SUMMARY: Last time: As Joyce's funeral approached, Buffy's relatives came to Sunnydale to pay their last respects. Not ready to deal with her father's disapproval of her 'dating' a man his own age, Buffy lied to everyone about her marriage, which deeply offended Giles. Things took an unexpected twist after Jinx learned from Ben that 'the Key' was in human form, and Hank mistakenly became the target of Glory's minions. Two visiting aunts--Arlene and Darlene--turned out to be amateur vampires slayers and helped thwart the attempt to capture Hank, who then had a complete change of heart about the man Buffy loved. Still trying to cope with her mother's death, Buffy built walls between herself and Giles and tried to remain strong for her sister, unaware of how damaging this was to her marriage. Now: Acknowledging the damage she has done to her relationship, Buffy confesses her doubts to Giles. Thanks to Spike's look-alike robot, the gang believes their marriage is already over.

SPOILERS/TIMELINE: Set in and around S5's "Intervention."
RATING: FR-AO [explicit content]
DISTRIBUTION: KoalasPlace.com, GylzGirl's HeadQuarters, DWord's theLIST. Others please ask first.
DISCLAIMER: Without Prejudice. BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER characters and concepts are copyright ©1997-2003 20th Century Fox. No Infringments of these copyrights are intended, and are used here without permission. Incidental dialogue from "Intervention" written by Jane Espensen. No resemblance to the real CARLTON FISK is intended. My character of the same name is purely coincidental. CONCHETTA is a fictional town. Any similarities to a real town of that name or its inhabitants are unintentional and coincidental.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is an AU retelling of the episode where Buffy and Giles are together, although still following the basic "Glory" plot of Season 5. You can assume anything that happened with Glory in the show, happened here too, and I just haven't re-written it. This part focuses on a new reason for Buffy's spiritual quest for her inner-slayer, although still fitting with the original episode plot. I'd like to point out that I've never visited The Joshua Tree National Park where the desert scenes in the episode were filmed, so my descriptions and usage of the area are based purely on what I have gleaned from the internet, saw in the episode, and/or made up. All mistakes are therefore mine. Likewise, I have no Spanish language skills whatsoever, so all translations used herein are courtesy of online translators such as http://www.freetranslation.com/. Again, all mistakes are mine.

AUTHOR'S NOTE #2: This fic was interrupted by two hurricanes, as was my train of thought. I lost power for six days with Hurricane Frances, followed by another outage, two weeks later, that lasted four days after Hurricane Jeanne. Nothing special, I know, but I just wanted to document it for archival purposes.

THANKS: To Gileswench, for the handholding and encouragement over that scene! To Trich, for the quick beta.
POST DATE: October 16, 2004

"We're headed home now, G-man."

Despite the immediate urge to chastise his young friend for his continued use of that appalling moniker, Giles deliberately kept his eyes on the yellowed, parchment pages of the book opened before him. The manuscript in question, which detailed some of the lesser-known customs of the Monks of the Order of Dagon, was not nearly as dull as the volume inscribed by their founding father, Tarnis, but in truth he had lost all interest in it an hour ago. He was simply feigning now, something to keep him out of the small talk, as he waited for Anya to finish closing out the shop's cash register and for Xander to take her home.

"Giles?"

The second prompt was his cue to look up, hoping the expression on his face suggested just how engrossed he'd been. "Hmm?"

Xander picked up his jacket from where it lay draped over the corner of the Magic Box's sales counter, shrugging it on as he took two steps towards where Giles sat, elbow deep in research at the tarot reading table. Behind him, Anya locked the cash drawer in the night safe, pocketed the key, and returned to the sales counter to gather her purse and sweater.

"I said, it's after seven, it's Friday night, so Anya and I are going to eat and make merry," Xander repeated. He gestured at the pile of books surrounding Giles. "Don't you have a home to go to? And a wife waiting to make with the merry?"

"What? Yes, of course," Giles said, playing along for appearances sake. "Good Lord, is that really the time?" He made a vague glance at his wristwatch, swapping his pseudo-annoyance for a look of fake surprise.

Xander grinned boyishly. "'A Watcher's work is never done', eh?"

Giles forced a smile. "Something like that."

"Don't stay too late."

"Yes, mother," Giles returned with a suitable scowl. He pretended to go back to his reading, watching from the corner of his eye while Xander and Anya quietly left the shop via the door to the alley behind the counter.

He gave them a good fifteen seconds to change their minds, then when they didn't return, he leaned back in his chair with a thankful sigh.

Lord, he thought they'd never leave.

Giles exhaled a long breath; solitude at last. Then the need hit, the longing he'd been holding back ever since the shop closed for business, washing over him like a breaker crashing in the surf. It called to him like a siren's song, and, letting it consume him, he pushed to his feet in answer. With an eager step, Giles crossed to the tiered display of scented candles, where he squatted in front of the sliding cupboards beneath, his hand delving into his pocket for his ring of shop keys. Selecting a small silver one, he wasted no time turning it in the cupboard lock. The door slid open to reveal his secret stash of alcohol, this time sequestered in a place where not even another nosy Council audit would find it . . . at least not without the key.

He procured the half-empty bottle of single malt scotch from beside its unopened twin, and took it back to where he kept his tea chest and kettle. There he snagged a mug, and poured a generous shot before settling back into his chair at the tarot table, all interest in the Monks of Dagon and any secrets they may hold, forgotten.

Putting the bottle down within easy reach, he took a long, slow swallow. The whiskey burned a trail of liquid fire all the way down his throat. Eyes closed in appreciation of the sensation, Giles let the tendrils of liquid heat find their spot, knowing those false fingers of warmth were the only pleasant touch he was likely to receive that night. The thought further soured his mood, and he drained his mug in a single swallow. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough.

His eyes sought the bottle in anticipation, his conscience mindful of what he was doing. Intoxication was not his goal. The alcohol was simply a crutch, something to help deaden him to the inevitable response that awaited him at home . . . or rather, the lack of response from his 'waiting wife,' his 'darling better half,' the 'woman of his dreams', whom apparently couldn't care less if he came home or not.

Not that Buffy ever said or did anything. Quite the contrary, it was the things she didn't say and didn't do that tore through his chest as assuredly as if she'd driven a stake through his heart. They may live in the same house, eat at the same table, and sleep in the same bed, but that was where any similarities to an actual marriage ended. Five weeks had passed since her mother's death, and with that single event, everything changed. Giles understood and was sympathetic to Buffy's grief, her emotional numbness, the walls she felt she needed to reconstruct in order to provide a stable foundation for her equally grief-stricken sister.

For the first three weeks, he tried to be supportive, living up to his promise not to let her grieve alone, but instead of helping, he produced the opposite result. She'd grown colder toward him, more estranged and detached, until the woman he thought he knew became a stranger to him. So he'd backed off a little, and taken to dulling the pain of rejection with alcohol, while watching the love of his life slowly drift even farther away. It was with growing trepidation that he recognized the parallels. She'd done the same thing to Riley Finn when her mother first took ill--pushed him away, until he walked away. Not that Giles intended to walk away--that decision would be Buffy's alone to make--but he couldn't help but see that metaphorical fork in the road drawing nearer. It scared him to death to think that meeting it might be the last thing they ever did together . . .

"Giles?"

Xander stood in the gap between the sales counter and the wall, the open alley door at his back.

Giles hadn't heard him return, but irritably wished for him to be gone again. "Goodnight, Xander," he said deliberately. He wasn't in the mood for company . . . or counseling.

Unperturbed, Xander slipped into the chair next to him, hands clasped together on the tabletop, clearly not going anywhere without answers. Which was precisely why Giles didn't want him to stay. There were no easy answers to his misery.

Giles poured himself another drink. "I thought you an Anya had plans for the evening?"

"Yeah, I can see that. Got all the way to the car before I realized my keys must have fallen out of my jacket on the counter." Xander held them up, looped around his finger. Watching Giles put down the whiskey bottle, his expression grew even more concerned. "What're you doing?"

A cynical smile cracked Giles dour mood as he raised his refilled coffee mug. "Pretty bloody obvious, isn't it?" he asked, pulling no punches this time.

"Yeah, well, it looks to me as if you deliberately waited until An and I left so you could sit here alone, and slowly get bombed. But since the Giles I know has a 'Buffy' to go home to . . . that kinda makes the sort of sense that doesn't."

Giles smirked. "What bothers me most about that sentence is that I completely understood it."

"Then explain it to me," Xander prompted meaningfully. "'Cause I sure don't!"

Giles diverted his gaze. "Xander, I know you mean well, but this doesn't concern you. Any of you."

"See, that's were you're wrong. You're my friend. And friends don't let friends drink themselves into oblivion without asking why. Besides, I've seen enough drunks in my own family to know that no problems are ever solved with drinking." He shifted in his chair, getting comfortable, as if he figured they might be there for a long time. "You're avoiding going home--got that. So you're . . . what? Avoiding Buffy?"

"I'm not avoiding anything or anyone," Giles snapped, although he lowered the mug after Xander's candid statement about his alcoholic family. "I was simply . . . taking the edge off first."

"Ah, now we're getting somewhere. Home is the problem. You and the Buffster have a fight? Trust me, Big-G, fights are good for just one thing . . . the making up afterwards. Buy her some flowers, apologize for anything and everything, and then expect some quality Buffy-loving in return. You can thank me in the morning."

Giles let go a bitter chuckle. Even if he and Buffy had quarreled, what Xander suggested was so far out of the equation, it was laughable. They hadn't been intimate for over a month.

Xander shrugged. "Hey, works for me."

"And I'm sure it would work for me, too," Giles admitted, "if not for the fact that Buffy and I . . . "

But he couldn't say it. In truth, he wasn't sure he wanted to put voice to something so intangible, if for no other reason than that the confession would make it real.

"Buffy and you what?"

Giles stared into his mug, swirling what was left of his scotch and its false comfort.

"Giles, Buffy loves you. Really loves you."

"I know she does. And I love her."

"Okay . . . failing to see the problem," Xander said. "You forget, I've known you both for five years. I've seen how much you mean to each other, and recently how right you are together. Giles, I watched you and Buffy take your wedding vows. Whatever's going on, I know you guys can work it out, if anyone can."

"I'm afraid it's . . . not that simple."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not a question of 'love.' Buffy simply doesn't want . . . " Giles looked up at his young friend, unable to stop his broken heart from pouring out of his eyes. "She doesn't want me in her life anymore."

Xander's mouth fell open in shock. "She told you that? I mean, she actually said it to your face?"

"She didn't have to." Dejected, Giles regarded his coffee mug again, absently turning the base on the tabletop. "I see it in her eyes, every time she looks at me . . . feel it in the way she avoids my touch." He shook his head in utter despair, and let go of everything that he had bottled up for the past month. "Buffy is the driving force in my life, she always has been. Always. Without her, I have no direction. No motivation." He pushed the mug aside in disgust. "Except to try to dull the pain she unwittingly causes."

"Oh my God . . . " Anya's quiet, disbelieving comment turned Giles' misery into embarrassment. Obviously wondering what was taking Xander so long to retrieve his car keys, she had returned to the shop via the alley door.

Sucking down the unmanly emotions that threatened to swamp him, Giles glanced up as Anya slid into the seat on the other side of her boyfriend.

"Buffy's having an affair," she declared firmly.

Giles frowned. He had expected empathy, denial, or even ridicule . . . not a new and entirely ludicrous accusation. "I beg your pardon?"

"Honey, little sympathy here. Giles is hurting bigtime."

"I've seen this a thousand times," Anya said. She gestured at the scotch bottle. "Although usually it's the scorned woman doing the commiseration thing with the booze."

Giles' patience thinned. "Buffy is not having an affair!"

"How do you know? All the signs are there. You just said," Anya insisted. "The avoidance, the coldness. When was the last time you two had sex?"

"That's none of your business."

"It's been a while," she concluded. She turned to her boyfriend, confident of her analysis. "Buffy's an attractive, healthy, sexually active female. Since she's not getting it from Giles, she's getting it somewhere else. I'm telling you, she's cheating on him."

"An," Xander said in warning.

"What?" she asked innocently, before she suddenly tweaked. "Oh . . . right." Remembering her social graces, Anya turned a comforting smile on Giles. "If it helps, and I was my old self, I'd go smite her for you right now."

With a discreet roll of his eyes, Xander turned his attention back to Giles. "Look, Buffy's just been through a tough time recently, losing her mom and all."

"I know that," Giles admitted helplessly. "And Lord knows, I've tried to be a patient and understanding husband . . . even when she insisted on lying to her father and family about us." He rubbed his brow. Whether it was the booze talking or because he was eager to spill his broken heart to someone, now that he had started he couldn't stop. "In the weeks since her mother died, things at home have gone from bad to worse. We don't talk anymore--not about the things that matter--we simply carry on as if nothing is amiss . . . strictly for Dawn's benefit, mind you. I'm not sure Buffy even realizes what it's--what she's--doing to us." A heavy sigh deflated him. "Every night, when we go to bed, I hold her in my arms . . . and watch her grow a little more distant, feel her push me away just a little bit further." His tone took on a note of desperation. "I'm losing her, inch by inch, and I don't bloody know how to stop it!"

