ITLE: The Family Business
AUTHOR: JK Philips
RATING: PG (some swearing)
DISTRIBUTION: Not sure what all sites are out there, but if you want it, you can have it.
Just please email me your URL, so I know where my story is going. And of course, give
proper credit.
SUMMARY: After the events of The Ticking Clock, Buffy and Giles are still looking for their
daughter. Can they save her from a terrible fate?
SPOILERS: Everything up to “The Gift”
DISCLAIMER: I do not own these characters; they are the property of Joss Whedon,
Mutant Enemy & Fox. I simply am doing this for fun, and non-profit use.
EMAIL: jkphilips@hotmail.com. Would love feedback. This is only my third fanfic.
Well, technically my first if you want to lump Death Brings Clarity, The Ticking Clock,
and this together as one trilogy.
MY WEBSITE: (for archivers) www.geocities.com/jkphilips_fiction/

Part 3: Another Man’s Child

Giles sat on the living room couch, staring at the photograph of his daughter. Alex had settled to sleep shortly after being put to bed, and neither Buffy nor Dawn was home yet. He was alone in a quiet house, fighting an internal war with himself.

Should he tell his wife and her sister what Angel had brought? Buffy would hate him if he kept this from her. But how much more would he hate himself if he let her get her hopes up over another dead end? Tomorrow was Saturday. Buffy would be on duty for once, seeing as the more senior officers had taken the day off after the banquet. And Dawn would be at voice lessons, followed by rehearsals. He could let Anya watch the store for the day, and he and Alex could be in LA by mid-morning. And then if there were anything to this new development, he would tell Buffy.

He studied the photo in his hands. He had it memorized, and yet there was something reassuring about holding it between his fingers. It was the first real evidence he had that she existed, that he had not merely dreamed the baby girl or imagined the feel of her in his hands as he breathed life into her tiny lungs. There were days when he wondered. They never spoke of it, he and Buffy, except in those post-battle moments when she would make him renew his promise to find their child. Beyond that, they never spoke her name. Buffy left it to him to talk to Angel, to consult the other detectives, to make occasional phone calls to the Council. She even left it to him to pore through the information she brought home from the precinct. Giles didn’t complain. It was his burden to bear. It was his fault their daughter was missing.

So no one spoke of her. The twins’ nursery soon became only Alex’s, until Giles couldn’t remember what it had looked like with two cribs. Buffy would cry at the slightest reminder, and so he tried not to remind her. It was almost as if their girl had been stillborn. The conspiracy of silence had closed in around him until he wondered if his daughter were only a figment of his imagination, a fervent wish, and a desperate longing. But he was holding something of her now. He had her picture. She was real.

The door slammed loudly. He slipped the photo into the pocket of his dress shirt quickly and pressed it close to his heart with the palm of his hand. Buffy and Dawn were home. And they were screaming at each other.

“You won’t even listen! You don’t understand!”

“Don’t understand? Hello? Three years of Angel. At least he had a soul.”

“Girls, please.” Giles stepped between him. They didn’t seem to have noticed his presence until that moment. “What is going on here?”

Buffy crossed her arms and glared daggers at her sister. “You want to tell him or should I?”

Dawn crossed her arms in a matching stance. “Why should I care? You’re both just going to gang up on me anyway.”

Giles flinched from the venom in her statement. What had he done to deserve that? “Would someone just tell me before I have to lock you both in separate rooms?”

A long staring contest ensued between sisters before Buffy finally turned to him, her cheeks still flaming with anger. “Mystery boyfriend? Spike!” She shouted it a bit louder. “Spike! Did you hear me? Dawn is dating Spike!”

Giles cringed at the volume and covered his ears slightly. “I’m not deaf, Buffy, although I soon will be if you keep that up.”

She grabbed the lapels of his jacket, shaking him slightly. “Why aren’t you freaking out? Dawn is dating Spike!”

“Buffy, calm down.” He disentangled her fingers from his tux. “I think we should all take some time to think and to cool off. A little sleep wouldn’t go amiss either. We’ll all discuss this tomorrow, like two reasonable adults and one completely insane teenager.” He ripped off his glasses and spun to face Dawn, the reality of the situation finally hitting home. “Spike? Have you lost all common sense? Spike? I would have never expected such complete and utter lack of judgment from you.”

Dawn stamped her foot and ran her fingers through her hair. “Would you both just stop it? You don’t know him at all!”

“I know what he is capable of. I have a library of Watchers’ Journals that chronicle over a hundred years of murder and rape and plunder and violence. Dear God, Dawn, he got his name from driving railroad spikes through innocent people.”

“He doesn’t do that anymore,” she protested.

“Ah, yes, water under the bridge then,” Giles replied sarcastically, donning his glasses again in one fluid movement. “I think you’d best get to your room, young lady, before I say something I’ll regret later.” She turned and huffed up the stairs. He called out after her: “We’ll both be in periodically to check on you tonight. Sneaking out the window would not be a wise choice.”

The door upstairs slammed shut, and the one behind them opened. They both jumped. Buffy rammed their new visitor into the wall.

“Giles,” she said through clenched teeth. “Where did you put that de-invitation spell again? ’Cause I got one vamp I’d like permanently off our guest list.”

“Hey, hey,” Spike said, grimacing from the Slayer’s force. He held out his hands in surrender. “Come on then, truce, white flag, and all that.”

Buffy released him and stalked to the other side of the foyer. “God, Spike, I let you in my home. I had this weird idea that we were actually friends. All those times I trusted you with my sister... That was what? A first date?”

Spike’s lip curled in a sneer. “And all those times I helped you? Glory. Patrolling for a knocked up Slayer. Chrissake, I staked Dru, my Sire, to save your sorry ass. There ain’t a demon in a hundred miles wouldn’t pay good money to see me dead. Doesn’t any of that count for anything with you, Slayer?”

Buffy’s jaw twitched, and Giles felt no compulsion to rein in his slayer’s anger. “So when you couldn’t get me in the sack,” she said, “you thought you’d give my sister a try?”

Spike sprang forward the three feet between them and decked Buffy straight across the jaw. They both bent over, clutching their heads in pain. Giles stepped in, snatching the back of Spike’s jacket mid-stride as he forced the vampire out the door and flung him in the grass.

