ITLE: The Family Business
AUTHOR: JK Philips
RATING: PG-13 (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 7: The Council’s Last Stand

Frederick Billington paused in his shelving duties. He thought he heard a sound emanating from deeper in the stacks. Standing frozen in place, he waited several seconds before he exhaled and laughed at himself. Just his active imagination again, helped along by yesterday’s lesson on poltergeists and disembodied spirits. After their insightful class, his roommate Anthony had kindly left a tape recorder playing in their room all night. Random doors slamming, faint whispers, and the sporadic echo of a child crying left Frederick in a cold sweat until he had discovered his roommate’s prank.

The Council Archives were vast and housed in the basement of the sprawling complex that served as the main headquarters. The rows of shelves sat on rollers, so that by turning a switch, the rows either compressed together or pulled apart enough for someone to pass between them. This allowed the already impressive square footage to contain even more floor to ceiling bookshelves and even more priceless books.

It also meant that whoever had the job of re-shelving spent a great deal of time waiting for the last row to shut and the next to open. Only three rows could be accessed at the same time, and Frederick had a system.

He replaced the final book on his cart and wheeled it to the aisleway. He flicked the switch, closing the last three rows one at a time and opening the next three. Three at a time was his system, and he loaded the cart with the appropriate volumes as he waited.

Aside from the occasional tour, no one ever came down into the Archives except the students who re-shelved and the librarian who ran it. Watchers requested specific volumes, which were fetched and returned for them. They spoke of the Council Libraries with the sense of wonder and awe of those who spent no time in them. Frederick, for one, would be glad to be finished with his watcher’s training and done with the menial tasks assigned to his out-of-class schedule. Then someone else could fetch his books for once.

He started down the aisle, pushing a cart full of books containing information on the sorceress Camela, swords and artifacts, the Mortog beast, and locator spells. It seemed to be the project of the week in the halls. Anthony had told him about a rumor circulating among the other students that all the potential slayers had been kidnapped and the watchers were trying to find them to bring them home. If that were true, then it would account for the dark mood hovering over all the watchers.

Frederick froze once more, holding even his breath and straining his ears. He swore he heard something this time, and not just his imagination playing tricks. The empty Archives were creepy, but he wasn’t that much of a pansy. Footsteps. He heard them again, coming down the aisleway, four or five rows past him.

“Hello?”

Good one. Why don’t you just paint a big bull’s-eye on your chest? Haven’t you seen enough horror movies to know better?

The footsteps stopped with his voice. He set down the book carefully and silently made his way towards the end of the row opposite from which the footsteps came. No harm in being cautious. The footsteps resumed a moment later. Now that his focus was completely attuned to them, he noticed that the footsteps didn’t sound like the soft tread of expensive Italian leather or even the slight squeak of rubber-soled tennies. Each fall contained the sharp click of nails on marble. Or claws.

Frederick’s heart pounded faster. His throat felt dry. He pressed his body tight to the end of the bookcase. There was no exit on this side of the stacks. He would have to cross the rows to the other aisleway to escape.

He waited as the soft click-thump of each footfall passed him and continued deeper into the stacks. He waited a few minutes more before he tiptoed through the row and towards his freedom.

He was standing in the middle of the shelves when he first heard it: the whir of gears turning.

The path before him narrowed as the shelves on either side of him began to close in on him. He stood still for a moment, panic gripping him, before he shook himself back to reality.

This was ridiculous. He had spent too many days and nights studying demons and ghouls. Someone had probably just come down into the stacks for a book and was moving the shelves to retrieve it. More than likely, it might even be Anthony, ready with another prank. Well, this time he wasn’t going to fall for it. He marched resolutely towards the exit.

Half a shelf of books tumbled onto the floor in front of him. An enormous fur-clad and clawed hand shot through the opening just made. Frederick stopped in his tracks.

“Anthony?” Despite his best attempts, his voice wavered slightly. “I don’t think this is very funny.”

He heard a deep, guttural growl. He turned and made a mad dash for the other end of the row, but he heard the pounding of footsteps in time with his, and the creature’s arm again reached through just ahead of him, spilling books as it did.

Frederick backed up again. Already the row had narrowed sufficiently that he bumped his shoulders on the shelves as he turned. A few more steps, and he was turning sideways to clear the bookcases. He tripped on some of the books that had spilled, hurriedly pulling himself back up. The shelves wouldn’t crush him, he had to keep reminding himself. They’ll get very narrow, but they’ll stop at the first resistance. Frederick stopped at the first word.

“Watcher.”

The word was raspy and mangled, but still understandable.

The books directly in front of him emptied onto the floor, and he saw his attacker’s face. He wanted to tell this thing that he wasn’t a watcher yet, but he didn’t expect it to care one way or the other. After stocking all those books over the last week, he was able to identify the thing on sight. The Mortog beast eyed him from the other side of the bookcase. It was truly his final exam for his watcher’s training, and he had passed, but a fat lot of good that would do him.

The Mortog beast pushed on the shelving, and the bookcases crushed poor Frederick Billington between them.

***

Buffy stood frozen in the doorway for several moments, her mind still trying to wrap itself around what had just happened. Finally, higher brain functions resumed operating, and after a moment’s delay her head was able to tell her body to move.

She knelt on the porch and hefted Faith over her shoulder in a fireman’s carry. She glanced around the neighborhood to see if anyone had noticed the fugitive on her doorstep before bringing the young woman inside. She laid her out carefully on the couch and began checking for injuries.

Faith had a nasty gash on her head, her dark hair matted with blood. Impressive bruises on her arms and across her stomach, even more impressive because slayers didn’t bruise easily. She was wearing very un-Faith-like clothing: a long flowing black skirt dotted with roses and a cream silk blouse embroidered along the neckline. Buffy figured it was the first outfit the slayer could steal off someone’s back after her escape. Prison garb would be so obvious, especially if it was that tacky orange jumper like Harrison Ford had in The Fugitive. Buffy smiled slightly at the thought of Faith having to wear something like that.

She wore a lightweight black wool coat over the whole ensemble. The black wool hid the bloodstains on the cream blouse. Thin dots of it across her back, where Buffy found a couple of long, shallow cuts, apparently from a knife. More distressing was the larger bloodstain near her shoulder. An entrance wound and an exit wound, it looked like she had been stabbed straight through, just below her collarbone. The slayer had attempted makeshift bandages, but they were soaked through, blood dripping down her side, staining her top, her skirt, her coat. Faith had likely lost a lot of blood.

Buffy stood to gather supplies and met Giles as he came out of the kitchen.

“I’m headed to the hospital,” he informed her. “As soon as I’ve dressed Robin. I’d rather not bring her along, but…”

“Yeah, yeah,” she replied. “I don’t relish a three hour screamfest.”

He frowned, concern etching little lines across his forehead. “Buffy, are you alright? Are you hurt?”

She glanced down: blood on her hands. “Umm… There’s kind of this thing that came up while you were on the phone. C’mere.”

She led him into the living room, and he stood in front of the couch for several moments before saying anything.

“Dear Lord!”

Buffy bit her lip. “So what do we do with her?”

He turned their daughter’s face from the sight and shifted her weight in his arms. “It is in our best interests to keep Faith safe and healthy. I don’t think we dare take her to a hospital until we know what happened. We can’t be sure she would be safe there… or back in prison either. I’ll try to contact the Council. For now, let’s just treat her as best we can.”

“Should I tie her up? ’Cause I’m just remembering all the times she tried to kill me. Oh, and the body snatching and the boyfriend stealing. Not really in the mood for any of that right now, you know what I’m saying?”

“I don’t think she poses much of a threat at the moment. Let me get the first aid kit.”

Buffy shook her head and darted ahead of him. “Nah, I can do that. You get Robin dressed.”

They met back a few minutes later, Robin wearing a little denim dress with her hair neatly pulled back in a ponytail- Giles was really getting better at that- and Buffy carting their full arsenal of medical supplies.

Giles took a pair of scissors and neatly cut off Faith’s blouse. He started with cleaning the more superficial wounds across Faith’s back and on her head, disinfecting and bandaging them carefully. Buffy leaned over his shoulder and watched intently.

