With a heavenly sigh, Buffy settled back into the arms of the man she loved. She closed sleepy eyes, content to just lie with him and bask in the warm afterglow of their lovemaking.
"That was so amazingly amazing," she whispered, smiling against his sweat-slicked shoulder, the fingers of her free hand tracing idle circles over his heart.
Giles planted a loving kiss on her temple, saying more with that tender gesture than any words ever could have. His fingertips swept over her bare skin, cooling in the night air of his bedroom loft, his touch as comforting as velvet against her soul.
As he pulled the bedclothes up around them, Buffy snuggled in, listening to the reassuring sound of his slowing heartbeat. It seemed impossible to her that a little over a week ago they had been 'just friends', just a Slayer and her Watcher with no romantic entanglement . . . because it felt like she'd been in love with him forever. A misstep during training had initiated their first kiss, the accident a wellspring of a deep but mutual passion. Christmas had come and gone during that time, and this year Giles had given her the best present ever; his unconditional love. She realized that he'd secretly been giving the same thing to her for years, but it was different now that she knew, and now that he could express it to her in a physical way.
Of course, the gorgeous gold locket he bought her helped put a smile on her face, too. He told her he'd wanted to enclose a picture of them, together, but didn't have one, to which she replied that they would have to rectify that a-sap and go to the mall. Giles sheepishly admitted that he hadn't set foot in the Sunnydale Mall since they'd fired a rocket launcher at The Judge; one of those silly Giles-centric things that only endeared him to her even more. Her teasing answer was that they would find one of those instant photo booths and squeeze inside, where, behind the curtain, she would sit on his lap, and they could make funny faces at the camera as it shot off four poses for a buck.
Smiling lazily at the memory that was only a few days old, Buffy cuddled closer to the man she loved with such intensity that it was both exhilarating and scary. They had been practically inseparable for the past week, finding time to be together whenever circumstances allowed, which in reality meant every night after patrol. To the world in general, their affair remained private. Only Dawn knew, although not the actual details, just how close Buffy and Giles had become in the past eight days.
Eight days. That was only one more than 'seven days', which was how long her new love was going away. To England, no less. Giles was flying out tomorrow.
A small sound of disagreement escaped Buffy, making her possessively tuck her hand around her lover's waist and again question how she could possibly endure the next week without him. His gentle touch ran up her arm, in answer to her dissent. He obviously knew what she was thinking, because he was thinking it, too.
"I know," Giles whispered softly, his lips close to her ear. "But a week will pass quickly, and I'll be back before you know it."
"I wish you didn't have to go," she said for the umpteenth time.
"If there were any other way, you know I wouldn't. But we've exhausted all our options here, and we're still no closer to discovering a way to defeat Glory." He sighed, his free hand brushing her cheek in a feathery caress. "I suspect with the abundant resources of the Watcher's Council at our disposal, we'll fare much better."
"We'd better," Buffy grumbled unhappily, "or your leaving me for a whole week will be all for nothing." She lifted her head to look at him in the dimness of the loft, her eyes finding his in the moonlight casting patchwork shadows across their bed. She could just make out his expression, enough, at least, to know the love in his eyes was meant only for her. "I wish you didn't have to go," she repeated.
They both knew there was no other choice. As much as she hated to involve those stuffy old guys in the stuffy old suits, the Council really was their best bet. Her last run in with the super-powered demon chick searching for The Key, had done nothing but prove to Buffy that she, even with all her Slayer strength, was ill-equipped to fight her and win. Without any knowledge of who or what Glory was--her origins or plans or weaknesses--and their limited resources in Sunnydale now depleted, Buffy grudgingly agreed with Giles that the Council's Central Library in London may prove more fruitful. They needed information, and, as much as she feared the repercussions should the fact that her sister was numero uno on Glory's agenda become common knowledge, Buffy knew their one chance at finding that information lay somewhere within the dusty archives at the Watcher's Council headquarters.
"Buffy, you have my word," Giles said, doing his mind-reading trick again. "I promise not to even mention Dawn's name."
