"Matched Set" ~ Chapter 5

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 5

Giles spotted it first, and when he told her there was 'a cabin up ahead' Buffy almost broke into tears. In truth, 'cabin' was way too nice a word. It was little more than an abandoned shack, but even so, it offered shelter and the much needed chance to rest.

By the time they had actually got what passed for a door open and then secured again behind them, the sun was nearing mid-morning, completely destroying what little cover they had found in the twilight. Not that there had been any sign of the Xazax huntress or any of her lackeys. Maybe they had outwitted them, although Buffy didn't think so. There was still a battle coming, and before it did, she needed some serious downtime with her regenerative Slayer powers.

While Giles and Ethan did the manly thing and investigated the small interior for food and supplies, Buffy took the opportunity to collapse on the dusty cot she spied in one corner. Her ribs throbbed. It seemed as if they had been trudging uphill and down dale for a day, but in reality, it had only been a few hours. Her empty belly rumbled in protest from the lack of food to come its way in the past forty-something hours, and her wet clothes, previously the cause of painful shivers, had dried just enough to chafe her skin in places she was not readily going to admit.

She was grateful when, from her sideways position on the cot, she spotted Giles tending an ancient-looking woodstove with kindling and a match. Within minutes, he expertly had a fire going and welcomed warmth filling the room. Ethan, she noted, had unearthed a cache of canned food in a small kitchenette area, and was busy providing comic relief as he desperately tried to open one, first with his bare hands and then with the corner of a rickety wooden table, which together with its lone chair happened as the only other furniture in their quaint little home away from home.

Her gaze returned to her man, as he stripped off his wet tuxedo jacket to warm his goose-fleshed skin against the fire he had just lit.

'Her man.'

Buffy smiled at her phrasing, her shameless gaze devouring a tantalizing curve of muscle beneath his damp dress shirt. Unfortunately, she knew that despite his personal discomfort in those wet clothes, modesty would prevent him from shedding any more in present company. Instead, Giles took up the argument with Ethan, easily winning possession of the can of food and then finding something sensible with which to open the lid.

Her smile was one of contentment, despite the situation, despite her injured ribs. Giles had confessed that he loved her, and, remembering the way she had first awoken in his arms in the hunting lodge, she was pretty sure he meant as a woman, not as a Slayer or a friend. He loved her as she loved him; all hearts and flowers and the sound of a thousand violins.

But her smile slipped a bit as the inevitable pang of doubt crept in. Maybe he only said it because he wanted the stupid bracelet off his wrist. But Ethan said they were held in place by a 'love pact'. Surely the spell wouldn't have worked unless he truly meant it?

Noting 'her man' heading across the room toward her cot, Buffy buried her doubts and sat up to meet him.

Giles squatted at her side, offering a smile and a spoonful of food from the opened can he had taken from Ethan. "Hungry?"

It had the distinctive, spicy aroma of corned beef hash, and cold or not, Buffy's mouth watered at the prospect of real food. "Thanks." She took the can, greedily consuming half of its greasy meat and potatoes before she spoke again. "Sorry," she said sheepishly, offering him the spoon, "you want some?"

"The pantry is well stocked," Giles confirmed, flicking his head to where Ethan had settled down with another can to devour a cold meal of his own. "You eat."

Buffy did not have to be told twice, and set about finishing off the remainder of the can. "Just as well this place has food," she said conversationally between mouthfuls.

"Yes," Giles agreed thoughtfully. "It's rather well equipped, actually, for a shack out in the middle of nowhere."

"You think there's an owner . . . who may come back?"

In answer, Giles patted the bedcovers of the cot on which she sat, sending a cloud of dust into the air and proving a point. "I suspect this place has been abandoned for quite some time. I don't think anyone will be popping in unannounced. Still, it would probably be prudent--"

"Well, I--for one--don't care if a new hellmouth opens up under the floorboards," Buffy announced, pushing the empty can at him and lowering herself back down on the cot. She winced, until she found a reasonably comfortable position. "Now I'm fed, I need some serious Slayer rest."

"How are your ribs?" Giles asked gently.

"Broken."

Giles pursed his lips, clearly concerned. She was in no condition to take on the Xazax or the hunting party, and they both knew it. "Perhaps there's a first aid kit--some tape we can use to strap them. Why don't you--" He hesitated, looking away before continuing. "Why don't you get out of those wet clothes, and I'll see what I can find."

He went to move away, but Buffy stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Giles?" She sat up again, waiting until his reluctant gaze swung back to hers. Despite her love for this man, the awkwardness of the moment still made her blush. "Good advice and all, but . . . I think I might, um, need a hand in the, er, undressing department."

His mouth opened in mortification, but no words came out.

"Turtleneck sweater and all," she concluded quickly. And it was the truth. In her present condition, she doubted her ability to get the thing off over her head without causing herself unnecessary pain. "Would you help me? Please?"

The red went right up to his hairline. Looking like he would die of acute embarrassment, he nodded and stood without answering, his eyes focusing everywhere but on her. "Y-yes. O-of course."

Buffy clambered back to her feet one last time before rest, unable to remember when Giles had last been so flustered that he resorted to his old fuddy-duddy stutters. She faced him, letting her damp leather duster slip from her shoulders and onto the floor. Something fleeting crossed his face, a brief glimpse of an emotion she had never seen before. But it was gone before she could fully identify it, replaced by customary expression of her trusty, moral-to-the-core Watcher. He gave her an awkward smile, ready to help despite his obvious discomfit.

"Go for it, Ripper," Ethan called gleefully, proving himself a spectator despite Buffy's unspoken wish that the man just drop dead.