“Maybe you should shave off her hair so you can take care of that head wound properly.” Buffy flashed him an innocent expression when he glared at her. “What? Ok, so I’m Revenge Girl. No one’s perfect all the time. I just keep thinking about walking in on her and Angel… It burns me up is all. And him all defending her like ‘oooo, she had such a hard life and oh, she’s really trying to change.’ Like, I had a really crappy year and stuff, with my mom dying and my boyfriend going all heart of darkness on me. And then the being dead really sucked too. But I didn’t come back and try to kill all my friends. I guess after Riley, seeing her with Angel just…” Giles gave her another irritated glare. “Ok, ok, shutting up about Angel now.”

Only the shoulder left to care for. Her watcher frowned as he worked. He took care of her enough times; Buffy always knew how serious her injuries were by his expression as he bandaged them. And the look on his face right now was the “I’m seriously considering knocking you out, drugging you up, or otherwise dragging you to the hospital at gunpoint” look. She really hoped Faith would be okay. And not just for Robin’s sake. Buffy and Faith had a twisted, complicated past, but tangled up in all of that was friendship. Looking at her fellow slayer now, lying unconscious on the living room couch, her face pale and bare of makeup, she looked vulnerable and childlike, all her pretenses and cocky attitude stripped away.

The shoulder cleaned and bandaged to the best of his ability, Giles strapped her arm against her chest so it wouldn’t move and further aggravate the injury. He covered her with some blankets for warmth and modesty. Buffy was impressed. Stripping Faith down to a bra, and her watcher hadn’t even blushed.

“I should…” he tried lamely.

“It’s okay. Really. We’ll be fine here. You go sit with John for a while. See if he needs anything.”

Buffy shooed him off in the general direction of the door.

“I’ll take a cell,” he promised. “I’ll keep trying the Council until someone can tell me about Faith.”

“I can do that too. I’ll call Angel, see if he knows why Faith’s here.”

Giles and Robin left. Buffy grabbed the cordless, turned a chair around and straddled it, and began her Faith watching duties. One thing she had learned over the years: never turn your back on this woman. Not even when she’s supposedly in a coma.

***

Giles sat in the waiting room beside John. Neither man said anything. Robin played with some building blocks the hospital had lying around to keep waiting children occupied. She glanced over every few minutes to assure herself that her father was still there.

The nurse came out periodically to offer updates on April’s condition. Giles tried to reach the Council repeatedly, without success. He brought his friend coffee. He called the house a couple times, getting updates from Buffy on Faith. She was still unconscious, and Angel’s team was unaware of her escape. A couple of hours passed, and Robin grew restless, bringing him a children’s magazine to read to her. When she tired of old copies of Highlights, a nurse found some crayons and a coloring book stashed behind the desk, and the girl was happily entertained again.

“Sometimes I don’t care,” John whispered.

“Hmm?” It was the first thing his friend had said since greeting him on arrival, but Giles wasn’t sure he understood what the man was talking about.

“Sometimes it just isn’t worth it.” John was staring into his half-empty coffee, long since cooled. “I know what she does is important. But sometimes I don’t care if people get away with it. I don’t care how many killers are walking the streets, as long as she doesn’t have to track them. Pretty selfish, huh?”

Giles reached across and rested his hand over John’s wrist. “Not selfish at all. I’ve felt the same way myself, many times.”

They each turned their heads to look at the other, and understanding passed between them. Who else could appreciate what John was going through except someone who had been in his place before?

Giles withdrew his hand, and John set his coffee on the ground beneath his chair. He glanced over to the nurse’s desk expectantly and then leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked at Giles for a moment before asking, “You think it’s a choice?”

“Hmm?”

“You think they choose to save the world from bad guys and fight the good fight, or you think it’s just in their blood, something they have to do no matter what anyone else thinks?”

The corners of Giles’ mouth twitched into a wry grin. He had an unusual perspective on that question. “I think some things are too important to be left to chance. The things they do… I think they’re Chosen for it.”

John nodded, accepting that answer. Another long silence stretched between them before John spoke again, his head dropping down into his hands. “I wish she had never taken that case. She promised me she wouldn’t take anymore serials.”

“Serials?”

“It’s been in all the papers. Those bodies that each turned up with the same symbol burned into them. She took the case over from Detective Cricks after the last body was discovered. She had a lead on a sorority on campus. That’s what she was investigating when she disappeared. Maybe she was getting close to something or to someone. Cricks went back to check it out.” John chuckled darkly. “He’s a moron. He won’t find anything.”

Giles nodded absently. He felt sick to his stomach. The mark of Camela: the case he was researching. John’s wife was up in surgery because Giles hadn’t done his job, because he hadn’t found the ones responsible yet. And they had hurt her.

A young woman, in her late twenties or early thirties, entered the waiting room, aiming straight for them. “Dad!”

John looked up. “Becky!” He stood and crossed to meet her. They embraced for several moments, and the young woman was crying. “I came as soon as I could. Liz and Kyle already left. They should be here in a few hours.”

John nodded and wrapped one arm around his daughter’s shoulders as he guided her over to the waiting room chairs. “Becky, this is my friend Rupert Giles, and his daughter Robin over there. This is my Becky. My eldest, and my first grandchild right here,” he added with a hand to her flat stomach.

“Dad!” She pushed his hand away and blushed, brushing her hair back from her face and wiping her tears away with the back of one hand. “Not for more than six months.”

“Here, have a seat. You should get off your feet.”

She didn’t argue, but made sure she pulled him down into a chair too. “Do they know anything yet?”

The smile left his face, and he looked back at the nurse’s station. “So far, so good. She’s still in surgery.”

Giles felt distinctly uncomfortable, as if he were witness to a private moment. His friend didn’t need him to be there anymore. His family was there, and more coming. Giles stood, and Robin was beside him in a moment, her small hand slipping into his.

“We should go. You’ll be alright now, yes?”

John rose, and they awkwardly held out their hands and took them back until John simply stepped forward and embraced Giles in a firm hug. He released him, and with a parting pat on the shoulders, he thanked him sincerely for coming and sitting with him the past few hours.

“You’re quite welcome.”

Giles went home. He had research to do. Not just for Robin, but for John now too.

***

They took turns watching Faith all night. Dawn wanted to take a shift too, but Buffy didn’t want her sister anywhere near the rogue slayer. So Dawn’s job was to keep the children away from her, or Alex at least. Giles was pretty much the only one who could handle Robin. Dawn suggested that Spike could help, but Buffy and Giles both firmly nixed that idea. Although, they did bring in Xander for a little backup, something that Anya wasn’t so keen on.

Whoever was up watching Faith would try the Council, but still no one ever answered. It was like that day after all the potentials had been attacked, something that worried both Buffy and Giles. She and Xander would sleep when they weren’t on duty, but Giles didn’t sleep. He spent that time researching the spell he thought would lead him to those who killed in Camela’s name. Robin fell asleep curled into an armchair beside him, and he placed her in bed beside Alex and Dawn.

Morning came, and nothing had changed. Afternoon then, too. No one went to work. Anya minded the store. Dawn, however, was forced to go to school. John called to inform them that April had come out of surgery fine, but was still listed in critical condition.

It was after dinner before Faith stirred. It was Xander who was sitting with her, and he backed up about five paces when he saw her move. “Buffy!”

Buffy and Giles raced into the living room, and Xander cowered behind them, insisting that he and Faith had “history” and all that time in jail probably didn’t help matters.

“Tell her I’m married,” he requested as Buffy knelt at Faith’s side. “Tell her I’m gonna be a father.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Faith?”

The other slayer’s dark eyes opened. “B? Did I make it or is this some sort of hell place?”

“No, you’re alive.”

“Yeah, I guess hell would have homework and Sleepless in Seattle on repeat.” She closed her eyes and licked her lips. “Fuck, I’m tired. I don’t think this slayer healing thing’s doing its stuff.”

Buffy exchanged a glance with Giles. He removed his glasses and rubbed at his eyes tiredly. “It’s possible that the blade that injured her was poisoned, perhaps with the same substance…” He replaced his glasses and shoved his hands in his pockets. “… uhh… the same substance that the Council uses,” he finished awkwardly.

“Blade?” Faith protested hotly. “Thing was a big ass sword. Guy tried to put it through my chest. I’m lucky he only got my shoulder. Cramped quarters, really hard to fight in, even for a Slayer, know what I mean?”

