Of Protocol & Tradition
Part 3 in the "Unbreakable" series
by: Koala
TITLE: "Of Protocol & Tradition" (Pt 3 of the "Unbreakable" series)
AUTHOR: Koala
PAIRING: B/G
RATING: TV-MA
SUMMARY: Last time: Seeking information on Glory, Giles flew to England and met with the Watcher's Council. He stayed with Emily, a woman colleague who harbored a secret crush on him. Now: A Council delegation arrives in Sunnydale with the information Buffy and Giles need. Heading up the group is Quentin Travers, whose secret agenda is to bring Giles back into the Council fold. Accompanying him is Emily, who is working on a secret agenda of her own.
SPOILERS/TIMELINE: Set in and around S5's "Checkpoint".
RATING: TV-MA
DISTRIBUTION: Koala's Tome, GylzGirl's HeadQuarters, DWord's the LIST. Others please ask first.
DISCLAIMER: BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER characters and concepts are copyright ©1997-2003 20th Century Fox. "Checkpoint" written by Jane Espenson and Douglas Petrie. It's not stealing, it's continuity!
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is an AU retelling of the episode where Buffy and Giles are together, although still following the basic "Glory" plot of Season 5. I know I changed the nature of the Council's review, so don't write and tell me I got it wrong. All I can say is, 'I did it my way!' J
DEDICATION: For Renee, for patiently listening to me ramble; For Dword, thanks for the beta; For GG, get well soon!
POST DATE: January 27, 2003
"Are you sure you don't have another one?" Buffy asked, determined to feed the ragged corners of the dollar bill into the uncooperative machine.
Giles frowned and grunted in reply. It was a moot question, after all, since in his present position, he couldn't even reach the wallet in the back pocket of his trousers to check. The fact that she'd already asked the same thing twice only added to his growing irritation. He had let himself be persuaded by her coy smile and easy promises that it would cost 'just a buck' and take 'five minutes tops', but Buffy hadn't actually partaken in such nonsense since high school. He should have known, before driving all the way out to the Sunnydale Mall, that inflation had tripled the cost, and that five minutes invariably meant fifteen.
"One a little less . . . used?"
"I'm not a bloody bank teller," he grumbled. He shifted uncomfortably, emphasizing his discomfort at jamming his large frame into an instant photo booth clearly intended for midgets. In the process, he jostled Buffy, who was sitting on his lap, causing her to miss the slot and glare. "Sorry, but my leg is going to sleep."
"What are you saying? That I'm too heavy?"
"I'm saying," he said, as she stubbornly turned back to the money feeder again, "that this two-by-two shoebox you've squeezed us into is--"
She made a sudden sound of success, cutting short his gripe. Peering around her, Giles felt genuine relief wash over him as he watched the cantankerous photo machine finally swallow the last dollar bill . . . a feeling that was extremely short-lived when it promptly spat it halfway back out.
"Great. Now it's stuck." Buffy's shoulders sagged in defeat. Momentarily giving up and leaving the worn dollar hanging, she turned to him in real disappointment. "I just wanted a photo of us together. For my locket." She touched the gift he had given her for Christmas, just weeks ago, where it glittered on a gold chain against her black sweater. She pouted, so adorably, that he instantly forgot his discomfort and impatience and instead longed to kiss the sulk from her jutting lip.
Raising a tender hand, Giles combed his fingers through her loose blonde locks, never tiring of the feel of it. Sequestered behind the photo booth curtain, he brought her head down to quell her disappointment with a gentle kiss; one that began tentatively but quickly escalated as their enthusiasm grew. It amazed him, sometimes, the intensity of passion Buffy could stir so quickly and easily within him. She made him feel young again, pre-Watcher days, when sex had been a constant teenage pursuit. And yet, what he shared with her went far beyond just the carnal urges of any normal, red-blooded male. With Buffy, he had touched something deep inside, and found himself.
While the physical act of making love with her was a big part of it, it wasn't the only part. Loving Buffy was tireless hours of research and training and preparation. It was standing by her side, physically and emotionally, no matter what. It was the violence of slaying, and the constant threat of injury or death . . . and so much honest love and joy that he sometimes believed his heart would explode.
It was, he realized, being crammed into an instant photo booth just to make her smile.
Warming to the tender ministrations of his mouth, Buffy shifted accommodatingly on his lap, her arms finding purchase on his shoulders as she embraced him as best their cramped quarters would allow. So involved, neither noticed her brush against the dangling dollar, or that the movement was enough to feed it back into the photo machine. Completely lost in each other, they even failed to notice the flash bulb that went off several times.
They only broke apart, and rather abruptly, when, minutes later, someone threw back the green, half-curtain providing a modicum of privacy within the booth. Disheveled and guilty, they looked around, thankful to find it was only Dawn scowling at them, and not Mall Security or a miffed parent.
"Can't you guys keep your lips off each other for even five minutes?"
"Sure, we can. But that was more like ten minutes. Or longer."
"Whatever." Dawn rolled her eyes with the typical disgust of a 14-year-old. She offered a narrow strip of paper; their processed photos, which she had retrieved from the drop slot outside the booth.
Completely shameless, Buffy smiled the carefree grin of the happily-in-love, and snagged the photos from her sister. Giles, with his arms still resting lightly around his love, admired them as she held them up. All four candid snapshots had captured them in a tender kiss, revealing far more of their love and devotion to each other than any posed photo ever could have. He thought the third in the sequence was the best, a profile pose of them with closed eyes and lips barely touching.
"See?" Buffy asked, clearly pleased with the results despite the effort. She tapped the third photo in psychic agreement. "Told ya it'd be worth it."
Giles returned her smile. "And you were right. It's even worth the fact that I've lost all feeling in my right leg."
She gave him a playful slap. He was encouraging her into another kiss, when Dawn interrupted again.
"Lisa and I wanna go eat," she announced in a bored tone, making reference to the red-faced friend standing behind her, whom Dawn had insisted accompany them on this after school excursion to the Mall.