With an annoyed half-glance behind him, Giles stepped around Buffy to grab the blanket from the cot. He spent a moment reaching and stretching to drape the thing over the exposed rafters, making a small, triangular area of privacy. Unfortunately, the price for this privacy was restricted space, so Buffy and Giles found themselves facing each other in very close quarters.

The unexpected intimacy of the moment did not escape them. Together, they ignored Ethan's growl of, "Spoiled sports," their eyes locked in indecision and their bodies at a standstill.

Finally, Buffy made the first move. "Um," she instructed, indicating that he should he pull up the hem of her sweater. "If you could just. . . ?"

"Yes . . . right . . . " Giles hesitated, uncertain of where he should put his hands. "Buffy, I'm not sure--"

"Come on, Giles," she quipped, deliberately misunderstanding. If he thought this was awkward, she didn't dare tell him that all she wore underneath was a lacy black bra. Taking pity, she turned her back to him to spare him further embarrassment. "I know you're not a total boy scout. You know how to undress a woman."

His voice, when he next spoke, came as a soft purr in her ear, his body so close to hers that she felt the heat coming off him in waves. "Perhaps, but I've never undressed my Slayer."

"Same thing," Buffy assured him. She bit her lip, holding back a moan as his fingertips traveled down her arms in search of the hem of her sweater, so like the caress she had always dreamed of him giving that it reached deep inside her and mercilessly squeezed her heart. Obligingly, she held her arms up as best she could, so that he could divest her of her damp, wool turtleneck. Despite the cold air assaulting her skin, she felt like she was on fire. She was suddenly glad he couldn't see her face, or the undisguised need he had so easily summoned forth.

His gentle fingers traced the tape she had strapped around her ribs the first night, before heading to the plane hangar back in Sunnydale. Her recent 'swim', not to mention all her sweating and exertion, had loosened its stickiness, so now it hung in loops that were more annoying than helpful. She felt him find one end and begin to peel it off, his arms repeatedly taking the length across the front of her body as he changed hands, her discarded sweater draped across the crook an elbow.

Stripped to her waist, with Giles' arms all but around her as he worked to remove the tape, Buffy let the fantasy flourish to full bloom. Her breathing quickened with the hot and lusty desires bursting forth within her, her head conjuring images of their first time together, passion consuming all her common sense. She had longed for--no, ached for--this moment forever. She looked down at her exposed flesh, rising and falling as she drew small, excited breaths, chilled by her damp clothes and longing for Giles' warm touch.

He finished freeing the tape. But when it and her sweater didn't plop on the cot in front of her, and when his hands didn't offer another caress or go in search of the clasp on her leather pants, Buffy finally realized that her fantasy was simply that. Her fantasy, and hers alone.

She mustered the courage to turn around and look at him, only to find he wasn't looking at her. Suddenly embarrassed by her rampaging hormones, Buffy self-consciously brought her arms up to cover herself. Her fingers found the chain with her silver cross dangling around her neck, but reflexively curled around the other item attached; Giles' ring. It was the one little piece of him that was completely hers and, for the moment, she was unwilling to give it up.

Giles studied the floor. "Very, um, very fetching," he remarked, trying to sound casual in his observation of her frilly feminine underthings.

"Black was my combat color. To rescue you in," she babbled. "Not that I ever expected you'd actually get a chance to see . . . "

"Yes, well . . . I'll hang this by the stove to dry," Giles told the floor, meaning the sweater he still held. "You continue . . . undressing. I'll return for the rest momentarily."

Buffy remained silent, not trusting herself to speak. Why, when it came to expressing how much he meant to her, did she regress to sounding like a stupid schoolgirl?

Giles' expression suddenly turned aghast. "You can, um, manage . . . with the rest, can't you?"

"Oh!" Her eyes widened with the knowledge that he had just asked if she were capable of getting her pants off without his help. "Yeah. Absolutely. I'm good."

He looked genuinely relieved as he pulled back a corner of the blanket screen.

"Giles?"

"Yes?" He finally allowed his gaze meet hers. There was nothing in his eyes to suggest his embarrassment was anything but that. No hint that the fire burning in her loins or the passion pulsing though her veins was in any way mirrored in him, or that the sight of her half-naked had any masculine affect at all. All she found was the helpful, unassuming gaze of her very best friend.

"Thanks for the food."

With a smile and a nod, he left her.

Alone.

* * *

"I'm telling you, Rupert, you're being a right berk. Take my advice, and shag like bunnies while you both have the chance."

"Thank you so much, Mr. Romance," Giles said, busy investigating the cupboards in the small kitchenette for something resembling a first aid kit. Oddly enough, along with the dusty cache of canned food and bottled water, all he had found so far were several canisters of salt, stacked neatly in a cupboard under the sink. Someone, it appeared, liked to risk high blood pressure.

Despite his fatigue, his limbs weary from both exhaustion and injury, Giles would not seek rest while there was still something useful to be done. After granting himself a few minutes for a cold, canned meal and half a bottle of room-temperature water, he had pushed himself to carry on while his Slayer recuperated. His job was to watch over her, keep her safe, and by God, that's precisely what he intended to do. One of them had to be capable of fighting their enemy when the time came.

"Bugger," Giles swore softly, frustrated at not finding anything resembling a first aid kit. An old, torn map and compass were about the best he had done so far. He supposed he should be grateful; at least now, they could finally ascertain exactly how far away they were from the nearest help.

"If nothing else," Ethan said, raising a knowing eyebrow, "it will greatly improve your temper. I'll even pretend not to watch."

Giles pulled a sour face, annoyed that he and Ethan had somehow fallen into an old rapport. They weren't friends, and it irritated him that circumstance deemed they should act as if they were. "Of course," he said sarcastically. "How boorish of me not to realize sex is the answer to all our problems."