Giles stepped closer, pushing Robin back when she tried to follow. “I was told the Council had increased security around you.”

Faith tried to slide herself up the couch a little, gritting her teeth against the pain she had to feel in her shoulder. “Yeah, thank ’em for that sometime for me. Locking me up in isolation, where there’re no witnesses, no one to call for help. Oh, and here’s the best part: the guards still let your lawyer in to talk with you when you’re in isolation.”

“Your lawyer did this to you?” Giles exclaimed.

“Not my lawyer, dumbass. Three guys in suits flashed their secret lawyer society decoder rings and got an hour pass into my room to beat the crap out of me. Don’t know how he got the sword past security. The other two had cooking spray and lighters: portable flame throwers, which… well, hello, irony.” Something unrecognizable flashed through her eyes, and she glanced down, smoothing the blankets around herself after she realized she was only wearing a bra.

Could that be guilt in her expression? Buffy wasn’t sure she should believe the Karla Faye Tucker routine. Faith was, after all, the master of manipulation, the pro at mind games, the double agent and unrepentant Judas. Buffy had truly believed, all those years ago, that Faith had only played Angel, given him a flash of wide tortured eyes, a few tears of regret, a plea for redemption, all things that Angel, with his own past to atone for, would have no defense against. Could Buffy have been too quick to judge, blinded by anger and perhaps a touch of jealousy too?

Faith slid the blankets and her skirt gingerly up to mid-thigh. The side of her left leg had turned an angry red and blistered along her upper calf. “Payback’s a bitch, huh?” she joked bitterly.

“Oh dear,” Giles murmured. “We didn’t notice the burns.” He reached for the first aid kit they had left beside the couch and began tending them. Buffy restrained Robin from following, and the girl whined in protest, twisting her arm in Buffy’s grasp. Faith seemed to notice her for the first time.

“So that’s your kid, huh? Looks just like you, B.” A pause, and a mischievous grin played over her lips. “What with the whining especially.”

“This is Robin,” Buffy said, ignoring Faith’s barb. “Alex is upstairs with Dawn.”

“Wow. Twins.” Faith inhaled sharply as Giles applied cream to one especially tender spot. “Angel told me, but I always kinda thought he was having a big ole laugh at my expense.”

Buffy scowled and crossed her arms indignantly. In doing so, she released Robin, who immediately crossed to her father, standing behind him and holding tight to his coattails. Buffy, however, was still fuming over Faith’s comments.

“Why is it so hard to believe that Giles and I…? I mean, you haven’t been here in a really long time-”

“Hey, hey.” Faith held up one hand in surrender. “You want to get pelvic with your watcher, have at it. Better than that cool, undead, look-but-you-can’t-touch package you had back in high school. Or that soldier Momma’s boy Kylie or Riles or-”

“Riley.”

“Yeah, him.” Faith shrugged. “You don’t have to defend yourself to me. Remember, B, I was a big fan of the younger, cuter watcher. You were the ‘raise your hand if eww’ vote. It’s just a surprise to see such a one-eighty.”

Buffy blushed, ashamed of her previous jabs at his expense. “I was 17,” she protested. “It wouldn’t have been exactly legal.”

Faith smiled wickedly. “See? I knew it! All those times patrolling in high school, you played all innocent, trying to convince me you never thought about putting in a little personal training time with your watcher. I gotta know, B: slayers get all hot and bothered from the slaying… does that mean a good night’s research makes watchers all horny?”

Giles cleared his throat emphatically and paused in his dressing of her burned leg. “Please, if you two could try and remember that I am standing right here.”

A moment’s silence. “Well, technically sitting,” Buffy corrected.

“Yes, well, find something else to discuss.”

“So that’s a yes then, right, B?”

Giles had just finished wrapping Faith’s leg. He sighed, closed the first aid kit with finality and exited the living room, Robin trailing behind.

Faith’s eyes landed on Xander, noticing him for the first time. “Yo, Xander, you’re quiet. No hello? No hostile banter?”

“I’m married now,” he said nervously, pointing to his wedding ring. “Married man now.” He took several steps back, gesturing between the two slayers. “You guys have a lot of catching up, I guess. So… yeah, three’s a crowd.” He turned and fled.

Buffy and Faith looked at each other and then away. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them.

“You could borrow some clothes,” Buffy offered.

“That’d be nice.” Faith covered the bandaged leg with the blankets. “So, who’s the Mrs. Xander?”

“Anya. Ex-vengeance demon.”

Faith chuckled. “He sure knows how to pick ’em, huh? Likes his women dark and dangerous, does he?” She thought for a moment. “Wait. Wasn’t she the little blonde sex fiend I met when… well, when we switched?”

Buffy nodded. “She went to high school with us too, but you probably never met her, having turned all evil before that.”

“About that… B, I never got the chance… I don’t even know how to begin-”

“Don’t.” Buffy held up one hand to forestall the heartfelt apologies and pleas for forgiveness that could never make up for all the things Faith had done.

Faith let the matter drop and another silence fell between them.

“So why come all the way back to Sunnydale?” Buffy preferred to make the conversation a purely business discussion. “Angel and you are buds, right? And he’s there in LA. Seems like that’s the logical place to go after a prison break.”

Faith licked her lips and considered her answer. “Angel and I are just friends. You know that, right? Nothing ever happened between us, and not just because of the curse.”

Buffy shrugged. “None of my business, really.”

“I don’t think he ever stopped loving you.”

“Also not my problem.”

Faith sighed. “He would visit me in prison sometimes. Only one who would. I was his special project, I think. So yeah, I went there first, but they probably knew about Angel, and they had the place staked out. So, this was the only other place I could think of that wouldn’t just turn me back in for the lawyer scum to finish off.”

Buffy slouched back in her chair. “Makes sense. Of course, being a cop, I’m sorta obligated to turn you in. Harboring a fugitive could land me in a whole heap of trouble, probably more than the Council could fix, not that we’re exactly on their good side right now anyway.”

Faith sat up straighter, a momentary flash of pain crossing her face as she moved. “A cop? You’re a cop? That’s rich. So are Sunnydale’s finest still clueless as ever?” Faith studied her fellow slayer sideways. “You’re not really going to turn me in, are you?”

“Eventually. Right now I’m just going to pretend I don’t know you’re wanted. Until we figure this all out, you’re safer here.”

They again struggled for a topic of conversation. “So where’s Red?” Faith asked.

Buffy shrugged, not really in the mood to play catch up on the past five years. “Ever since Tara died, she hasn’t been herself. Took it really bad. We don’t see her much. I think we just remind her of everything.” She stood abruptly, like a cat that suddenly needed to be in the next room. “So… clothes and something to eat. Right back.”

Faith stopped her at the archway. “Hey, B.”

Buffy turned. “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry ’bout your mom.”

“Thanks.”

“She was a real nice lady. I liked her. Never looked down on me, always treated me like I was worth something.”

“Yeah, right up until you threatened to kill her.”

Faith’s eyes dropped to her lap. Buffy turned her back on the rogue slayer and marched upstairs.

***

Giles watched over her that night, something that Faith insisted was unnecessary. But Giles remembered how coolly she had looked him in the eye and told him that Buffy had killed that man in the alley, how her eyes had glittered with dark, primal hatred as she held the blade to Willow’s throat while they traded the Mayor’s box for their friend’s life. He remembered, too, training with the girl. Buffy always knew his limit, pushed him only so far and then released him. With Faith, he had sometimes wondered if she forgot that they were only sparring. Giles was not about to trust this woman unguarded in the same house with his children.

Morning came, and Giles was working on his second night with no sleep. A stack of books rested on the table before him, three or four volumes open to various sections. His glasses hung from his fingers by their earpiece, his other hand massaging his tired eyes. Tomorrow he would finally have his shipment, delayed two days by a customs’ raid on his supplier. Apparently not all of the man’s Egyptian artifacts were legally obtained. Barring any further complications, tomorrow he would have the last component necessary before he could cast the trace spell on Robin.

Xander had gone home rather quickly after Faith regained consciousness, much to Alex’s dismay. The boy was rather fond of his Uncle, perhaps because Xander was the only other man in the boy’s life besides his father. Three visits in three years hardly ranked Hank Summers as any better of a grandfather than he had been a father. And Spike was not likely to be paying the child any visits in the near future. Giles thought again of John, that he would be a welcome role model for his son and that he hoped April would live and recover. John had said her condition was upgraded to serious, a promising improvement even if she hadn’t yet regained consciousness.