"You could have an affair, too," Anya suggested helpfully. Two sets of eyes turned on her; one disbelieving, one appalled. "You know, tit for tat. Then you let her know you've been screwing around and make her jealous. Make her want you again."

"All well and good in some bizarro dimension, An," Xander said patiently, "but in the here and now, not real helpful." As Anya tried to figure out the flaw in her logic, he turned his attention back to Giles. "You should talk to Buffy about this. You said yourself, it may not have even registered with her that something's wrong."

Giles' lips twitched into a thin smile. "You're saying this really is all in my head. That I should be 'patient and understanding' a tad longer, until she works through her grief, and it'll all sort itself out."

"I'm saying that you're hurting and she's hurting, and while the 'hurting' originally came from different 'hurts', it's now just all rolled into one big messy hurtful 'hurt.'"

Giles and Anya both looked a bit confused.

Xander shook his head and tried again. "Okay, forget that. What I'm really saying is . . . communication is key to any successful relationship. The longer you let things fester, the more they'll just eat you up from the inside."

"Literally?" Anya asked in all seriousness. "'Cause that's really gross. Like some of those nature shows on TV, where larvae incubate inside a living host . . . " She shivered dramatically.

Giles knew that Xander was, of course, right. But unfortunately, while talking may have been the sensible approach, he and Buffy had given up communicating weeks ago, around the time when they'd given up intimacy. Now, any conversation meant first acknowledging that there was, indeed, a real problem developing between them. How did he tell her that he believed if they were to continue along this path, then they were likely to head in different directions? Given Buffy's current indifference, would such a confession be for the better, or the worse? Would she even care? Would she call it quits on the spot? Could he accept her decision if she did?

The thought filled him with dread. "And if Buffy really doesn't want me in her life anymore?" Giles asked, a quiet note of trepidation in his tone.

"Never gonna happen." Gripping his shoulder, Xander gave him a positive smile. "Trust me, G-man. You're not a puzzle piece like Riley or Angel that never really fit in the 'Buffy' landscape. You're the whole picture."

Giles regarded Xander with a look of gratitude, his confidence bolstered. Anya, however, looked as if she were about to comment to the contrary.

"And the day Buffy dumps you for some lamebrained-yet-studly-stud for a quick and meaningless roll in the sack," Xander added, cutting her off, "is the day I'll sleep with Spike!"

* * *

"Honey, I'm home," Giles called softly as he entered the house, more to himself than anyone who was present. He smirked at the pop culture phrase, putting down the bouquet of flowers he had bought on impulse at the supermarket florist stand when he stopped for a roll of breath mints. Hands free of his red tulip encumbrance, he removed his suit coat and temporarily hung it over the stair rail in the foyer.

He spied Dawn, in the living room to his left. She sat on the floor with an open notebook spread on the coffee table before her, glued to the television. He fondly shook his head. It never ceased to amaze him how American teenagers could concentrate on their studies while partaking in such a mind-numbing distraction, and actually learn something in the process. Popping another peppermint into his mouth, just for good measure, he joined her, sitting on the couch at her back.

"Hi, Giles," she greeted him, without looking up.

In response, his hands went to her shoulder for a fatherly squeeze. Unlike her sister, Dawn not only welcomed his permanent presence in her life, but also every bit of affection he could give. Glancing over her shoulder at her notebook, however, his fondness turned into a frown. The page was completely blank. Yes, it was Friday night, and yes, she still had the weekend to complete her assignments, so he wasn't about to break into parental mode just yet. But come her next report card, if her grades were less than expected, he would put his foot down about no television until after her homework was done.

He smiled to himself, musing--despite the tatters of his love life--how delightfully odd and wonderful it felt to have gained 'a daughter' and 'a sister-in-law' in one neat, compact package.

"You're late tonight," Dawn said as her TV show broke for a commercial, and she allotted time for a quick discussion. She pulled out from under his hands and swiveled to face him, arms locked around her knees.

Giles leaned back against the couch cushions, adding distance under the guise of making himself comfortable, self-conscious of the alcohol that may linger on his breath. "Rather heavy workload at the moment, I'm afraid," he lied with a smile. It was better Dawn didn't know the truth of just how strained his relationship with her sister had become. She would only try to get involved in repairing it, when it was something Giles and Buffy needed to sort out in private.

"Well, the bad news is, you missed supper," Dawn said with a mock frown. Then she smiled brightly. "But the good news is, you missed supper." She grimaced theatrically. "Buffy tried making lasagna, or something remotely resembling lasagna. I think. Not real sure if she used pasta or cardboard, but I saved you a plate if you wanna risk it. It's in the fridge, ready to be micro-nuked."

"Thank you," he returned, raising a skeptical eyebrow for Buffy's non-existent culinary skills. "I think."

"You do know where the Alka Seltzer™ is, right?"

"I do indeed." They shared a conspiratorial grin.

Dawn heard her show start again, and her attention was immediately divided between him and it. "Buffy's upstairs. She told me to send you up, pronto. She has a surprise for you." She gave him an outrageous wink. "Just keep the noise down, okay? Some of us have homework to do." With that, she turned her full attention back to the television.

Giles remained seated for a moment, his heart turning over in dread of whatever Buffy had planned now. While part of him should be thrilled at the prospect that his sullen and distant wife had actually requested his company, in the bedroom no less, another part of him knew, from the abysmal state of their relationship-in-general and their sex-life-in-particular, that the encounter would not end in the loving scenario Dawn envisioned. To the contrary, perhaps Buffy had finally wised up, and was about to send him packing . . .

Leaving the teen to watch her show, and knowing it was in his best interest to face the music now rather than later, Giles returned to the foyer to collect his flowers. He spent a moment rearranging the blooms to perfection within their shiny green cellophane wrapping, stalling, trying to find a spark of hope in what he was about to do.

'Think positive, old man,' he told himself. This very well may be the turning point. Maybe Xander was right, and the flowers would indeed help break the ice for an overdue and serious conversation. Maybe upon receiving them, Buffy would fall into his arms and kiss him senseless, their estrangement forgotten.

Yes, and maybe the Council would knock on their door with its sincere congratulations for their marriage, and well wishes for a long and happy life together.

With a glance up the staircase, Giles crunched the last of his peppermint and swallowed hard. He drew a deep, fortifying breath, and slowly ascended . . . like a man going to the gallows.

* * *

At the end of the upstairs hall, their bedroom door was partway open. Giles slowly pushed it fully open, still fearing the worst, so the sight that greeted him was an utterly pleasant surprise.

The love of his life lay on their bed, striking a spread-eagled yet seductive pose atop the rumpled bedclothes, bathed in nothing more than the gentle glow of a single bedside light. Although still fully dressed in blue jeans and a v-neck top, she was barefoot and with naked midriff, and Giles decided that she was, indeed, either waiting for him, or engaged in the somewhat unconventional practice of making 'snow angels' on the covers.

Going with the former sent a rush of heat to his nether regions. "Buffy?" he called tentatively, once he had found his voice.

She opened her eyes and looked at him, a beautiful smile lighting up her face--the first he had seen in several weeks. It lifted his spirits in a millisecond flat.

"Hi, handsome," she intoned affectionately; two simple words that made him grin like a lovesick fool. She moved her arms, flapping them on the rumpled bedcovers, making him raise an eyebrow at her apparent attempt to, indeed, make an indoor 'snow angel.' "Well? What do you think?"

"Um . . . "

Buffy playfully rolled over onto her stomach, a casual pose that inadvertently allowed him a first class glimpse of cleavage. She patted the mattress in front of her. "It came."

"What?" he questioned, still at a loss.

"Our new bed," Buffy said, enlightening him. The one they had gone shopping for a few weeks ago, before things turned really ugly; the one he thought might make a difference to her morose mood. The model they chose had been out of stock at the time, but was evidently back in stock as of today.

Then he noticed. Gone was her mother's sleigh-styled double bed, which had been too short for his long frame and uncomfortably firm, replaced by an antique brass headboard and low profile footboard, and a soft and plump, posture-friendly, queen-sized mattress. As with in the furniture shop, when they had innocently laid together under the stern gaze of a matronly saleswoman, his libido took a time-out to imagine Buffy hanging onto that brass framing, as he pushed them both toward the pinnacle of pleasure.

Buffy rolled onto her back again, testing the comfort of their new mattress by bouncing her hips. Still watching, Giles stifled a groan.

"They delivered it this afternoon. Setup was included. And they hauled the old one off for no additional charge. Cool, huh?"

"That's . . . um . . . wonderful."

She stopped bouncing and nodded at his bunch of flowers. "You gonna give me those? Or just stand there holding them until they wilt?"

"Oh . . . yes!" Giles managed to get his feet to move and, encouraged by the fact that they were actually talking to each other, eagerly went to her. In the back of his mind, however, the more rational and less desperate side of him was cautiously waiting for the other proverbial shoe to drop. Reaching the side of their new bed, he fell to one knee, eye to eye with Buffy as he presented her with a small but genuine token of his unbreakable love.

"What's the occasion?" Buffy asked, having rolled over onto her stomach again, but avoiding his gaze. "You didn't know about the bed, did you? 'Cause I didn't, until they called about forty minutes before they delivered it. Lucky Dawn and I were here. Although I think supper took a direct hit because I had to be up here supervising."

"No, I didn't know. And there is no special occasion, except to say 'I love you' . . . which I haven't told you nearly enough as of late." As Buffy accepted the bouquet from him, he took the opportunity to tell her again. "And I do. I love you so very much."

Giles held his breath as he waited for her to answer in kind, waited for the one person who mattered most in his life to reciprocate those three little words and heal the hole she had made in his heart.

Resting on her elbows, Buffy drew the bouquet close, the cellophane crinkling noisily as she delighted in the delicate fragrance of the blooms. She smiled into the spray, then looked up and raised her left hand to touch his temple, her eyes following her trailing fingertips rather than seeking out his anxious gaze. With a tender touch, Buffy took her time to re-familiarize herself with the angles and planes of his face, as if she were seeing him, touching him, for the first time. Eventually, her index finger settled across his lips, a ghost of a smile playing on her own. Unable to resist, he gave it a quick kiss, before she pulled her hand away and finally focused her gaze on his.

"Thank you," she whispered. Not exactly what he'd been hoping for, but sincere, nonetheless. But she followed it up with the other three words he was so desperate to hear. "I've missed you."

"Oh Lord, Buffy," he breathed, his heart suddenly wanting to burst with joy. Despite the fact that they hadn't missed a night sleeping in each other's arms, he'd felt so estranged from her that he may have well been sleeping with a stone figurine. "I've missed you too, love. So much."

She regarded him intently, looking into him in a way that no one else could. Slowly yet deliberately, she lifted his glasses from his face and put them on the nightstand for safekeeping, the action giving him hope. "I don't know how we got lost in such a terrible place, but I do know I want to leave there, right now, with you."

"Yes," he agreed. He moved from his knees to sit beside her on their new bed, his hands finding natural purchase either side of her hips as she rolled to her back to accommodate him. "God, yes."

Looking up at him, still holding her flowers, Buffy's free hand found the end of his tie. She wound it around her fist, effectively reeling him down to her, her eyes never leaving his. She stopped when she had no more tie to wind, with his face mere millimeters from hers and her breasts tantalizingly brushing his shirtfront whenever she drew breath.

"You smell like peppermint," she observed with a soft smile. "Let me taste."

Giles had never been able to say 'no' to her demands, whatever they were, and this time was definitely no exception. Eyes closing, he lowered his head to kiss her with as much tender passion as he could find within himself. So full of heartfelt relief, and so fervent in his desire to engage her in some serious loving, he failed to notice the kiss, and his accompanying caress, was a completely one-sided venture . . . until long, breathless moments later, Buffy forcefully used her Slayer strength to push him away.

With a single bounce, he back-flipped off the end of their new bed, his skull narrowly missing the low, brass footboard as he crashed to the floor on all fours. Recovering, he used his elbows to haul himself halfway back up onto the mattress. "Bloody hell . . . "

"Giles--God--I didn't mean to . . . "

He cracked the whiplash out of his neck, his tie askew. She'd nearly throttled him with that stunt, not to mention given him a concussion. Regaining his feet, he stood over her in search of an explanation.

Sitting up now, hugging her bunch of flowers so fiercely that it broke stems and caused petals to fall every which way, Buffy looked horrified by what she'd done. "I am so sorry."

Huffing out his indignation, Giles yanked his tie back from ninety-degrees and tentatively returned to his spot beside her.

Buffy cowered in response to his closeness.

Giles hesitated. He wasn't sure what offended him most; the fact that she had seen fit to end his advances--which she had asked for--with such unnecessary force, or that she now shrank away from him in fear that he might press the issue. Angry and hurt, he followed her recoil with a scowl on his face, risking life and limb as he crawled up over her trying to fathom her unfathomable behavior . . . until tears unexpectedly threatened to spill from her eyes.

"Buffy?" he asked, as the pile of pillows at the head of their new bed halted her retreat. He stopped chasing her, and simply looked at her in complete exasperation.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, one hot tear slipping free, one arm thrown protectively across her chest. "I thought with our new bed and all . . . I thought I could . . . that if we could just get back into some sort of routine it would all be okay again."