Ethan grinned lecherously. "Works for me."

"I'm not you." Closing the cupboard, Giles turned and wearily trudged toward the front of the cabin where more storage racks and shelves lined the walls. Here, wrapped in a tatty piece of rag, he turned up what appeared to be a sharpening stone. "And as such, I'm quite capable of handling things my own way."

"Apparently not," Ethan returned wryly, following. "Or you'd be playing 'hide the salami' right now."

"Must you be so vulgar?" The shelves proved just as fruitless in his search for basic medical supplies, and the aggravation that settled in was the result of a number of things.

"Look, you want her, she wants you. It's a simple equation, Rupert, one that men and women have been solving since the beginning."

"Not simple. Not for us." Spying a stack of logs from the cobweb-ridden pile just inside the door, Giles stooped to retrieve some. He handed a couple to Ethan, and then carried his load back to the tinderbox by the stove where they would serve a more practical purpose. But as he passed by the blanket hanging across the corner of the room, a pang of desire hit him in the gut. Ethan was right. His pent-up frustration for the woman lying half-naked behind the flimsy makeshift barricade was only getting worse. God only knew, he had almost lost control when he stripped her to her underwear. He was a man, after all; a man in love, and his desire was as potent as it was primal.

'And completely misplaced,' Giles sternly reminded himself. It could never happen. He and Buffy could never be. The prophecies of Pergamum Codex had seen to that.

Ethan, who wasn't helping matters with his 'suggestions', caught him staring wistfully at the blanket screen. "Oh? And what aren't you telling me?"

With a glare, Giles continued to the woodstove, Ethan in tow. He restacked the logs without comment, then he headed back across the single room to pick up where he left off.

"Well?" Ethan asked, still dogging his heels. "I'm intrigued, Ripper. I was never truly convinced it was your upstanding moral character that kept you on such a chaste path."

Giles ignored the sarcastic slurs in favor of his investigation. On the other side of the door, he unearthed an ancient-looking wooden footlocker, which like the rest of the shack had clearly seen better days. He crouched to push open its creaky lid, and inside, found an unexpected but welcomed discovery. Old clothes.

"You're not going to tell me, are you?"

"No," Giles said, shaking out a man's red, flannel shirt and a dusty pair of blue jeans that looked like they might fit. Straightening, he held them up to himself for a test. The owner of the cabin seemed to have been about his height, but bigger in build, especially around the middle. Satisfied, he put them aside and began rummaging for something that might suit Buffy. Fashion statement they may not make, but at least they were relatively clean, warm, and--most importantly--dry.

"Pity," Ethan mused, eyeing the discovery over Giles' shoulder. "Your love life--or should I say, sad lack thereof--is the best entertainment going."

Having selected a huge knitted sweater, and sweatpants that would no doubt swim on her, Giles scooped up entire the bundle and rounded on his former friend with a frown. "Since when has my love life been of any interest to you?"

"Your love life has always been of interest to me." Ethan paused, fastidiously picking through the leftover clothes. He obviously didn't like the choices. "Which explains why I've been so bloody bored for years."

"Touché," Giles said dryly, moving away with his bundle.

"'Ello, 'ello, what's this?"

Despite his intention to let Ethan Rayne carry on doing his own thing, Giles turned to look. In rooting through the poor selection of clothes in the footlocker, Ethan had turned up something rather odd. The tails of an old shirt were caught between the trunk's pineboard base and side, giving the impression of a false bottom.

Together, they emptied out the rest of the clothes to examine it more closely. Perhaps it was nothing more than a bit of humidity-warped siding creating the illusion of a false bottom, but Giles' curiosity had the better of him. Running his fingers over the rough interior rewarded him with the discovery of a small hidden catch in the rear corner. When he released it, the footlocker's base panel popped up about half an inch.

He spared a look at his compatriot, who appeared just as intrigued. Whoever or whatever once lived in this dilapidated cabin on the Xazax huntress' estate, obviously had something to hide.

Getting his fingers under the panel, Giles pried it up to find out what.

"It's a book!" Ethan announced. "All that to hide some ancient bloody book!"

"Yes, but the real question is why bother to hide it, out here?" Giles asked, guessing the treasure was infinitely more precious than the other man assumed. "What makes it so valuable?"

Ethan began to look a little flustered. "Perhaps it's a first bloody edition . . . who cares?"

"Perhaps," Giles agreed absently.

Almost reverently, he lifted the cracked, brass and leather bound tome from its carefully concealed recess. Dry clothes forgotten, he carried it over to the cabin's rickety wooden table and settled down to find answers to some of his questions. The flowing script of a language he did not immediately recognize greeted him when he opened the cover. He squinted in the dim light, slipping easily and naturally into full Watcher Mode.

"Can you read any of it?" Ethan asked, joining him at the table with the bundle of clothes. He deposited the entire lot in the center, then started to change out of his own wet attire, surreptitiously stealing the flannel shirt that Giles had selected for himself.

"Not sure," Giles said, turning the yellowed parchment with the care of someone who respected the printed page. "Some, perhaps. More if I had time."

"Well, that, old son, is something we don't have a hell of a lot of."

Giles continued to study the book, completely oblivious to Ethan's disrobing, as he tried to make sense of the unfamiliar characters and syntax before him. Some words looked almost familiar, their repetition enough to give him a quick, fundamental grasp of their supposed meaning. Given a day, he could probably translate several key passages. But as Ethan had said, they didn't have a day. They may not even have the next few hours, depending on how well Buffy's deception with the bracelets and the GPS unit had worked. The Xazax and her demon posse may very well be outside, surrounding the cabin, at that very moment . . .

"We should be making weapons," Ethan said, buttoning his dry shirt. "If we are going to fight instead of run, we should be making preparations, not wasting what little time we have."

