill his end of the bargain as soon as the other half of the cargo arrived . . . which, if Ethan knew Buffy Summers and her unfailing devotion to her Watcher, would not be too much longer. Perhaps, if Buffy disposed of the other three, the pilot could be bought, for a price . . .

"Is that what this is all about?" Despite his lethargic condition, Giles roused himself to give a good show of snorting in disbelief. "Buffy will know it's a trap."

"Of course, she'll know," Ethan agreed testily. With his luck, Buffy would surrender rather than see Giles hurt, and he would have to go through with this entire little charade just to keep breathing. His own escape plans on hold, he returned to stand in front of his drowsy prisoner. "But that won't stop her from coming."

"You overestimate her. She won't risk--"

"No, Ripper, you underestimate her. She'll come, regardless of the risk, because you are the single most important person in her world."

That comment made Giles lift his head. The truth flashed across his face--a telling mix of love, fear, concern, and surprise--only to be quickly hidden behind the Council trained façade of a defiant-to-the-end Watcher.

Ethan raised a thoughtful eyebrow. The realization was unexpected, but beneficial. The affection between Watcher and Slayer was not only real, but mutual. Judging from Giles' expression, it was a great deal more than just a working relationship or a close friendship. For some reason, that amused him. "Good Lord, Rupert, does Buffy know you're in love with her?"

"Sod off."

"Well, well . . . looks as if this little exercise is going to include an entertainment factor, after all," Ethan said almost gleefully. This news changed everything. He might actually even find himself enjoying what was to come. Grabbing the armrests of the office chair, he swiveled his bound prisoner around 180 degrees, so that Giles now faced the room's only window. "You understand, old man, it's nothing personal. It's just that I value my life above yours and Buffy's--wait, I suppose that rather does make it personal, doesn't it?"

"Go to hell, Ethan," Giles managed, his eyes drooping to half-lids and his chin hitting his chest as unconsciousness called.

He chuckled. "Not for a very long time to come, I hope."

On the other side of the office window, a crossbow bolt zinged down from above and nailed one of the quill demons in the head. The beast toppled forward soundlessly, falling stiffly and rather dead at the feet of its very stunned looking cohorts. Ethan smirked; the Slayer had just arrived. After a few stunned seconds of immobility, the remaining demon and the vampire scurried to take cover, Tay yelling for Ethan to get his butt out there as the demon surprised everyone by shooting the quills from its back and arms like a rain of poison-tipped darts.

The ensuing noise, like machine gun fire as the bony quills hit the metal walls of the hangar, made Giles stir. He attempted to lift his chin from his chest, but the drug in his bloodstream was winning fast. As such, he only succeeded in lolling his head from one side to the other, and never quite opened his eyes.

None too eager to join the fray despite the vampire calling threats of what would happen if he didn't, Ethan grabbed Giles' hair and yanked his head back, forcing him to watch the action being played out in the hangar. Buffy gracefully descended into view via the stack of wooden crates, kicking and punching in a tornado of Slayer-dealt-death even before her feet hit the ground. She had obviously found the window, just as he expected she would. His obedient-but-supremely-stupid lackeys deserved to be staked, dolts that they were.

Bending over his prisoner, Ethan spoke softly in Giles' ear. "Don't worry, Ripper, in light of your news, I promise to give you and your lady love a sporting chance."

There was no response, and it was with some annoyance that Ethan realized his gloating was falling on deaf ears; Giles had slipped back into a drug-induced stupor.

Throwing the man's head forward, Ethan turned, allowing Buffy to pummel the others while he calmly retrieved a weapon from the blotter on the office desk. Picking up the sleek handgun, his index finger curling naturally around the trigger, he briefly wondered which course of action was truly in his best interest; fighting the Slayer or joining forces with her. In truth, he might have seriously considered changing sides, if not for the fact that the gun, as Tay made a point to tell him, had only one bullet in it. He couldn't take all of them with that. Best to stick with the winning team . . . at least while they were winning.

Face grim, Ethan returned to his unconscious prisoner. Stranding behind Giles' chair, he raised the gun, and used his one and only bullet to shoot out the glass-paned office window. The reverberating sound of it shattering, the glass raining on the concrete floor, stopped the fighting in the hangar cold. This unexpected timeout left the second quill demon down for the count beside its deceased chum, and the vampire dazed and cowering from a severe beating by a supremely pissed off Slayer demanding to see her Watcher.