Giles spared a kind thought for the girl's discomfiture. She had probably never seen her parents share a passionate kiss, and with him and Buffy having wandered the Mall, hand in hand and doing a rather good impersonation of 'parents', such was the source of her embarrassment.
"Before you two totally make us gag," Dawn added.
"You know," Buffy told him in mock parental seriousness. She used her thumb to wipe a telling smudge of lipstick from his mouth. "We probably should feed the children before we go home for a serious make out session."
Dawn groaned and rolled her eyes.
Giles smiled, already longing to finish what they started. "Quite so. We probably should."
* * *
The Food Court was packed when they arrived around six-thirty, so Giles secured the first available table he saw and then rustled up an extra chair for a total of four. Feeling very husbandly, he dutifully parted with enough cash to take them all to an upscale restaurant--twice-- and then volunteered to mind the assortment of plastic-bagged purchases while Buffy took the girls to get their food. Watching them navigate from food stall to food stall in search of the perfect gastronomical delight, he smiled wistfully. He endeavored to soak in the normalcy around him, absorbing all the little details and nuances of the life he was trying so hard to give Buffy. He refused to believe that a few stolen moments, such as these, were all they were destined to ever share of it.
Yet despite his conviction, deep down where the Council-bred Watcher in him still lived, he found it troubling that he had not heard a peep from London in the three weeks since his visit. Time was not an ally to them in this battle, and something in his gut told him it was running out fast. This creature, Glory, was still at large, still working towards her own agenda . . . which they were no closer to discovering any details about, let alone stopping. Surely, with the Council's top minds on the job, and with the abundance of information contained within their Central Library, they had uncovered something by now? Why hadn't they contacted him?
Irrationally fearing a demonic attack at any second, Giles nervously scanned the crowd to pinpoint Buffy and the girls, who had split up. He spied Buffy at an Indian restaurant, dragging plates from the counter onto a tray, and frowned slightly, hoping she hadn't bought him a strong curry, which would upset his stomach and thus put paid to any 'later' plans. Across the way, Dawn and her friend had settled for an old American standby, and were presently on their way back to the table with their hamburgers, sodas, and huge piles of French fries.
Giles forced himself to relax, and just enjoy this extremely ordinary slice of life. 'Carpe Diem,' he decided, because to sit and contemplate gloom-and-doom theories of a possible apocalypse, while the other residents of Sunnydale went about their mundane lives in a completely clueless fashion, was only asking for trouble. And never had there been a clearer picture of ignorance to the unseen evil this town harbored, than here, at the Sunnydale Mall. At times like this, he envied society's collective ability to overlook the horror, and find contentment and fulfillment in everyday lives.
Dawn and her friend rejoined him. Clearing their purchases off the table, Giles helped the two teens transfer the fast food from their trays, whether they wanted him to or not. In the process, he managed to catch Dawn's eye and impart a paternal frown of disapproval for her non-nutritional meal choice. The relaxed hours shopping and the family atmosphere of the Mall had worked together with favorable results. It wasn't often he experienced this side of domestic life, and it came as something of a shock to realize that the feeling wasn't nearly as unnerving to a bachelor of his years, as it probably should have been. Never before had he so seriously contemplated the idea of being a husband and a father; never before had he been so completely in love with the right woman.
Returning to his chair, Giles watched Buffy as she threaded her way back to him, laden with food. He was pleased, and somewhat relieved, with her choice of mild Tandoori chicken and Pulao rice for him, although less so at the small bowl of Mulligatawany soup she had chosen for herself. In his opinion, lentils and broth were not enough to feed a mouse. Her thin framed belied her Slayer strength; she was far too skinny, at least to him, and the fantasy of fattening her up, of keeping her barefoot and pregnant--and therefore safe--for the next few years was suddenly a very appealing one.
"Want your papadom?" Buffy asked, her hand already edging to claim ownership.
"What's mine is yours," he said, busy pulling the wrapper off a flimsy plastic fork.
"Not legally." Buffy grinned, snagging the crisp, deep-fried disc off the side of his plate. "Not yet, anyway."
He shared a smile with her, happy to know that while it was far too soon to even consider the prospect of marriage and settling down, she was not completely horrified by the idea. Their relationship as a couple may still be a new thing, still full of exploration and discovery, but their friendship had survived years of tears and pain, and even death. It had a permanence attached to it that he had never before felt with anyone . . .
Someone knocked into Giles from behind, making him drop his first forkful of food on its way to his mouth.
"Oops, sorry!" said the man.
Giles half-turned, readying a glare for the perpetrator's carelessness, despite the apology.
"Rupert?" the culprit asked.
Giles swiveled around even more, and was surprised to discover the face of an old friend before him. "Carl? Carlton Fisk?"
A quick glance confirmed that the man, whom he had not seen since their teaching days together at Sunnydale High, was indeed dining at the Food Court with his family; a young brunette woman not much older than Buffy, and a toddler of about three. He stood up, genuinely pleased to see his old friend, and the two of them shook hands.
"It's been a while," Carlton said with a grin. He was Giles' age, although stouter in build and balding in back.
"Indeed, it has. Here, allow me," Giles offered, as the young woman, whom he suddenly noticed was pregnant, struggled to bring their table closer and join them. He paused to throw a wry look at his friend. "Well, I can certainly see what you've been up to, Carl."
Carlton chuckled, and helped Giles maneuvered the two tables together, quickly transplanting the Fisk family, and their respective trays of food, into the conversation.
"This is my wife, Angie," Carlton introduced her. "You may remember her from school, Rupert. My first son, Ryan," he said, indicating the young boy. He rested a loving hand on his wife's enlarged belly. "And my soon-to-be-second son, Devon."
Giles smiled a greeting at the young woman. He didn't recognize her, even though it was rather obvious that she would have been a student at Sunnydale High the same time he and Carlton were on the faculty. Detouring from where that line of thought was headed, he indicated the two teens quietly eating hamburgers and fries, and began his own introductions. "This is Dawn, and Lisa."
"Hi," the chorused together, then giggled over their timing.