Giles turned another page, aware that his ex-friend was for once talking sense. Not that stakes and spears would be much of a match against the laser-sighted weapons and sophisticated tracking equipment their enemy employed--a point they both understood all too well.

"You know what she is, Rupert. Xazax, you said. Well, let me tell you something that I learned first hand. She's extremely powerful, with a body like a bloody great chunk of rock beneath a velvet skin. Sticks and stones are not going to break anything."

"I'm well aware of her physical constitution."

"Then how do we kill her?"

"I have no idea."

"If only we had a jackhammer . . . or a back hoe . . . or even a bloody cellphone!" Off Giles' enquiring glance, he explained, "To call in the Marines."

"Technology is not the answer," Giles said, returning his scrutiny to the book. Something about it called to the Watcher in him. Old tomes like this had served his predecessors for centuries in the battle against the forces of darkness; he only hoped this one would give up the secret of its age-old inscriptions and help him now.

Towards the back, he found a page bookmarked with a piece of plastic, the size and shape of a credit card. Giles held it up for inspection, but it was Ethan who identified it.

"That's a key card!" the sorcerer said in surprise. Then the implications hit. It was identical to the key cards that opened the electronic door locks inside the hunting lodge. "Oh crap. We're really in it up to our necks this time."

"But what's it doing here? In this book?"

Ethan grew even more irritated. "You know, I'd be a lot happier if you stopped asking the bloody questions, and started answering them."

With a grunt, Giles returned to his scrutiny of the page before him. This one, the bookmarked page, depicted a portrait of a female demon. He already knew her high, ridged cheekbones and sensuous dark complexion, and just as in real life, in the banquet hall of her hunting lodge, her eyes were the things to capture and hold him. Even when rendered in parchment and ink, there was no mistaking the mesmerizing clout of those quicksilver Xazax eyes.

Rousing himself, Giles scanned the adjacent passage, confident in his ability to get more than just the general gist of the words. He knew little of her species' physiognomy, beyond the common anecdote of 'stone beneath a velvet skin'. His books always referred to their alluring beauty, and the quick tempers and unmerciful wrath that had made the females of her species so dominant over lesser, supple-bodied beings. His books always referenced the Xazax's physical crushing strength; never before had he read of a weakness.

Until now.

No wonder this volume had been so well hidden! If the Xazax huntress were to know of its existence--

"Good Lord," Giles said quietly, as all the pieces fell into place.

"Don't tell me, let me guess," Ethan said, glumly resigned to his fate. "You've just worked out what I've been dreading all along . . . that this cabin is where Milady's adulterous husband conducted his little love trysts. That this is where she caught him, red-handed, and thus she knows all about the place and is undoubtedly headed here right now . . . where she will find us, and take our heads, and mount them in the same disgusting manner as she did his, and God, Rupert, we're doomed to be wall ornaments!"

Closing the book, Giles raised an eyebrow at his ex-friend's uncustomary outburst of panic. "Look around, 'old son'," he said calmly, sweeping an arm over the dilapidated, dusty interior. "I doubt even you would stoop so low as to bring a woman here for a bit of slap and tickle."

Ethan looked, conceding his point that the cramped, dingy little room was far from the ideal setting for candlelit seduction. "Not exactly the Ritz, I'll grant you."

"Precisely. There's not even a suitable bed."

"Some people actually prefer--" He changed tack. "What are you saying?"

Giles held up the key card, studying it as he made his point. "I'm saying that I think this cabin did, indeed, belong to Milady's late husband. But it wasn't a love nook. It was a refuge; a secret place the poor sod's demon spouse knew nothing about. A place where he could escape her."

Ethan looked doubtful. "You got all that from the book?"

"No," Giles said, looking back at the leather and brass bound tome on the tabletop before him. "All I got from the book . . . was how he intended to kill her."

* * *

"Seawater?" Buffy asked doubtfully. "You sure? Ordinary, everyday seawater? Ow!"

"Sorry," Giles's soft voice said in her ear. He paused only a moment before he continued to strap her broken ribs with the strips of cloth he had torn from a bed sheet. "And yes, ordinary, everyday seawater. Apparently, it's extremely toxic to a Xazax. Has an erosive effect on their silicone-based constitution."

Sitting on the cot with her back to him, wearing only her lacy black bra, matching panties, and a dusty sheet, Buffy tried to digest the information he had just given her. But her brain wasn't quite ready to accept any new input. Despite their situation, she had slept soundly all afternoon, although probably only because her subconscious knew Giles was there, watching over her. Nightfall finally roused her from slumber; her innate Slayer senses telling her it was time to get up and go kill something.

She yawned, sleepy but strong after her uninterrupted downtime. Her ribs still hurt, but they were mending and the bandage would help. She felt almost like her old self, ready for action; ready to take the fight back to the Xazax bitch queen.

"Pity we're probably, like, hundreds of miles from the nearest ocean," she commented, then grimaced as her Watcher pulled on the makeshift strapping again. "Urgh, I still need to breathe, Giles."

"Sorry, but it needs to be tight if it's going to do any good. And you're missing the point."

"Being?"

"What's the one thing that makes seawater different?"

"Um . . . the sea?"

"Salt. And thanks to the late husband, there are several pounds of it in storage in a cupboard under the kitchen sink."

Buffy felt him finish with the bandage, and almost sobbed at the loss of his touch when he drew back his hands. No wonder she couldn't think straight, with his fingertips gently caressing her skin, sending tingles right though to her core. Salt. The word tried to work its way into her brain, but there were just too many sensations flying around inside her for anything peripheral to sink in.

She shivered as Giles' warm hands returned to run tentatively up and down her bare arms. "Better?" he murmured in her ear.