He donned his glasses again, the triple pressure of Faith, Robin, and April driving him to seek answers. He felt almost as if he held their fates in his hands. Being responsible for Buffy, for a Slayer, was a heavy enough burden by itself. This was almost more than he could bear. It made him wish once more for Willow and Tara, for the ease with which the whole group had divided out the research between them and made his burden lighter.

Buffy slept upstairs. She had gone to sleep after patrol, offering to take a shift later, but Giles had seen no point in waking her, since he was up researching anyway. Faith slept most of the night, her body demanding rest for her injuries. But even still, he found her up and sitting across from him at nearly two in the morning. A slayer’s restless drive for the hunt, he supposed. He wondered idly how Faith managed it in prison: not yielding to a slayer’s natural desires.

She said nothing to him, nor had he expected her to. But he took the opportunity to clean and redress her wounds. They seemed to be healing nicely, indicating that whatever toxin had inhibited her slayer healing had likely worked its way out of her system. Perhaps in a day or two she would be well again.

She watched him as he researched for a while before she slipped silently back to the couch and back to sleep. So unlike Faith to be quiet and demure, without a smart-ass remark on the tip of her tongue. Perhaps the fact that she was not currently dressed in something see through or skin tight or that she was not plastered with enough make-up to make a French whore cringe skewed his perception of her somewhat. Or perhaps her time in prison had indeed changed her. She was there by choice, after all, and her own confession. She had just proved by her escape that the legal system had no power to hold a slayer against her will. So Faith had accepted responsibility for her actions and served her time by choice.

And yet Giles could not shake the memories of the last time they had thought her changed, had thought she accepted her fate. After killing that man and escaping the retrieval team, she had returned to accept the Council’s rehabilitation. And had become nothing more than the Mayor’s double agent. How could he trust her now? How could he believe that this was anything but another deception? The bitter irony was that this woman, who he had come to despise and fear and distrust, owned a fate intimately linked with his daughter’s. Faith must live another sixteen years, or Robin would die a slayer’s death. For that reason alone, he was forced to care about her fate.

Giles pushed aside his books and picked up the phone. Redial. No answer. Try again. He had rung the Council periodically throughout the night, but there was never any answer. A special ops team would be far better equipped to handle Faith than any of them. No threat of them harming her this time; the Council had no use for a three-year-old slayer.

A little after six in the morning, he found himself besieged by two sleepy toddlers. They each climbed up onto one knee, each with a thumb firmly planted in their mouth.

“Good morning.”

Robin laid her head on his shoulder and began to doze off again. She would probably have slept another hour if she hadn’t wakened to find him gone. Alex, however, was accustomed to mornings with his father, and as was their routine, the boy tried to steal a drink of tea.

“No, no, no. Let’s have some breakfast, shall we?” He stood with a soft groan, not yet adapted to the weight of a child in each arm. He carried them into the kitchen and set them both down on the floor, having learned quickly that what he couldn’t do for both, he had to do for neither. Alex felt displaced enough as it was, and playing favorites with Robin only made things worse.

The twins seemed to agree on pancakes, and Giles was still thankful enough that Robin was eating that he didn’t much argue with whatever she chose. He was intent on his task, feeling her little hands wound into his pant leg, her little head leaning against his side, as he made the batter. It took him several minutes before he noticed that Alex was missing.

Giles’ heart stopped, and he rushed to the living room in long strides. He paused at the threshold, unsure whether to move closer or stay back. Alex was sitting on Faith’s stomach, showing her some drawings he had made.

“Alex,” he called softly.

Faith was watching the boy through half-open lids. Her gaze flickered over to him in the archway. She smoothed back Alex’s sandy hair as she held his father’s eyes. The motion was tender, maternal, but there was something chilling about watching Faith perform the action.

“Alex, come here.”

“Go on, short stuff.” Faith nudged him off her stomach. “You can show me later.” Her eyes reflected sadness as she looked at Giles, regret and disappointment even, that he didn’t trust her with the children. Why should she have expected any different?

Then it occurred to him that she must have gone through her slayer heat as Buffy had. Faith must be aware now that she would never have children. To see that Buffy had both a son and a daughter must cut deeply for a woman so young who would never have her own.

“He’s quite a friendly little guy,” she commented, her eyes never leaving his.

“Yes,” Giles agreed, swiftly taking his son’s hand as the boy reached his side.

“City like Sunnydale… boy’s friendly to the wrong person, he’s liable to get himself hurt.”

He couldn’t read her expression. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“Alex,” he murmured. “Take your sister into the kitchen for breakfast. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Faith breakfast too?”

“No, son, not with us. Maybe in a little bit.” He waited a moment until he knew the children were out of earshot. “Faith, if you ever, ever lay so much as one hand on either of my children-”

She fidgeted slightly, her eyes growing wide in alarm. “That’s not what… Jeez, I just thought you and Buffy would have taught your kid some street smarts, raisin’ him up in Sunnyhell and all.”

“How we raise our children is none of your concern. It happens that you are a guest in our home, and by virtue of that fact, Alex feels he can trust you.” Giles didn’t move closer. He didn’t need to. Physical intimidation would be pointless with a slayer anyway. He narrowed his eyes, and then crossed his arms. “If you ever prove that child’s trust misplaced… If you ever bring harm to either one of them, directly or indirectly… So help me God, I will turn you into a rat and feed you to the neighbor’s dog.”

He turned on his heel and strode into the kitchen, still fuming with anger and fear for everything the rogue slayer was capable of. She had tortured Wesley unmercifully. He had the dry and brutal account of it from Cordelia. And unlike Angelus, she had done it not for information, but merely for the sheer pleasure of it.

He wanted her out of his house. With shaking hands, he snatched the phone and tried the Council again, but still no answer. He slammed the damn thing back in the cradle. He wanted the Council to take her off his hands, out of his house, and away from his family.

Hopefully she would not see through his bluff. He chuckled slightly at his own audacity. He could not turn the girl into a rat or into anything really. He didn’t have the kind of power that Amy or Tara or Willow had. Perhaps if he had stayed with Ethan, he might have, but he had neglected his magic for too many years to even aspire to such power. But Faith would not know that. She would be blessedly ignorant about the dark arts, with only enough knowledge of magic to fear it and hopefully, by extension, him as well.

“Hungry, Daddy,” his son demanded, tugging on his pant leg.

Giles forced himself to smile and push back his anger. He lifted the boy into his arms, squeezing him tightly and kissing him soundly on the forehead. Robin soon clamored for attention as well, and he lifted her in the other arm, holding them both close for several moments.

Alex could not quite appreciate the tender moment Giles was trying to share with them. “Pancake,” he whined insistently.

Giles smiled and sat them both on the counter, where they could watch him cook and he could watch them just as closely.

Morning passed uneventfully. Dawn went to school. Buffy and Giles stayed home with Faith and the twins. Alex seemed fascinated by the dark slayer, so much so that it was a full time job for someone to keep him from sneaking into the living room to watch her. He asked his parents questions they couldn’t answer and even offered Faith Mr. Gordo to speed her recovery, as the stuffed pig always made him feel better when he was sick… that, and his father’s soup and sleeping in bed with Mommy while she read Peter Pan. Buffy became strangely possessive of the stuffed toy, intercepting the gift and placing it on top of her dresser even as she placed Alex in his room.

Robin clung to her father’s side even more so, perceiving his fear of this strange woman and copying it. She would not lay down for a nap with Alex as she had done for the past few days. So Giles lay down in the bed with her, intending to stay only until she fell asleep, but two nights of missed sleep quickly caught up with him, and he drifted off, his twins nestled on either side.

Dawn came home. She walked a thin line in Faith’s presence. Dawn had been twelve when Faith came into their lives, and she had developed a serious case of hero worship. Sure, her sister was the Slayer, but Faith was a much cooler Slayer. Dinners at their house and catching the girls sneaking in after patrol only cemented the young girl’s idolization. Faith would wink at her and tell her saucy stories when Buffy would leave the room. She had let her put on lipstick once, but Buffy had made her wipe it all off. And one time, Faith had even showed her a little kickboxing move guaranteed to bring any man to his knees. Faith and Xander were simply the two coolest people on the face of the Earth.