Not wanting to lose what little headway they'd made in patching things up--or, at least, her verbal acknowledgment that there was indeed a problem between them--he backed off to a less intimidating position.

"Routine is good," he agreed, realizing that fixing the predicament went far beyond a bunch of flowers and a little chat. His longing for her touch, and the alcohol he had consumed, had made him blind to that fact until now. He kinked his neck again, hearing the vertebrae crack. "At least we know you haven't lost any of your Slayer prowesses due to the lack of recent training," he quipped in an offhand attempt at levity.

"Yeah," Buffy agreed miserably. "I can beat up demons until the cows come home, and then I can beat up the cows. But I'm . . . not sure I like what it's doing to me."

Giles turned a frown on her, not comprehending.

She diverted her gaze. "I'm starting to feel like being the Slayer . . . is turning me into stone."

"Turning you into stone? Buffy . . . " His hand found her knee in an instinctive gesture of comfort, an instant before he balked at the fact that he had just reflected on her indifference toward him in precisely that manner.

"No, think about what I did to you just now. I asked you to kiss me, and when you did, I went ballistic. I've been horrible to you for weeks. And to Dawn. And I don't know why except . . . except for what Aunt Arlene told me."

"What did she say?" he asked, seriously doubting anything her kindly aunt had said could have led to this.

"She said it was okay for me to cry, because I wasn't made of stone." Buffy's gaze found his again, brimming with tears. "But she was wrong. I must be--I am--because how else can I explain why I'm so cold and unresponsive toward the man I love."

"But at a time like this--" he began to reason.

"No."

"--you're bound to feel emotionally numb." He understood grief to be an instrumental part of the problem, the catalyst behind it. He just didn't know how to help her through it.

"No, it's more than that. I totally shut down, Giles. I shut you out and pushed you away, when you were--are---the one person I should have let in." She looked at the crumpled bouquet in her arms, unaware of the death-crush she had on it until that moment. "I'm still pushing you away."

Reaching out, Giles gently took the beat up tulips from her, and placed them on the floor, alas now destined for the trash. His hands returned to the mattress, either side of her hips, in an unassuming and unthreatening manner, yet still suggesting his desire to be close to her, as if nothing she did would ever be enough to push him away entirely.

"And now my mom is gone," Buffy continued morosely, "and I loved her more than anything. And I don't know if she knew."

"She knew." He reached out a hand to her tear-streaked cheek, cupped it a moment, before letting it travel down to rest on her shoulder. He squeezed gently. "Always."

"I don't know." She sniffed back fresh tears, and looked up into his eyes with a tortured expression. "To slay, to kill . . . it means being hard on the inside. Maybe being the perfect Slayer means being too hard to love at all."

"Buffy--"

"Giles . . . I love you."

He regarded her with maudlin hope, the first time he had heard her say those words in over a month. But there was no miraculous healing of the hole she'd torn inside him, because despite her candidness, he just didn't see the spark he used to see in her eyes.

"Love . . . love, love, love, love," Buffy continued, equally troubled. "Giles, I can say it 'til I'm blue in the face, but I just don't feel it . . . in here." In a bold move, she picked up his hand from her shoulder and pressed it between her breasts, over her heart. "And I want to. I want to say it to you and mean it like I used to . . . with every fiber of my being. But I just . . . don't." Her voice cracked on the last word, and she started to cry in earnest.

Giles hesitantly gathering her up into his arms, relieved when she allowed him to hold her while she wept. At least her tears were encouraging; she hadn't completely lost all ability to feel emotion. He very much doubted that she'd lost her ability to love, either. It had simply been buried beneath her overwhelming grief for her mother, and her stubborn insistence to be a rock of solid support for her sister. On that count, Buffy had unwittingly turned herself to 'stone.'

He realized then, with suddenly insightful clarity, that solving their problem with intimacy meant first solving the problem she perceived within herself.

"How serious are you about this?" he asked gently, nuzzling the side of her head with his cheek.

"Ten." Pulling away, she sat up a little straighter. "I'm serious to the amount of ten."

"There is something," he explained, reluctantly letting her create a gap between them again. He met her hopeful gaze, bridging the distance with his hand to wipe away the last of her tears. "In the Watchers' Diaries. A quest. I found it when I was researching our shared dream."

"A quest? Like finding a grail or something?"

"Not a grail. Maybe answers."

Giles' mind quickly worked through the logistics of the undertaking, chiefly about the metaphysical part of her that had been given to him for protection when he first took up his post as Watcher. Her 'Slayer essence' had been transferred to him via a Council binding ritual, assuring that Buffy was indeed his Slayer and he was her Watcher. In order for Buffy to embark on this journey of Slayer self-discovery, Giles temporarily needed to surrender his guardianship to a spirit guide. The spell to do that was a relatively simple one, and well documented in the diaries he'd already read, diaries that also revealed the locations of several of the sacred places set aside for just such quests. He only hoped that breaking their Watcher/Slayer bond, in light of discovering some as-yet-undetermined influence had tampered with it in order to make them share a recurring nightmare, would not leave her feeling even more isolated and alone.

Despite his misgivings, he gave her an encouraging smile. "It would take a day, perhaps two--"

"I'm not leaving Dawn," Buffy interrupted. "Not with Glory looking for her."

Dawn suddenly launched herself into their bedroom, slipping around the open doorway in a very telling manner. "Sure you can. What's the deal?"

Buffy frowned at her sister. "How long have you been eavesdropping?" She threw a pillow at her in annoyance. "Snoop!"

Dawn caught it and tossed it right back. "Since something crashed on the floor and I came up to make sure we weren't under attack by the monster of the week," she said, inadvertently referring to Giles' unplanned and close-up inspection of the bedroom floor. "And it's not like you locked the door or anything to say 'we're having sex, don't come in.' You didn't even close it," she added in her own defense. She folded her arms, determined not to move without an answer. "So . . . what quest?"

Giles cleared the embarrassment from his throat. Not because of Dawn's comment that a locked door meant 'warning: sex in progress', but rather because in the month since he'd moved in to Revello Drive, they hadn't even shut it. "One that some Slayers before Buffy found helpful in regaining their focus, learning more about their role." To Buffy, he said, "There are a number of sacred places for this purpose scattered across the globe. There's one near here, in the desert. It's not far."

"But I can't go. I'm not leaving you, Dawn."

"If you have to go learn . . . I mean, if it'll help you out, then I think you should do it." She grinned confidently, and Giles was grateful for her maturity and understanding, even though she had no clear picture of the real problem plaguing Buffy. "I can hang with the gang. I'll be okay."

Buffy glanced at Giles, then back at Dawn. She rose from the bed and crossed to her sister, who warily watched her approach, as if still expecting some form of sibling payback for the eavesdropping stunt. To her surprise, Buffy threw her arms around her and pulled her into a ferocious hug.

"I love you, Dawn. You know that, right?"

"Yeah. I love you, too."

Releasing her, Buffy kept her hands on Dawn's shoulders and looked her in the eye. "I love you. Really love you."

Dawn smiled uncomfortably and glanced at Giles for support. "Getting weird."

"Sorry, but it's important that I tell you," Buffy said, tenderly combing a lock of hair from her sister's face. "Weird love's better than no love."

* * *

"Some say it's better than the real thing," Spike said, studying Warren's latest robotic masterpiece--an exact replica of Buffy--in great detail. His head tilted as his eyes took a lustful wander over the thing. It looked like Buffy, for sure, standing there in the middle of Warren's mother's empty basement, but its--her--eyes were closed, and it--she--was completely motionless. He frowned. He could have as easily been looking at a souped-up shop mannequin, like the one he'd stolen and dressed in a blonde wig and Buffy's clothes. All in all, the more he studied the end results of Warren's work, the less impressed Spike started to become. "She looks good, but what about the rest? A little walk, a little talk . . . perhaps a zippy cartwheel."

Warren frantically stuffed the last of his belongings into his backpack, eager to leave town. He'd far outstayed his welcome, especially after the fiasco with his first robot/girlfriend, April. "Hey, she's great," he said, giving his best salesman pitch. "You'll be real happy, I swear. She's got everything you asked for, all the extra programming. Tons of real world knowledge, the profiles you gave me about her family and friends . . . "

"All the extra programming, right?" Spike asked, meaningfully.

"The stuff that you wanted. The scenario responses . . . you know, the special skills." A maniacal laugh escaped Warren at the thought of the bizarre programming Spike had requested. "All of it. Now you said that I could leave town--"

He made a dash for the door, but Spike grabbed a fistful of his shirt and stopped him in his tracks.

"Wait. I'm not sure I'm a satisfied customer," Spike said, still studying the robot. "She looks a little shiny to me. You know, a touch of Plasticine™ . . . "

The Buffybot's eyes suddenly open. She looked directly at Spike and smiled in a way that would have made his heart skip a beat, if it were actually beating in the first place.

"Spike?" she asked, bewildered yet obviously happy to see him. She sounded like Buffy all right . . . or at least how he dreamed Buffy would sound, if she were head over heels in love with him instead of that Watcher wanker. "Oh, Spike!"

Without hesitation, she threw herself into his arms and kissed him passionately. Warren took the opportunity to make good his escape, but this time Spike didn't care. He had what he wanted, what the poncy Watcher thought was his alone to enjoy.

The Buffybot broke the kiss, and smiled at him.

Flushed, Spike quickly changed his opinion of his artificial lover. "She'll do."

* * *

Giles stirred from sleep as Buffy moved in his arms. When she pulled away completely, he opened his eyes in search of her. It was still dark--he guessed somewhere in the early morning hours--but he could see her, silhouetted by moonlight, sitting on the side of their new bed with her back to him.

"Buffy?" he asked drowsily, wondering if something were amiss.

"Gotta pee," she announced eloquently, and stood to move off in the direction of the bathroom.

Closing sleepy eyes, Giles took advantage of her brief absence to roll onto his back and stretch his limbs. A contented sigh escaped him. Their choice of bedding had been exceptional; this was by far the most comfortable mattress he had ever slept on. He couldn't wait to try it out in other ways, which he may be one step closer to achieving, should Buffy's spiritual quest prove successful . . .

When he next opened his eyes, the room was awash with gentle morning light. Although he hadn't intended to fall asleep while awaiting Buffy's return, fingers of weak sunlight now crept across the floor of their bedroom as the new day vied for a foothold. He was still on his back, and when he turned his head, he found Buffy sharing his pillow, wide awake and looking at him. He smiled; he'd had such a delightful dream about her, and their new bed.

"Hey," she greeted him softly, returning the smile.

"Good morning. What time is it?"

"Just after six."

"Good Lord, are you feeling all right? Up at the crack of dawn?"

She grinned easily, accepting the teasing. "I couldn't get back to sleep. Anyway, I found something better to occupy my time."

"What?"

"Watching you."

Giles raised a wry eyebrow. "I believe that's my job description," he countered with mock seriousness. Rolling onto his shoulder to face her, he searched her face, his hand tenderly combing some hair from her cheek. Like every morning, he wanted to greet her with a kiss, but this morning he felt he had a better chance of her actually allowing it. They'd made headway on the problem last night simply by acknowledging it, but whether he was any closer to his goal of showing her how very much he loved her, even with a simple kiss, remained uncertain.

Deciding to risk it, since her side of the bed faced the windows and--worst case scenario--he would land on the floor rather than the front lawn, he leaned closer. But Buffy immediately withdrew, her head flinching backwards in an obvious attempt to avoid him. Trying to turn that action into something less hurtful, she smiled happily.

"What do you say we get an early start?" Buffy asked, changing the subject.

Giles hid his disappointment, something at which he had become very adept. "On what?"

"The quest, silly."

"I'm not sure how agreeable Dawn will be, when you wake her up at this hour to drag her over to Xander and Anya's." Giles raised a thoughtful eyebrow. "Nor Xander and Anya, for that matter." Even though they had telephoned last night to arrange Dawn's sleepover, he knew the pair were not early risers.

"I didn't mean we had to leave right this moment," Buffy reasoned. "But I'm guessing there's some Watchery stuff you need to do first, right? We could get started on that. And I could . . . make sandwiches. Or something."

Sandwiches? While it was true enough that in preparation of her quest he needed to obtain a few items from the Magic Box, Giles didn't share Buffy's enthusiasm to get things moving quite so early, nor for the 'picnic' she envisioned this undertaking to be. Still, he didn't want to quash her interest in it either.

"Why don't we start with breakfast first?" he suggested as a compromise.

They roused Dawn an hour later, which, on a Saturday morning, did nothing to impress the teen. After breakfast, Buffy again suggested making sandwiches for the road trip, but her eagerness turned to disappointment when she realized they had used the last of the bread for toast. Filling a thermos of coffee--thinking of Buffy rather than himself--Giles assured her they would simply stop to eat when the need arose. Although Buffy insisted that, all things going well, they would return to Sunnydale tonight, Giles still suggested they each pack an overnight bag, just in case. After grabbing some warm coats from the closet, Giles waited patiently while Buffy re-packed Dawn's overnight bag with the exaggerated obsession of a mother hen.