"And this is Buffy, my--" Giles hesitated, suddenly unsure of the right words to introduce the love of his life, especially after the implication of Carlton's own student/teacher affair. After clearing his throat, he tried again. "My, um . . . m-my . . . "
"The word he's having a panic attack over," Buffy supplied easily, "is 'girlfriend'. Hi, nice to meet you both."
Giles huffed out an exasperated breath.
"You know, you look familiar, Buffy," Carlton mused. "Were you a teacher's aide at Sunnydale High?"
"Student," Buffy confirmed. She smiled at her lover, enjoying the mortification reddening his cheeks. "You were a teacher there with Gi--Rupert? I don't remember you."
"Probably because you didn't take woodshop."
Buffy grinned. "You'd be surprised how handy I am when it comes to whittling."
Carlton laughed. "Rupert, buddy, I knew you were holding out on me. I always figured you were up to some extracurricular activity in that library of yours." He paused to chuckle again, laying his arm across his young wife's shoulders. "Hell, I guess we were both lucky Herr Snyder never caught on."
"Quite."
"Oh, we weren't together back then," Buffy clarified. "At least not like that . . . like this. I mean, Giles and I knew each other, and hung out in the library a lot . . . I mean, a bit . . . but we weren't--y'know--lovers." Looking from Carlton, to his pregnant wife, and then to the child who had obviously been conceived in a similarly private campus nook, Buffy suddenly changed the subject. "So, how long have you guys been married?"
"Since graduation," Angie answered shyly.
"Class of . . . ?"
"'98."
Buffy nodded. It was the year before her own graduation, which had been marred by the Mayor's attempted ascension and the total destruction of the school. "Cool," she said quietly, although without any real enthusiasm.
Giles noted the look on her face as she stared at her soup, and wondered if she, too, had just glimpsed 'them' in Carlton and his family, had the circumstances been just a tiny bit different. Quite unexpectedly, the domestic normalcy he'd been doting on seemed as unpalatable as the food cooling on the plastic plate before him.
'Wake up, Giles!' his inner voice called. He was a Watcher, Buffy was his Slayer, and this was the Hellmouth. Domestic normalcy was a term that did not--should not--enter the equation. 'Dear Lord, what the hell were they doing playing mums and dads?' Because that was exactly what they were doing; play acting at roles that could never truly be theirs . . .
Dinner conversation remained friendly but sporadic, lagging in the wake of the stark reminder of what would never be, until finally the little boy began making a fuss that signaled the end. Before Carlton left, he wrote his home address and phone number on a paper napkin, in exchange for the Magic Box business card Giles plucked from his wallet. Giles shook his old friend's hand farewell, truly wondering if they would ever see each other again. He hadn't made many friends on the SHS faculty; Carlton was one, and Jenny had been another.
Thoughts of Jenny, and of her death at the hands of Buffy's vampire lover, only sent him spiraling further into depression. Carlton was, perhaps, safer by not keeping his acquaintance. No doubt he was happier . . .
Shortly after the Fisk family's departure, and having had a gutful of all the happy, normal, and blissfully ignorant people around him, Giles gathered up the trash and suggested they leave. While the girls collected up their respective purchases, Buffy made a quick dash to the Chinese food vendor, explaining that takeout could be easily reheated for her ailing mother.
Such was the dour mood that had unexpectedly descended on both Buffy and Giles, no one dared speak a word for the entire car ride home.
* * *
It was well dark when Giles arrived at his apartment, after first dropping off Dawn's friend at her house, and then Buffy, Dawn, and their numerous packages at Revello Drive. Buffy didn't ask him to come in, so he didn't press he issue, although as he left her on the doorstep with a chaste kiss on the cheek, he wondered, for the first time since they'd become a couple, if he would see her later or not.
His car keys made a clatter as he threw them on his desk, the sound loud in the silence of his empty bachelor apartment. Shedding his leather jacket onto the back of the desk chair, he wearily went to the kitchen to make tea. He turned on the desk lamp, purposely keeping the lighting to the minimum; gloom was a far better medium in which to brood.
What had begun as a cheery outing to the Mall with the woman he loved had ended, abruptly, on a rather depressing note. He hadn't said anything to Buffy; he hadn't needed too. The stricken look on her face had told him that her disillusioned thoughts ran along similar lines. Running into Carlton and his family had, if nothing else, confirmed that no matter how hard they tried, no matter how badly they wanted a normal life together or pretended it was within their grasp, nothing would ever change who and what they really were--Watcher and Slayer.
It had been a slap in the face, a wake-up call to them both. It was part of why the Watcher's Council forbid just such a relationship.
Tea made, although having lost his desire for it, Giles returned to the living room with his cup and saucer. He sank into the chair at his desk, struggling with a decision he knew had to be made. Finally, believing it was for the better, he reached into the pocket of his discarded jacket and retrieved the paper napkin with Carlton's address and phone number. He tore the thing into a dozen or more pieces before he changed his mind, then sat with his elbows on the desktop and his head in his hands, lamenting a friendship that had, in reality, ended almost two years ago.
He remained that way for a long time, until his tea had cooled to an undrinkable temperature. He pushed it aside, untouched, thinking that a glass of single malt whiskey would better suit his present mood. Straightening, his eyes automatically searching for the familiar liquor bottle, he noticed that the red light on the telephone/answering machine by his elbow was blinking, indicating a new message. Pushing to his feet, focused on the bottle sitting on the end of the kitchen counter rather than who had called, he idly stabbed the 'play' button as he crossed to retrieve his Scotch.
Giles' hand froze halfway to the bottle, the recorded voice stopping him cold.
"Rupert, this is Emily Anderson, from the Watcher's Council. I'm sorry to have missed you, but I've been asked by Tobias Blair to inform you that there is some news in regards to your recent visit. I shan't go into details over the phone, but suffice to say that Quentin Travers and a small delegation will be arriving in Sunnydale tomorrow, to personally deliver the information . . . "
Turning his back as Emily's voice disclosed itinerary details, Giles picked up the bottle of alcohol on his kitchen counter. Only half listening, he uncapped it and poured out a glass.
He choked on a mouthful of it at Emily's next announcement.