But Dawn had missed everything that came after, so she had no bad memories of Faith, nothing to make her fear her. Buffy had sheltered her from that, and so now it was hard to see and understand how the others treated the other slayer. She couldn’t pick up the friendly teasing and comfortable relationship they had before. But neither could she hate Faith as Buffy and Giles and Xander seemed to. All she could do was keep Alex out of their hair. A part of her really hoped they could forgive Faith. Because if they could accept Faith, then there was the smallest chance that they could accept Spike, too.

Dinner seemed almost normal. Faith ate at the table with them, her shoulder healing quickly, the burns across her leg nearly gone. The conversation was strained, but not unbearable. Faith managed not to pick a fight. Buffy and Giles managed to be cordial. Dawn got a milk-out-the-nose laugh from Faith when she told her about Spike. The twins managed to distract everyone with their adorable attempts to replicate Faith’s milk-out-the-nose feat.

The trouble didn’t start until after dinner. It began with a hard rap on the door. Buffy and Giles and Faith exchanged glances. People who knocked were never people you wanted to let in. It could be the police, looking for their fugitive. Faith was ushered upstairs to sit with Dawn and Alex.

But it wasn’t the police. It was Quentin Travers. Again.

Buffy crossed her arms and screwed her face up into an impressive scowl. “I thought you went back to England.”

“I had business to finish first. My plane was to leave tomorrow.”

Giles ushered the man into the house, angry for his own reasons. “I’ve been trying to reach the Council for two days. A fat lot of good you are if you won’t answer your damn phones.”

Travers seemed puzzled for a moment as he studied the two of them. Giles noticed then how haggard the older man looked and the circles carved beneath his eyes. Giles’ demeanor changed, and he waved the other watcher into the living room.

“Quentin, what is it?” he asked softly.

The other man seemed taken aback, at a loss for words, truly a remarkable occurrence for one generally as composed as Travers. “You really don’t know?” And then he laughed, a dark and humorless laugh. He made a slight tutting sound with his tongue, shaking his head, as he walked across to the television. “Not everything you need to know can be found in a book, Rupert. Generally American news is nothing but gossip and fashion, but if you cast an eye to it on occasion, you might be more informed.”

He turned the set on and flipped the channels until he had found one of those 24-hour news stations. He turned up the volume and took a seat in a nearby armchair. “We shouldn’t have to wait too long. It’s still one of the leading stories.”

Buffy flopped down on the couch, sliding Faith’s bedding off to one side. “You know, I’m not exactly Patient Gal. Just spill already.”

But Travers was fixated on Giles’ expression. And Giles was fixated on the images on the TV. He dropped into a chair himself, pulling Robin up into his lap. Camcorder footage of smoldering ruin played across the screen; the banner scrolling across the bottom mattered little. Giles recognized the remains of this building. The newscaster voiced over the footage of men in protective suits picking through the rubble.

“Investigations continue in the UK after a series of explosions leveled buildings in London, Manchester, and Bath early Wednesday morning. The destroyed buildings all belonged to one organization, the C.O.W., a company dedicated to the collection and preservation of rare books and artifacts. Authorities have no lead yet on who might be responsible, if indeed this was a targeted attack. Sources involved in the investigation haven’t ruled out the possibility that the company’s own labs may have been responsible for the explosions, but deny allegations that these labs involved weaponry research of any kind. The most likely theory…”

Buffy stepped between him and the TV. “I’m not interested in lame official stories for whatever happened. I want the truth. C.O.W.? We are talking Council of Watchers here, aren’t we?”

Giles was still focused on a spot just past Buffy, where he would see the images of the devastation on the television if she weren’t standing in his way.

Travers answered for him. “Yes. The Council of Watchers. The public designation is slightly different, and its official purpose is as something like a private museum. The labs they speak of are on record as restoration facilities for chemically reconditioning damaged books and artifacts. Although off the record, we had laboratory facilities for alchemy and magic as well.”

“Had,” Buffy emphasized. “Had, as in it’s all gone?”

Travers gestured with one hand to the television behind her. “You see what is left. Our headquarters in London. Our branch offices in Bath and Manchester. There is nothing left.”

Giles swallowed hard, his glasses resting on an end table, one hand covering his face. “Survivors?” he asked softly.

There was a long pause before Travers answered him. “None.” Giles looked up then and searched the other man’s face. Travers repeated himself. “None… that I have been able to locate, at least. Even those who were not at any of the Council compounds were… hunted.”

Giles replaced his glasses and absently touched his fingers to his mouth as he thought. “A spell? Like the one that located all the potentials?”

“Not nearly as difficult as that. Whoever- whatever- destroyed the Council complexes could have easily accessed our systems to locate the missing watchers before leveling the buildings. It wouldn’t have been a huge undertaking to eliminate them after. Most of the watchers sent on assignment to potential slayers had already been killed in those attacks. Many of the senior watchers and the students were housed within the main headquarters themselves. The short of it, Rupert, is that you and I appear to be the only two they missed.”

“Wesley?”

“Ah, yes. If you remember, he was fired for tolerating such insolence from his slayer. He is therefore no longer a watcher and no longer my concern.”

“The special ops teams?”

“Weatherby’s team had returned to the Manchester office after completing an assignment. Another team was at headquarters, training new members. A third… They managed to get a phone call out before they were likewise killed.”

“What did they say?”

Travers snorted in frustration, scratching his head. “I’m not entirely sure. It was from a cell, and the reception was poor. I heard something about ‘the beast’ before we were cut off.”

Giles slid Robin off his lap and stood, his hand darting out to the back of the chair to steady himself. He felt off balance, adrift. He found Travers’ eyes again, trying to ground himself, to somehow make sense of all of this. “You are sure? That no one else…?”

Travers sighed. “No, I am not sure, but for the moment we should proceed under the assumption that you and I are the only two watchers left.”

Giles nodded, distracted by his own thoughts. He felt Buffy’s hand on his arm and glanced over to take in her concerned expression.

“Does that mean whoever did this will be coming after the two of you too?”

He knew that she was only concerned for his safety, but he felt irrationally irritated by her worry. His fate mattered little in the grand scheme of everything that had just happened. Perhaps she could not grasp the scope of the tragedy, because the Council had never been more than a faceless entity to her. She had not grown up among them, been trained by them, or devoted her life to their ideals. She did not know them by name or by reputation. They were simply the Council, and Travers was their mouthpiece. Her dislike of Travers had likely colored her perception of the entire organization. She could not know that most watchers were decent, honorable, and dedicated. Gwendolyn Post was an aberration. Wesley Wyndham-Pryce had been too desperate to climb out of his father’s shadow. These were the only examples of the Council she had, and so she could not understand the depth of loss Giles felt at the destruction just laid before him.

Travers answered for him again. “Possibly. As head of the Council, my whereabouts are not filed in the database. As watcher to the active slayer, Rupert’s would not be either, a safeguard against just such a contingency. If our attackers hunted us down through our own database, then the two of us may indeed be overlooked. A location spell, on the other hand, would leave us vulnerable. It would seem the wisest course of action would be to find and destroy the ones responsible before they can find us.”

Giles pulled away from Buffy, lifted Robin into his arms, and made his way to the front door. He needed some air, some breathing space. “I’m going for a walk,” he murmured and was out the front door before she could protest.

***

The door slammed, and Buffy looked towards Travers helplessly. “He shouldn’t go by himself, should he? It’s not safe, right? Especially with Robin.”

Travers flicked off the television and stared at the blank screen for a moment. “Who knows? You have all the information I do at the moment.” He sat in Giles’ vacated chair. “Give him some time to think about it. This is a lot to absorb. The Council… the Council is gone. Bloodlines that trace back farther than the first Roman to touch Italian soil. The lines of watchers are simply gone.” He shook his head, the breadth of it too staggering. “Only one potential slayer left. Two watchers. The Slayer is the instrument; the Council is the hand. Have all the contempt you like for us, Buffy, but without the Council, you would have never lasted a year.”

Buffy bristled at Travers’ speculation. “I did fine on my own for more than a year.”