The three of them arrived downtown at the Magic Box at eight-thirty and parked on a meter in Maple Court, which at that hour, before any neighboring shops were open for weekend trade, was no problem. Giles quickly found the spell book he needed, and went about collecting the necessary supplies. Chasing down his magic gourd, which hadn't seen use since their run-in with Adam, he ventured downstairs into the basement storage area, and inadvertently gave himself a start when he rounded on the robotic version of his friend's--Carlton Fisk's--young wife. The tarp covering it had pooled at its feet, as it obediently stood in a dark and dusty corner like a forgotten naughty child. Shaking off his repulsion for the thing, and the primary use for which it had been constructed, Giles retrieved his gourd, and his wife and sister-in-law, before they all headed out.

After stopping at Xander and Anya's place to drop off Dawn, which did indeed rouse the couple from bed despite it being after nine, Giles drove out of Sunnydale to catch Interstate 5 and headed south for Los Angeles, where they would eventually intersect with and follow I-10 toward Palm Springs and their final destination.

On the road, and with four-plus hours of driving still ahead of them, Giles humbly reflected that perhaps Buffy had been right in wanting to get an early start. They didn't talk much, as had awkwardly become their norm over the past few weeks, and soon the motion of the car and the boredom of the highway lulled Buffy to sleep. Glancing at her, with her face turned away toward the passenger window, Giles let her rest, knowing she would need all her wits and stamina for the coming trek.

Around two that afternoon, she finally stirred. They'd made good time despite the inevitable choke points of traffic. Not even the predictable chaos of the LA interchanges, or Giles' mumbled curses at the folly of the city's drivers, had had the power to awaken her. The first he knew that Buffy was back in the land of the conscious was when she stretched and yawned in the passenger seat beside him, somewhere the other side of Palm Springs.

"Good nap?" Giles asked, sparing her a brief smile.

Although the BMW's top was up, Buffy blinked at the bright afternoon sunlight. She fished in the bag by her feet for a pair of fashionable sunglasses, donning them to stare at her watch. "I can't believe I slept that long!"

"Well, you didn't get much sleep last night," he said, his hand tentatively bridging the gap between the bucket seats to find her leg. She permitted his touch, almost like the 'good old days' of their four months of marriage. "And since I have no idea how long this quest is actually going to take, I thought you could use the rest."

"Where are we?" Buffy asked, looking around the empty stretch of two-lane blacktop shooting straight as an arrow toward the mountains ahead. The terrain had changed dramatically since she'd gone to sleep; the lush, green coastal vegetation now replaced by rolling plains of sandy soil dotted with cacti, sagebrush, and yuccas. During the course of the journey, they'd climbed several thousand feet in elevation, too, so the air was noticeably drier--far less humid than coastal Sunnydale--and when the sun sank lower in the sky, the chill of the high desert would settle in. Noting the decided lack of civilization on either side of the road, she gave him a suspicious look. "This doesn't look like the way to Palm Springs. Y'know . . . movie stars and mud spars?"

"Perhaps because it's not. We passed through there a half hour ago. We're on a back road, coming up on a little place called. . . " Reluctantly breaking physical contact, Giles put his hand back on the steering wheel, and reached his other hand into the door pocket to retrieve a map. Neatly folded to show their current position, he gave it a quick look to confirm the name of the upcoming town. " . . . Conchetta."

"What's at Conchetta?"

"A garage, hopefully." Giles tucked the map away again, glancing at the dash, in particular at the gauge with the needle nosing ever closer to the big red 'E'. "I need to get some petrol."

"You mean, 'fill up with gas,'" Buffy corrected, suppressing a grin. "Giles, you really need to learn to speak the local lingo."

"'You say tom-may-to . . . '" he quoted, enjoying her teasing. At least they were talking to each other, almost bantering like their old selves.

Quite unexpectedly, Buffy brightened his world with a radiant smile. "But 'let's not call the whole thing off,' okay?"

"Okay." Encouraged, not wanting the conversation to end, Giles asked, "Are you hungry?"

"See? Sandwiches? Who told you so? Huh?"

"You did, darling," he replied, sounding suitably henpecked.

Buffy grinned triumphantly, then gave the question serious consideration. "Yeah, I could do with a bite of something. Although I doubt we're gonna find a McDonalds way out here in the back of beyond. Probably have to settle for a greasy spoon instead."

Giles pulled a face. "And imagine my surprise, at finding myself preferring the former over the latter in that statement."

"Relax, British Guy, it's an American expression. It means a small, cheap diner."

"It most certainly is not American," he argued playfully. "It's a colloquial British term dating from the 1920s, used in reference to an establishment with a less-than-rigorous approach to hygiene and dishwashing."

"A small, cheap diner," Buffy repeated for clarification. "But if it's any comfort to know, greasy spoons don't necessarily have greasy spoons . . . except the really small, really cheap ones."

A green road sign flashed past on the right shoulder. It read: 'CONCHETTA, POPULATION 500.'

They exchanged knowing looks.

A moment later, Buffy pointed at the first town building, coming up ahead. "Ooh, gas station! 'I Spy' points for Buffy!"

The arrival bell rang twice as the BMW ran over the twin rubber strips near the front pump in a two-pump garage. As soon as they were stationary, Buffy climbed out of the car to stretch her cramped limbs with cat-like grace, before exercising further with a walk around the side of the building where the restrooms were located.

A man--early 30's, olive-skinned, wearing greasy jeans with a plaid shirt and a cowboy hat--approached from out of the mechanic's area, where a dark blue pickup that had seen better days was in for service. "Buenas tardes, señor."

Throwing off his seatbelt, Giles got out to stretch his legs. "Good afternoon."

"Señorita," the man said, tipping his hat as Buffy passed by.

She flashed him a smile. "Hey."

The mechanic's gaze momentarily dipped to watch her disappear around the corner of the shop area, unashamedly ogling the feminine sway of her hips. Wiping his hands on a grease-covered rag, he gave Giles a toothy grin. "I fill her for you, no?"

An innocent enough statement in broken English and referring to the car, surely, but Giles immediately picked up on the innuendo aimed toward Buffy. Whether or not it was intentional was open for debate. "No, I'm quite capable," he assured the man, managing a double entendre of his own. "Thank you."

The mechanic shrugged. "Sue yourself, señor." He returned to the workshop, but not before pausing at the side of the garage for another leer around the corner at Buffy's backside. Shaking his head, mumbling in Spanish, he returned to his work.

Reigning in his green-eyed monster, Giles began to pump his gas. Such was his curse, he supposed, for being in love with an incredibly attractive young woman--the constant awareness of how much other men desired her. Leaning against the Beemer's fender, Giles turned his attention elsewhere, letting his gaze travel across the road. On the other side of the highway, which itself had deteriorated into a two-lane stretch of crumbling bitumen, he spied THE SIESTA MOTEL--a single story, L-shaped building, featuring a dozen cheap rooms fronting onto a dusty parking lot. A crooked row of yellow concrete buffers followed the L, their sole purpose to stop guests from backing right into their rooms. From the crumbling state of them, that task had been put to the test several times.

He frowned in disapproval of the rundown appearance of the place. It was far from THE RITZ, but in a town this size and this far off the beaten track, it was quite possibly the only accommodation going. With luck, Buffy's foray into the desert wouldn't take as long as anticipated, and they could indeed drive back to Sunnydale later tonight, rather than add their names to the guest register.

The pump lever jerked in his hand, cutting off and signaling a full tank. Returning it to its cradle, he screwed on the gas cap and shut the cover. Over the top of the BMW's ragtop, Giles looked around for Buffy, but she had vanished from sight, probably taking the opportunity to visit the restroom. Eyeing the amount he owed, he headed into the adjoining convenience store to pay.

Inside, a six-foot tall spinner stand near the front door immediately caught his eye. The stand itself was not of interest, depleted of all but a few dusty, bent postcards. Apparently, nobody bothered to refill it because nobody ever came to Conchetta by choice. On the top row, however, he spied an unexpected but appreciated surprise--some dog-eared maps sagging down over their holders like weary old men withered by time and gravity.

He worried the store clerk by unfolding two before he found what he was looking for. While the road map of southern California had been invaluable getting them thus far, it was sadly lacking when it came to the local lay of the land, chiefly the surrounding desert. Although the location of the sacred place Giles intended to take Buffy was partly spiritual, he wanted to get as close to the physical locale as possible. He was aiming for somewhere within a two mile radius, lest Buffy find herself faced with a hell of a long walk. This map of the local area would be a tremendous help.

Paying for his map and his gasoline, Giles headed back to the car, only to find Buffy now leaning against it, involved in a cheery conversation with the Mexican Marauder.

Giles' step faltered. He wasn't sure what peeved him more; the fact that the mechanic was openly flirting with her, or that Buffy was happily flirting back. That she could apparently talk up a storm with a complete stranger, when talking to him--her husband--had clearly presented itself as a major chore over the past month, further irked his temper.

With a grunt, fighting down another pang of jealousy, he climbed in behind the wheel without saying a word. Perhaps 'flirting' was the wrong word in regard to Buffy, he grudgingly decided, given her present frame of mind. As he refolded his new map to fit in the door pocket for easy access, he determined that she had simply struck up an easy rapport while waiting for him. He should be happy for her willing involvement in a casual conversation. It marked a turning point in her attempt to find her way out of the hole she had dug for herself. She really was trying. Now, if he could just quell his decidedly homicidal intent, as he listened to that sod brazenly chat up his wife, things would be peachy.

Unlatching the glove compartment, Giles angrily tossed his old map inside. Straightening, he impatiently drummed his fingers on the wheel while Buffy stumbled over her woeful Spanish skills, completely oblivious to the fact that she was being hit on by a pro.

"Buffy, are you ready?" he finally asked, leaning over the passenger seat to call out the window. He flipped the door handle for her, somewhat ungraciously hitting her in the butt, but she took the hint.

"Gracias," she told the mechanic as she slipped in beside him, the smile still on her face. "Well, I found out were the local greasy spoon is . . . "

But before she could elaborate, the mechanic bent down and grinned at her through the window. "Come back anytime, señorita," he suggested. "I be most happy to service you."

'Yes, I'm sure you would,' Giles thought belligerently, starting up the engine. Stepping on the accelerator, he pulled back out onto the road faster than he should have, causing the Mexican to hastily back step or risk his toes.

Buffy bumped over the curb; Giles hadn't even given her a chance to buckle her seatbelt. Clicking it in place, she turned a frown on him. "Whoa, where's the fire?"

Giles gritted his teeth, lest he lose his temper at her and her blind-bloody-eye to the flirtatious mechanic. "I'm simply eager to get where we're going," he said levelly.

"But we're gonna eat first, right?"

"Buffy, you appear to have forgotten the reason behind all this, why we're here in the middle of nowhere. Not to mention that you, yourself, wanted to keep this to a day trip, if possible. The sooner we get started, the sooner we can return home."

Pulling her sunglasses partway down her nose, Buffy looked at him over the top of the dark lenses. "But now that I've had time to think about it, I'm, like, starving!"

He grunted in frustration. "Well, perhaps you wouldn't be, if you'd actually eaten more than half a slice of toast for breakfast."

She pouted. "But you said we could stop." Quite unexpectedly, she reached across to touch his knee. Her caress was deliberate, and very, very distracting. It was the first time in a month that she had initiated any form of physical contact, and he momentarily had pause to turn around and take her back to THE SIESTA MOTEL for the afternoon, Slayer quest be damned. "Please?"

The realization that he was acting foolishly on both counts made him ease off the gas pedal. He glanced at her, keeping one eye on the road and cautiously slowing as the downtown area came into view.

"If you eat fast," he agreed jadedly, covering her hand with his own. On impulse, he lifted it to his lips for a quick kiss, before letting go.

Buffy brightened at his actions. "And I wanna put the top down, too, okay?"

"Yes, I'm sure that will expedite things considerably."

"Aw, c'mon, grouchy, it's a beautiful day."

"Darling, we're not here for the scenery," he reminded her again.

Not listening, Buffy leaned forward in her seat. "Okay, see the traffic lights?" she asked, pointing toward the upcoming intersection. She needn't have bothered; they were the only traffic lights in town. Decaying downtown buildings drizzled past, most of which were dark and boarded up with no signs of life. "You gotta turn right there. Then three blocks, and right again."

Or so said her new admirer. Scowling, Giles followed the directions, and in short order, discovered the true extent of Buffy's appetite. 'Starving' was, indeed, an apt description. Sitting in a small booth, on the opposite side of the table from her, Giles watched her devour more food than he had seen her tackle in a very long time . . . which was good; she could definitely do with a little more meat on her bones. She put away two large burritos, a bowl of refried beans, and a plate of nacho chips drowned in salsa, in the same time it took him to consume a single toasted cheese and tomato sandwich, and a cup of tea--the latter of which he wasn't entirely convinced hadn't been made with dishwater.

Tea aside, which was clearly not a regional delicacy, JOSE'S was not a typical 'greasy spoon', and far from what he expected to find on the recommendation of a mechanic. The seating area was clean and tidy, and the staff, including their waitress--a friendly woman in her mid-forties and of Mexican descent--possessed more than a basic standard of grooming and hygiene. If that didn't speak for itself, then the clientele most certainly did. Even at two-thirty in the afternoon, there was scarcely an empty table to be found. It appeared to be the local spot for 'pie and coffee.' Baffling, to say the least . . .

Giles hadn't realized his attention had drifted, until he was startled back to the present by their waitress' question.