Spike rolled and came up sitting. He stared back at Buffy. “We’ve never. Niblet’s not like that. She’s a real lady. Maybe you should both give her a chance to get two words in ’fore you go damning her for something you don’t understand.”

Buffy was rubbing her jaw with one hand, the other leaning against the doorjamb. “I’m not going to watch my sister make the same mistakes I made. I’m not going to watch her get her heart broke by the likes of you.”

She turned her back on him and marched up the stairs.

Leaving Giles standing in the doorway, looking down on Spike. Cool, collected, with the steely gaze of Ripper. “I expect that will be the last time you see the inside of our house.”

He closed the door, knowing that would unfortunately not be the last they saw of Spike.

***

The Hyperion. Giles hadn’t seen it in just over three years. It hadn’t changed much. It gave the illusion that he was stepping back in time, walking in after that fateful trip to India, stepping through the doors in search of his daughter, and this time things would turn out differently. The same elegant décor, the same wide-open spaces. He could almost believe that he would get the last three years back. He glanced down at his son at his side, the child’s small hand curled tightly around his own. No, no one could give him back the last three years. With any luck, Angel could give him the next three years, and every year after.

“Hello?” he called.

Cordelia Chase came out of a back room. And she had changed. In the same ways that Buffy had changed, but Giles hadn’t witnessed the daily metamorphosis. So he recognized three years of transformation immediately. Time had matured her into a lovely young woman in her prime. No longer the shallow, high school cheerleader he had first known, her eyes held the depth and experience that came from being an instrument of the Powers That Be. Wesley Wyndham-Pryce was a lucky man.

“Giles!” she exclaimed, quite surprised.

“Hello, Cordelia,” he answered warmly.

“And you brought Alex.”

“Yes. Alex, this is-”

Introductions were swiftly interrupted as Cordelia pushed them both towards the exit. “Did you see the new Starbucks they put up on the corner? Let me buy you both some coffee. Unless kids don’t drink coffee. Do kids drink coffee? Is there anyone in LA who doesn’t drink coffee? Well I drink lattes, but that’s pretty much the same thing, only trendier.”

Giles halted her progress. “I think you’ve had enough. Is Angel in?”

Her eyes grew somewhat panicked. “I think you both should go somewhere that’s away.”

Wesley emerged into the lobby from another back office, and Cordelia turned around to look at him. “Oops,” she said.

At his side was Quentin Travers, who had now spotted both Giles and Alex.

“Rupert, I must say this is a surprise.” Travers strolled over to meet them. “But it does save me the bother of a trip to Sunnydale.”

Giles’ hand tightened over his son’s. They had thus far managed to keep the Watcher’s Council out of Alex’s life. Every father thought his child the smartest, the fastest, the best, but Rupert Giles could be objective. And Alex was exceedingly bright for a three-year-old. He knew not only his alphabet, but the Greek and Sumerian alphabets as well. He would likely be reading before kindergarten. The child had an excellent memory, an inquisitive nature, natural coordination, and a fearless disposition. With his lengthy lineage of watchers on his father’s side, and a slayer for a mother, Alex was everything the Watcher’s Council could want and more. And that wasn’t just a father’s pride.

“Well hello, Alex,” Quentin Travers said, squatting down to bring himself eye-level with the boy. Travers lowered himself for no one. He must have a keen interest in the child indeed. “I’m a friend of your father. My name is Quentin Travers.”

Giles moved himself slightly in front of his son. Travers noticed this. The two men carried on a silent conversation with their eyes. Giles would not budge on this matter. Alex would have the choice his father never had.

The boy frowned up at the older man. “Don’t go.”

Travers looked confused.

Alex elaborated. “Don’t go water.”

The older watcher gave Giles a baffled expression, but he only shook his head. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.” And then he lifted his son into his arms. Enough of Travers examining the boy as if he were a microscope specimen.

Travers stood and brushed off his trousers. “Rupert, perhaps we can speak alone. I’m sure Wesley will allow us the use of his office.”

Wesley only nodded.

Giles hesitated, unsure who to hand his son over to: the Seer or the ex-Watcher. His choice was quickly made for him.

“Angel!” Alex cried as he spied the vampire walking down the staircase on their side. The only one in the room that the boy recognized, and the only one Giles would rather not leave him with.

“Will you be alright with Angel for a few minutes while I talk with Mr. Travers?”

Alex nodded, and Angel approached them. Now or never. The Vampire with a Soul had earned his clean slate, and Giles would have to keep his word. He passed his son over to the hands that had snapped his bones, looked up into the eyes that had watched his suffering. He swallowed hard. There were no words.

He followed Travers into Wesley’s office. There was a file already sitting on the wood desk in anticipation of Giles’ arrival. Except that he hadn’t been expected.

“Please, Rupert, have a seat. Would you like something to drink?”

“Just get on with whatever it is you have to tell me.”

Travers shrugged. “As you wish.” He crossed to the other side of the desk, near the window, and opened the folder, sliding it across to Giles. Another photo of his daughter, taken outside a daycare center, a photo of her in the parking lot of a local grocery story, hand-in-hand with a young woman, and a photo of her through a second-story window, as the telephoto lens showed a clear view of a bedtime story. She looked like Buffy as a child. There was no doubt who her mother was.

“Robin Deanna McGregor,” Travers said softly.

So that was his daughter’s name. Alex was right. Robin. That had other implications for the boy, but Giles would think about that later. Right now, his fingers stroked the images tenderly. Blonde curls and blue eyes and round cheeks. The photo of her in bed was the clearest; he could see her face: Buffy’s eyes and the shape of her face and the curve of her smile. But there was something of Giles in the girl too. She had long fingers like he did, and his chin, and a touch of his pensive expression as she studied the book the woman read to her.

Travers closed the folder, seeking to bring Giles’ attention back to himself. “You are aware, of course, that one of the duties of the Council is to seek out potential slayers and keep tabs on them?”

Giles turned slightly and sat on the desk sideways. He knew where this conversation was leading him, and he was in no hurry to get there. “Keep tabs yes, but preferably take into custody at a young age so they can be properly schooled and educated should they one day become the active slayer.”