"But you are going to tell them about The Key, right? That Glory's looking for something called The Key?"
"I have to." With a sigh, he diverted his gaze. "If we want even a chance at uncovering something useful about Glory, then the Council will need to at least know what we do. We have to give them something to work with."
"I just don't trust them," Buffy stated, matter of fact.
Giles' hand caressed her cheek again, bringing her petulant gaze back to his. "Dawn's secret will be safe."
Buffy nodded reluctantly. She may not trust the Council as far as . . . well, as far as Giles could kick one of them, but she did trust him. With her life, and with her sister's. She laid her head on his shoulder again, hugging him tight.
If only England wasn't so far away . . .
Missing him already, she pouted over the unfairness of it all. She had only just found him, and Fate was already stepping between them, crowding their lives, hanging over their heads like a gray cloud of doom. She could hear him now, the same voice of reason he had used just yesterday, when informing her of his proposed flight; 'Life is rarely fair, Buffy. Life on the Hellmouth even less so. We can only roll with the punches it throws us, and go on.'
Of course, she knew Giles was only making the trip for her. He wanted, more than anything, to keep her safe, which in this case meant providing her with the knowledge to fight Glory and win. The alternative was simply unacceptable to him, and he would have traveled to the ends of the earth and back if that's what it took to keep her alive.
Maybe she should count herself lucky that he was only going 'across the pond' . . .
Contented and loved, warm and safe in his loving embrace, Buffy had almost dozed off when something innate roused her up to sitting. Diverting her gaze from Giles' hopeful look, she climbed out of bed. Similar to the way her highly developed Slayer senses could detect the onset of night, she could feel the sunrise coming, less than an hour away. She didn't want to go home, she had to.
"Buffy . . . "
She knew exactly what caused the disappointment in his tone; they had covered this ground before. "Don't. Okay? You know I can't stay." Determinedly, she began hunting down her clothes in the slivers of moonlight and shadow, donning them in an orderly fashion before she changed her mind. God only knew, she wanted to stay and sleep in his arms. She wanted to open her eyes and find him there beside her in the new morning sunshine. But she also knew that with her mother in remission and still somewhat dependant, her responsibilities lay elsewhere other than in Giles' bed.
Besides, with Riley gone, it was much easier than trying to explain just where she had spent the night.
Giles made a grunt of frustration, making Buffy guiltily chew her lip. She sat beside him again, gently touching his face in the hope he would understand. Poor guy. In the past week, she had stopped by his house every night after patrol, loving him with all the passion she possessed, and then leaving him, cold and lonely, before the sun rose. Her mom may have known of and accepted her relationship with Riley, including the sex part, but Buffy doubted she would be so broadminded with the knowledge of her sleeping with Giles.
"When then?" he wanted to know, meeting her gaze in the dimness of his bedroom loft. His hand strayed to her arm, his touch encouraging and optimistic, contrary to his defeated words.
"Soon," Buffy promised. With a kiss, she pulled away, finding her feet again. "It's just that--" She turned to him, part of her thankful that his expression was now hidden in shadow. "Mom's still kinda . . . fragile. I just don't want to upset her with the news of 'us'. Not right now. But soon," she repeated convincingly. "As soon as she's feeling better, it's the first thing out of my mouth."
Giles let go another frustrated sigh and rubbed his hand over his brow. She knew he was opposed to keeping their relationship a secret, but nonetheless thankful he allowed it to be her call. She looked at him for a long moment, stretched out in his bed with the covers pulled to his waist, naked, gorgeous, and hers, and was almost overwhelmed by the desire to crawl back into his loving embrace.
Steeling herself, Buffy turned away before she caved. She couldn't stay, any more than she could find the words to tell her mother the truth . . .
* * *
The gang gathered at the Magic Box mid-morning the following day. They thought it was for a routine Scooby meeting, or for another tireless research session on their current Big Bad, until Giles informed them of his unexpected trip home. He skimmed the exact details of which, mindful of the fact that no one outside Buffy and himself knew anything about The Key, confessing only that he was headed to the Watcher's Council for help; for any information they could give him about defeating their latest foe.