"Unfortunately, the hotel did not have enough vacancies to fulfill our needs, so I volunteered to find alternative accommodation. I hope my staying with you won't be a problem, Rupert, but I thought since I allowed you to stay with me . . . well, we can sort out the details when I arrive."
Giles shook his head in derision, and then swallowed the rest of his drink. 'No, no bloody problem,' he thought with dry sarcasm, in that his apartment only had the one bedroom, with just one bed. Buffy, who was already vehemently opposed to the Council's unwanted intrusion into their lives, was simply going to love this little glitch . . .
* * *
"Here, I'll get that," Buffy told Willow, hurriedly removing the half-emptied Chinese takeout containers off the sofa in the living room. "Sorry. Mom's still not a hundred percent, and I guess I haven't really been taking up the slack."
"No, the place looks fine, Buffy," Willow said, unsuccessful in her attempt to lie.
Buffy sighed as her friend finally took a seat on the cleared couch. In truth, the place looked like a pigsty. She would have to get serious about the cleaning thing . . . tomorrow.
"Yeah, it's just us," Tara agreed with a smile, indicating the small gathered group. Anya sat between the two witches, while Xander, with his arm still in plaster from his run-in with Olaf the Troll, occupied the armchair opposite. Giles, having been the last to arrived, made no comment, either way, as he moved through the untidy living room to the fireplace at its head.
Regardless of her friends' willingness to overlook her shortcomings, Buffy felt compelled to continue her spur-of-the-moment clean-up, even if it was a case of 'too little, too late'. She and Dawn had been home from the Mall for less than an hour, barely long enough for their convalescing mother to swallow a few mouthfuls of micro-nuked General Tao Chicken, and certainly not long enough for the sort of cleaning regiment the entire house was in such desperate need of. Besides, the last thing she'd been expecting tonight was a Scooby meeting. But when Giles had unexpectedly called her about twenty minutes ago and told her to assemble the troops, she figured it must be important, much more so than her obvious lack of housekeeping skills . . .
Buffy pulled up short as she unearthed a military-style, khaki sweater from the far side of the couch. Memories of its owner, and of the slow, sensual way she had divested him of it in this very room, suddenly flooded her mind. It had been the night of her mother successful surgery to remove a brain tumor, the same night she had first kissed Giles in the training room, and then, completely confused by the resulting emotions thereof, had rushed home to have some pretty spectacular sex with her then-boyfriend, Riley Finn.
A lot sure had changed in a month.
"Hey, that must have belonged to . . . " Xander began, then just as quickly shut up.
Buffy's apologetic eyes were instinctively drawn to her now-boyfriend, Giles . . . but she guiltily couldn't hold his gaze. What must he think of her, keeping souvenirs of her past lovers, like notches on a headboard? But it wasn't as if she'd known Riley's sweater was there; if she hadn't been so remiss in her responsibilities around the house, she would have found and disposed of it long before now.
"Aren't we supposed to have a meeting?" Xander asked, sensing the awkward pause forming between Buffy and Giles.
"Yes, yes, we're here for a reason," Giles agreed, thankfully putting business first. Leaning a hand against the fireplace mantel, he gathered his thoughts. "I've had some rather . . . well, I've had some news. It seems that the Council of Watchers has found some information that may help us out."
"About Glory?" Buffy asked, taking a seat at the far end of the room.
"Presumably. We'll find that out when they arrive."
Buffy wasn't sure she was hearing him right. "Arrive? They're coming here?" God only knew, the last thing she needed right now, especially after their eye-opening trip to the Mall, was the Council looking over her shoulder, watching and judging her every move, their presence a constant reminder that the love she shared with Giles was doomed to failure. "Giles, I don't want them to come here," she said, hearing the desperation creep into her tone but unable to stop it. "I don't trust them. Make them not come here."
"I'm afraid they're already on their way," he said, apologetically. "Our old friend, Quentin Travers, is heading up a delegation."
She didn't like the sound of the word, 'delegation', one bit. It was too official, too stuffy and British and Watchery. And with Quentin Travers running the show, the whole deal was getting worse by the minute.
"They're gonna screw everything up," Buffy told the khaki sweater she held in her lap. Looking up, she met Giles' steady gaze in something close to panic. "They're gonna find out about us, and they're gonna ruin it."
"Buffy--"
"No, I'm serious," she insisted, aware that this conversation was really not one to be had in front of their friends. At the moment, she didn't care. It wasn't like her love for Giles was a big secret anymore, although in hindsight, it probably would have been better if it still had been. "Council policy, remember? You told me. Falling in love is against their rules."
"What kind of crappy rule is that?" Willow asked.
"Wait until you hear their views about sex," Anya added, before multiple pairs of eyes hushed her to silence. "What? Willow gets to make a comment!"
"Buffy," Giles tried again in a gentler tone. He slipped past the coffee table toward her, and then sat perched on the end of it, in front of her chair. "I'll grant you that, officially, yes, a Watcher's relationship with his Slayer is a question of protocol and tradition." He cupped her chin in his hand, bringing her uneasy gaze up to his. "But I am no longer officially your Watcher, and even if I were, nothing on God's green earth would ever stop me from loving you."
"But why do they have to come here?"
"I assume it's because what they have to say is of vital importance."
Giles hand traveled down the length of her arm. Disentangling her fingers from the khaki sweater clasped in her lap, he took her hand in his; the act suddenly making her realize she was clinging to the wrong lifeline.
"And if, in coming here," he continued, "they can help us get a grip on what we're dealing with, then I say we persevere with whatever inconvenience it causes us. Because right now, we can use all the help we can get."
"Don't they have phones?" Xander asked. Slipping into a terrible British accent, he added, for effect, "Hallo, Buffy, here's some stuff we know, pip pip."
"Yeah, phones!" Buffy agreed, seizing the possibility. She squeezed Giles' hand until he winced, desperate for him to make things better. "See, I'd like them on phones."
Giles looked away, unable to maintain eye contact. Three weeks ago, the Council had made him fly all the way to England, rather than use the phone to inform him they had absolutely no information on Glory. Why the hell, when they actually knew something useful, would they use the telephone now?