Now that he had their undivided attention, and knowing his only chance was to bluff this out, Ethan thrust the barrel of this gun against Giles' temple and donned one of his most charming smiles. "Buffy, how lovely of you to join us . . ."

* * *

Buffy's heart sat in her throat like a cold, hard lump. She stood facing the paint-peeled hangar wall, with her hands flat against the cold metal and feet spread apart. Defenseless as this posture was, concern rose not for herself, but for Giles. Her worried eyes kept darting to his unconscious, slumped form, dressed in a tuxedo and handcuffed to the office chair on her right. In the wake of all that had happen that night, she had forgotten she was supposed to be angry with him for rejecting her. There would be time to hash that out later, when they got out of this . . . if they got out of this.

"I swear," she warned for the third time since surrendering to Ethan and his pet monsters, "if you've hurt him--"

"No need for threats," Ethan said. He began frisking her for concealed weapons. Buffy hated that smug tone, almost as much as she hated the feel of his hands slowly sliding over her body. What she wouldn't give to knock that smirk right down his throat. "I assure you, Rupert is perfectly fine . . . with the possible exception of being unconscious."

He easily found both wooden stakes hidden up her sleeves and neatly divested her of them. Likewise, he took the vials of Holy water she had in stashed her coat pockets. But his search pushed the boundaries of what even she would tolerate when it moved to the inside of her coat. Only the thin knit of her turtleneck sweater kept Ethan's hands from her bare skin, and just the thought was enough to make Buffy squirm uncomfortably.

"Relax, love," he crooned in her ear. "Just pretend I'm Rupert."

"You wish."

"No, dear Buffy," he said in a wickedly amused tone, "you wish."

She bit down on her lip. Feeling violated but nonetheless helpless, Buffy looked at Giles' slumped form again. It would not do either of them any good for her to lose her temper now, but boy, Ethan would so pay for this humiliating treatment later.

Ethan patted the same area twice, obviously feeling the tape strapping her injured ribs. For reasons of his own, he chose not to reveal this weakness to the others, and instead continued his search. When his unwanted touch moved determinedly upwards, her skin started to crawl. Defiant despite her subservient position, Buffy batted his hands away as they deliberately cupped her breasts.

She turned to glare at him, having had enough. "Playtime's over."

"Uh-uh . . . temper."

"You're a pig, Ethan."

"Perhaps, but I'm the pig with the weapon currently pointed at your old man's head," he said meaningfully, nodding over to where his vampire crony held her loaded crossbow at Giles' temple.

Trepidation rattled through her again. It worried her that Giles hadn't stirred. He hardly even looked to be breathing.

"As you'd do well to remember," Ethan continued, as she grudgingly resumed her position facing the wall.

Buffy drew in a breath and held it, her body stiffening as he recommenced his intimate exploration. She was about to whack one of his wandering hands again, or grab it and flip him and really teach him a lesson, when she felt him surreptitiously slip something into the inner breast pocket of her duster. Something that felt a lot like one of her vials of Holy water. Clearly, he'd palmed it during his examination, but why was he sneaking it back to her? Why would Ethan give her a potential weapon like that? Maybe for the same reason he hadn't revealed her injured rib to his cronies? It wasn't much, but any Slayer worth her salt could easily blind the nearby vampire with a well-aimed throw of Holy water. All she needed was the right moment, when the vamp inadvertently moved the aim of the crossbow away from its present target.

Ethan withdrew his hands without speaking another word, and, sensing the full body inspection was finally over, Buffy turned to face him at close quarters. Their eyes met in a brief yet meaningful moment that told her he didn't like this anymore than she did. Well, maybe he liked it a little bit more than she did, on account that he'd just groped her, but his expression was clear; he wanted out, and he wanted her to help him.

She almost laughed. She couldn't believe his nerve, treating her in such a demeaning way and then expecting her to help save his butt from . . . whatever he'd gotten himself into this time. Her gaze wandered to the impatient-looking vampire and his prickly, overgrown hedgehog buddy. Correction: whatever Ethan had gotten them all into this time.

Taking a step back, the sorcerer turned to his waiting minions to announce, "She's clean."

"Okay," Buffy said, wondering if she could really trust a slimeball like Ethan Rayne to back her up if and when she made her move, "now that we're reacquainted, mind telling me what this is all about?"