"More tea, señor?"

He jumped slightly, finding the woman in his personal space, dangling a tea bag by its string above his cup while flaunting a carafe of her atrocious hot water. That was the problem with his tea; it had been made in a coffee carafe. "N-no, thank you," he stuttered, much to her disappointment.

"You want me, you call me, no? I make you happy."

"No. I mean, yes. I shall. Thank you."

She smiled suggestively, and moved off to tend another customer.

Good Lord, was everyone in this town that hard up for sex? Or was it merely him, frustrated beyond belief, hearing innuendo in every sentence, and imagining lewd and licentious behavior everywhere he looked?

He looked across the table at Buffy, as she slurped the last of her soda through a straw in a noisy and unladylike fashion.

Everywhere except in the eyes of the one person who mattered most.

Buffy regarded him with the same detached indifference as she'd been using to look at him for the past month. He wondered if she'd even noticed that another woman apparently found him attractive. Did it bother her, the way the unwanted attention she garnered from other men bothered him? Was she even remotely jealous? Or did her present insensitivity make her impervious to all emotions?

His scrutiny, or perhaps the expression on his face, made her suddenly stop slurping.

"What?" Buffy's eyes widened in horror as she hastily reached for a napkin. "Do I have a big blob of salsa on my chin or something?"

Giles diverted his gaze, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. "No, no . . . I was just thinking, if you're finished, we really should be underway." He threw a couple of bills on the tabletop for a tip, looking everywhere except at Buffy.

He paid for lunch, then escorted her out to the car with a light but possessive hand on the small of her back, well aware of the stares that followed them. At her insistence, he put the top down and retrieved their coats from the trunk.

After much map consulting and very little swearing on Giles' part, they arrived at their destination with a good three hours of daylight left. Pulling off the highway, he drove a few hundred yards into the desert, mindful of where the solid terrain gave way to softer sand. The last thing he wanted was to get stuck, so he ventured into the dunes only as far as he dared, picked a spot at random, and pulled up beside a tall, spiky-leafed Joshua tree.

They got out together. Hands in the pockets of her long coat, which she was no doubt glad he had insisted she bring, Buffy followed Giles as he went to open the trunk.

"What's in the trunk?" she asked conversationally, watching him root around in it.

"Supplies."

"Supplies? Like food, water . . . maybe a compass? Have you been holding out on me, mister?"

"No, I meant the supplies I retrieved from the Magic Box." He gathered said supplies--spell book and magic gourd in one hand, a large bundle of twigs tied with string in the other--before he straightened and turned to her.

Buffy eyed his 'picnic' offerings with a teasing grin. "And this from the guy who thought 'sandwiches' were a bad idea." She nodded at his twigs. "News flash: I don't think I'll ever be that hungry."

Using his elbow, Giles slammed the trunk lid closed, sparing little time for her quip. He glanced around, getting his bearings, deciding that he was fairly close to where he intended to be--give or take a mile. "Very amusing. Come on, this way."

As they walked further into the dunes, the Watcher in Giles kicked into full gear, and he explained the next step in the process.

"You see, the location of the sacred place is a guarded secret. I can't take you there myself. I'll have to perform a ritual to transfer my guardianship of you--temporarily--to a guide." As he spoke, they climbed a small dune to a higher plateau, where he stopped, with a 360-degree panoramic view of the empty desert stretching from there to the horizon. Satisfied, he put his book and gourd on the ground, and began unraveling the string tied around the twigs. "This'll do."

"A guide . . . but no food or water? So it leads me to the sacred place, and then a week later, it leads you to my bleached bones?"

"Buffy, please." He gave her a wry smile as he worked. "It takes more than a week to bleach bones." Giles dropped to his knees and began to arrange the twigs around himself in a circle.

"So how's it start?" Buffy asked, watching.

"I jump out of the circle, then I jump back in it, then I . . . " He glanced away with a sheepish smile. " . . . shake my gourd."

"I know this ritual. The ancient shamans were next called upon to do the hokey-pokey and turn themselves around."

Circle complete, Giles got to his feet with his gourd in hand, and shot her a withering look. "Go quest."

Buffy waited, an amused glint in her eyes that he knew well. With a sigh, Giles resigned himself to looking like a right berk in front of her. He hopped out of the circle, then back into it, and then finally shook his gourd.

"And that's what it's all about," Buffy teased.

They both waited. An eagle squawked in the empty sky overhead.

"That it?" she asked flatly.

"Yes, that's it." Giles kicked aside some of the twigs with the toe of his boot, breaking the magic circle.

Buffy shrugged. "I don't feel any different."

"Nor did you when your Slayer essence was first placed under my protection, years ago." He stooped to put his magic gourd on the ground with his book, then moved out of the circle, brushing the sand from his hands and knees. "Buffy, it's a spiritual possession, not a physical one. You're not supposed to 'feel any different.'"

"So . . . what happens now?"

"Now, you quest."

She glanced at the desert around them, devoid of life save for the scrub bush and various yuccas dotted over the endless sea of dunes. "But . . . how do I know where to go?"

"Follow your instincts. Your Slayer essence is now free of my constraint. Allow it to rule your intuition." Off her doubtful look, he added, "I'll attempt to summon a guide to aid you."

"How will I know this guide? I mean, will he be like one of those guys at the airport, wearing a chauffeur's cap and holding a little sign that says: BUFFY?"

Chuckling, Giles pulled her into an impromptu hug. "I agree that would be tremendously helpful, but alas, no. Trust me, you'll know your guide when you see him or her or it." He paused as the moment turned serious. Once again, he was sending her out to face the unknown, and while he didn't believe there was any physical danger to her in the undertaking, the mental quandaries that awaited could prove overwhelming, especially in her present emotional state of mind. "Be careful," he whispered, risking a kiss to the side of her head.

Much to his relief, Buffy's arms rose to return his embrace. "You, too." She drew back far enough to look up into his eyes. "Don't let a mountain lion eat you or anything."

Giles nodded, mustering up a warm smile. "I shall try very hard not to." He raised his hand, intent on touching her cheek with the backs of his fingers and perhaps initiating a more loving kiss, but she pulled away, and, with a final glance over her shoulder, turned and walked into the desert.

* * *

In his crypt, Spike stirred from blissful, exhausted slumber, the smile put on his face by the Buffybot some hours earlier still firmly in place. He'd dreamed of making wild, passionate love to Buffy, and as he lazily returned to consciousness, he realized that in all the ways that mattered, he had. The Buffybot was Buffy's complete doppelganger. It--she--wasn't a substitute for the real thing, she was better than the real thing. She obeyed his commands, catered to his whims, conformed to his wishes, all without question, no matter how depraved, cruel, or twisted. Let the wanker Watcher try to get his Buffy to do that!

The only thing Spike missed in settling for a robotic substitute was that he hadn't been able to taste her in the midst of high passion. To have bitten her, to have felt the dribble of her warm, salty blood on his lips as he shot his dead seed deep into her, would have just been the icing on the cake.

He smacked his lips, hesitant to leave his 'perfect place' and open his eyes. Instead, he rolled onto his shoulder and reached for his artificial lover, hoping to engage her in more of the same . . . which was when he suddenly realized that she wasn't there.

He sat up in his bed atop a stone sarcophagus with a start, looking around his deserted crypt with the panicked eyes of a madman. Moonlight streamed in through the high, half-moon windows, leaving few hiding spots in the darkness. Where the bloody hell was she? She was a robot, for Pete's sake! All plastic and metal and computer innards. Call of nature? Bloody hell . . . since when did a robot answer the call of nature?

A bolt of inspiration struck. He'd requested 'extra programming,' as that dweeb, Warren, called it, which basically consisted of a list of specific reactions and behavioral traits as befitting Spike's version of what a Slayer was like, all in hope of making the Buffybot as true to original as possible . . . or what Spike believed Buffy would be like if she were truly that much in love with him. Consequentially, to figure out where the Buffybot had vanished to, all he needed to do was figure out where the real Buffy would be at this time of night.

His eyes widened at the answer. "Cripes!" Spike muttered to himself, throwing back the blanket covering his naked form.

She'd gone slaying.

He dressed quickly, after finding his scattered clothing, and lit out of his crypt at a dead run. He had to find her before someone else did, namely one of those annoying Scooby do-gooders. If it got back to Buffy that he had sponsored and now harbored a sexbot in her likeness, then there would be far more than just hell to pay. And not only from a brassed off Slayer. That wanker she'd tied the knot with, under some insane delusion that she was in love with him, already had a stake waiting with his name on it . . .

Spike ran. He ran through the first two cemeteries at full speed, dodging effigies and leaping headstones, the tails of his long black coat flapping in his wake like a demented creature of the night. He was just about out of steam, and ideas, when he spotted her in the third graveyard talking to, of all people, two of the Slayer's pals; Xander and Anya.

Mustering up his second wind, Spike charged at them out of the shadows, before his robot lover could reply to Xander's probing inquiry to her weird state of mind. God only knew what she'd already told them; perhaps he should have paid as much attention to her social interaction input as he had to her sexual responses. "Hey! Wait up!"

The Buffybot turned to greet him with a welcoming smiled. "Spike!" To the Scoobies she enthusiastically added, "It's Spike . . . and he's wearing a coat!"

Spike finally reached them, looking from Xander to Anya and back again, trying to determine just how much they had or hadn't figured out. From the looks on their faces, they were close to realizing something was amiss, but still not sure what. It was time to do some damage control before they got wind of the charade. "Yes . . . ah . . . hello all."

The Buffybot reached for his hand, an affectionate gesture that any other time he would have welcomed. Spike quickly pulled away, covering with a nod at Xander. "Buffy's back early, I see. Lots of patrolling all 'round tonight then, is it?"

Much to his annoyance, the Buffybot didn't take the hint to leave him alone. Another programming flaw--no subtlety. Not to be put off, she linked her arm with his, exactly the way he had demanded Warren make her do. Spike jerked back as if her touch hurt.

"Ow!" he feigned, trying to sound convincing in front of his ever-curious audience. "Hey, give a fella a break there, Slayer." Undeterred, the Buffybot again tried to be close to him. Spike completely ignored her, stepping toward the others. At least he didn't have to worry about hurting her feelings. "I'm glad you're all here," he told Xander and Anya in all seriousness, still holding his 'hurt' arm, "'cause . . . um . . . the place is crawling with vamps tonight . . . tons of them. I think we ought to split up." Anything to get the bloody robot away from their inquisitive eyes, somewhere he could enjoy her attention in private.

"We haven't seen any vamps," Xander remarked. "Are you sure there's--?"

The crack of a dead tree limb and the low, menacing growls warned of the approaching danger, moments before three vampires in game face emerged from the trees and rising mist of the silent graveyard.

"You're right," Anya said in resignation.

"Yep," Spike agreed in mild annoyance. Of all the times for company to show up. "Guess so."

Looking for a quick meal, the vampires attacked. Going into Slayer Mode, the Buffybot rushed forward to kick one to the ground, while Spike tackled another, leaving the third for Anya and Xander. Rising to the challenge, Spike punched his opponent, grabbed his arm and flipped him, all in one neat move. A glance at the Buffybot while he waited for the vamp to get up again, revealed that Warren was a bloody genius; her 'slaying' was absolutely brilliant. Her timed kicks and blows were perfect, playing out in the same synchronized ballet of death he had watched the real Buffy perform hundreds of times over.

Xander and Anya, on the other hand, had apparently developed a novel approach to dusting a vampire that was uniquely there own; Xander grappled with the creature, letting it all but throttle him while Anya danced around waiting for an opportunity to stake it.

"Spike! Be careful!"

The Buffybot's warning came in the nick of time. Spike glanced around, ducking under the arm and fist aimed at his head with an elegant move of his own. Springing to his feet, he resumed the fight, trading punches with his less experienced opponent, finding himself enjoying the brawl. It got the blood moving in his veins, something his unbeating heart failed at miserably. A good scrap up always made him hot, made him hard.

Unbeknown to Spike and the others, Glory's minions lurked in the nearby bushes, watching events unfold--specifically 'the Slayer's' protective nature towards Spike--with keen interest. Their goal was to determine who amongst the Slayer's brood was most important to her, and therefore most likely to be the Key their mistress sought.

"No!" the Buffybot called again, watching Spike trade blows with the vamp, mistakenly under the belief that he was in trouble. "Get away from him!"

Without further ado, she dusted her vampire in an almost offhanded fashion, and focused her attention on Spike, as he twisted his opponent's arm into a position that arms normally didn't bend. The move broke bone, tore cartilage, and toppled his adversary to his knees in utter agony. Attentive to his needs--as always--the Buffybot tossed her stake to Spike, who caught it and dusted his downed kindred without thought or hesitation, putting the poor bugger out of his misery once and for all.

Together, Spike and the Buffybot walk back to where Anya was helping Xander to his feet. The third vampire was also dust. Not that it would have worried Spike if one or both of them had been killed in the fight; that simply would have meant two less mouths to blab about 'Buffy's' odd behavior.

"I think that was probably the big action for the night," Spike said, hoping that it was indeed enough to get him and his eager-bed-partner out of the spotlight and back to his crypt for a little post-tussle tussle. "You two can toddle on home if you want."