When he let go a defeated sigh, Buffy knew it was way too late to stop the inevitable. The ball was already rolling. The Council was a-coming. And despite Giles' verbal assurances, and the solid, protective warmth of his hand around hers, something cold in her gut told her the end was fairly nigh.
* * *
Although Giles had been the last to arrive for the Scooby meeting, he was also the last to leave. The news of Emily staying with him was something he wanted to inform Buffy in private, primarily so he could assure her with plenty of kisses and loving words that there was absolutely nothing to it. As he waited for Buffy to see their friends out the door, he puttered about the living room, scowling slightly at the mess. He eventually picked up Riley Finn's sweater, knowing he shouldn't be jealous of a bit of woven, khaki wool, yet unable to suppress the feeling. He seriously doubted Buffy had kept the thing as a memento, but the image of her clinging to it for support, instead of him, still burned in his mind's eye.
Finally placing the military-style pullover on the seat of the armchair Xander had vacated, Giles slid the old, paint-chipped chair Buffy had used back into its place under the equally old, paint-chipped desk. He stood with his hands in his pockets for a moment, silently watching her in the foyer as she said a final few words to Willow and Tara, before sitting down on the couch. He hoped that, with her chair now put back in its rightful place, she would join him rather than choose the armchair and the comfort of an absent lover.
He glanced up at the soft sound of Buffy's voice. Dawn had come down the stairs in search of a late night snack, no doubt curious about the nature of the impromptu meeting at such an odd hour. With soothing words and a gentle hand that was more maternal than sisterly, she told her not to worry, and then ushered the younger Summers back upstairs to a warm bed.
Buffy paused in the archway, her head down, her arms folded, and a somber expression on her face. She took in the fact that he had straightened up a little in her short absence, her gaze falling briefly on the location of Riley's sweater, before she moved to the couch and flopped down beside him in something akin to defeat. Giles lifted his arm in invitation, grateful when she curled into his side.
He welcomed her presence with a kiss on the crown of her golden head. They sat in absolute silence for a minute or two, Buffy playing with the buttons on his shirtfront, both of them staring at the khaki sweater on the seat of the armchair opposite, but lost along different trains of thought.
News of his unwanted houseguest was foremost on his mind. Giles, of course, had the option of telling Emily exactly what she could do with her brazen self-invite . . . except for two things. One, he really did owe her for her hospitality, and two, even though she was only a junior member of the Council, she was, nonetheless, a member. No doubt one in better standing with Travers than himself. He did not want to rock that boat; those waters were already choppy enough.
"When do they arrive?" Buffy finally asked, her tone resigned.
"Sometime tomorrow."
"For how long?"
"A day or two, I expect."
She grunted in reply. "That's at least one day too many. I don't like this."
"I know," he said, comforting her by running a gentle hand up and down her arm. "I can't say I'm overly fond of the idea of the Council prying into our lives again, either. Buffy, about their visit--"
"Last time, they put me through that test and it almost killed me," she cut in. "And then, when I was Faith, they almost killed me again. Honestly, I really can't handle almost being killed right now."
He chuckled at her sarcasm. "No more tests. I promise."
Buffy lifted her head from beneath his chin and pulled back to look him in the eye. "You really think they know something useful about Glory?"
Giles reluctantly let her leave his embrace, immediately missing the warmth and feel of her body against his. "I can't imagine they'd come all this way for a spot of tea."
Buffy didn't share his poor attempt at levity. "And if they do find out about us? What then? They can't enforce their stupid rules, can they?" A panicked look crossed her face, as the worse case scenario came to mind. "Giles, I can't lose you. Not now that I've finally found you. I won't survive . . . "
Using the backs of his fingers, he hushed her with a caress on her cheek. "Buffy, I'm not going anywhere, and there's nothing they can say or do to make me." He diverted his eyes, knowing she wasn't going to like what he had to say about Emily. She looked so fragile in the lamplight, desperate to know that he was still going to be in her life after the Council left. If he mentioned Emily now, she would only jump to conclusions and upset herself even more.
"What?" Buffy prompted in a tiny voice, noting his torn expression.
He changed tact. "I think, perhaps, it would be in our best interest if we didn't provide any fuel for that particular fire."
"Meaning?"
Looking up, Giles met her anxious gaze. "I think we should stop seeing each other."
Real tears immediately welled in Buffy's eyes. "You're breaking up with me?"
Her words took him by surprise, until he realized what he'd said, and the way she'd heard it. "No!" He quickly pulled back her into his arms. "Oh Lord, no. I meant while they're here. God, Buffy . . . I'd sooner be dead, than purposely choose a life without you."
Sniffling back her unwarranted tears, her arms went around him in response. They rested quietly for a moment, just holding each other in the silence of the living room, their combined gaze again falling on the contents of the armchair opposite. Only the rhythmic tick of the grandfather clock accompanied them.
"Two days, huh?" Buffy asked eventually.
Attuned to the same wavelength, he rubbed his cheek against her sweet-smelling hair. "We still have tonight."
"I can't believe your friend thought we were having sex in the school library," she remarked, out of the blue. "I can't believe I never heard a rumor about him and Angie in the woodshop!"
Giles chuckled, the action jostling her lightly against his chest. "Well, I dare say he wasn't the only one who thought that about us. Looking back, we were hardly discreet with all our after school training, and late night research." He chuckled again. "Lord knows what people thought when Willow and Xander joined in."
"Oh God, that is so embarrassing!"
"Not half as embarrassing as what we can do, if you come home with me."
They parted again to look at each other, hands seeking hands, unwilling to lose physical contact.
Buffy smiled a sultry smile of acceptance. "Just let me pack my toothbrush."
She left him with a quick kiss on the lips to tide him over, and then stood, heading upstairs to retrieve a few things for an overnight stay, including a change of clothes for her morning classes. Pausing halfway out of the room, she backtracked to the armchair to pick up the discarded khaki sweater.
Giles watched her with renewed interest, already wondering how he would react if she insisted on keeping the wretched thing.