The older man nodded, not ashamed of the things the Council did to protect the world and all who lived in it. “In this modern age, it is becoming increasingly difficult for the Council to pull those kinds of strings. Parents have a strong desire to keep their children.”

“Imagine that,” Giles muttered. He shared a sardonic look with Travers before the man continued.

“In some countries, we can just go in and take a potential slayer, compensate her parents with money or influence, but even that is becoming more rare. We are looking at a new age, where we will have to watch the potentials at a distance until one of them becomes the Slayer. It will put them at a disadvantage. Your Buffy was the renegade, but soon it will be the norm. To train them after the fact, to educate them in their destiny after they are Called. We can expect the life expectancy of a slayer to decline. They will not all take to their duty as Buffy did.”

Travers sighed and pulled the folder back to his side of the desk. He flipped past the photos, through other paperwork, skimming through the contents as he talked. “This girl was brought to our attention two months ago. We have been studying her to confirm the initial analysis. She bears the mark. She has the potential to become the Slayer.”

Giles bowed his head. He had known the words were coming, had known since he first saw Travers in the lobby, but until they were spoken, they could still be denied. He had wanted to give his daughter the life that had been stolen from Buffy, but Fate always seemed to conspire against him. Daughter would follow mother, and it was out of his hands.

“She may be a potential, but she may never become the Slayer.” It was the last bit of hope he had to cling to.

Travers nodded, allowing him that small measure of optimism before resuming the briefing. “Very few in the Council have met Buffy face-to-face, therefore the resemblance wasn’t noticed until only recently. In our research, the adoption records were located and found to be inaccurate. Our suspicions were raised, and we discovered that she was your missing daughter. It makes the Council’s job easier. Overturning the adoption should be quick work.”

Giles stood abruptly and crossed to the window beside Travers, finding the street outside unnaturally interesting. “On the condition that we train her? You will help us get her back if we agree to raise her as a proper slayer?”

“Who better to train the girl than her own father, her mother’s Watcher? You have made Buffy into one of the most extraordinary slayers of all time. You can give your daughter the same fighting chance.”

Giles pivoted to face Travers, staring down the older man with the same icy glare that had always made Ethan quake. “You never intended to tell us. I was not expected here. If Angel hadn’t found her as well, you would have overturned the adoption on your own and taken her away.”

“There is a bigger picture here, Rupert.”

Two strides, and there was no more than two inches between them. He didn’t lay a hand on the old watcher, but Travers backed up all the same. “Now listen here,” Giles spat. “This is the only picture you need to see. That girl is my daughter, and you have no right to her.”

Travers drew himself straight with pride. He tugged slightly on his lapels and rocked back on his feet. His face hardened with all the authority he could muster. “Don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be. You must be aware that we have the power and influence to make sure that the McGregors’ adoption stands.”

“I am the child’s father.”

“There is precedent. The girl has been with them three years. Sometimes judges are swayed to give a child to the only home she has known, even above the rights of blood relations. The court only wants what is in a child’s best interests, after all. And they may not find it in her interests to give her to a father with a violent and delinquent past and a mother who is so often linked to trouble.”

“This is below even you, Quentin.”

“The Council does what it must.”

Giles stalked across the small width of the office, like a tiger in a cage, his anger rolling off of him in waves. Travers only watched, not even flinching as Giles made each pass in front of him, the large wood desk between them. Finally, the younger watcher faced him, leaning forward, his hands pressed to the red, cherry surface, his cold eyes boring into his adversary’s very soul.

“And how will you hold us to this bargain? You can’t threaten my green card anymore. I’ve married an American. You can shut the store down. You can fire me and cut off my salary. I imagine you can find various ways to make life more difficult for us. But we’ll get by, and once we have our daughter, what will you have to hold against us?”

Travers’ gaze never wavered. “Longsworth. Sulla.” A longer pause. “Ben.”

Giles paled and his heart sank.

“We have a tape recording of the telephone conversation ordering Longsworth and Sulla’s deaths. The special ops who did the job will turn state’s evidence if we ask them. And in the surveillance videotapes we recovered after Longsworth’s murder, we have what amounts to a confession for Ben’s murder as well.” Travers rounded the desk and leaned smugly against the side, watching Giles with a sympathetic and solemn expression. “The Council, of course, will not condemn you for those deaths. We know better than anyone that sacrifices must sometimes be made for the greater good. Sometimes you do what you must. Just as the Council does what it must.”

Giles deflated, his head bowed, his eyes closed.

“Unfortunately, the courts would most likely not see it that way,” Travers continued. “And you certainly can’t tell them the truth. Tales of gods and Keys and demons would only get you laughed right into a mental institution. On the other hand, a conviction on three murder counts would put you away for life, with no chance of parole. Neither option seems particularly appealing. But fortunately for you, the Council intends to protect you and conceal these crimes. For as long as you will support us, we will ensure that these tapes do not fall into the wrong hands.”

Giles lifted his head, and his eyes narrowed. “Blackmail, Quentin?”

Travers pursed his lips in thought for a moment before answering. “Such an ugly word. But it is an ugly war we are fighting. The choice is simple. You can fight us on this, and the full weight of the Council will defend the McGregors’ rights to Robin. You will lose your daughter forever. Or you can allow us to reclaim the girl for you on the small condition of her training as a slayer. And if you attempt to renege on your agreement, the tapes will find their way into the hands of the district attorney.”

Travers crossed his arms with finality and tilted his head as he studied the younger watcher. “While you may be willing to spend the rest of your days behind bars as a martyr for your children, please remember that their mother’s days are numbered. And who will care for them when she is gone?”

Giles wished for the ground to open up and swallow him whole. That never happened when you wanted it to. “You pompous bastard.” But the fire had gone out of his voice. He was defeated.

Travers clucked his tongue and pushed himself off from the desk. He gathered the folder on Robin Deanna McGregor and headed towards the office door. “Now, now, Rupert, there’s no need for hard feelings. After all, the Council is fully prepared to support your claim on the girl. And as for the rest... Well, how much under our thumb are you now?” A small smirk twisted his lips. “It would seem our positions have reversed themselves since our last encounter.”

“I want to see her. If I am to bargain her life away, I want to at least see her first.”