Xander ignored the order and instead looked at the Buffybot for confirmation. "Buffy?"

"Yes," she agreed happily. "Spike and I will do it alone. You guys head home."

Not liking the idea, but nonetheless agreeable to it, Xander gave her a final nod, and he and Anya moved off toward the cemetery gate.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Spike turned his full attention to the Buffybot. She frowned, squirming uncomfortably as she rolled her shoulders. He knew, instinctively, what was bothering her . . . mostly because he'd had her programmed that way.

"I don't understand this," she protested. "I did the slaying. I should be--"

"Satisfied?" Spike asked in a wanton growl. He was far from satisfied himself. The slaying was just the foreplay.

She nodded. "But I'm not. I'm all . . . my skin is all hot. Do I look hot to you?"

He smiled lewdly. "Always."

"You better feel me to make sure," she said suggestively, quietly running algorithm #445687.

"I can do that." Spike roughly pulled her into his arms, silently praising the wonders of modern technology as he locked his mouth on hers in a fiery kiss.

* * *

Rounding the wrought iron cemetery gates, Xander and Anya headed home. She coughed and wheezed, and he glanced at her with a distracted frown. He was still trying to accept that Buffy had so easily dismissed their company in favor of Spike's.

"Urgh, I breathed in a quart of vampire dust," Anya complained, pocketing her stake now that the threat had passed. Despite Spike's insistence that the place was 'crawling with vamps', until a few minutes ago they hadn't seen any in the hour they'd been patrolling. "That can't be good."

Knowing she'd live, Xander recast his mind to his hurt feelings. "I wish Giles had told us they were back from the desert. I wish I knew what went on there."

"Oh, you know . . . Slayer/Watcher stuff. Probably some silly ritual with an enchanted prairie dog or something."

"And hopefully some quality Wife/Husband stuff," he added. He glanced at Anya as they meandered down the sidewalk. "Whatever it was, I think she's still a little spacey."

Anya shrugged. "She fought okay."

"Yeah." Xander stopped walking as something odd occurred to him, bringing them both to a halt. "Hey, she never asked about Dawn."

"That's true."

"And did you see a wedding ring on her finger?"

"Can't say that I did."

Xander didn't like the implications one bit. "Something's wrong." He glanced behind them at the cemetery gate, the decision already made. "Come on."

They snuck back into the deserted graveyard, and moved cautiously across the moonlit plots, ducking low hanging tree limbs in need of a trim, as they headed back to where they had parted company with Buffy and Spike. Not that Xander expected them still to be there, but it was a good enough place as any to start looking for them . . . so he could ask Buffy what the hell was going on that she preferred Spike's company over theirs. As they rounded a moss-covered mausoleum that fronted onto the area where they had dusted the three vampires, despairing moans caught their attention. Holding Anya's hand, fearing a new threat, Xander slowed their approach to a stealthy crawl until they were able to determine just what they were facing.

"I hear something," Anya whispered unnecessarily.

Xander hushed her. At the corner of the mausoleum, they peered through the trees for the shock of their lives.

Spike lay on his back atop of a grave, Buffy straddling him, thrusting up and down on him. Although both were still fully clothed, the flair of Buffy's pleated skit concealing all the naughty bits, it was obvious they were engaged in something Xander would rather not think about them being engaged in, period, in this lifetime or any other.

Buffy moaned with pleasure, her head thrown back as she shamelessly rode the vampire toward oblivion. "Oh, Spike! You're the big bad. You're the big bad!"

Xander, convinced he was going to be scarred for the rest of his life, recoiled in shock. Still holding Anya's hand, he dragged her away from the scene, back around the mausoleum, where they escaped, unseen, into the cover of the overgrown trees. Slack-jawed and mute, he couldn't believe he'd just witnessed Buffy having sex with Spike. But as they headed for the cemetery gates at a brisk walk, his thoughts sympathetically turned to Giles.

Poor Giles. The guy was going to be devastated by this news . . . if he didn't already know. Was that why he hadn't contacted them upon their return from the desert? Was he home alone, now, drinking through his misery? Giles evidently had good reason to be concerned about his crumbling relationship with Buffy. His marriage was on the rocks--no, from the look of things, it was already over. In hindsight, Xander couldn't blame the guy for finding a little solace in a bottle. If the shoe were on the other foot, Xander thought he might have turned to drinking Scotch, too. Gallons of it.

How did things get this bad, this fast? Although he knew that 'this fast' was not as overnight as it appeared. Judging from his conversation with Giles at the Magic Box, things had been silently falling apart for the past month. The question was how he had been so blind to what was happening to his friends.

"I know you said it's not polite to say 'I told you so,'" Anya said, her steps rushed, her heels making staccato clicks on the pavement as she kept pace with his longer stride. "But I told you so!"

And she was right. Never again would he so casually dismiss her quirky instincts. Buffy was having an extramarital affair. She was cheating on her husband.

With Spike!

As they briskly headed down the sidewalk toward home, Xander shook his head to clear it, but the straddling and thrusting remained indelibly burned onto his retina, just as the moaning kept ringing in his ears. When he got there, provided he could form a coherent sentence, he had to tell Willow.

Because somehow, someway, they had to fix this.

* * *

The car door slammed, waking him with a start. Glasses askew, hair rumpled from sleeping with his head wedged against the upholstery, Giles threw off the musty blanket he kept in the trunk and sat up in the backseat of the BMW, ready for the intruder's attack. It took him a moment to realize that there was no intruder, nor any attack--mountain lions generally didn't open the car door and get in first. Indeed, a creature of that size and strength would have simply lunged through the Beemer's ragtop--which he'd put up as meager protection against the desert chill after sunset, hours ago--and devoured him before he was even halfway towards realizing it.

Adjusting his glasses, he spied Buffy sitting in the front seat, staring blankly out the windshield. From her sullen silence and rigid body language, Giles immediately deduced that things hadn't gone terribly well on her quest. That, in itself, was extremely disappointing, and took an instant bite out of any anticipation he may have had for her exuberant return.

"Buffy?" he asked quietly, both in query to her trek and to announce his presence in a way that wouldn't startle her. Evidently, she was well aware of him, for she didn't jump or turn in surprise, but continued to regard the moonlit vista of desert landscape beyond the car's front bumper in absolute silence. He shifted his large frame into a more comfortable position. The BMW's backseat hadn't been designed for anyone over five-feet tall to partake in successful napping. Finding the tilt lever by feel alone, he tipped the driver's seat forward, reached for the door handle and pushed it open.

He climbed out a little awkwardly, clicked the seat back into place, then climbed in again, this time beside his brooding wife. In the chilled darkness, Giles regarded her for an extended moment, hoping she'd say something to initiate the conversation, or at the very least, give him the green light to inquire into the details of her six-hour-long desert sojourn. She didn't. Her eyes remained fixed on nothing, somewhere straight ahead, her expression blank.

Resigned, he diverted his gaze in defeat. "Should I even ask how things went?"

Buffy still wouldn't look at him. "Giles, I'm tired and cranky. I just wanna go home, okay?"

Facing front, he obediently turned the ignition key, the hope he'd harbored for a miraculous solution to all their problems dwindling down the drain.

After forty-five minutes of complete silence, Buffy spoke as an iridescent green road sign flashed in the headlights: 'CONCHETTA, POPULATION 500.' "Can we stop?"

"Are you hungry, or just in need of a bathroom?" Off her silence, he clarified, "Shall I head for the diner, or the garage? Although, I can't promise either will be open at this time of night."

"The motel."

Giles glanced at her, equally uncertain of her suggestion and the destination. "Are you sure? I mean, we could be home in roughly five hours. Quite possibly sooner, given the lighter nighttime traffic around LA."

"And that would still be, what? Two in the morning?" Buffy finally regarded him across the darkness, frowning. "I'm car-ridden-out for the day, Giles. Five hours? I don't think I could sit here for the next five minutes without turning homicidal."

He smiled tightly, eyes on the road and slowing to thirty-five as they entered the town limits. "Not something I'm anxious to see, I confess."

They drove up the main street, deserted but for a couple of cars, and on through the one and only set of traffic lights flashing yellow four ways. Buffy sent a look down the street as they passed the turn off to the diner but said nothing, so he continued out towards the other side of town. Keeping his eyes peeled all the way, Giles hoped to spot another, less rundown, motel, but as he had sadly mused earlier, THE SIESTA MOTEL was apparently the only accommodation around for miles. He thought about suggesting they go on to Palm Springs, but after Buffy's 'homicidal' remark, and guessing the afternoon and evening she'd had to induce such a mood, he decided he was better off not suggesting anything right now, merely accommodating her wishes.

He pulled into the derelict motel's parking lot, sandy gravel, blown in from the neighboring dunes, crunching loudly beneath the BMW's tires as they made the sole tracks across the gritty concrete expanse. All the lights were out save for the roadside marquee, its flickering red neon 'Vaca_cy' sign missing the letter 'n'. By comparison, the gas station across the road was lit up like the proverbial Christmas tree. The convenience store was apparently a 24/7 deal, which was a handy thing to know should Buffy--once they were finally settled in--have a late night snack food attack. Parking in front of Reception, Giles donned a questioning expression and spared Buffy a final glance, but she didn't say or do anything to suggest she had changed her mind. So he got out without comment, and walked to the door.

The office lights were out too, so he cupped his hands against the glass of the door and peered inside. He jumped, startled as a jackrabbit, as Buffy noiselessly sided up to him.

She pointed. "Try that," she suggested, her breath fogging in the chilled air.

Recovering from his near heart attack, Giles glanced down at the night bell, and obligingly pressed it. From somewhere inside came the faint sound of a buzzer, which promptly stopped again when he withdrew his index finger.

They waited.

"There doesn't appear to be anyone in attendance," he said, thinking Palm Springs was looking better and better all the time. He regarded Buffy in the moonlight and opened his mouth to suggest it, when her somber expression unexpectedly turned into a smile.

"No, look."

He did, as a rather frail-looking woman in her seventies and wearing a Seventies floral bathrobe, appeared on the other side of the glass door and began fumbling with the locks. A security chain prevented it from opening more than a few inches.

"Yes, dear?" the woman asked, focusing on Buffy since they were more or less the same height. "Can I help you?"

"Um, yeah, hi. We're real sorry to disturb you so late," Buffy apologized, "but we'd like a room please. If that's okay."

The old woman looked surprised by the request, then delighted. "Of course it's okay, dear. This is a motel. Not that there's much business to be had nowadays. We don't get many people just passing through Conchetta anymore, not since the interstate came."

"When was that?" Giles asked conversationally, in regard to the highway's construction.

"1977." Without further ado, the woman promptly shut the door in their faces, threw off the security chain, then opened it wide to allow them access. "Now get yourselves in here before you freeze to death." Leaving them to close it in their wake, she shuffled around the check-in counter at the back of the room. A narrow hallway, marked with a crooked PRIVATE sign on the wall above, ran back behind the desk for about ten feet before it angled off to the right, where the soft sounds and flickering light of a television set drifted out of the darkness. "Now, a room you say?"

"Just for the night," Buffy continued, still looking guilty for the after hours disturbance. "We'll be leaving in the morning."

Consulting the guest register for reasons that completely baffled Giles, considering theirs was the only car to have graced the parking lot since the last great sandstorm from probably decades ago, the woman paused to regard them both in turn. "Twin beds?"

Although she ultimately fixed him with a discerning eye of disapproval, Giles allowed Buffy to be the one to answer that. She did so with great aplomb, clasping her hands together on the counter in a way that clearly showed off her wedding ring. "Just one. A queen-size, if you have it. As you can see, my husband's pretty tall."

The old woman took note, and, looking suitably chastised for her unjust assumption of their relationship, smiled apologetically at Buffy. "I'm afraid we only have twins and full beds, dear. But I . . . could let you have the honeymoon suite. It costs a bit more, but it has complimentary satellite TV and a whirlpool tub in the bathroom, big enough for two."

"Really?" Buffy brightened considerably. "That'd be cool! I so could use a nice hot soak." She looked over her shoulder at Giles. "Can we?"

Giles eyed the old woman suspiciously. Whirlpool tub or not, she was hustling them, he was certain of it. She'd already admitted to not doing a roaring trade, and now that she actually had a paying customer, she was out to gouge him for as much as she could. "How much?"

The old woman eyed him in return. She knew he knew, but wasn't about to back down because of it. "Two hundred."

He scoffed out loud. For that price, he could buy four-bloody-star Palm Springs luxury. "And how much for a room without a hot tub?"

"Giles!" Buffy said in protest and embarrassment.

The old woman's eyes narrowed determinedly. "One seventy-five. Plus tax, of course."

He scoffed again. "Buffy, this is preposterous. Let's drive on to Palm Springs."

"No," she said firmly, "it's late. Let's not." She faced the old woman again, making the decision despite his obvious objection. "We'll take the one with the hot tub."

The woman smiled triumphantly at her. "Of course, dear."

Mumbling curses under his breath, Giles pulled out his credit card.

"We don't take credit, dear. Just plain old cash money. There's an ATM at the bank downtown, if you need it."

He turned a look of disbelief on Buffy, willing her to intervene and stop this lunacy. She knew he carried a substantial amount of cash with him on a trip, in case of emergency, which this most certainly was not. This was plain and simple highway robbery.