Keeping her eyes on the sweater in her hands, Buffy asked, "Is that donation bin for the homeless still just up the street from the Magic Box?" She looked up at him with a small, poignant smile, letting go her past.
He nodded gently.
"Good." Buffy tossed him the sweater. "Tomorrow, donate that for me, would you?" She resumed her original course, up the stairs to pack a bag, so she could spend the night with him.
He examined Riley's sweater, feeling somewhat hypocritical about keeping news of his unwanted houseguest a secret, when Buffy had openly chosen to cut all ties with her past.
Lord, he was jealous of a piece of knitted, dyed wool! Buffy had a hell of a lot more to be jealous about, namely the discovery of another woman shacked up with him. He cursed himself for not telling her before suggesting they shouldn't see one another for the duration of the Council's stay . . . because if he told her now, she would immediately think he had an ulterior motive.
He sighed, knowing this situation was, in all likelihood, going to blow up in his face.
* * *
The first thing Emily noticed, upon entering the Magic Box, was the quaint little bell above the door that announced her arrival. Coming to a stop at the back of the group, where her less-than-important position with the Council of Watcher's deemed she stand, she glanced over their shoulders, eagerly zeroing in on her target. Little did her colleagues know the major role she had been asked to play in Director Travers' official delegation to Sunnydale.
She was almost as excited about her first trip to California, as she was at the prospect of seeing Rupert Giles again. They had really bonded during his short visit to London last month, or so she had convinced herself, and in the weeks they had been parted, her infatuation had only grown. Despite the knowledge that he was presently involved with someone else, Emily felt that given the right circumstances and the proper encouragement, she had more than a fair chance with him. Director Travers was counting on it.
From behind her colleagues, she spotted the object of her desire tending a customer. Her heart turned over at the sight of him, and at the gentle sound of his voice, even though he was presently only selling a book. This man could read the telephone directory and make it sound like sweet nothings. He was dressed in a suit, looking as handsome as ever, his hair slightly longer than the last time she had seen him. How she would love to run her fingers through it, especially where it kinked at the back of his collar.
"Measure precisely, and please don't skip ahead," he told the woman buying the spell book.
"He's quite right," Travers said, drawing a startled expression from an unsuspecting Giles. The Director took the book to give it a brief examination, using his vast experience in such matters to determine whether it was safe for public use. "You wouldn't want to do anything dangerous . . . turn the wrong person into a badger."
"Quentin," Giles greeted him, recovering nicely from his shock.
But there was tension in his body language, and Emily knew he was being courteous only for appearances sake. She was quite intimate with Giles' personnel record, enough to know there was no love lost between him and Quentin Travers.
Giles purposely reclaimed the book and returned it to his customer. With a tight smile, he directed the young woman to the cash register to complete the sale, before readdressing the Director. "I didn't realize you were here."
"Evidently."
"It's been a while. I see you've brought some of our . . . colleagues with you."
Giles' wary eyes swept over the group without recognition, and Emily's enthusiasm fell. While it was true that Giles had never met any of her colleagues before, save, of course, for Travers and herself--and Phillip, who had been manning the door on the day he visited headquarters--she had expected something, some brief nod of recognition, or a fond glance that suggested he actually remember their time together in London. It made her wonder if wearing her hair down in a fetching ponytail, rather than up in her usual business-like bun, had been a bad choice. Or perhaps it was her newly acquired contact lenses that threw him?
"Would you care to introduce us?"
"First I thought we might catch up," Travers said, steering Giles away from the group and down the steps that marked the mid-point in the shop.
Hiding her disappointment, Emily followed Lydia to the shelves opposite, vowing to find a moment alone with the man of her dreams, later, to reacquaint themselves properly.
Her colleagues spread out too, covering the magic shop from front to back, mingling with the customers as Director Travers and Giles stopped near the checkout counter to talk. Since Emily didn't possess Lydia's knowledge of the arcane artifacts, statues, and crystals on display, she instead found an unobtrusive spot to stand until needed. Unlike the others, she was from a secretarial gene pool rather than a hereditary Watcher one, and had been officially included in the group for her accounting and organizational skills; Travers wanted a full inventory of the Magic Box during their stay. Unofficially, she was there because in a fit of jealous rage upon discovering the true nature of Giles' relationship with his Slayer, she had 'confessed'--to her boss, Tobias Blair, and then by default to his boss, Quentin Travers--to having had a one-night stand with Giles during his visit to London. Her inclusion in the Sunnydale delegation, at Director Travers' request, had thus become an essential part of his secret agenda.
It was with such conviction to this belief, to the confessed night of unbridled passion that was, in reality, all in her head, that she had gone from being simply a useful secretarial tool, to a key player in the Councils' ultimate goal to bring Rupert Giles back into their fold. Past mistakes had demonstrated that issuing orders directly to his Slayer bore no fruit, and now, in wake of what had come to light about this creature, Glory, it was imperative that the Council fought the coming war with a disciplined and dedicated hand.
'The Slayer is the instrument by which the Council fights,' Travers had said. 'Control Rupert Giles, and one automatically controls the girl.'
Of course, as Travers had told her, they would have to mask this intention by shifting the focus of their visit, pretending it was solely about the Slayer's worth. It would be up to Emily to woo Giles back onto their side, while they attended to Buffy with aimless tests of her abilities and evaluations of her technique. By the time she realized the distraction, it would be too late.
Spying some tea making facilities on a shelf behind a large round table, a task with which she had some proficiency, Emily went to work. The flight had been long and tedious, even in First Class, and Director Travers was not a young man. Driving from LA to Sunnydale, they had checked into their hotel right away, and then driven to the Magic Box with barely a half hour in between. No doubt, a good, hot cup of tea would hit the spot . . . as well as score her some more 'good favor' points.