Buffy barely held back her whimper. "Much," she said, and she wasn't just referring to her patched ribs. While in his arms, the whole world seemed a much better place. In a bold move, she pressed back against his chest, desperate to know if he would run . . . or stay.

Nuzzling her hair, Giles whispered, "We can make it, Buffy."

Her heart swelled with joy, threatening to burst. "I know we can."

"If we can just get the salinity right, I believe we can defeat her."

"Huh?"

"As I recall from Willow's foray into saltwater aquariums, we need to mix approximately 96% water with roughly 4% sodium chloride. Of course, we'll have to guess without a hydrometer, but I should imagine guesswork is on our side. The saltier, the better."

Pulling away, Buffy swiveled around on the cot to face him. "Hydro--? Giles, what--?"

"Hydrometer. It measures the salt content of water," he explained. He had the good grace to look confused by her furious expression. "For when we . . . make the saltwater . . . "

"You're talking about making saltwater?" she asked, simultaneously going from blush to frown and back again.

"Of course." He went visibly on the defensive, spine straightening, body language pulling back from her ever so slightly. "What are you talking about?"

Right then, she decided it was time to lay all her cards face up on the table. After all, how could she fear losing him, when she wasn't sure he was hers to begin with. "I'm talking about us."

It was still a taboo topic, judging from Giles' negative reaction. He diverted his eyes and went to move away, to put even more distance between them, build more walls. Determinedly, Buffy grabbed his hand to anchor him to the cot. It was now or never time.

She squeezed his fingers until he looked up. She didn't flinch from his anguished gaze, but rather looked past the hurt and into the depths of his beautiful green eyes, searching for the truth. "I'm talking about you telling me you love me, but acting like you don't."

"I'm not acting like anything," he said defensively.

She sighed. "Then I so totally don't understand any of this." Raising a tender hand to his beard-stubbled cheek, she decided to start from the beginning. "I love you . . . so much."

"And I love you," Giles returned, but this time it was almost an apology.

"Then why haven't you even kissed me?"

"Because I . . . " His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, but he didn't look away. "Because I don't want to give you false hope."

Buffy struggled to understand. "You mean . . . you do love me . . . but just not . . . " Realization hit, hard and fast, making her bite her lip to hold back the tears. "But just not like that. God . . . " She couldn't bear to face him any longer, to see the love now shining in his eyes and know it was not the same as what she felt for him. It devastated her.

"No. Like that." A gentle finger under her chin lifted her eyes back to his. "Buffy, you are the woman who stole my heart," Giles confessed in a moment of total candor, the simplicity of his words taking her out of the depths of despair and sending her soaring into the clouds. "I am completely and hopelessly in love with you, and there is no greater sorrow in my life than not being able to show you how much."

"Then kiss me. Show me."

Desperation crept into his tone. "I can't."

Buffy pouted in frustration. "Still not getting the whole picture here, Giles."

He dipped his head, his voice hardening as he attempted to explain. "There's a prophecy--"

"I don't care." Her instantaneous response brought his apprehensive gaze back to hers.

"But it's in the Codex--"

"I don't care!" Buffy insisted, although deep down, she did. She was no stranger to the prophecies of the Pergamum Codex, or the uncanny accuracy of its predictions. Resentment was the last emotion she expected to feel, but it came anyway. "There's a prophecy that says if we kiss, we die? Who the hell made that one up?"

"It doesn't exactly refer to . . . kissing," Giles said uncomfortably.

"What then?" The downward cast of his eyes had the same effect on her temper as a bucket of ice water. "Oh. You mean--?"

"I'm afraid so."

She knew, then, that this situation was just as tough on him, maybe even tougher. How long had he lived with this, loving her quietly without ever letting her know, fearing that if he did it would somehow cause her harm? How long had he wanted her, as badly as she wanted him now?

Buffy reached for Giles, not realizing how desperate she was for him to hold her until his arms closed around her to complete the embrace. She held tight for a moment, trying to plug the hole inside her heart with something positive. "So . . . hugs are okay, then."

"Quite definitely."

"And kissing is safe."

"I imagine so, but Buffy, I don't think it would be wise."

"Why not?"

"Because if you kissed me, I'm not certain I could control myself."

She smiled, rubbing her cheek against the soft, green Henley shirt he had found to wear. "Me neither."

Giles said nothing in reply, but one of his hands came up to cradle the back of her head, the gesture so loving that it brought a fresh sting of tears to her eyes. Why did it have to be this complicated? To be in love with someone without a chance of ever expressing that love in a natural and intimate way was not a life she wanted. Once before, Fate had told her she couldn't have the man she loved because of a curse. Now it said she couldn't have the man of her dreams because of a prophecy. She couldn't walk away a second time. She wouldn't.

"Promise me," she whispered, still holding him tight, "if we get out of this alive, we'll try to work it out."

"You have my word," Giles promised, his lips moving against the crown of her head. "If there is any possible way for us to be together, then you and I shall find it."

* * *

Standing just on the other side of the blanket screen, Ethan feigned a gag. How bloody typical. Giles and his Slayer may as well spend eternity as inanimate wall heads for all the action that relationship was going to get, spare themselves all the bloody Shakespearian tragedy. Still, as long as they got him out of this mess in one piece, back to where he could have a decent hot meal and sleep in a real bed with a willing human partner, then he'd go along with whatever plan they concocted.

Of course, if things didn't quite turn out as he hoped, he did still have one ace left up his sleeve . . .

Noting things had grown quiet behind the blanket, Ethan moved away before he got caught eavesdropping. While there was no greater fun than egging on Rupert, right now there were other, more serious issues with which to contend. Namely, keeping his head.