"It's about survival," Ethan said, then smiled conceitedly. "Mine, chiefly. You see I'm in a bit of a bind, one which I can't escape without the help of Rupert and yourself."

"Let me take a moment to pretend I care, then ask, to do what? When are you going to tell me what's really going on here?"

Giles stirred with an almost incoherent mumble that sounded like the word "trap", drawing Buffy's immediate attention.

"Giles!" She rushed over to him, completely indifferent to the vampire brandishing the crossbow, or what Ethan Rayne would make of her obvious concern.

Buffy roughly pushed the vampire guard out of her way and crouched by the office chair in which Giles sat slumped. Despite the insanity of such a decision, it was clear Ethan was in charge of this mastermind plan, and that whatever dastardly deed he had in store, it required her and Giles to be taken alive. As such, she gambled the vampire wouldn't shoot, even if provoked.

She was right. "Watch it, blondie," was the only retort. The spiky demon didn't move either, so she dismissed them both as no immediate threat and concentrated on trying to rouse the man handcuffed to the chair before her.

"Giles, are you okay? Can you hear me?" Her back to present company, Buffy gently took Giles' face in her hands, holding his head up so that all he had to do was open his eyes. But he didn't open his eyes, and that scared her more than anything else. "Giles!"

"I told you, he's fine," came Ethan's nonchalant tone from behind her.

"What did you do to him?" Reluctant to leave Giles' side, Buffy spun around on the balls of her feet . . . just in time to see Ethan swing a hypodermic needle at her. It all happened so fast; one moment she was the one doing the defiant glaring, the next she was reeling, off balance without a chance of blocking his attack, going down under the impact of being hit in the neck with a loaded syringe.

Despite her turtleneck, Ethan's aim found its mark. He pushed home the plunger and withdrew the needle in a single, elegant motion, his face set in a cold, calculating glare. Buffy exchanged a kiss with the gritty, oil-stained concrete, before pulling herself back to a sitting position. Hand instinctively covering the pinprick on her neck, she shot Ethan a look that was part surprise and part 'now I'm gonna kill you'. Calling on her Slayer strength, she flipped her legs out and sprang to her feet, satisfied by the blink of total surprise that crossed his face. Without missing a beat, she punched him in the jaw.

This time, it was Ethan's turn to go spinning off balance, right into the stack of wooden crates she had used as steps to gain access down into the hangar. Wincing slightly at the pain the movement caused her injured rib, Buffy focused on Ethan, aware that his lackeys seemed reluctant to join in the game this time. Happy about that, she planted her feet and brought up her fists, letting him stand before she grabbed him by the front of his spiffy tailored shirt, and hoisted him back around for another thrashing.

"Is this what you did to Giles, too?" she asked angrily, pulling the empty syringe from Ethan's now limp fingers. She dropped it to the concrete and crushed it under her boot, before grabbing his shirtfront again.

"Now now, Buffy . . . no need for violence. Especially when it's done to me."

"You should have thought of that before you jabbed me in the jugular." Using both hands, Buffy shook him, pleased by his grimace and unmanly whimper of pain. She not only had hold of his shirt, but a little of the chest hair underneath. She was just about to kick his ass again, when quite unexpectedly, her vision blurred and her knees buckled. She wobbled as the world took a teeter to the right, but quickly shook it off, ready to pound Ethan Rayne into next week. Whatever he had just injected into her bloodstream had started to take effect, and instinct told her that she didn't have much time. "What was in the needle, Ethan? Tell me!"

"I say, are you all right?" he asked, stalling, although Buffy knew his concern was not for her well-being. The snake was just weighing his survival odds with her waning condition.

Another wave of blackness washed over her, stronger this time, swift and absolute. It hit with the force of a wipeout, and then proceeded to drag little bits of her away into a waiting sea of unconsciousness. With it, Buffy found her grip on Ethan's shirt turning from menacing, to necessary. More annoyingly, the more she faltered, the more his fear began to recede and his confidence returned. Anxious, she looked up into his dark eyes.

"Talk . . . or I start with the fisticuffs," she said, sounding a lot meeker than just a moment ago. Her strength had started to evaporate at an alarming rate.