Unfortunately, Buffy wasn't up for any more arguments. "Just pay the lady, Giles, okay? I'm tired."

Gritting his teeth, he did as asked, slowly counting out the bills into the woman's waiting hand.

It was an average room, of average size and décor, despite its high price tag and 'honeymoon suite' reputation, but it was tidy and clean, with a double bed dominating its center. The usual luggage racks and pre-fab closets took up one corner, while a bolted-down TV set sat alone on the empty chest of drawers across from the foot of the bed. Evidently, the room's 'suite' credentials came from the inclusion of a small, round table and two faded armchairs, both of which had faced one too many afternoon sunsets through the window at the front.

Buffy preceded him in, but stopped short upon realizing exactly what their two hundred dollars had bought--or hadn't bought, as the case may be. Determined not to bear the brunt of any 'I told you so's, she instead turned her annoyance on him.

"I never knew you were such a tightwad," she remarked, crossing to open the bathroom door for a hopeful peek inside.

"My grandmother had some Scottish blood," he said casually. Dropping their individual overnight bags, Giles followed to peer over her shoulder. There was, indeed, a whirlpool hot tub in the remodeled bathroom . . . remodeled that was, in the Dark Ages. He turned away, smugly unsurprised. "It's in my nature to be a tightwad, especially when I know I'm being taken for a ride."

Buffy shut the bathroom door, frowning. "C'mon, Mr. Retroactive Council Pay, you have two jobs. It's not as if we can't afford it. And that poor woman has to eat."

Giles sat on the foot of the surprisingly comfortable bed, if one didn't count the obvious sag in the center. No doubt, the 'honeymoon suite' lived up to the activities its name implied. "And it's suddenly my responsibility to feed her for a month?"

But Buffy was already bored with the argument. He could tell by the way her shoulder sagged under the weight of whatever burdened her now, post-quest. "Whatever. I'm gonna take a bath. You need to use the facilities first?"

He shook his head, wisely neglecting to tell her that drinking her entire thermos of coffee, out of sheer bloody boredom, had left him pissing in the desert. She moved past him to retrieve her overnight bag, then wordlessly disappeared inside the bathroom and shut the door. Giles stood and collected his overnight bag, too. He found the controls to turn on the heat, and set the thermostat to a comfortable temperature. Taking his car keys out of the pocket first, he shrugged out of his coat and stripped down to his ribbed turtleneck sweater, which with the heat on would be more than adequate. On the way back to the bed, he snagged the remote control for the TV and kicked off his shoes.

He sat alone while she bathed alone, and the precipice between them inched a little wider.

* * *

Xander fumbled with the heavy metal door barring the entrance to Spike's crypt, trying to get it open without making too much noise. Noise would completely ruin the way he intended to burst in, all noble and knightly, defending Buffy's honor. Not that 'defending Buffy's honor' was in his Scooby job description, but when he'd swung by the ex-apartment of the man whose job it was, Giles' place--like Buffy's house--was locked up tight and in total darkness. Giles was either out cold on a bender, not wishing company, or simply not at home. Xander had no idea which, although judging from what he'd witnessed at the Magic Box last night, he was leaning heavily towards Door Number One. Since he wasn't up to any late night larceny to find out, and since no one was at home at Revello Drive either, he instead decided to see what he could pound out of Spike about the illicit affair the vampire was having, destroying the relationship of two of his best friends in the process.

Besides, what better place to look for Buffy than in Spike's bed.

Xander cringed, immediately rescinding the thought. He and Willow had talked it over with the others, concluding that Buffy's tryst fell into the realm of the insane. He needed to find her and talk some sense into her, pronto. Because despite his own initial wiggins, months ago, at the idea of Buffy and Giles as a couple, anyone with eyes could see how much they belonged together.

The crypt door finally budged, allowing him to push it open without too much extra muscle, although the rusty hinges still announced him with a loud squeak. Spike was, oddly enough, just standing around in the middle of the candlelit tomb, cigarette in hand and looking a little bedraggled. That idea made Xander scan the darkened nooks and crannies for his bed partner, but the vampire appeared to be alone . . . which probably just meant he'd blown it with the noise factor and Buffy had skedaddled. Since sociable chitchat was not on his 'to do' list, and since Spike was not his friend despite any allusions to battle camaraderie courtesy of the earlier scuffle in the graveyard, Xander decided to jump straight to the point.

"I saw you," he announced in an accusing tone. "In the cemetery with Buffy."

"Yeah?" Spike asked, looking a little apprehensive that he'd finally been found out. God, how long had this been going on? "Can't see how it's any business of yours."

"It's my business because Buffy's my friend. She's gone through some stuff lately that . . . well, it's affected her. And you're taking advantage of her."

"She's upset about her mum," Spike said offhandedly, moving around to the other side of his sarcophagus-bed, and taking a drag on his cigarette. "And if she turns to me for comfort . . . well, I'm not going to deny it to her. I'm not a monster."

"Yes, you are a monster," Xander insisted angrily, following him. "Vampires are monsters. They make monster movies about them."

"Well, yeah," Spike had to concede, "you got me there."

Infuriated by the casual dismissal of such a serious topic, Xander grabbed Spike, fisting two hands in the front of the vampire's black t-shirt. He got in his face to make his point. "In case you haven't noticed, she has a husband to comfort her."

Spike was unimpressed. "That wanker? Puh-lease!"

"And I swear, if he doesn't stake you after finding out about the 'comfort' you've been giving Buffy, I swear . . . I will."

The crypt door suddenly opened to reveal a group of brown robed figures. Xander and Spike turned at the interruption, as the leader, his hawked face gnarled by open boils and pockmarked skin, spoke in a pleasant, educated tone.

"Gentlemen," he said politely, coming forward, "I'm so sorry to intrude, but I wonder if I might beg a moment of your time?"

"Friends of yours?" Spike inquired quietly.

Xander didn't have a chance to answer. He was punched in the gut, and went down out of breath, as all hell broke loose around him--education and manners forgotten. He didn't know who these demony guys were, only that they seemed to be here for something specific.

"Guess not," Spike concluded, before throwing himself into the fray.

Spike lashed out at the nearest leprotic face, but there were three more waiting behind to take their comrade's place. Recovering, Xander gritted his teeth and got to his feet. While part of him disliked the fact that he was helping Spike, another part of him quickly realized that the vampire was the 'something specific' these demons wanted. And for whatever reason, he couldn't let that happen.

'Better the demon you know,' he decided, smashing his fist into the nearest decaying face.

Turning, he kicked another, and punched yet another, but it was quickly apparent that he and Spike were fighting a losing battle. There were just too many of them, and they just didn't seem to realize that they were supposed to fall down when hit.

One clubbed him from behind and Xander saw stars. He dropped to the dusty floor of the crypt on his hands and knees, trying to shake the sudden lethargy from his body. He was hit again, and his limbs collapsed beneath him, his cheek acquainting itself with the gritty floor. He lay there in a half-conscious state, his tunnel vision narrowing as he watched the demons gain the advantage over Spike.

"Tie his hands," the leader said, as his followers managed to wrestle the vampire to his knees and subdue his fists at his back. "Miss Glory will want him restrained."

Something tweaked in Xander's fuzzed brain, but the blackness pushing in on all sides was just too great. It beckoned him to a dreamlike place, to let go of the throbbing pain and succumb to peace. Giving in, the last thing Xander saw was Glory's minions dragging Spike, bound, gagged and kicking, out the door of his crypt.

* * *

Laying back on the bed, propped up on lumpy pillows, Giles drearily watched the late night news while awaiting the arrival of the pizza delivery chap. He'd found an old phonebook in one of the drawers, and, with no idea if the pizza store still existed twelve years after the directory's publication date, tried the downtown Conchetta number regardless. As luck would have it, they were still in business, and still open at that hour, and assured him of a piping hot, freshly made pepperoni, cheese, onion and black olives, pizza within the next half hour.

The room was still cold; obviously, the heat controls were on the fritz, which was bloody typical, given what he'd paid for the room. Then again, he decided with a glance at the bathroom door, it did provide the perfect excuse for him and Buffy to cuddle up together in bed . . .

Stomach growling, he impatiently glanced at his watch, just as someone knocked cheerfully on the door of the motel room. In spite of--or maybe because of--Buffy's earlier accusation, Giles gave the young man a very generous tip. Kicking the door closed with his foot, he put the pizza box on the table and took a slice in a paper napkin. Crossing to the closed bathroom door, he informed Buffy that supper had arrived, should she be done turning herself into a prune anytime soon.

She assured him she would be out in a few minutes, so he returned to stretch out on the bed, and picked up the TV remote. Not up for any mental challenges and bored of the news, he surfed up a few channels while attempting to pick the bits of black olive off his pizza slice, distractedly looking for programming with even a mild entertainment value. Something quite unexpected caught his eye, but it was gone before he was sure, his black olive fetish having momentarily snagged his attention. He paused to consider what he'd seen, then surfed back for a second look.

Sure enough, he'd found the adult channel in all its naked glory. Pizza forgotten, he watched the two people on the screen shag like bunnies . . . until all the frustrations of the day--indeed, of the past month--caused an inevitable male reaction. Giles frowned accusingly at the bulge growing in his jeans, knowing that to think and feel and react this way would only cause him even more frustration and grief in the long run.

Disgusted with himself, he turned off the TV and devoured his pizza in aggravated silence, willing his erection to subside before Buffy reappeared. It helped, a lot, that when she finally did emerge from hot tub heaven, her chosen night attire was a pair of baggy gray sweat pants, and an oversized t-shirt that hung almost to her knees and down past her elbows. Very unflattering to her figure and not in the least seductive, which he supposed was purposely her point.

Buffy shivered, but he couldn't tell if it were real or merely theatrical for effect. "It's cold in here. Didn't you put the heat on?"

"I did. But apparently it's not included in the two-hundred dollars."

Ignoring his sarcasm, she helped herself to a slice of pizza, and sat cross-legged on the bed, facing him. She'd let her hair down, and it curled and kinked around her shoulders in a delightful manner, after having been tied back in a ponytail for so many hours on end. She smiled fondly, her earlier apathy miraculously whirlpooled away. "You got black olives for me."

"Well, I know you like them."

"Yeah, but you don't."

He gave her a little smile. "Such are the sacrifices one makes in marriage." Reaching to retrieve the pizza box and paper napkins, he deposited both on the bedcovers between them.

They ate in silence, until one of them, he wasn't sure who, accidentally sat on the remote and brought the TV to life. The moaning and the thrusting was back on the screen in all its explicit detail, almost causing Buffy to choke. She turned a part-amused, part-traumatized expression on him.

"God, Giles, what are you watching?"

"I wasn't watching anything," he said defensively, keeping his gaze diverted lest his body betray him again.

"Well, we don't need to watch that," Buffy said firmly, seeking out the remote control beneath her knee. She aimed it, and the ecstasy vanished with the touch of a button. "Especially while we eat."

"And after we eat?"

That gave her pause, and made him wonder why on earth he'd said it. He knew the score with her on that count, that anything more physical than a simple cuddle was presently off limits. Perhaps because it was his desperate hope of hopes that her desert quest had ferreted out the answers she needed to find within herself and changed the bloody rules.

Buffy shrugged, indifferent. "What's the point? It's just sex."

Giles smiled tightly, but held his tongue. He wanted to tell her that the point was to arouse them, to incite their animal instincts until they acted upon their carnal urges like a normal married couple. He wanted to remind her that this room, the fabled 'honeymoon suite,' was her choice.

"It's meaningless," she concluded, licking her fingers.

That frank observation concerned him. "You think sex is meaningless?"

"For them, totally," Buffy clarified, nodding at the TV. "I mean, yeah, two people having a really good time. Woohoo." She reached for a second slice of pizza as casually as if they were discussing the weather. "But it's not like it means anything to them. They don't love each other."

It suddenly became very clear what she was talking about. The TV depicted images of cold, passionless sex; two strangers rutting on camera for no other reason than to stimulate the voyeurs who watched. And she was right. When he and Buffy made love, it was not simply to satisfy any 'incited carnal urges.' When they made love, it touched something deep inside each of them. It meant something.

Or at least it had, a month ago . . .

Halfway through her second slice, Buffy sullenly picked off a piece of pepperoni and, out of the blue, announced, "'Death is my gift.'"

Still pondering 'the meaning of love' versus 'the act of sex', Giles stared at her, dumbfounded. Sometimes, the workings of Buffy's mind were a complete enigma to him. "What?"

Buffy suddenly found new interest in her slice of pizza, keeping her gaze glued to it as she picked off strings of cheese, bits of olives and pepperoni, one by one. "That's what my spirit guide told me. 'Death . . . is my gift.'"

Putting down his pizza, Giles reach a hand to grasp her shoulder, hoping to encourage her gaze to his. It worked, and as Buffy lifted troubled eyes to him, all contemplation of food and love and sex evaporated in favor of tending her woes.

"What else did your guide say?" he asked gently, encouraging her to continue now that she seemed willing to discuss it.

Buffy shrugged, dropping her deconstructed pizza slice back into the box. Wiping her fingers on a napkin, she drew her knees up and hugged them. "That I'm 'full of love,' and 'love will bring me to my gift,' and my gift, well . . . we've already cover that little gem of a surprise."