* * *

The book Giles and Ethan found provided a proverbial 'ton of useful information', and Buffy hung on every word as Giles related everything there was to know about the mighty Xazax race. Sitting cross-legged on a faded rug before the woodstove, wearing her highly unfashionable new duds, Buffy listened studiously as she ate her first hot meal in several days. Supper, this time, consisted of a can of beef stew that Giles had opened and heated like he'd been doing it all his bachelor life. Together, Watcher and Slayer did what they did best--formulate a plan to defeat the lady demon and her minions, and the means by which to execute it.

Sunlight, Giles re-read the passage to her between mouthfuls of his stew, while not lethal to a Xazax as it was to the vampires in her employ, did have a painful, blinding affect on those weird silver eyes. Any bright light did. It explained why, with all the technology and modern cons at her disposal, Milady kept her lodge dimmed to the candela of a few rustic torches. This in mind, it was a better than average guess that the light-sensitive huntress and her mostly-flammable posse retreated to their lair during the daylight hours. To Buffy, the knowledge brought genuine relief, because it meant an end to running about the woods, helplessly fleeing for their lives like a couple of hysterical mundanes. Now they had direction. Now that they knew where and when to strike, they could take the fight back to their enemy's home turf.

The notion stirred Buffy deep down where her darkest Slayer instincts lived, until her need to start staking vamps and killing demons became a physical ache. She attempted to quell it, at least until the time was right. This dark legacy left to her by the First Slayer was something she had never liked or wanted, but she didn't seem to be any closer to ridding herself of it despite the hours of mediation she had worked through under Giles' guidance.

Putting aside her empty stew bowl, she glanced over Giles' shoulder at the nearest of the little shack's grimy, bare windows. It was night outside, and just a glimpse of it was enough to infuse her Slayer blood with its ancient call. Night meant the Xazax was out hunting them, but the she-demon would need to retreat to her lodge for refuge in a little over ten hours. If they didn't cross paths first, Buffy intended to be there to welcome her home.

Her distracted gaze fell on Ethan, sitting apart from her and Giles, ever the loner as he consumed his rationed food. She never had liked the man personally, and her trust-factor had sunk even lower these past couple of days. Allowing him to play on the home team made about as much sense as putting the water-boy in as quarterback. Ethan was uber-unreliable, and with her and Giles in agreement of this fact, she wondered why the hell they were going along with it. The man just worried her. Bigtime.

Feeling her stare, Ethan turned his head to look at her, making her miss Giles' comment. The sorcerer's eyes were dark and calculating, giving nothing away and promising even less. The small smile of false camaraderie he offered did little to ease her misgivings. In fact, the coldness of it made her shiver despite the heat wafting from the front of the woodstove.

"Buffy?" Giles asked, noting her distraction. Reaching out, he put his hand on her arm to capture her attention.

"Huh?" she asked, raking her eyes back to her Watcher. She was worried about Giles, too, but in a totally different way. "Sorry, what?" He hadn't rested nearly enough, and he looked haggard with those dark rings under his eyes. His many cuts and flowering bruises did nothing to help ease her mind, and when he moved, he limped. She needed to get them out of this; she needed to him home.

Giles glanced knowingly over his shoulder, then back at her. He, too, remained unconvinced about Ethan's newly found loyalties, but there seemed little option at this point . . . although abandoning the louse and letting him fend for himself had sounded pretty darn reasonable to her when she suggested it.

"We were discussing weapons," Giles reiterated.

Outside, near a weathered stack of uncut firewood, they had found a wood ax in a chopping block, and the whetstone Giles earlier uncovered amidst the cabin riff-raff proved just the thing to take the rust off its edge. It wasn't quite the medieval battle-ax Buffy was used to wielding, but it was balanced and sharp, and would cleave a demon or vampire head from its shoulders almost as well.

Since making stakes from scratch was a time consuming and fiddly chore, they instead broke the old wooden chair into several handy pieces, fashioning four long, tapered splinters from its splayed legs and half a dozen arrows from its back spokes, probably all in a quarter of the time. The saltwater that was so toxic to a Xazax was a relatively easy mix, thanks to the ingredients left by Milady's conniving ex-spouse, although finding something suitable to put it in proved a much more challenging task. Unfortunately, the husband hadn't got that far with his plans before his demise. Eventually, they settled on using the squirt gun Giles still had in the inside breast pocket of his discarded tuxedo jacket. Although plastic, it had survived destruction just as its owner had done. It wasn't much, Buffy realized, watching Giles fill it to the brim without seeming to disturbing the waterline in the sink, holding maybe a couple of ounces of saltwater if they were lucky. They would have to get close to use it, and make the shot count.

The thing that really impressed her about Giles' 'MacGyver' skills was the 'bow' he made to fire the arrows. Constructed using the aluminum barrel of an old, long-handled flashlight, there was nothing typical about it. After unscrewing both the end cap and the reflector bulb, and dumping out the way-dead batteries, he threaded an elasticized length of cord cut from his tuxedo suspenders into the empty cylinder. Securing the ends of this in place by tying a leftover strip of bandage around one end, he loaded an arrow in his improvised 'bow', pulled the cord and nocked arrow out the end closest to him, aimed the thing at arm's length, and let fire. With a little ingenuity, he had found a way to propel some flying fatality across a room, with reasonable accuracy and the force needed to pierce a vampire's heart.

Smiling, Buffy wondered if those stuck-up Watchers who never invited him to their Retreats really knew what they missed.