Ethan noticed too. Holding her gaze, his hands moved to take hold of her arms. It was with angry frustration that Buffy found herself hanging onto him now for the sole purpose of staying upright. Just as abruptly, the muscles in her neck failed to support the weight of her head. It lolled backwards, prompting Ethan to pull off her black wool cap. Her blonde hair tumbled free, alive with static, down over her shoulders. She cringed when he entwined his fingers in the silkiness of it, under the pretense of a lover's caress.

"It's a fast-acting sedative," he finally told her, lifting her head to maintain eye contact with him. "Derived, I'm told, from ancient organic compounds. Dreadfully effective in high doses, but nonetheless quite harmless. The trick, dear Buffy, is that harder your body works at whipping my arse, the faster your heart pumps it through your system."

Ethan smiled, pleased. As her legs completely gave out from under her, he slid an arm around her waist, his other hand still gently holding her head. Buffy tried to glare, but at this point, it was all she could do to simply keep her eyes open. Her body had rapidly declined to a jelly-like state, and it was now by Ethan's strength alone that she remained--more or less--on her feet. Even her grip on his shirt had gone lax, her arms falling uselessly to her sides in quick succession. Within a minute, the balance between them had shifted, the dominant becoming the dominated, the aggressor becoming the subservient.

"Don't fight it," he said, knowing she was close to losing consciousness. "Let it come."

"Bite me," Buffy retorted in a thick, slurred voice.

Ethan kissed her forehead. "Love to," he leered, still supporting her in his arms. "Some other time."

The power of speech and a snappy comeback eluded her, whisked off to that dreamlike place where her strength had already gone. Then she was limp in his arms, entirely at his mercy, struggling to fight the growing fuzziness in her mind as the blackness doggedly pressed in. She had to remain conscious. Even if she couldn't physically fight him. She had to.

"Not to worry," he whispered, his lips close to hers. Buffy's last sensations were of Ethan lifting her off her feet, and the hard little buttons on his shirt pressing into her cheek. "It will wear off by morning. I think."

Ethan moved with her, carrying her . . . somewhere. She had no idea where he was headed, only that his change in direction allowed her one last bleary glimpse of Giles, still unconscious and bound to his office chair.

'God, he looks good in a tux,' was the last thought Buffy's fogged brain formed, before the waiting dark nothingness took her.

* * *

Giles floated in a peaceful, warm place, halfway between conscious reality and his wildest dreams. Content, he let his fingers play with the pliable ball of flesh resting in his palm. Its weight was comfortably familiar to him, despite his never having touched it before, for it was the very substance of his most erotic fantasies.

Usually such fantasies were a lot less . . . tangible. Usually they were nothing more than reckless desires born in the darkness of a lonely bed, nothing he could actually feel, or reach out to touch. As such, his fingers devoured the globe of pleasure presently within his grasp, delicately tracing around its soft knit covering until he found the hardened nub at its peak.

His tender assault drew a wanton moan from the woman he loved, so soft yet so bloody audible that he could have sworn she was actually lying there with him. He nuzzled her hair, believing he could really smell its fresh scent as it lay fanned on his pillow, really feel the heat of her glorious body as she slept spooned against his chest. Even in the realm of half-sleep, he was acutely aware of the position of her derriere and his own eager response. To lay with her like this, even in fantasy, made his body react in ways that would put a hormonally charged schoolboy to shame. The entire fantasy was so delightfully real that Giles decided if he never woke up it would be too soon.

She shifted, restless as she surfaced toward the waking world, prompting him to cuddle her closer.

"Relax, love. Just pretend," he murmured, reluctant to let her leave the dream. Leave him.

She moved in his arms again, and although unwilling to let reality into this marvelous delusion, it came regardless . . . in the form of her fist in his face.

With a startled yelp, Buffy leapt from his arms and off the bed. She took up an immediate stance of self-defense, her eyes darting in confusion from such an abrupt awakening.

Giles sat up, holding his nose and grumpily letting go of his fantasy. "Ow," he said, raising an eyebrow at her.

"Giles!" Buffy said in recognition. She faltered slightly, and in an instinctive yet telling gesture, threw an arm across her chest. If nothing else, her body language confirmed exactly what his enthusiastic fingers had found to fondle.