Travers tipped his head in acceptance. “We have already made arrangements to visit the McGregors this afternoon. They believe we are from the adoption agency, coming for a routine three-year follow-up. Of course, there is no such creature, but they are blissfully ignorant, and we have rather official looking paperwork to show them. I will be by at half past one. Until then, I have work I must attend to. But I am quite glad we had the chance to chat, Rupert.”

Travers left, and Giles resumed pacing the office like a caged cat, like a lion wound tight and ready to spring. He wanted to put his fist through something. He wanted to pick up a sword and go ten rounds with his slayer. It would take her more than five minutes to take him down right now. He wanted to hunt down the Powers That Be and put his hands around their necks and make them answer for the cruel twists of fate they continued to heap on his shoulders.

He had found his daughter, but the Council had found her first.

Perhaps it would be better to leave her with the McGregors rather than condemn her to the life of a potential slayer. She would have the happy, normal life he wanted for her, and with any luck she would never be Called, would never know about the destiny she escaped. That would be the best thing for her. And no matter how much it would break his heart, he only wanted what was best for his daughter.

If that were his decision, then he shouldn’t go to see her this afternoon. He would never find the strength to leave her behind if he set eyes on her, if he touched her and heard her voice and saw Buffy’s blue eyes staring up at him. He would want his child, no matter the price.

Then again, what if she were Called? That would be a matter left to Fate, out of his hands, out of the Council’s hands. If she did become the Slayer, she would need everything he had to give her. All the training and knowledge and skills that were his to give, they would buy her time, precious time to have some semblance of a normal life.

Giles was not a betting man. Even in his youth, he had always stacked the odds in his favor. At any one time, there were perhaps two hundred potential slayers of varying ages. When one dies, the next is Called, nearly always between the ages of 14 and 16. Which meant the Chosen was chosen from approximately a dozen or more possibilities. The probability that his daughter would be the right age at the right time and be the one chosen was slight. The smart bet would be on leaving her with the McGregors to have a long and happy life.

He knew it was wrong, that it was selfish, that it would only complicate what should be a well-thought out and well-reasoned decision, but he wanted to see his daughter. If he were to leave her, he needed to know what kind of a home he was leaving her to. He would see her first, and then he would decide what to do about the Council.

***

“You cold,” Alex stated.

Angel adjusted the boy in his arms and glanced back to the office Giles and Travers had disappeared into. He was unsure if the watcher had educated his son about vampires and demons. Angel cleared his throat. “Yes, a little cold.”

Cordelia giggled, and he glared at her.

Alex wiggled his fingers beneath the buttons of Angel’s shirt with the boldness of childhood. The vampire startled, grabbing the child’s hands quickly.

“Heart no beat,” the boy said with certainty.

Wesley pushed up his glasses, stepping forward to attempt to rescue his friend. “Umm... Hello, Alex. My name is Wesley. Would you like to come with me and see some... umm... some really neat swords?”

Cordelia swatted him on the arm.

“Ouch! What?”

“Some ‘neat’ swords?”

“How am I supposed to know what a three-year-old would like? Do you have any better suggestions on how to entertain the child?”

The Seer, the ex-Watcher, and the Vampire with a Soul all stared at the little boy for long moments.

Cordelia smiled brightly. “They’re really neat swords.”

But Alex was enthralled by Angel. “You bad man?” His curious fingers reached up to stroke Angel across the forehead. “Bumpy head?”

So the child had seen a vampire before.

The smile faded slightly from Cordelia’s face. “No, sweetie, he’s a good guy.”

But Angel was unwilling to lie to Giles’ son. “I was a very bad man for a very long time. But I changed. And now I try to help people. I’m trying very hard to be good.”

Alex considered this for several moments. Then he wrapped his small arms around the vampire’s neck. “Like Uncie ’Pike?”

Angel started laughing in spite of himself. It was the funniest joke he had heard in a very long time. “Uncie Spike?” Those were two words he would have never expected to come from Giles’ son. He could only imagine what the Watcher thought of his child’s misplaced affection.

He took a few steps back so he could sit down on the staircase steps. He was still laughing and wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “Yes, just like Uncie Spike, I suppose.” And he would have never expected to lump himself in the same category as good old William the Bloody. But then today was just full of surprises. Here he was, sitting on the steps of the Hyperion, holding Buffy’s child in his lap, entrusted into his hands by the man he had tortured and very nearly killed. That was the curse of his soul: that he could remember his crimes and his thoughts as he committed them. Giles had perhaps hoped it was only an idle threat, but Angelus did have a chainsaw, and were it not for Spike’s intervening hand, Angelus would have used it.

The child was still studying him, perhaps trying to work out the joke he didn’t quite get. Angel lifted the boy off his lap and placed him on his feet.

“So, Alex, what would you like to do while we wait for your father?”

Thoughtful eyes scanned the interior of the old hotel-turned-detective-agency, coming to rest on the wide stretch of stairs. He pointed. “Sled!”

“Well, aren’t you a little devil?” Cordelia said, swooping in to tickle tender sides. “C’mon. I got a few video games on my computer. And I’m betting your father’s never let you try the stuff.”

Angel watched Cordelia and Wesley take the child behind the front counter and sit him in front of the computer screen. She found something suitable for him to play, and Angel simply remained on the staircase watching. There were moments when Alex giggled or tipped his head just so, that Angel could see a flash of Buffy. His heart ached at each glimmer and each reminder of her. He wondered if he would always love the Slayer. In his case, eternal love had a literal and painful ring to it. Perhaps that was part of his curse: to have her always so close and yet beyond reach, to watch another man give her all the things he could not, to forever stand in the shadows as a silent guardian over their children. For that was the vow he made to himself. After she had gone, and Giles too, Angel would watch over their twins and their children and each generation until he was dust.

Travers exited the office sometime later, nodding curtly at Wesley as he passed. For Angel, he could not even manage that. Angel knew that in the old watcher’s eyes, he was a vampire and the enemy, as cut and dried as that. The Council would not give him the antidote to Faith’s poison, nor would it spare his life in return for the rogue slayer. And Angel Investigations had complicated what should have been a routine kidnapping, by first preventing the abduction and then by bringing the child’s father to town to claim her.