With their arsenal complete, the last item in their battle cache was the terrain map and compass, because without being able to find their way back the hunting lodge the entire operation became moot. Spreading it out over the table, all three gathered round. It was hand-drawn, dog-eared and torn along its creases from untold years of use and abuse, but it showed, quite clearly, the locations of both the hunting lodge and the cabin. A closer look revealed that the lodge was sketched as 'under construction', so it seemed likely that the late husband had once lived in this old shack, maybe even long before his demon wife had ever entered the picture. Giles was convinced the Xazax knew nothing of their present safe haven, neither its position nor its existence, a fact that so far had worked to their advantage.

Eager as she was to kill something, Buffy wasn't looking forward to the trek back. She and Giles had slogged through an entire night and half a morning of uphill and down dale hell to get to the shack, and the thought of retracing all those backbreaking miles only made her groan. Somewhat sheepishly, Giles pointed out that they hadn't exactly walked in a straight line, and sure enough, a quick study of the map revealed that they had trudged the proverbial 'long way round'. Going back to the lodge, with the aid of the map, would be simpler, easier, and much faster.

Before leaving their safe haven, Buffy changed back into her own black turtleneck sweater and leather pants, which had dried by the stove. Although essentially ruined by the downhill mountain slide, it was a question of necessity rather than humility, since the comically large fit of the clothes Giles scavenged for her would only hamper her fighting technique. Giles and Ethan were comfortable in their new garb, blight on the fashion world not withstanding, so they stayed as they were, although each added another heavy shirt as an additional layer of warmth.

So with their plans laid, and their do-it-yourself weapons at hand, around midnight the three of them set out into the woods.

* * *

Buffy crouched at Giles' side and studied their objective. "Looks quiet enough," she said, hefting the wood ax to her shoulder, eager to get the show on the road.

She, Giles, and Ethan had taken cover from the approaching dawn near the Xazax's private jet, the only cover available in the open flatland surrounding the hunting lodge. With its wheels chocked and wings tied down, the jet sat idle at the end of the little dirt airstrip that overlooked the front gates of the hunting lodge, a few hundred yards south. Unlike in Sunnydale, there was no hangar to hide behind as the sun came up and obliterated what little cover they had in darkness, just a part-ways fallen down tin shed, and a dozen rusty fuel drums.

Not ten minutes ago, they had observed the hunting party return from another all-night trek, seeking sanctuary in their rustic log-walled lair, just as Giles said they would, prior to sunrise. The Xazax herself appeared enthusiastic despite the lack of a kill, but the vampires and demons in her employ looked weary and depressed by a second night without bagging their quarry. Previous hunts had obviously been a lot less work, and morale was low; something else that would work to their advantage.

They waited patiently as first light crept slowly over the sleepy landscape, allowing the vampires and demons within the lodge time to stow their weapons and settle down for a day's sleep. Buffy knew they were horribly outnumbered, but she also figured they didn't sleep with their guns. If she and Giles could sneak inside while they were all sawing logs, then it might be possible to dispose of them quietly, a few at a time.

That was the plan. Looking over the slight downward lie of the land and the position of the fuel barrels again, Buffy came up with another one. "I dunno. Maybe we could just burn the whole place down."

"That would undoubtedly take care of the vampires and demons," Giles replied, "but you're forgetting the Xazax. Her constitution is silicone based. You can't hurt stone with fire, Buffy. And this sport of hers must be stopped."

"Oh please," Ethan remarked in disgust. "Enough of the moral certitude already. The truth is, if we're ever going to get back home to civilization, we need to find the pilot for that." He motioned at the tied down plane.

Buffy scowled. The man's fondness for self-preservation never ceased to amaze her. Although he did have a point.

"He's human, by the way," Ethan added, glancing at her.

"And just following orders, I suppose," Buffy said resentfully. "Like you."

"I had no choice."

"There's always a choice," Giles said bitterly. "You simply opted for the easy way out. As usual."

Buffy looked at Giles, watching him stay focused on the lodge as he belittled his former friend. He was right, of course; Ethan had sold them out to save his own neck once, and now that it was on the line again, she had no doubt he would do it again.

"What about the key card you found?" Buffy asked, returning to the business of just how they were going to get inside. There were two of those thick-but-obedient spiky demons standing guard behind the tall, iron gates, and they didn't look like they were going anywhere or would be dozing off on the job anytime soon.

"Key cards only open interior doors," Ethan told them. "Not the main gate."

"Is there another entrance?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"How about the direct way, over the fence?" Buffy asked. She knew, from when she and Giles had been escorted out and given their 'head start,' that the gate and fence were electrified with enough current to fry the average human to a crisp, but she felt confident in her ability to vault it and take out the two demons before they had even figured out what was happening. Still, unless there was a handy-dandy power switch somewhere just inside to flip off and let Giles and Ethan in, she would be on her own inside the lair of at least fifty heavily armed foes. Not exactly what she considered fair odds, not even by her standards.

"Too risky," Giles said, obviously thinking along the same lines. He favored her with a smile to let her know that he would not allow her go alone. He was going in with her, no matter what, even though part of her wished she could make him stay put, where he would be safe.

"There is one way," Ethan said slowly, drawing both their attention. "Not that I'm particularly fond of ever setting foot back in there, you understand, but in times of crisis we all need to make sacrifices."

"Now who's spouting self-righteous poppycock?"

"Just tell us."

"Well," Ethan began, a sly smile creeping across his face, "we could . . . "

* * *

They didn't like his plan and well they shouldn't, Ethan thought, as he boldly marched Rupert and his Slayer up to the front gate. He had an arrow nocked in the homemade 'bow', and its elasticized cord rigged for quick release. The splintered point rested between Buffy's shoulder blades, while the ax she was so fond of swinging sat casually on his shoulder. He could almost feel her helplessness as she played prisoner with Rupert, her distrust of him like a tangible thing.