He chuckled, a condescending amusement reserved for a foolish child from a wiser adult. “You are an arrogant thing, aren’t you, Slayer? Rupert was still your watcher in all but name. We could have pulled his green card in a second if we really wanted to leave you on your own. You see, you may have turned your back on us, but we never turned away from you. Did you really think we wouldn’t keep tabs on you? Did you really think in all that time that Glory was the first your watcher ever contacted the Council for help? And when the Initiative folded, did you really think the government would just slink away and leave you in peace without a little persuasion?”

“You?”

Travers stood and strolled slowly across the room to stand in front of her, staring down his nose at her. “The Slayer is the instrument; the Council is the hand. We point you to your enemy, give you the information you need to destroy them, and clean up your messes when you screw up. Without us, you are nothing but strength and power, with no direction. Without us, you would not know who you are fighting or why.”

She stood on her toes to bring herself nose to nose with this man. And he thought she was arrogant? “Listen here: I’ve never liked you. You have an awful big opinion of yourself for someone who never actually gets his hands dirty. It may surprise you to know that I’m actually a pretty damn good slayer. I don’t need a guy in a tweed suit to point me to a vampire or throw me a stake. I’ve killed more vamps and demons than you’ve had nightmares about. And even without the Watcher’s Council, I can still get my job done. Tell me: without the Slayer, can you still get your job done? I don’t think so.”

Travers arched one brow. “Well, then, by all means go and perform your sacred duty. Remind me again: who are you hunting? Who killed the potential slayers? And the watchers? Who is even now searching for your daughter?” He smiled as she turned away from him. “No. I suppose you will have to wait for your watcher to tell you that.”

Buffy chewed on her bottom lip. She hated that smug jerk. She faced him again, not about to admit that he might have a point. “So, Information Guy, you think you’re always one step ahead of us? So how come no one at the Council had any idea Faith escaped?”

That did seem to rattle his calm. “Faith escaped? When?”

“Two days ago. On Wednesday…” She trailed off and flopped down onto the couch. “Probably right after the Council went bye-bye. Okay, so maybe that doesn’t prove anything. But, yeah, someone tried to kill her, and she escaped.” Buffy sighed. She was so not winning this argument. And it quickly dawned on her that there was no need for everyone to hide out upstairs anymore. “Guys, you can come down anytime.”

Dawn and Alex came down first, and Buffy really didn’t like the way Travers was looking at her son. Like he had found himself a prize stud. His words about bloodlines and watchers echoed in her head.

“Don’t even think about it,” she warned him.

If he had planned to argue with her, the sight of Faith stopped him. They had never met, to Buffy’s knowledge, but Travers clearly recognized her.

“You must be Faith,” he said flatly.

Faith crossed her arms and swished her dark hair over her shoulder with a twist of her head. She sized up the aging, balding, overweight man with a sneer. “Watcher?”

Buffy confirmed her assessment. “Head watcher.”

Faith rolled her eyes. “Look, you guys tried the taking me back to England thing twice now, and we both know how that worked out. So let’s say we just save me the hassle of knocking your guys’ heads in and call it a strike three for the Watcher’s Council. I swear, I’m going right back to jail after we figure out who wants me dead and stop them.”

A long silence from Travers was her only response, so Buffy decided to fill the others in. “You don’t have to worry about them taking you to England. It’s kind of gone.” Travers glared at her, and she clarified. “Not England England. That’s still there. But the Council part of it’s gone. Travers and Giles are it for watchers.”

Faith seemed to consider that for a moment. She opened her mouth, then closed it, then tried again. “Wesley?” She tried to make it sound casual, but Buffy could hear the actual concern in her voice.

Travers answered stiffly. “Mr. Wyndham-Pryce is no longer a watcher. He is, I assume, just fine.”

Alex stared up at the older watcher. “Don’t go water,” he told him.

Travers seemed puzzled by the boy’s sudden statement and knelt down beside him. “What?”

Buffy would rather her son spent as little time as possible being sized up for casting in Watchers: The Next Generation. She scooped him up into her arms. “I think it’s bedtime.”

Travers stopped her with a hand on her arm. “He said the same thing to me in LA. He warned me about the water. Does he…? Does the child have any gifts for prophecy?”

Buffy felt her heart stop. She thought of his dreams about his sister, about the fire. He’d even known her name before they had. If Travers got wind of any of that, he would surely find a way to trap her son into a watcher’s life. Especially now that they were such a rare commodity. “No,” she answered firmly, meeting Dawn’s stare and daring her to say anything. “Never.”

She took her son upstairs and put him to bed.

Giles returned home shortly after, Robin asleep in his arms. He deposited her in the bed next to her brother. Buffy wondered why they even had beds for the children. He passed her by without a word and disappeared into the kitchen to make tea. She started to follow him, surprised when Travers intercepted her.

“What do you want?”

He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I thought I should remind you. You did remember that Giles’ father was a watcher?”

“Yeah, and his grandmother too.” Her eyes widened as she caught Travers’ meaning. “His father… oh. I guess I always thought he was dead or something. Giles never talks about him.”

“I don’t imagine that he would. His father was an instructor at our headquarters in London. He would have been in the building…”

“Oh.” She glanced back towards the kitchen. “Even if he didn’t like the guy, losing your dad’s got to be pretty wiggy.”

Travers smiled at her turn of phrase. “Yes, quite.”

Buffy turned back to the older man still holding her by the elbow. She had thought he was a smug jerk and pretty much insulted him from the moment he arrived, but was now beginning to suspect that she had been too hard on him. “Did you… lose anybody too?”

He let go of her arm and glanced down. “I was the head of the Council, Miss Summers. I lost more than I can count.”

Buffy frowned. She wouldn’t correct his use of her maiden name this time. She didn’t know exactly what to say. “I’m sorry.”

Travers met her eyes, and for once she thought she could see him as the man and not the position. “My grandchildren never showed the aptitude for a watcher’s training, thank God. They were not in our database. My daughter worked in the Archives. My son-in-law was an alchemist.”

“I’m really sorry. And I didn’t mean to be so harsh before, but-”

“But I was banging on about duty and destiny,” he finished. “And you were sick of hearing it.”

She shrugged, ashamed that he had hit the nail on the head. “So how come you’re here, talking with us, instead of…? I mean, after everything, wouldn’t you rather…?”

“Of course I would rather. But all that talk about duty and sacrifice isn’t just for trying to boss you around. It might surprise you to learn that I actually believe it. Watchers have a sacred calling, just as you have, to protect this world, and sometimes-”

“That means saying and doing what other people can’t, what they shouldn’t have to.”

Travers nodded as she spoke. “Well said.”

“Giles told me that once. We had a big argument about duty and sacrifice, the sacrifice being my sister, and he told me that. Kind of the watcher credo, huh?”

“Watchers and slayers must continue on into future generations, or this world is lost. Until we find and stop those responsible, I don’t have the luxury of grief. And neither does he.” He handed her a small slip of paper. “My number at the hotel. It’s getting late, and you appear to have a full house. I’ll continue tracking down my own leads. Call if there are any further developments.”

“You just don’t want to stay in the same house with Faith.”

Travers smiled softly as he turned away. “Goodnight, Buffy,” he called over his shoulder as he left.

Buffy cast an eye towards Faith, sitting cross-legged in front of the TV. The rogue slayer had found their Nintendo and was busy hooking it up. Maybe Dawn had shown her where it was. Her sister still had a soft spot for Faith.

She wandered into the kitchen where Giles was leaning against the counter, watching his kettle heat up. Dawn had joined him and was attempting to involve him in a conversation, without much success. Sometimes where Giles was concerned, her sister could see things more clearly than she could. Now that Travers had opened her eyes, it was obvious that Giles was overwhelmed and lost.

“Dawn, can I have a minute?”

Giles didn’t seem to notice her leaving. Buffy laid a hand on his arm, and then he did look up. “I guess I’m kinda slow. I didn’t even think about your father.”

Giles chuckled darkly, his forehead creasing in thought. “Yes, my father.”

“You’ve never mentioned him. I guess I thought he’d already died or something.”

“Or something,” he echoed bitterly. “I was a disappointment. After Eyghon and Randall, he wanted very little to do with me. We haven’t spoken since I left to be your watcher.”

“So he didn’t know about us? About the twins?”