But with raging British insincerity, Travers smiled thinly and said, “A pleasure to finally meet you, Angel.”

Angel stood and crossed his arms. As the old man moved to pass him, he stepped in the way. Very softly, so his voice wouldn’t carry to his co-workers at the other side of the lobby, he told the watcher, “You hurt either of those kids, and I’ll do worse to you than Angelus could ever imagine.” And for the briefest of moments, he allowed Travers to see a flash of the demon inside.

To his credit, Travers didn’t flinch, only looked down his nose at the vampire and replied, “Not every slayer who comes along will hold you in such high regard. Interfere in our affairs again, and the Council will send the next one hunting for you.” He stepped around Angel like so much curbside trash and walked out of the Hyperion.

It was several minutes more before Giles emerged into the lobby. Angel could smell the anger radiating from the man in the same way he could smell fear. He had smelled both in the mansion on Crawford Street, and Angelus had gotten high off it. But the Watcher was outwardly calm, only Angel noticing that his breathing was a little more rapid and his heartbeat a little faster.

“Daddy!” Alex cried. “Look! ’Puter game.”

“Yes, how wonderful,” Giles muttered as he joined his son. “I’m so glad Cordelia and Wesley could introduce you to the joys of mindless video games.”

“C’mon, Giles,” Cordelia protested. “You gotta let the kid live a little, or he’s going to turn 20 and start wearing an earring, join a rock band, summon demons, and call himself ‘Ripper.’ Wait, that was you. See? I rest my case.”

Giles gave her an irritated glare, before smoothing over his expression and taking a deep breath. “I really hope this isn’t an imposition... I need someone to watch Alex for a few hours, maybe more. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone exactly.”

“No problemo,” Cordelia insisted. “He can come hang out at my place with me. It’ll be like a day off, but for a good cause.” She looked at Angel as she said the last. “C’mon, Alex, let me show you this cool thing called a television. I bet your dad doesn’t let you watch nearly enough of it.”

Giles rolled his eyes as he watched the pair leave.

“Bye-bye, Daddy.” Alex waved as he walked out the door. “Bye-bye, Angel.”

There was silence for a moment before Wesley turned to his fellow Englishman. “How did the talk with Travers go?”

Angel could smell the man’s anger peak. “My daughter is a potential slayer. The Council will help me get her back if I agree to raise her as such. Arrogant sods! Buried so far in their bloody books, they wouldn’t recognize human love or compassion if it rammed a sword straight up their…” He trailed off and glanced between the two men watching him. “Sorry. Travers managed to push all my buttons, as always.”

Wesley reached across and gave his shoulder a friendly squeeze. “Of course, if there is anything any of us can do to help, you have but to ask.”

Giles smiled softly and nodded. “Thank you.”

“Does Buffy know?” Angel asked.

“No, not yet.” Her watcher dropped his head, guilt twisting his features. “I wanted to see what there was to tell first. She’ll probably hate me for making this trip without her, but we’ve thought we were close so many times before... it always breaks her heart.”

He raised his eyes to meet Angel’s. And how could Angel blame the man for wanting to protect Buffy? Hadn’t he done the same thing on more than one occasion? Prom. Graduation. Thanksgiving. He nodded his understanding and his absolution.

“What more do I need to know?” Giles asked.

And so Angel told him the whole story. About how Wesley had recognized another watcher he had trained with. How they had secretly tailed the man and stumbled upon his two other accomplices. How the three watchers had led them straight to the girl. How they had discovered the Council’s plan to overturn the adoption and take the child back to England without her birth parents any the wiser. Angel had gone to fetch Giles as quickly as possible, but that very night the watchers had figured out that the detectives were on to them. Cordelia was warned of the danger in a vision, and Wesley and Gunn had foiled the Council’s attempt to spirit the girl away in the dead of night. Travers himself had shown up in the morning, quite irate with Wesley for interfering and even angrier with Angel for involving Giles.

Having now brought the man up to speed, Angel waited for him to process the information.

“What will you do?” Wesley asked.

“If I don’t agree to properly educate and train her, the Council will back the McGregors’ adoption.”

Wesley shook his head. “That makes no sense. They wouldn’t give the child any slayer training either. There would be no purpose in keeping the girl with them.”

“Except to spite me. For Travers, that may be enough.” Giles took a deep breath, followed by a meticulous polishing of his glasses. “I’m afraid that may be the best thing for her, though, to leave her with her adoptive parents. She would have a better life than a prospective slayer. I keep thinking of the potential my father trained. I was fourteen or fifteen, I think, and she was no more than eleven. Sparring with a quarterstaff she barely had the strength to lift. Pulling back the strings of a crossbow so often in one day, it would make her fingers bleed. I don’t remember ever seeing the girl smile. I don’t even remember her name. She had her duty, and we had ours. And that is the kind of life Travers wants me to give my daughter.”

“And if she becomes the Slayer, won’t she need that training?”

Giles met the ex-Watcher’s eyes, his own bleak and weary. “I have considered that. But in the end, does it matter? If she is Called, she will die. They all do. They fight. They die. And if I can give her fifteen or sixteen years of happiness and innocence, maybe she’ll have something worth fighting for, worth dying for. Maybe that’s why Buffy has exceeded all their expectations.” He sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m going to do.” A pause. “Angel, will you walk with me?”

He hesitated. “It’s daytime.”

“That’s fine. I’m not in the mood to walk in the sun today.”

“Okay.” And Angel led him to the underground tunnels that ran beneath the City of Angels, so aptly named, because it was his city now. And he walked with the Watcher who had once been his friend. And they talked like they had in the beginning, when he had been Rupert and not Giles, when they had shared late night conversations about politics and prophecies and Buffy, when Angel had been trusted and liked. And Angel knew the man was only seeking distraction, but he didn’t care. Because for the moment he could simply pretend that nothing had changed between them; that those terrible months of Angelus had never happened; that he had not murdered the man’s lover and savagely tortured him for hours. And he wondered if this was what a clean slate felt like.

***

Giles stood on the front porch of the middle class, two-story, two-car-garage, white with black trim, house. A mini-van and a gold Camry sat in the driveway. A red tricycle lay overturned and abandoned on the immaculately kept front lawn. The house looked identical to every other house on the block, which looked identical to every other block in the new subdivision. Slight variations in color and landscaping, but other than that, they were cookie-cutter copies all in a row.