Ethan smiled to himself. Wise little Slayer. The simple flick of his finger and he could run her through with the arrow, which may not kill her outright but would certainly slow her down. What a pity she had no choice but to go along with his suggestion. He could hardly wait to see the look on her face when she realized she had been betrayed. Again.

"This had better work," Giles warned threateningly over his shoulder, equally oblivious to the double-cross. "There's no place you can hide if it doesn't."

"It will," Ethan insisted confidently. And it would, because what neither of them knew was that he still had telepathic control over the quill demons standing sentry inside the gate; the ace up his sleeve. Once inside, he would silently order the beasts to do his bidding, which chiefly meant taking his prisoners to Milady, by force if necessary, and bargaining their heads for his own . . . and that of her pilot, of course. Buffy may scoff at his self-preservation, but Ethan knew he wasn't going anywhere without the jet's human pilot. Essentially, he was setting the man free, and the fellow would undoubtedly bend over backwards in gratitude. Yes, with a little luck he would be on his way home within the hour, fleeing in luxury on her private jet, perhaps sipping a dry martini while Rupert and his Slayer were--quite literally--on the chopping block.

"You're sure you know the way to the Xazzy bitch queen's lair, right?" Buffy asked for the third time. "And that key card will get us in?"

"Oh, yes. I'm quite familiar with her inner sanctum," Ethan returned truthfully. The thought of her satin and silk torture chamber made him shudder with the grim reminder of why his whole body ached in so many different places. He was glad he was walking behind them so that they couldn't see him flinch. "Relax, you two, and follow my lead."

Buffy reached to take Giles' hand, the pair exchanging a small, encouraging smile as they drew near the iron gates of the lodge. Watching them, Ethan rolled his eyes. Chaos knew, they were so lovey-dovey it was sickening. It was almost a pity that they would never live long enough to consummate their relationship. The fallout from that, from what he understood of the prophecy, would almost been worth sticking around for . . .

The demons standing guard behind the gates stirred as Ethan boldly marched his prisoners into their field of vision, silently rearranging their towering bulks to block all comers. Both raised the poison-tipped quills running down their backs and arms in a defensive gesture meant to deter intruders, a sure indication that they had gotten their attention. Unperturbed, Ethan stopped just on the other side of the gate, the electric charge so intense it made the air sizzle and the fine hair on his arms stand on end.

I have a gift for Milady. Open the gates," Ethan announced.

Neither demon moved, nor lowered their hackles.

Ethan frowned at them, adopting that confident air he was so good at fabricating in order to save his own neck. "You know who I am, and you know I have Milady's full authority. Now open the gates, or there will be hell to pay."

Mentally, he added, 'This is a trap and I am being forced to help them. The prisoners intend to kill Milady, and me, and are not to be trusted. You must help me. Now.'

After a short paused, both demons moved to comply. And they were in.

* * *

Realistically, Giles knew he and Buffy stood little chance of defeating a gun-toting horde with only their homemade stakes and bow. Their best chance, he believed, was in taking on them on in small, manageable numbers. That plan may have been simple in design, but it was extremely difficult to execute in their present environment, chiefly because it involved sneaking around cramped quarters without raising the alarm.

There was an alternative, one that well may turn out be the difference between failure and success, which is why Giles reluctantly allowed Ethan to take the lead. If they struck at the heart first, then the body just may die as a result. If they killed the Xazax mistress, her minions might revert to the unorganized rabble that they were, making easier targets for him and Buffy. Ethan claimed Milady's inner sanctum was in a secure, hidden location that they would never find without his help, but putting their lives in the hands of a man who had turned on them more times than one could count did not sit well.

Worried, Giles glanced at Buffy, who refused to let go of his hand as Ethan wordlessly marched them through the gates, up the short path, and into the dark ground floor of hunting lodge. She didn't look up, not even when Ethan closed the heavy wooden doors and locked them with the key card they had found in the book, its electronic beep a stark reminder that without that piece of plastic, there was no chance of retreat. Buffy's face was set in a determined mask as she mentally prepared herself for the coming fight. Her mending ribs were a still handicap, although not one that she would allow to slow her down. Giles admired her courage and fortitude in the face of such overwhelming odds, as he had done a hundred times before, and tried to draw strength from it. They could all very well die in the next few minutes, but there was no place he would rather be than at her side.

As before, torches kept the foyer dimmed to an eerie glow, with thick, dark shadows hanging between their intervals despite the daylight outside. It took Giles' eyes a moment to adjust from bright sunlight to the sudden gloom, before the hapless stares of Milady's trophies again filled him with a sense of dread and despair. Trying not to look at the empty plaques bearing his and Buffy's titles, he quickly moved across the bloodied flagstones.

The timing for this attack, Giles realized, could not have been better. The foyer was deserted, lacking interior guards and stragglers who had not yet found their beds. Their enemies were all somewhere upstairs. He knew the tactical room and armory were located upstairs, as too the bedroom where he and Buffy had first been imprisoned. It was therefore a reasonable assumption that all the sleeping quarters were up there in the warren of long, dark hallways and closed doors, perhaps even including the 'hidden' inner sanctum of the Xazax herself. It would be just like Ethan to fabricate such a lie and insist on his value to the team effort, if it were of personal gain . . .

At the foot of the rustic staircase leading up, with still no opposition in sight, Giles stopped. He turned to Ethan, intent on retrieving the weapons he and Buffy had surrendered in order to look the part of convincing prisoners. There was no further need for the pretense, and something in his gut told him they would be needing them real soon.

Giles' first surprise was the sight of the two quill demons trailing obediently behind his old friend. His second was the toothy smile that crept over the sorcerer's face. Even without the flickering glow cast by the torches, there was definitely something sinister about it.

"Sorry, old man," Ethan said without any hint of regret. "Change of plan."