The kettle was still warm from recent use, and still with a sufficient water level, so she simply put it back on to boil. Wrinkling her nose at finding only tea bags in the tea chest, she strung a few onto the side of a white, china pot. But her eyes flew back to Giles when he mentioned his Slayer by name; "Buffy and I have been training a great deal these days. There's a back room . . . "
Jealousy flared in her. She could well imagine the sort of 'training' they had been doing, and from Travers' snide reply, so did he. Nevertheless, Travers knew nothing of the love affair Giles had going with his teenage charge; it was simply one unpleasant comment in a long line of unpleasant comments that marred their association. She may have intervened, right then, out of spite, had Nigel and Lydia, both experts in spotting potentially dangerous items for sale to the public, not seized the moment by bringing questionable objects to the Director's attention. Instead, Emily schooled her emotions back in check, lest she tip her hand too early, knowing her chance would come.
For unbeknownst to Travers or the Council, Emily was working toward her own secret agenda. She cared little about the rift she would create by driving a wedge so firmly between Watcher and Slayer, even if it did cost her her job, her title, and most of her self-respect. Despite the resulting fiasco, the Council would still have their Slayer, their precious, although somewhat rebellious, instrument with which to fight their tedious little war, and she would have the one thing she had dreamed of having ever since she had first read his Council-written personnel file, a year or more ago.
The kettle was just about to whistle when Emily intercepted it, pouring hot water into the pot and allowing the tea bags to steep. She looked around again at the sound of Nigel's voice, right on cue, finding him standing at the top of the mid-point landing and addressing the entire store.
"Magic Box shoppers, we're going to have to ask you to leave. The store is closing early today."
Eyes darting to Giles for the reaction she knew was coming, Emily felt a small sense of adverse satisfaction from the look that crossed his face; a mixed expression of resentment and uncertainty. With that one simple act, Director Travers had reminded Giles not only of the authority the Council possessed, but that he was still a Watcher in their eyes, and thus still vulnerable to their policy. A man like Giles didn't belong in the arms of his 19-year-old Slayer, nor did he deserve to be suppressed under the Council's thumb. What he needed was a mature woman of dedication and guile--and British, no less--someone who could love him thoroughly despite his many flaws.
Snapping back to the present, and to the role she must fulfill until the time was right to make her move, Emily played 'delegate'. She turned to the young couple browsing the scented candle rack nearby, pointedly removing a short, fat, red candle from the man's hands before herding them to the exit. After showing out another reluctant-to-leave customer, she returned to check on the tea, hearing Giles ask about the nature of the 'review' the Council had in mind--the crux of Director Travers' plan to disguise the true intent of their visit. It was a dangerous game, all this deceit and double-cross, and it only made her smile.
"No one said anything to me about this," Giles insisted, no doubt feeling victimized by the announcement that he and his Buffy were to be put under a Council microscope.
"Let's sit down, and talk about it over here," Travers suggested graciously, heading for the large circular table near the tea facilities.
"You all stand around and look somber," Giles told the rest of the group, who gathered in around him like a rear guard, should he entertain the notion of resisting their recommendations. "Good job."
"You used to respect us, Giles," Travers remarked of his impertinence. "You used to be one of us."
"You used to pay me. If you recall, firing me was not my idea."
"Touché." The Director sat with the confident airs of someone making himself completely at home. "But you were on the inside once. You know what sort of resources we command. We've discovered information about this creature, your Glory," Travers said, as Gordon, the accountant of the group and the only one with a briefcase, opened it and took out some papers. "Some of it is clearly vital; the rest is merely extremely disturbing." Emily placed a cup of tea at her superior's elbow, without intruding on the conversation or interrupting its flow. "And it won't be handed over until we're convinced that you and your Slayer are prepared for it. Thus the review."
Looking up, she watched Giles take his hands out of his pockets and lean on the table in a gesture of repressed rage. She could see it in his eyes, just how much he resented this intrusion, as well as hear it in his quietly controlled tone.
"I'm not having you put her through another one of your insane tests," he said, making Emily remember their conversation, a month ago, about the Cruciamentum. That event was well documented in his Council personnel file, by the refereeing Watcher--Quentin Travers. The fact that Buffy had, if only for a time, turned against him for his part in the proceedings was a good sign that she might be persuaded to do so again, if given the right incentive.
"It's not a test. It's a check of her methods."
"Is there a difference?"
"Giles, I didn't want to do this, but it seems I need to remind you that you are, by birthright, a Watcher . . . whether we 'pay you' or not. If the Council deems it necessary to enforce a check of your Slayer's motives and abilities, then you are obliged, under sworn oath, to cooperate." Travers leaned back in his chair when Giles looked suitably chastised. "If you oppose us, I will have no recourse but to launch an official, detailed inquiry into why you so vehemently object . . . which I'm certain will require a team of Council investigators to spend many months here in Sunnydale. Am I making myself clear?"
"Crystal," Giles agreed quietly, no doubt fuming under his coolly composed exterior.
"Good. Then you can start by showing us your journals, and bringing us up to speed on your latest methods of training."
* * *
Emily yawned, only then realizing she had been reading the same ledger page for the better part of ten minutes. Despite the fact that the sun had set just a half hour ago, jetlag and time zone shifts were starting to catch up with her. With a wane smile, she recalled Rupert's similar disregard for fatigue upon his arrival in London, how by three in the morning the poor man was still doggedly hitting the books, despite that his eyes had a tendency to droop closed every few minutes. Emily doubted she possessed that same level of commitment, because right now, all she wanted was a hot meal, a long soak in the tub, and then to curl up in the arms of the man she had fallen for long before she had ever met him in person . . .
Snapped back to full alertness with a start, she frowned at the prospect of only being able to achieve two out of those three wishes at present, something she fully intended to rectify before the end of the week. Gordon sat across from her, tirelessly tapping his calculator as he paged through the shop's financial records, lost in his own little world of monotonous columns of numbers. Just watching him made her yearn for a reprieve. She was fighting another yawn when the bell above the front door of the shop tinkled to announce an arrival. Since the store had been closed upon their arrival late afternoon, and since the remaining members of the delegation were presently in the back room with the proprietor, it was a good bet that it wasn't a customer.