He felt Travers’ eyes watching him and wondered if his nervousness was that apparent.

“Are you ready, Rupert?”

Giles stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked away. He nodded slightly. No turning back now; Travers had rung the bell.

The door opened quickly. They had been expected. An average looking man in average looking clothes answered the door. He seemed as nervous as Giles felt.

“Shaun McGregor. Please come in.”

Giles frowned. Only two hours from Sunnydale, and the man carelessly tossed off verbal invitations to complete strangers. Even if it was the middle of the day, the words “come in” were nothing but trouble. They entered the house, Travers taking the lead.

“Mr. McGregor, thank you again for having us.”

Shaun shrugged. “I was told it was required.”

Travers faltered, unaccustomed to American brashness. “Of course. At any rate... I’m Quentin Travers. I’ll be conducting the interview today. This is my assistant, Rupert Giles.”

Giles flinched. Assistant. Travers was enjoying this entirely too much.

They followed their host past the foyer and into a formal living room with its white carpet, plush white sofas, a baby grand, and a large seascape covering the furthest wall. Giles couldn’t imagine that a three-year-old had ever seen the inside of this room. He prowled around the perimeter, inspecting the contents of the room, searching for something of his daughter’s presence. He vaguely heard Travers and Shaun McGregor talking behind him. It didn’t really matter what they were discussing. Travers was merely the front. They were here for Giles to see his daughter.

“Where is the girl?” he finally asked, after he had had enough of Travers beating around the bush.

Shaun looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Catherine and Robin went to the store. They’ll be back soon. Maybe you’d both like the full tour?”

Giles nodded, barely containing his impatience as Shaun led them through the formal dining room and then the kitchen and family eating area. He proudly showed off the screened-in porch and its lush foliage. Just beyond was a spacious backyard, with swing set and sandbox. Giles scanned every wall, but found only artwork and dried flower arrangements. No family pictures. No photographic chronicle of his daughter’s first years.

They passed the stairs leading up to the bedrooms and entered a library that even Giles envied: floor to ceiling bookshelves along every wall and a reading desk beside a window that overlooked the backyard. He skimmed through the titles: mostly classics, many books that he loved, all perfectly organized. One set of shelves housed a children’s collection, containing many of the same titles Giles was reading to Alex.

He followed Shaun out of the library and into the family room. Giles held his breath for a moment. This is what he had come for. Every wall was filled with framed photos, nearly all containing his daughter. They told the story of her last three years, of everything that he and Buffy had missed. Professional baby portraits and family snapshots alike. Her first steps. Her first birthday, with chocolate cake smeared across her face and hands. A day on the beach. Her first Christmas, sitting on Santa’s knee. A day at the park and pony rides at the zoo. His daughter was so beautiful and so resembled her mother that it made his heart ache.

“Maybe we went a little overboard with the pictures,” Shaun said, coming to stand beside him. “Robin’s an only child, so you could say she’s a little spoiled.”

Giles smiled tightly. He shouldn’t hate the man beside him, but he did. He hated the man for becoming everything he had no right to be, for being Robin’s father when it should have been Giles.

A door slammed, and a woman’s voice called out to them, “Shaun?”

“In here,” he answered.

A woman joined them in the family room, dressed in tasteful linen slacks and a navy blazer over a white top. But Giles had eyes only for his daughter, standing just behind her. The girl’s eyes lit up, and it was Buffy’s smile that beamed from her face.

“Daddy!” she squealed and came bounding towards Giles.

But she stopped just before reaching him. It was Shaun McGregor’s arms that lifted her up, his neck she wrapped her arms around, and his face she covered in kisses. Giles could only watch in mute agony.

“Hey Princess, remember I said some people would be by to see you today? This is Mr. Giles and this is Mr. Travers.”

“Hi.”

Her eyes met his, and he smiled softly. They studied each other for several moments. He had searched for her for so long, now that he had finally found her, it seemed almost surreal. He had imagined this moment so many times: what she might look like, the sound of her voice, a little girl’s giggle, and the flash of Buffy’s smile. Now here she was in front of him, the daughter he had delivered into the world, whose first breaths had come from his mouth, whose slight weight he had cradled in his hands for the briefest of minutes before she had been stolen from him.

She regarded him seriously, a case of shyness causing her to lay her head on Shaun McGregor’s shoulder and curl her fingers into the collar of his shirt. One thumb found its way into her mouth before she turned her face into the man’s chest, away from Giles’ curious eyes.

“Shall we begin the interview?” Travers asked.

The McGregors sat side by side on the family room couch, Robin perched on Shaun’s lap. Travers sat near them on the loveseat. Giles chose a seat in an armchair slightly removed, watching the family wistfully. Travers asked them pointless questions, appearing to consider each answer carefully before jotting notes on the paper clipped to the clipboard in his lap. Giles paid no attention. His eyes greedily drank in the sight of his daughter, as if preparing for the long drought ahead.

His mind tried to work out whether this was the kind of home he wanted to leave her to. He tried to deduce the family relationships through each shared look, each casual touch, and the words that lay beneath the ones they spoke. He hoped Robin would misbehave, so he could observe how they handled it. If either of them struck his child, slayer training or no, he would take her away from them in a heartbeat.

Robin’s shyness faded after a few minutes, assisted along by extreme boredom, and she slid from her adoptive father’s lap. First came colored blocks, stacked in towers until they toppled. Then came dolls, which must be undressed and then redressed before being rocked and lined up in a cradle. She moved onto dress-up from there, placing a toy tiara on her head, bangles around her wrists, chains around her neck, and a wide brimmed hat over the tiara. She slipped her stocking feet into a pair of her adoptive mother’s old high heels and disappeared out of the room. Moments later she returned with an armful of books, which she unceremoniously dumped into Giles’ lap.

“Read,” she demanded.

He grinned. Pushy little thing.

“Robin,” Shaun scolded. “Ask nicely. I’m sorry about that,” he said to Giles. “I hope she’s not bothering you.”

“No bother.”

Robin blinked up at him with wide, blue eyes. “Pwease,” she asked sweetly.