Giles was instantly mortified. It hadn't been a dream! It had actually happened! He really had played with her . . . "Oh dear Lord," he murmured around his hand. "Buffy, I--"

"I am so sorry about that," she said, beating him to an apology. She nodded at the hand he still had pressed to his injured nose. "About punching you. I just . . . I thought you were Ethan. Again."

"Ethan?" Giles asked with a frown. He dropped his hand. Surely, she didn't mean . . .? "Ethan touched your--?" The blood drained from his face at the very thought, his male ego choosing jealousy over the more humiliating fact that he had just groped his Slayer in her sleep. He threw his legs off the bed in preparation of standing. "I'll bloody kill him!"

"No!" Buffy stayed him in a sitting position with nothing more than a hand on his shoulder. She grimaced at the pain this rash movement caused, and pressed her other hand to her side in order to combat it. "It's okay. He didn't--it was nothing."

Turning slowly, she lowered herself to sit on the bed at his side, the hand on his shoulder sliding down his arm before coming to rest on the top of his leg.

"Buffy?" Giles asked, concern immediately dousing his anger.

"I'm okay. Just got a little dented on patrol the other night," she admitted. "No big." Her eyes found his at close quarters, making him feel vulnerable without his glasses to hide behind. "How about you? Last time I saw you, you were doing a pretty good imitation of an unconscious man handcuffed to a chair in an airplane hangar."

"Better," he said, realizing that whatever knockout drug Ethan had used on him had, thankfully, started to work its way out of his system. His muscles still felt a little sluggish, but that could have simply been the stiffness that came from sleeping in one position for an undetermined length of time. Mentally, he felt reasonably alert. "Almost back to full steam, in fact."

"Good. You had me really worried for a while."

Giles held her caring gaze for a long moment before glancing away. "It was a trap, Buffy," he said, trying to sound stern, if only to quell the undercurrent of desire still rippling between them. "You should have known that. You shouldn't have come."

"I did know. And I came to rescue you." Buffy paused, sheepishly looking at the closed doors and the four walls surrounding them. "Although . . . I guess the last part didn't exactly work out how I'd planned."

Giles finally took in the unfamiliar bedroom in which they found themselves, squinting a little without his glasses. It was small but cozy, complete with a crackling fire in the fireplace at the foot of the double bed, and expensive-looking antiques adorning the polished log walls. The single window had been shuttered up from the outside, allowing neither external light nor the possibility of escape, and the electric bulb overhead was either turned off or non-functioning.

Gaze coming full circle, Giles found himself captivated by Buffy's profile in the amber glow of firelight. He was momentarily awestruck by her ethereal beauty, so much like his most ardent fantasies made real, before he shook off those dangerous emotions and concentrated on the problem at hand.

"Do you have any idea where we are? Did you see where they brought us?" he asked, returning his hand to his injured nose. It was by miracle alone that it wasn't bleeding all over his rented tux, considering Buffy had walloped him good with her Slayer strength--not that he hadn't thoroughly deserved it. Without an icepack to apply, swelling and bruising were still distinct possibilities for later.

Buffy shook her head in answer, setting her golden hair in a quick flurry of motion. "Nope. Ethan nailed me with his knockout drug, too. Didn't see or know a thing, until I woke up here to find you with your hands on my . . . " Her voice trailed off, embarrassment making it impossible for her to mention his accidental intimacy. "Whatever he had in that syringe, though, I think it's worn off," she continued quickly, changing the subject to spare them both the awkwardness. "I feel like a fully functional Slayer."

"As my pummeled sinuses will no doubt attest."

Buffy grimaced in sympathy. "Sorry."

Giles raked a hand though his hair. The sagging mattress on which they sat effectively shoved his left thigh flush against her right. With her hand still resting nonchalantly on his leg, and in the wake of his unintentional caress, it was becoming harder and harder to ignore the sensations she was stirring in him. The position was a prime example of the sort of casual familiarity they had grown to accept, but also the reason behind her tearful departure from his home the night before Halloween. Suddenly mindful of the fact that Buffy wanted him to touch her in a manner similar to the way he had just subconsciously done, Giles shifted to introduce a noticeable gap on the mattress between them. Nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to act on his feelings, but with the prophecies of the Pergamum Codex hanging over their lives like a gray cloud of doom, it was pointless to even consider it.

Unwilling to let him move too far away, Buffy grabbed his hand, the action effectively staying him and drawing his gaze back to hers. "Giles?" she began timidly. "It's okay . . . that you, um, touched me. Just now. On the bed."