“I’m sure he received the information in a memo somewhere along the way.” His expression softened when he caught sight of her concern. “Really, Buffy, I’ll mourn very little for my father. He had a chance to be in my life, in our children’s lives, but he couldn’t bother to even call. I’ve long given up on the idea of mending fences with him. After Mother died, there was very little room in his heart for anything but his work. I always expected that his death was the only closure I would ever have.”

Her eyes traced the lines across his forehead, the sadness that turned down his mouth slightly, the flecks of amber that swirled in his green eyes. She thought she knew him so well, but there were other times she felt like she didn’t know him at all. “You never talk about your family. Or about anything from when you lived in England, really.”

“It’s in my past, very far behind me.”

“I still want to know. It’s part of what made you who you are today.” She touched her fingers to his forehead, ran them down along the side of his cheek. He turned slightly from her touch. “Promise you’ll tell me everything someday?”

“Someday,” he assured her. “When the world isn’t falling down around our ears.”

She frowned. “Is that a sneaky way of getting out of it? ’Cause the world’s pretty much always falling down around us.” That earned her a wry laugh, and she wrapped her arms around him. She had spent so much time lately being mad at him about Robin that she had forgotten how wonderful it felt to simply be held by him. A shame that it took such a tragedy to make her get over herself. “Still, I’m sorry about your dad.”

He held her tighter in his arms. “His loss, really, that he never knew what a wonderful woman I married.”

She tipped her head up to meet his eyes. “Or what a wonderful son he really had.”

Giles smiled and bent his head to kiss her quickly on the lips. The whistle sounded and startled them both, and he pulled away from her to remove the kettle from the burner. “Why don’t you go to bed, Buffy? I’ll be up for a while researching anyway.”

“Uh-uh,” she answered firmly, setting the kettle aside and taking him by one hand. “Three nights of research not allowed. You’re going to get some sleep, Watcher-mine.”

“Really, I can’t.”

“You can and you will. You were just complaining before Travers got here that you’d gone through everything you have three times already and still haven’t found anything useful.”

“Yes, but-”

“No buts.” She took him determinedly by the shoulders and steered him towards the stairs. “You also said you’re going to do this really important spell tomorrow, the one that will give us a clue who’s doing this. I’m thinking it might be a good idea to get some sleep for that.”

In the end he didn’t argue with her, which was a good thing, because she was planning on being really stubborn.

***

Giles’ hands shook slightly as he drew the circle. He couldn’t remember ever being this nervous about performing a spell. Of course, back in the day with Ethan, they had all been too stoned and too arrogant to even consider the risks or the costs. And now the risk was too high, the possible cost too dear, that he would never have even considered performing it were the risks not greater in doing nothing.

Robin watched him from the couch, her eyes so trusting of him. She would be fine, he told himself. She would be fine. He would shield her with his own magic if he had to, but she would be fine.

Alex had been sent to Anya’s along with Dawn. Buffy and Xander and Faith were upstairs, out of harm’s way. He wished he could send his daughter away too, even if it meant she would scream for him for hours, but he needed her for this spell. The magic had touched her, and he would need her if he were to trace it back to the caster.

“Come here, luv,” he whispered tenderly, one hand extended to her.

She slid off the couch and tottered over to him without hesitation. He framed her face between his hands and then leaned forward to kiss her on her forehead. Sitting back on his knees, he looked at her for several long moments, his eyes misting slightly at the thought of everything that could go wrong.

“You’ll be safe, Robin. I promise.” He said it more for his benefit than for hers.

He dipped his fingers into the bowl to his side, holding a concoction of things best not dwelt on. With his thumb, he drew a star on his daughter’s cheek. On the other one, he drew the sun. Across her brow, he drew a straight line. She looked like an Indian warrior. Native American, he quickly corrected himself, with a fond smile for the memories that triggered.

He repeated the markings on his own face. Both of them now decked in red war paint. Fitting really, since this would be the first act of war. Or perhaps the war had already begun. One potential slayer left. The ranks of Watchers decimated. Perhaps this could be considered their counterstrike.

He knew he should think of his father, that he should feel grief or anger or something for his murder. But he had said goodbye to that man, boarded a plane to America, and given up hope of ever regaining the smallest measure of approval. If being chosen as Watcher to the active Slayer was not enough to redeem him, then nothing would ever please his father and to hell with him.

No, the sadness and grief he carried in his heart was not for his father, but for the others. Their faces drifted into his consciousness unbidden: a teacher he had respected, his roommate during his watcher training, friends he had made in his years spent with the Council. People he hadn’t seen since leaving England. He thought of them, of April, of Robin, and even Faith as he made preparations for his spell. He did this for them, to protect them, to avenge them, but not for his father.

“Now, Robin, you must sit in this circle just like this.” He illustrated a cross-legged pose, and she jumped into the circle and tried to mirror him. “Very good. Now I’m going to sit just like that in this triangle here. We’re going to play a game. You’d like to play a game with me, wouldn’t you?”

Her eyes lit up, and she nodded enthusiastically.

“Good. We’re going to see who can stay inside their shape the longest, okay? So you can’t move your feet outside the circle or your hands or even your nose. You have stay completely inside or you lose. Do you understand?”

She nodded again.

He hoped she understood. She couldn’t break the circle during the spell or there would be dire consequences. That was the part that made him the most nervous. A three-year-old was terribly unpredictable to partake in magic, but he had no choice.

“I’m going to give you something to hold.” He pulled out a small, shiny orb. It was the object he had needed to special order, the one he had been waiting on to perform the spell. He handed it to her, and she held it up to her face to look through it like a kaleidoscope. He pushed it back into her lap. “Now, Robin, I want you to just hold that in your hands, and I’m going to float it in the air like magic. Would you like that?”

Her eyes widened, and she smiled.

“Remember: you must stay in the circle completely or you’ll lose the game, and I won’t float the pretty ball anymore. Are you ready?”

She nodded, and he closed his eyes. He wiped the nervous sweat from his palms onto his knees. Slowing his breathing, he focused on the orb in her hands. He began the incantation for the spell and could feel the power in the orb thrumming in answer to his call. He could feel it lifting from her hands. She squealed in delight.

The final words of the spell projected his thoughts through it to her. It was as if the point of the triangle he sat in and the curve of the orb floating above her lap both narrowed and channeled his magic straight to her. He could see his daughter in ways beyond human vision.

He felt the touch of familiar magic surrounding her. Colors in deep burgundy and indigo. The smell of cigarettes and smog and incense. The taste of cheap liquor and even cheaper women. The feel of Chaos. Ethan Rayne. But that magic was old, clinging to her like the lingering cold of a midwinter morning. It was probably a holdover from when she was a baby. Ethan must have cast a spell on the twins. Maybe that’s why they couldn’t find her. Or maybe that’s why they had found Alex. Either was a possibility where Ethan was concerned. He could trace the magic back to his old friend if he wished, discover where the man was hiding out now, what trouble he was stirring up, but he didn’t really care.

More distressing to Giles now was the fact that Ethan’s spell had not dissipated in over three years. Chaos still held her in its grip, warping the spell that Giles even now cast around her. He knew then, without a doubt, that Chaos had saved his daughter. He thought back to the series of coincidences and sheer luck that had prevented her from sharing the other potentials’ fate that night. Not luck. Not coincidence. The hand of Chaos.

But Chaos could take as well as give, could destroy Giles’ plans as easily as his enemies’. Chaos was a fickle master.

Giles couldn’t counter Ethan’s spell, not in the middle of another casting, but he knew his friend’s magic intimately, enough to find a way around it. He reached past the Chaos and a whole range of sensation flooded him.

Black and white, gold and amber, sapphire and rose, peach and violets, loud and soft, deep and low, rushing, rumbling, melding, and merging. The hush of a lover’s whisper, the crash of thunder, and the howling of a lone wolf. The feel of silk and rain and cool metal and warm sand coupled with the smell of burnt rubber and fresh flowers and sweat and perfume.

He gasped against the sensory overload. The spell was cast not by one, but by many, their essences weaving and meshing together into a jumble of competing voices.

He quieted his own mind and methodically unraveled the noise into separate threads. Thirteen distinct auras, and he followed them until they split in two directions.

He chose one path and followed it, the one that the greater number originated from. If necessary, he would follow the second path later.