Giles laughed and lifted the books out of the way. She climbed into his lap without needing more of an invitation than that. She settled back against his chest, and he needed to tip her hat slightly and smooth back its feathers in order to see the book.

“Hmm... What do we have here? Dr. Seuss?”

She shook her head and closed that book before he could begin reading. She shuffled through the stack, pulling up a more acceptable volume.

“‘Where the Wild Things Are?’ A tale of nighttime monsters. More appropriate than you know.” And then he began softly reading to his daughter, Travers and the McGregors droning on in the background.

Occasionally she lifted her head to watch him as he read, always glancing back to the illustrations when he turned the page. After he had finished, he closed the book, and she applauded happily for him.

“’Gain,” she insisted, opening the book to the beginning once more.

He repeated his performance, and this time when he’d finished, she was staring at him intently.

“You talk funny,” she commented.

He laughed at the blunt honesty of childhood. “Yes. I come from very far away. From England.”

“Wif Queen?”

His eyebrows rose slightly, surprised that a three-year-old would know anything about other countries. “Yes, we have a Queen.”

She climbed off his lap and took his hand. “See my room.”

Shaun McGregor glanced over at them with some amount of surprise. “She certainly has taken to you. She’s usually pretty shy around strangers.”

“You don’t mind, do you?” Giles asked. “If she gives me the tour?”

“Not at all.”

“Just don’t let her boss you around too much,” Catherine McGregor added. “Once she gets over being shy, she can be kinda pushy. Not to mention talk your ear off.”

“I’ll manage,” Giles replied with a grin.

Robin tugged on his hand, and he followed, but obviously not fast enough, because she had to urge him on, “C’mon, c’mon.”

She led him out of the family room, through the library, and up the staircase by the kitchen. They passed a couple doors, reaching her bedroom beside the master bedroom at the end of the hall. She had a canopy bed and a room all in pink, with shelves of dolls and stuffed animals. She pulled him along to a child-sized table and chairs.

“Sit,” she ordered, pulling out one small chair for him.

He chuckled. “I’m not sure I would fit.”

Her bottom lip quivered, and she pleaded, “Pwease.”

How could he say no? He folded himself into the chair, his long legs nearly up to his chest. Robin pulled out a tea set from under the table and laid out cups and saucers for each of them.

“A tea party, is it?”

“Wif Queen,” she answered, pointing to a stuffed rabbit sitting in another chair.

“Ahhh.” Giles smiled in understanding and nodded in the rabbit’s direction. “My pleasure, your Majesty.”

She giggled and filled his cup with imaginary tea from the pot, and her cup as well. “Sugar?”

“Two please.”

She measured out imaginary sugar from a bowl and added it to his cup before sitting in the chair across from him. She sipped her imaginary tea, her little pinky raised in the air. The child probably watched far too much television.

“Drink,” she insisted, pushing his cup closer.

He obliged, his pinky also raised because the cups were awfully small.

“Cake?” She offered him an empty plate, and he pretended to take a slice.

She chattered for a while, telling him about the neighbor’s new kittens and the ballet classes she could take when she turned four and how Miss Lowe at the daycare taught her to play chopsticks on the piano. Giles quietly disapproved of the thought of his daughter in daycare, but other than that, he listened with rapt attention. Robin seemed thrilled to have such an attentive audience and soon moved on to reciting nursery rhymes and singing for him. It pleased Giles to note that his daughter had a natural talent for song even at three. Of course, the only examples he had to go on were “I’m a Little Teapot” and “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider.”

Catherine McGregor joined them moments later, laughing at the sight of Giles and Robin sitting at the tiny table. “Oh dear,” she exclaimed. “Honey, what are you doing to that poor man?”

Robin raised her cup. “Tea wif Queen.”

“Say goodbye to the Queen. And say goodbye to the nice man. His friend says they have to go now.”

Giles quickly looked down into his empty teacup. His heart hammered in his chest, and his throat suddenly felt dry.

“Bye-bye,” she told him.

He looked up into his daughter’s blue eyes. He swallowed hard. “Goodbye, Robin.” He set the cup down and awkwardly lifted himself from the chair. He wanted to say something more to her, but he had no voice, so he simply followed Catherine McGregor out of the room and back downstairs to the family room where Shaun and Travers were waiting for them.

“Please, Mrs. McGregor, have a seat,” Travers encouraged her.

She sat beside her husband, and he slipped one arm around her shoulders. They both studied the older watcher expectantly. Giles crossed his arms and leaned against the nearest wall.

“We are here for more than a three-year follow-up.” Travers leaned back in the loveseat. He had always enjoyed the power he had to mess with people’s lives. The Cruciamentum. The information he withheld on Glory. The blackmail he had on the three murders. He seemed to enjoy the power he held over the McGregors as well. “I’m sorry to inform you that the adoption will soon be contested. The birth parents never signed over their legal rights to the child, and they want her back.”

There was a moment of stunned silence before Catherine bolted to her feet. “No! No, it’s been three years, and the agency told us we were safe now, that it was too late for them to change their minds.”

Travers nodded in a show of sympathy. “Unfortunately, they never relinquished her in the first place, so that is no longer true.”

“No! I’m not giving her up. I’m her mother. I’m the only mother she’s ever known.” She started to cry, and Shaun rose from his seat to enfold her in his arms.

“Shhh, darling. We’ll fight this. Don’t cry.”

Catherine lifted watery eyes to her husband, shaking her head vehemently. “I can’t, Shaun, I just can’t. I can’t go through this again. I can’t lose another baby. Especially not now, not after this much time. Robin is ours. She’s ours. And now some judge who doesn’t even know her is going to ask us to give her over to strangers just ’cause... ’cause what? ’Cause they had a good fuck and a little accident and nine months later a little baby they didn’t want?”

“Cat, please,” he admonished.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, wiping away her tears. “I’m sorry. I’m just so angry. What right do they have to her? Did they get up with her at three in the morning every night? Were they there for her first step? Her first word? Did they sleep in a chair by her bed when she spent a week in the hospital with tonsillitis? Do they know what to sing to her when she can’t fall asleep? Will they know to cut her sandwiches diagonally and not across or she won’t eat them?” Catherine was sobbing now, her husband valiantly trying to soothe her even as tears began to stream down his own cheeks. “They may be her blood. They may have had the making of her, but we’ve raised her and cared for her. In every way that matters, we’re her parents. Robin is ours. Shaun, how can they take her away?”