Stumped for a way to express his true feelings in a manner that wouldn't make the situation even more difficult, Giles went with flippancy instead. "I rather think your fist and my nose think otherwise." Off her shy grin, he continued to dissuade her interest, for her own good. "I'm afraid I was dreaming of . . . of a woman I used to know . . . um, rather well, in fact," he lied, fabricating as he went. "In England. I-in my Ripper days."

"Oh. See, I kinda hoped that maybe--"

"I truly do apologize for my behavior, Buffy," he cut in, before she got her hopes up and he was again forced to shoot them down. "It must have been a side effect of Ethan's drug. It shan't happen again. I promise."

Buffy tried but failed to hide her disappointment behind the cheerfulness of their normal banter. "And you're a man who always keeps his promises, aren't you."

"Always," Giles agreed with a smile, hating himself. There was so much he wanted to say to her, so much he couldn't. Instead, he squeezed her fingers; the gesture intended to convey his devotion and love, but not his desire.

"Lucky me," Buffy said, looking down at their joined hands.

Giles glanced down too. He needed to focus his thoughts elsewhere, before her disillusionment made him do something they would both later regret. It was then, while looking down at the hand he still held, that he noticed a shiny silver band peeking out from under the left cuff of his tuxedo sleeve. "Hello . . ."

Frowning, but nonetheless grateful for the distraction, he pulled back his cuff to find a smooth, polished bracelet, about two inches wide and as thick as a coin, encircling his left wrist. It did not appear to have a clasp to open, even though its snug fit would have made it impossible to slip on over his hand without one. It bore no markings or moveable parts that he could see, just a solid band that looked metallic, but was as light as plastic and felt as soft as cashmere. Giles would have said it had been precision welded in place while he slept, if not for the fact that it did not appear to have a join of any kind--welded, hinged, locked, latched, or otherwise.

With a curious look, Buffy held up her arm. She pushed back the sleeve of her coat to reveal an identical-looking bracelet fitted snugly around her right wrist. "Gee," she said in a sarcastic tone, "matching manacles. Couldn't they have just got us 'his and hers' bath towels?"

Giles continued to study the silvery band around his wrist, searching for a hidden release mechanism or trigger to pop it open. "Doesn't appear to have a catch," he announced after a futile moment. He gave the thing an experimental tug, but there was no chance of it coming off over his hand in one solid piece. "How odd."

"Guess they put these on us while we were sleeping, huh," Buffy said, also trying to dislodge the unwanted bracelet, but to no avail. Hers too, had been form-fitted to her wrist by an unknown means. She gave up with a groan of frustration, and astutely asked, "Magic?"

"I don't know," Giles admitted. "Although with Ethan involved, I'd say that's a likely assumption."

"What do you suppose they're for?" Buffy asked, now studying her bracelet at arm's length, as if it were a new and fashionable piece of jewelry. "It's actually kinda . . . nice."

"I very much doubt their purpose is purely decorative," Giles warned. He shrugged, clueless, having never seen or read about the likes of such before. "Perhaps they're some sort of . . . identification? Marking us as 'chosen' for an indeterminate ritual?"

Buffy dropped her wrist and shot him a long-suffering look. "If by that you mean we're some sort of sacrifice, I don't want to hear it."

"No no, I expect if Ethan truly intended to do us harm, we'd already be dead." Pausing thoughtfully, Giles tugged at his black bowtie, letting the ends fall, undone, onto his chest. He undid the top few buttons of his white dress shirt as he considered their predicament. If he were to be a prisoner, then he may as well be a comfortable prisoner. "Which begs the question, how long have we been here? Wherever that may be."

"Well," Buffy said, studying his face at close range, "judging from your so outdated Miami Vice look, I'd say pretty long. Which also explains why I gotta pee so bad."

Giles' hand went to his jaw, feeling the healthy growth of beard. She was right. It felt as if he hadn't shaved in days.

"And I'm hungry," Buffy complained. "I could eat a horse--no, an elephant--no, a whale! Figuratively speaking, that is."

"I'm not certain my calling 'room service' would do any good," Giles quipped, his own stomach growling at the notion of food. He motioned at the bedroom's two closed doors that stood side by side only a few yards apart. "But I dare say one of those leads to some sort of rudimentary ablution facility."