Giles tried diverting her focus from death by chasing up another path. "You're full of love?"

"Yeah, apparently I'm not so much made of stone like I thought, but more like . . . a Buffy-caramel. Hard shell on the outside with a squishy-love center," she admitted gloomily. "Go figure. I'm just a ball of sunshine."

"But isn't that good news? Buffy, I thought--"

"Wait." She silenced him with both the word and a look, her mood turning somber. "I need to tell you something." She paused slightly to gather her thoughts, glancing away, as if she'd deliberated this decision for hours. When her eyes found his again, the honest love he saw shining in them took his breath away. "I know things have been awful between us for the past month, but I want you to know that through it all, I never stopped loving you. And so, having said that, I think . . . " Her lower lip started to quiver, so she sucked it to make it stop. "I think you should leave me before it's too late."

Giles couldn't believe what he was hearing. Not the part where she said she loved him, but the rest. He tried, but he couldn't get his brain around the ending where she said she wanted him to leave. He replayed her request in her mind. No, he'd heard her correctly. She'd just asked him to leave her. "What on earth are you talking about?"

Tears began building in her eyes, but she determinedly put up the wall and dammed them back. "'Love will bring me to my gift.' And it did. Love brought me to you . . . and if death is the only gift I have to give you, then I'd rather you leave me now and be safe."

"Buffy--"

"No. You had the dream, too. Glory, the dead knights, all that blood on the ground. I watched you die." Her hand trembled as she reached out to caress his stubbly cheek. "Death is my gift to you. We both know it."

Giles took her hand from his face and gave it a desperate squeeze, wanting to remind her that in their shared dream, she had died, too. On the face of it, the words of her spirit guide could apply to either--or both--of them. Despite Buffy's insistence, 'gifts' could be given or received, and unlike her, he wanted all the facts before he started hastily drawing conclusions or unraveling cryptic riddles. The only thing of which he was certain, was that no force on heaven or on earth had the power to make him voluntarily up and leave her.

"Even if that were true," he said, casting doubt for both their sake, "then I'd rather die than turn my back and willingly walk away from you. If I'm forced to live my life without you, Buffy, then I choose not to live it at all."

She unexpectedly grew angry. "Giles, you're not listening to me! Staying with me means certain death!"

"And you're not listening to me!" he retaliated. "Whether I live or die, stay or go, is not your decision to make!"

"It is! And I think deep down inside, the Slayer part of me has known that all along. That's why I've been pushing you away . . . I've been trying to make you go before it's too late! It just took this quest-thingy for me to become all 'clued-in gal' and figure it out."

He shook his head, exasperated, and tried to reason. "You've been pushing me away because you're grieving for you mother, while at the same time attempting to adjust and be a 'mother' to Dawn. And we came out here for this 'quest-thingy' in order to solve our problems . . . not invent more."

"'Invent?'" She looked hurt by his insinuation. "You think I'm making this up? You think I'd intentionally rip out my heart and soul, and ask you to leave me on a whim?"

"I apologize. 'Invent' was a poor choice of word. But before either of us rush to any foolhardy decisions, I believe we should research--"

Done with the talking, she tackled him, pushing him backwards onto the bed with her mouth pressed to his in a desperate kiss. She tasted of pepperoni and black olives, and starved of her touch, he instantly began to devour her, as if she were the food of his soul. Buffy shared his hunger, needing little encouragement to unleash the passion that had been suppressed for far too long.

They kissed for a long time until, breathless with need, they reluctantly parted. Pausing only long enough to remove his glasses and put them safety out of harm's way, Buffy favored him with a saucy smile and climbed over his hips, settling herself against him in a way that aroused him faster and harder than any meaningless TV images. Groaning, Giles made a quick grab for the pizza box and frisbeed it out of the way, before pulling her back down to him for a zealous kiss.

Their hands spoke the language of love, reading each other's bodies like the blind reading Braille. Needing even more contact, his palms skimmed up under the hem of her unflattering t-shirt and traveled over the silky smooth skin of her back. Now that the drought was over, he couldn't stop touching her, and he couldn't get enough.

When she pulled back for a second time, Giles hoped to God that she wasn't putting a premature stop to things, not when she had started it. But he needn't have worried, because Buffy looked down at him with nothing but desire smoldering in her eyes. Sitting up, she slowly tugged off her t-shirt, revealing herself to him with a teasing smile.

His eyes roamed over her with unabashed ardor, and he felt the rush as if he were seeing her half-naked for the very first time. "Lord, I want you," he confessed raggedly.

"I can tell," she admitted wryly, wiggling her hips in emphasis of just where she sat. "I want you, too." Leaning down to him, Buffy's mood grew serious as she placed a featherweight kiss on his lips. "Show me this still means something."

Giles fingers combed through her loose, golden hair, brushing it back from her face so he could look into her eyes. "Oh, love . . . always."

He kissed her with renewed fervor, rolling her over so that he was on top. Free to roam, her hands intimately reacquainted themselves with him, knowing just where and how to drive him wild. Yet as his lips left hers and blazed a soft, slow trail down her throat, an unwanted thought pushed its way into his mind. He ignored it in favor of the sound of her drawing down the zipper on his jeans and the anticipation of her exploration within . . . but even so, just moments later, he was again forced to deal with the reality of the situation.

"Buffy, wait." His voice was a hoarse, distracted whisper, so soft he wasn't even sure he'd spoken the words aloud. He certainly hadn't wanted to; even now, he shifted his hips to encourage her to continue. He closed his eyes and moaned at her knowledgeable touch, fighting the temptation not to lose himself completely. Clinging to his last thread of sanity, he finally put his hand over hers in order to impede her incredible feat of re-familiarization. "Buffy . . . wait."

Her hand stilled instantly, as if she thought she'd done something wrong. Sure enough, when Giles lifted his head, he found insecurity clouding the passion in her eyes.

He allayed her fears with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry, love, but I . . . I'm afraid I didn't come prepared for this."

"Oh . . . " Buffy frowned in unexpected irritation, withdrawing her hand from the front of his jeans in a gesture of resounding protest. "Seriously? You packed an overnight bag, knowing there was a good chance we'd end up in a motel room somewhere, and you didn't pack any condoms?"

Frustration reared its ugly head again. He flung himself onto his back, beside her, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose while the other reluctantly tucked himself away. "Yes, well, color me stupid, but given how things have been between us as of late, I didn't, in my wildest dreams, imagine I'd need any."

She folded her arms, pouting in frustrated disbelief.

Noting her reaction, the fact that she really had wanted this, Giles yielded to the blame and rolled back onto his elbow. His fingertips traveled down the valley between her breasts in a feathery caress. He met her eyes in silence, seeking forgiveness for his foolish oversight. She gave it wordlessly, accepting her part in the culpability, so he lowered his head to kiss his way along her collarbone to the juncture with her throat, where he then took the opportunity to dip his tongue into the sensitive hollow. She giggled in response, her arms going around him in light encouragement, as he half-covered her body with his own, playfully nibbling and nipping his way back up her throat until he was eye to eye with her again.

His hand traced the contour of her inner thigh in a tender caress, and although still clothed in sweat pants, her moan was a favorable reaction to his touch. "There are other ways for me to please you," he reminded her.

"I know, and . . . I want that." Her hands found purchase at the back of his neck, holding his gaze fixed with hers. "But I also want to feel you inside me. Tonight more than ever."

Caught in the crossroads of insatiable need and rational thought, Giles rested his forehead against hers, sharing her yen for a night of tenderly rediscovering what they'd lost, and the frustration that seemed destined to go hand in hand with it. They could, of course, continue without using any form of birth control, the potential consequence of which was not unpleasant, unwanted, or previously unconsidered. Yet he still harbored doubts over the wisdom and timeliness of bringing a child into their world, when a showdown with Glory was imminent . . . not to mention in the wake of Buffy's new 'leave me or die' revelation.

He withdrew from her side so suddenly, that the rush of cold air that replaced his body heat inadvertently caused her to shiver.

Modestly covering herself with her arm, Buffy watched with uncertainty as he zipped up his pants and reached for his coat. "Um, sweetie?"

"The convenience store in the garage across the street is still open," he explained, praying he was right about it being a 24/7. He buttoned his coat in a vain attempt to hide the evidence of his desire, and sat beside her to slip into his shoes and don his glasses. Swiveling, he cupped her face in one hand and drew her to him for a loving kiss. As he stood again, he glanced down at her breasts, perked by the chill and by her arousal. "Hold that thought. I'll be back in five minutes."

"Make it two."

* * *

A buzzer announced his arrival inside the convenience store. Shaking off the cold, Giles glanced over to the counter, and was a bit taken aback to see his old 'friend,' the Mexican Marauder, tending the shift . . . minus the cowboy hat. Good Lord, didn't the man ever sleep?

The chap glanced up from the magazine that held his attention, sharing the recognition and the surprise. "Ah, señor! You return!" With a glance outside at the gas pumps, he turned a frown on Giles. "I no see your car. Your señorita . . . she dump you?"

"No, she didn't dump me," Giles replied, irritably reminded of Buffy's plea for him to leave her. "If you must know, we're staying at the motel across the street."

In a hurry, with no time for idle chitchat or to search every aisle, Giles hedged toward the counter so that he didn't have to shout when he asked for what he needed. Although there were no other cars outside, and the town itself seemed dead, even on a Saturday night, he wasn't completely certain that he and the mechanic were alone in the store. The last thing he needed was for Mrs. Motel Gouger to be present down one of the aisles, doing some celebratory spending of the chunk of cash he'd grudgingly forked over. This was a 'guy thing,' or so claimed Buffy, who flat out refused to buy condoms, period. Not that he could blame her; there were certain embarrassing items he preferred not to purchase for her, such as tampons, so he supposed the discomfiture went both ways.

As he hesitantly drew closer to the counter, mentally testing derogatory phrasing versus plain English for the least awkward way to ask, the mechanic smiled at him with male affinity. He held up the magazine he was ogling, letting the centerfold drop open for Giles to see.

"What you think, señor? You like?" He tapped his chest and winked. "Raul like very much."

"Charming," Giles said, uninterested, diverting his gaze. "Um--"

"You no like looking at naked girls?"

"Just one. Do you--?"

"Ah . . . " Raul put down the magazine, grinning. "Your señorita," he said knowingly. "She very beautiful--very, very beautiful. You either very lucky man, or very bad man. She no your daughter, no?"

"No, she's my wife." Giles' patience was running thin. His fingers curled around the edge of the countertop in a desperate grip. "Now look here, do you sell--?"

"Then you very lucky man, señor," Raul concluded.

"I won't be, if you keep bloody interrupting me!"

Raul shut up, looking offended.

Giles ran his hand through his hair, calming his temper. "I'm sorry. I'm just in a bit of a hurry. I need to purchase . . . to know if you stock . . . " He hesitated.

"What, señor?"

Giles lowered his voice. "Nodders."

"Qué?"

"French letters."

"Qué?"

"Johnnys."

"Qué?"

"Jolly bags."

"Qué?"

"Fish skins."

"Qué?"

"Raincoats."

"Qué?"

"Shower caps."

"Qué?"

"Rubbers."

Raul shook his head, holding up his hands for Giles to stop. "No entiendo, señor."

"Condoms, man!" he finished in a desperate shout.

Finally understanding, Raul broke into a lewd grin. He tapped the side of his nose, and pointed a 'you da man' finger at Giles. "You very very lucky man!"

Giles was too exhausted to be peeved. "You have some?"

Raul nodded, and moved out from behind the counter. "Come, I show you."

Halfway down Aisle 5, as Raul stopped and frowned at an empty peg, mumbling in Spanish, Giles' hopes sagged like the waning erection in his pants.

"Wonderful," he said in defeat. Well, that was that, then. Buffy would be disappointed, but he'd just have to lavish her with extra-special attention and make it up to her in other ways.

"I tell you what I do, señor," Raul said, noting his disillusionment. "It against store policy at this time of night, but for you, I open the men's room. Come."

Confused, Giles followed the man back towards the counter, watching as he retrieved a key tied to a huge, round, wooden fob, from a hook by the cash register. "I'm afraid I . . . don't understand."

"Come, come." Without explanation, Raul went outside the store, leaving Giles to follow him around the corner of the mechanic's workshop to where the restrooms were located. Unlocking the gents, he pushed open the door with a smile and a flourish, but Giles honestly couldn't say anything about the cramped, tawdry bathroom with two urinals and a single stall really impressed him, least of all the smell.

He frowned at the man in confusion. "Um . . . "

"No no, you see," Raul insisted, leading the way inside. He flipped on the light, and Giles did indeed see. On the wall between the two urinals was a vending machine.

A condom vending machine.

"Good Lord."

"The bus from Phoenix, she used to stop here twice a week."

"Let me guess . . . before the interstate?"

"Si, señor. And with rooms so close," Raul said, gesturing across the road at the dilapidated motel. He shrugged, as if the location alone was enough to explain everything about this raunchy little town. No doubt, there was something in the water. "Raul do good, no?"

Reasoning aside, Giles grinned, mentally rescinding every insult and defamatory thought he'd ever had about the lecherous m