He saw a house on a row he recognized from Buffy’s college days. The spell came from right here in Sunnydale, from campus. He remembered then what John had said at the hospital: April had been following a lead on a sorority house on campus. He reached further to find them, the ones responsible. He expected to find demons, dark creatures plotting the end of the world. He never expected to touch the magic of another so familiar to him.

The smell of lilacs and lavender, pinks and oranges and all the colors of the sunrise, the smell of the library and dusty old books, the sound of light laughter and the soft click of deft fingers across a keyboard.

Willow.

He would recognize the feel of her magic anywhere.

His shock made him careless, made him drift too close, made him forget for a moment why he was there. It only took a second, and then it was too late. He had reached far enough for them to sense his presence. The eight strands of magic he had followed to this house now wrapped themselves around him in an overwhelming din of sight and sound and smell and taste and touch. He felt the flash of their anger and the awesome power of eight working as one.

A moment later and all was silence. He went limp as the tidal wave of power released him, allowing him to catch his breath. He blinked his eyes and looked around. This was not home. This was not the sorority house either. He sat in a massive cavern, stalagmites on either side of him, the roof far above. He knew this place.

Standing several feet away from him was Willow. He could sense the others in the distance behind her, but she was the only one here, if indeed they were actually there at all, if it were not simply an illusion.

Anger burned in eyes that had only held despair for so many months now.

Giles stood, brushing dirt from his trousers, the sound of his movements echoing around him. He studied his surroundings more closely. Yes, he knew this place. This was where Tara had died.

“You knew,” she whispered, her voice cold steel.

“Willow, I don’t know what’s going on, what you’ve gotten yourself into-”

“Did I say you could talk?” She waved her hand, and his throat closed up. He could make no sound. “Sabrina told me, but I didn’t want to believe her. I wanted to believe that the Watcher’s Council was good, that you were good.”

Giles rubbed at his throat, trying to make a sound, trying to speak to Willow, to reason with her, but her magic was strong. Dear Lord, he hadn’t any idea how strong until this moment.

“The Council with all their secrets. They want to study power, to understand it and lock it up in a vault where no one can use it.” She began to pace in front of him, and he followed her with his eyes. “Did they tell you to hide those books? Let her learn this much and no more?”

He shook his head, his eyes pleading with her to understand. He had done it to protect her, to keep her from delving into things she was not ready for, to stop her from making the same mistakes he had made with his power.

“They want to keep the strongest magicks to themselves, because everything has to be done the hard way, doesn’t it? She’ll just have to get over Oz like anyone else would. Tara too. Magic’s just a cheat, a crutch. Good people never use it unless they have to.” She stomped across the distance between them and grabbed him by his shirtfront. “Look me in the eyes. You knew. You knew, and you let her die.”

Giles wrenched himself from Willow’s grip. He didn’t understand what she was talking about, but he couldn’t voice his confusion.

“I told Sabrina that you didn’t have that kind of power, but here you are spying on us. For them. I know what the Council did to the other four who bore our mark. Killed because you were all afraid of our power. And they’d do it to the rest of us if they could. But I won’t let them. Or you.”

She took several steps backwards and gestured to the ground with her hands. A circle of blue flame flared to life around him. He covered his face with his hands, spinning around to find that the flames completely enclosed him.

“When Oz left, you could have helped me with the magic, helped heal my heart. They did. The spell was simple and easy, and just like that the pain was gone. Just because something is simple and easy doesn’t make it wrong. But I can tell you what is wrong. Standing there and doing nothing when you have the power to make a difference.”

She was shouting at him now with all the breath she had in her body. Giles had never been afraid of Willow before, but now he was very, very afraid. He shrank back as far as he could in the circle she’d drawn around him in fire. He tried to think of protection spells, shields, anything that didn’t require a spoken incantation, anything he could do without voice.

“You stood there and let her die when you had the spell and the power to save her. You knew, and you did nothing.”

He shook his head desperately. Is that what she thought? That he could have saved Tara and didn’t? He gestured to his throat. She had to let him speak, had to let him explain.

He saw her eyes turn black as she lifted her hands. Power crackled in the air around her. Static and silence and the clean scent before lightning strikes.

His lips moved. He didn’t know if the magic would work without voice, but he had to try. Somewhere very far from here his daughter sat inside a circle, his magic woven around her. He released her from it, untangled all the threads that held them together. He would shield her with his own magic. He had sworn it. He would shield her even if it meant he could not shield himself.

Her black eyes narrowed. Her voice quivered with her hate. “The Council can keep its secrets and its power all locked away where no one can use it. Because I have my own power, and you’re about to taste it, old man.”

With that she stretched out both hands towards him, chanting in Sumerian. He recognized the spell, recognized that it was so far beyond her, he wondered how she had ever learned it and what book she could have found it in. But then he felt the seven behind her, felt their magic join with hers into a perfectly woven tapestry. He solidified the shield around his daughter with every drop of magic he possessed. Willow’s spell would not touch her. He would take it all.

The magic whirlpooled around him. He was at the eye of the hurricane, the center of the tornado. He braced himself against the onslaught. Willow’s spell would not kill him. She was not so far gone for that yet. But he feared that her spell would be worse than a clean death. He feared it as every thinking person would. The nightmare of a whole mind locked inside a useless body. The power of eight spiraled around him.

Very far away in a house on Revello Drive, Giles’ body screamed.

***

Buffy heard the scream and barreled down the stairs so fast, she nearly tripped on the last one, slayer reflexes or no. It was worse than she imagined. Giles was slumped over on the floor, unconscious, unmoving. Robin sat a few feet away, curled into a little ball, crying and rocking.

Buffy turned her watcher on his back, cradled his head in her lap. His eyes were closed, and he wasn’t breathing. “Giles!”

She heard Xander and Faith behind her, but didn’t turn to see them. “Oh God, oh God,” she moaned. “I don’t know what to do!”

Xander placed one hand on her shoulders, before easing Giles from her lap. “CPR, Buffy. Faith, call for an ambulance.”

“I can’t. I can’t. You do it.” Buffy’s head was shaking, her hands pressed to her ears. All she could hear over and over again was the sound of her mother’s ribs cracking beneath her slayer strength. She could still feel the coolness of her lips as she tried to breathe life into her mother’s dead body.

“Faith, an ambulance now!” Xander was shouting, but Faith just stood frozen in the foyer. A moment later and she opened the door, running from the house. “Dammit! Buffy-”

“I can’t. I can’t.”

Xander tilted Giles’ head back and began breathing for him. Buffy crawled over to her daughter and pulled the crying girl into her lap. Less than a minute and Xander had him breathing on his own, his pulse strong. He leaned back against the coffee table and met Buffy’s tear-streaked gaze.

“What do we do?” she whispered. “Do we call for help?”

“I don’t know. The spell he was doing… did he mention anything like this?”

She shook her head, wiping the tears from her face, but more just spilled down after. “He said it would let him see whatever magic had touched Robin and trace it back to the person who did it. I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

“If it’s magic, there isn’t much a doctor could do.” Xander snapped his fingers. “Willow.”

She shook her head. “We’ve been trying for days. Giles thought she could help with the spell, but she hasn’t returned any of our calls. What do I do, Xander? I don’t know anything about magic. I can do the trancey meditation stuff, like the spell I did for my mother. Maybe that will work.” Her eyes grew wide with hope, and she slid Robin from her lap to come closer to Giles. “I could maybe do that pull-the-curtain-back thing and see whatever spell is on him.”

“And then what?”

Her face fell again. She was out of her depth. Giles was the knowledge guy. Travers was right: she couldn’t do this alone; she couldn’t do any of it without a watcher. She smoothed his hair back from his forehead tenderly and bent to place a gentle kiss over his mouth. She stayed like that for several moments before sitting up and meeting Xander’s compassionate gaze.

She shrugged. “I thought maybe… I don’t know… Sleeping Beauty or something. Silly, huh?”

Robin crawled closer to her father then, coming between her mother and him. The girl probably understood about Sleeping Beauty, because she bent to kiss him too. She frowned when nothing happened and studied him very seriously. One hand poked him in the side a few times, and then a little harder, trying to make him move.

Robin sighed and lay down beside him, her head resting on his shoulder. Very softly she said, “Giles.”

Buffy dropped her head in her hands and began to cry in earnest. It was the first word her daughter had spoken since coming home.

***

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