"Which in English translates to . . .?"

Despite the situation, Giles smiled with genuine affection. Buffy could always make him smile, just by being herself. Sometimes, if he were to be honest, he only used big words in order to garner just such a reaction. "A bathroom."

"Oh good!" Buffy hopped to her feet, paying for her enthusiasm with another painful twinge in her side. She pulled up short, and without turning to see if he had noticed, doggedly clamped her hand on her ribs before crossing to the nearest of the two solid wood doors.

Giles watched her try the door handle of the first, absently scratching at the bracelet on his wrist. It had started to irritate him a little, his skin underneath prickling slightly.

"Locked," Buffy announced. "I guess that's the door to freedom."

"Try the other."

She did, pleased when it opened easily under her touch. Darkness hovered at the threshold, until she reached in, felt around, and snapped on a light switch. "Hey! You were right with your rudimentary blue thing, even though it's actually decorated in earthy greens and browns."

He grinned, amused, watching her disappear inside the tiny water closet and shut the door.

Within mere seconds of her departure, the itch beneath his bracelet escalated to a point where it could no longer be ignored. Realizing he had been scratching the same spot ever since Buffy had moved off the bed, Giles re-examined the wristband with renewed curiosity. Even as he spun the thing around on his arm, looking for clues, the prickling sensation grew from being simply annoying, to a tad more painful, to then culminate in a mind-numbing, teeth-rattling jolt akin to sticking his fingers in an electrical socket.

He cried out in agony, at the precise moment a scream of blood-curdling proportions erupted from behind the bathroom door. Too late Giles realized that both bracelets were giving off the exact same sensations.

"Buffy!" He rose with effort, teeth clenched as he battled the almost unbearable stabbing pain, and lurched for the closed door. He grabbed the handle, supremely grateful to find Buffy had forgone modesty and left it unlocked. Without a thought to her privacy, he pushed it open with such force that it bounced against the inside wall. He stopped the rebound with his foot, his eyes quickly traveling down to where she huddled, fully clothed, beneath the tiny porcelain sink. He reached to gather her up into his arms, but found his strength finally sapped by the throbbing ache, and instead ended up sitting entwined with her on the cold tile.

Quite unexpectedly, the torture stopped.

"What," Buffy asked, shaken, "was that? I feel as if I've just been struck by lightning."

"I know. Me too."

Buffy pulled out of his protective embrace, and stared at her now-hated bracelet. "It was this," she said accusingly. "Except that . . . when you came in, it stopped."

Giles nodded, not liking any of the conclusions he had started to draw. It was true that the annoyance had started the moment they had parted company. It grew in severity as the space between them increased, and then stopped--abruptly--the instant they were reunited. "I have a sneaking suspicion that your initial reaction to these bloody things was extremely accurate."

Buffy pushed her hair back over her ear, backtracking their conversation in her mind. Finally, she got it, coming to the same assumption as him. "They are manacles!"

"I'm afraid so," Giles agreed. They climbed to their feet, both studying the unassuming silvery bands on their respective wrists, horrified they might activate again, regardless of the other's proximity. The excruciating pain was something neither was keen to have repeated. "And while there is no physical chain between the cuffs, we nonetheless appear to be tethered to one another as if there were."

"So the further the distance between us, the greater the pain and punishment?"

"It would appear so, yes."

"Great." She put her hands on her hips in a defiant gesture he had come to know well. "Then stay there, but turn around, because I still gotta pee."

"What? Oh, right. Quite." Obligingly, he turned his back, giving her a modicum of privacy.

Trying not to listen, Giles again turned his attention to the bracelet on his left wrist. If he ever got his hands around Ethan Rayne's throat, God help the man for pulling a prank like this. His ex-friend's timing, as usual, was bloody impeccable, right when Buffy was pining for him to give in to her needs and wants, and when the prophecies of the Codex made it impossible for him to comply. No, for Buffy sake, he would have to try much harder to maintain a respectable distance. Especially difficult after that incident on the bed, which he believed he'd nipped fairly well in the bud, and now this. Now they couldn't leave each other's side for any reason whatsoever.

Giles glared at his bracelet, dreading the thing would be his ultimate undoing. The coming hours, perhaps days, were going to prove a true test of his strength of will, because Ethan and his bloody magic shackles had just made temptation a hell of a lot more difficult to resist.