Swiveling in her chair, Emily was grateful for the chance to flex the tired muscles in her neck and back. But her sense of gratitude instantly faded upon learning the identity of the person who had just come in off the street, replaced by something cold and envious, roiling in the pit of her stomach. Although Emily had never met the Slayer in person, she was familiar with the contents of the girl's file at Council HQ. It included a photograph, one that, in hindsight, did nothing to compliment her slender grace and beguiling beauty. No wonder Rupert had fallen for her; she was a blonde-headed goddess, in any man's book. But she was just nineteen, a child, old enough to put her life on the line in order to save the world, but not so to be a candidate for Rupert's affection.
Buffy's unsure gaze found hers, in the dimness of the magic shop after hours. "Um . . . hi?"
"Hello," Emily returned, mustering up a pleasant smile. Gordon was too immersed in his accounting to acknowledge the newcomer with anything beyond a single glance, so she stood and went to meet the approaching Slayer, a hand outstretched in false friendship. No time like the present to set her plan in motion. "You must be Buffy. I'm Emily Anderson. We spoke, briefly, on the phone, when Rupert stayed at my flat in London."
"Oh . . . yeah," Buffy returned uncertainly, nonetheless giving the offered hand a quick shake. She had quite a grip, this Slayer. What a man Rupert was, to take such a tigress to his bed. "I'm guessing the Council has arrived."
"Indeed we have, although Mr. Travers is in the back room at the moment . . . talking 'shop' with your Watcher, I imagine."
"Sounds about right." The girl smiled hesitantly, looking around Emily to where Gordon was still incessantly tapping on his calculator. "What're you guys doing?"
"Just a little bookkeeping. Well, I must say, it's lovely to finally meet you in person," Emily gushed dramatically, successfully diverting the Slayer's attention from their audit. "Rupert has told me so much about you, I feel as if I already know you."
"Well, that's kinda embarrassing. On account that he hasn't mentioned squat about you."
Emily tried not to look too disappointed by the news that she had not continuously populated his thoughts, as he had hers. "Not surprisingly. I'm sure he doesn't discuss such things with you."
"Things?"
"Of a personal nature. Grown-up things." Emily smiled and turned on a coy look. "His 'love life', for want of a better term."
Much to her delight, Buffy paled two shades of white. "His what?"
She'd taken the bait, now to get her to swallow the hook. "I'm sorry, Buffy. I hope you don't mind, but I really don't feel comfortable discussing my relationship with Rupert with you. Perhaps we could talk about something else?"
"Relation . . . ? Wait, you're telling me that you . . . ? And Giles? My Giles?"
Emily smiled congenially, and even managed a slight chortle. "He may be your Watcher, but I hardly think that's grounds for ownership."
"But he's my--!" She pulled up short, eyes widening in alarm of what had almost come out of her mouth. "He's my friend . . . and he wouldn't . . . with you . . . no offense."
"None taken." A shy smile cemented the girl's worse fears in cold, hard stone. "Although I assure you, we most certainly did. And just between us girls, it was the most incredible night of my life. He has this decidedly sexy tattoo of an oh-so-seventies flaming skull on his thigh--here." She pointed to her own thigh, high enough to suggest the proper level of intimacy. Enjoying the almost comatose look she had provoked, Emily maintained her charade by donning a blushingly innocent mask. "Forgive me, I shouldn't have said that to you."
Buffy diverted her gaze, just barely holding it all together. She was so ashen, she honestly looked as if she were about to be sick.
"I say, are you all right?"
"It's just that he's, um . . . " Buffy began timidly. "He's sorta . . . seeing . . . someone."
"Good heavens! He's involved with someone here?"
"Yeah, he is . . . was . . . I guess it's over now."
"Do you know who?" Emily waited, the thick silence punctuated only by the rhythmic, hollow tap of calculator keys, wondering if the high and mighty Slayer actually had the audacity to admit her officially forbidden relationship to a known Council member.
Sucking on her lower lip and fighting welling tears, this time Buffy only managed a quick shake of her head.
"Well, obviously it was someone whom he didn't care very much about," Emily said in a confident tone. She put her hand on the girl's shoulder in a gesture of phony friendship. "Rupert is not the sort of man to cheat on someone he truly loves."
The door to the back room opened as if on cue, and Giles, Travers, and the rest of the Council delegates emerged into the shop.
"We've been developing sort of a hybrid fighting style," Giles was busy telling the Director. "Let me outline her progress for you, and I think you'll see that your review isn't strictly needed." He stopped when he noticed Buffy standing next to Emily, taking in how obviously chatty the two of them had been, before his worried gaze settling on his young lover's distraught face. Clearly, he wondered what his girlfriend had heard to upset her so, but he was presently powerless to do a damn thing about it.
"Miss Summers," Travers said in greeting. "Good to see you again."
Somehow, Buffy managed to find her voice. It came out as a tiny, meek whisper, hardly befitting a Slayer of any worth. "Mr. Travers."
Travers grunted in agreement of her decidedly benevolent tone. "Giles has just been telling us of your training regimen. Perhaps you'll favor us with a demonstration while we're here."
"Um . . . yeah . . . sure. Will tomorrow be okay? I kinda don't feel real good right now."
"Buffy, are you ill?" Giles asked in genuine concern.
Emily could tell he was just itching to go to her and offer comfort. Curious, she shot a sideways glance at the Slayer, but the girl simply diverted her eyes from the man she believed had cheated on her. Emily hid a smile. This was even easier than she expected.
"Tomorrow would be fine," Travers agreed. "Shall we say, high noon?"
Buffy nodded submissively, the significance of the chosen hour not lost on her.
Noting his group of weary Watchers, Travers said, "I think perhaps it's time we called it a day here, start again fresh in the morning." There was a consensus of agreement amidst the jetlagged Council members. "Oh, and Emily, did you manage to find yourself alternative accommodations?"
Emily was supremely grateful to her superior for providing her with the perfect coup de grace. "I certainly did. Rupert has graciously allowed me to stay with him. I just need to pick up my suitcases from Lydia's hotel room first." She smiled pleasantly, loving the deliciously tormented expressions Buffy and Giles helplessly threw at each other. No words passed between the two; no words could, in front of present company, unless they wanted the world to know their illicit little secret.
"Good," Travers agreed, pleased, but for his own furtive reasons. "Very good indeed."
* * *