“Shhh. We’ll get a lawyer. We’ll fight this.”

“Of course,” Giles interrupted, swallowing hard. He took a deep breath and focused on the laces of his shoes. Anything not to look at them. “Of course, the agency will do everything it can to help you keep the child. I wouldn’t worry about it too much right now. The birth parents might even be pressured into dropping the whole thing.”

Travers glanced over at him in surprise. Giles met his gaze evenly. He had made his decision. The Council would not have her. The McGregors would.

“Yes, well, that concludes our visit,” Travers managed through clenched teeth. “Thank you for having us.” He rose from his seat, his eyes never leaving Giles’. The McGregors led them to the front door, arm in arm and slowly composing themselves. Travers turned to them just before walking out the front door. “I do apologize for upsetting you. I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.”

And the two watchers walked down the steps, the front door closing behind them. Just before they each reached their cars, Travers faced him.

“Would a slayer’s training really be so terrible, Rupert? That you would rather not have her at all?”

Giles stared at the ground. His voice was soft. “She will be loved and safe. And with any luck, she will never know anything of slayers and watchers.” He met the other man’s eyes, and Travers nodded his resignation before climbing into his car and driving off.

Giles was heading towards his own car when he heard the front door open. He looked towards the house and saw Catherine and Robin walking towards him. He met them halfway.

“Robin wanted to give you something.”

The girl held out a drawing, and he knelt in front of her. “For you,” she said proudly.

He took the picture from her hands, smiling softly as he looked at it. A house and grass and the sun and a lovely stick figure family all in a row. Children the world over made identical drawings. “It’s perfect, Robin. Thank you. I shall keep it somewhere safe.”

She pointed to each figure in her drawing. “Mommy. Daddy. Robin. Alex.”

Giles glanced up at her, startled. He looked back down at the four figures in the drawing, while her adoptive mother laughed off her statement.

“Alex is her imaginary brother. We keep telling her we can’t have children, but she doesn’t seem to understand. She’s always talking about this brother Alex she’s going to have. We just humor her, set out an extra plate for dinner and that kind of thing.”

He nodded absently and folded the drawing carefully, tucking it into an inside jacket pocket. One hand reached out to brush against his daughter’s cheeks and then cup her chin in his palm. “You be a good girl for your mother and father, Robin.” There was more he wanted to say, but he couldn’t with Catherine McGregor standing right there. “Goodbye, luv.”

“Bye-bye, Giles.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the sound of his name from his daughter’s lips. She pronounced it right and everything. Then he stood and walked resolutely to his car without looking back. This was the right thing to do. He had to keep telling himself that.

He got in and started the engine. They were both waving at him from the porch. He waved back once before shifting into drive and pulling away from the curb. He curled his hands tightly around the steering wheel. By the first stoplight, his knuckles were white. Dear God, what had he just done? He had given away his own child. It was the right thing to do, he reminded himself again.

He reached Cordelia’s apartment in record time, easily following the directions Wesley had given him. He waited impatiently for the elevator, finally taking the stairs. He needed to see Alex. He needed to hold his son in his arms.

He knocked, and the door opened on its own. How strange.

“Daddy! Daddy!” Alex came running at full speed, and Giles lifted him up eagerly, holding him tightly until the boy squirmed to be let down. “Look, Daddy! Look, I fly!”

Sure enough, the boy started to float around the room all on his own. Flying. “Bloody hell!” Giles darted forward and snatched his son mid-air. All he needed was a child who could fly whenever he wished. That would certainly go over well at his first day of school.

Cordelia chuckled. “Say bye-bye to Dennis, Alex.”

“Bye-bye,” Alex said, waving to no one in particular.

Giles adjusted his grip on his son, somewhat nervous that the boy would fly out of his arms at any moment. “Umm... Thank you, Cordelia, for watching him.”

“No big. Dennis did most of the work.”

“Yes, well...” He glanced around the apartment warily. Dennis? Wesley never mentioned that she had a roommate. “Thank him for me.”

Then he turned and beat a hasty retreat. The door closed and locked behind him. He could have sworn Cordelia had been on the other side of the room.

“I want ghost too,” Alex begged.

Ghost? Giles glanced back at the closed door. That explained a few things. How fascinating. He would have to talk to Wesley about this ghost Dennis. If he could truly interact with the living, they would be able to learn so much from him. Book titles were already dancing in his head.

“Want ghost,” Alex demanded again.

Giles smiled as he carried the boy down the staircase and outside. “Sorry, son, you can’t have one. Maybe you can visit Dennis some other time.”

He belted Alex into his seat and climbed into the driver’s side. One hand retrieved his daughter’s drawing from his pocket. She was another man’s child now, and this was all he had left of her.

Alex watched him quietly for a moment before asking, “Go see Robin?”

Giles nodded and put the drawing back. He reached for the ignition, but his hand was shaking and he dropped the keys. The weight of his choice had just come crashing down on him. The Council would back the McGregors if he and Buffy tried to fight for custody. And if by some miracle they beat the Council in court, Travers would simply play his trump card: the tapes. Not only would Giles go to jail for his crimes, but Buffy would know the whole truth of Longsworth and Sulla’s murders.

Giles bowed his head until his forehead touched the steering wheel, his hands tightly gripping either side. He had lost his daughter forever. He was missing her already. Only now, there was no hope that this ache would ever lift, that he would ever be able to bring her home. And it was his fault that she was gone, his fault that they couldn’t reclaim her. She belonged to the McGregor’s now. Forever.

He heard the click as Alex undid his seatbelt, felt the boy’s tiny hand on his arm. “Don’t cry, Daddy.”

But he couldn’t stop. He covered his son’s hand with his own, his head still bowed to the steering wheel, the hot wet tears streaming down his face. Small fingers combed through his hair and then patted him gently on the back.

The boy said it again. “Don’t cry, Daddy.” And then small arms circled his neck, hugging him tightly, and Giles felt his son’s kisses across the back of his neck and shoulders.

***

:: NEXT :: :: DBC INDEX ::