Surprisingly, they were all more enthusiastic about the prospect of his absence, then in the actual reason he was going.
"You're going away for a week? That's great!" Anya's undisguised glee at having the store and the money to herself sent Giles into a panic.
Sitting at the tarot reading table and pretending to focus on the book opened before her, Buffy held back a grin. It was, of course, a stuffy-British-reserved-Giles-type-panic, but a panic nonetheless.
"Yes, well, thankfully not everyone is as delighted about the idea," Giles said, coming to an innocent but telling stop behind her chair.
The heat of his body immediately reached out to her, his closeness, the memories of intimacy, and it was all Buffy could do to muffle a sigh and keep her eyes on the printed page. They'd only been parted a matter of hours, and already she longed for him to touch her again, similar to the way in which he had the preceding night, when he stood behind her and slowly undressed her, leisurely welcoming each new spot of skin he exposed with a hot, moist kiss . . .
Buffy mentally shook herself. Giles would never touch her in that way or any other in front of their friends, specifically because she had asked him not to. Still, fantasies of him ravaging her so seductively in a public place made her glance across the table. As the conversation took a turn into who was better suited to run the Magic Box in the proprietor's absence, she studied each her friends in turn.
Anya, Xander, Willow, Tara. She could imagine each of their reactions to the news that she and Giles had become lovers: Xander, utter shock and disbelief; Willow, stunned but ultimately happy for them; Anya, inquiring if the sex was really that good; Tara . . .
Of them all, Tara's reaction would probably be the one Buffy favored most, for she was the 'hopeless romantic' of the group, and she alone would recognize their new relationship for exactly what it was. True love. Looking at them in turn, Buffy wanted to tell them. She wanted her friends to know that she was not--as they thought--drowning in a bitter pool of rejection because Riley had up and left, preferring the jungle to her. She wanted to blurt out at the top of her lungs that she was giddy in love with the man standing casually at her back. She wanted to, but she didn't.
Buffy tuned back in to the real world as Giles moved away from her chair, the loss of his nearness as palpable to her as losing a limb. Seven whole days. How on earth was she going to cope?
Moving to the checkout counter, Giles picked up a ring of keys and tossed them to Xander. "We'll take my car," he said, clearly having decided to accept the younger man's earlier offer to drive him to the airport. Then he turned to face them, his blanketing gaze intended as a farewell to all.
Xander's witty comeback about driving the Beemer was lost on Buffy, as Giles' eyes finally found hers and all the air rushed out of the room. Her breath stuck in her throat, because she knew exactly what he was asking, even without the words. He wanted her to go with him to the airport, where he stood a better chance at stealing a quite moment in a secluded spot to say goodbye to her properly.
She diverted her gaze. Slapping the cover of her book closed, Buffy pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. "I have to go too," she announced, not daring herself to look at her love or acknowledge the disappointment she knew she'd find on his face. His expression would be almost twin to the one he had worn last night, when she left him alone in bed. She couldn't deal with that; with being unable to express the words to make it better because of present company. Instead, she opted to flee. "I have stuff to do. College stuff."
"Oh, that's right," Tara agreed, glancing at Willow to remind her. "Registration for next semester starts today."
"See you guys later," Buffy said, her head down as she practically ran to escape. She should have known Giles wasn't going to let her go so easily.
"Buffy? A word in your ear?" He followed her to the front door of the shop, where she stopped but fidgeted nervously, eager to be elsewhere lest her cover be blown. God help her, audience or not, all she wanted to do was kiss him until they were both gasping for breath, to try to fill up her senses with him, enough to last her through the coming lonely week. "Come to the airport. Please?"
Buffy threw a glance at her friends, who were still seated around the reading table, now arguing about who had more finesse handling customers. They were, thankfully, out of earshot of Giles' purposely hushed tones. "And say what to Xander when we have our big teary goodbye kiss and I can't let you go?" she asked, sotto voce.
"Would the truth be so horrible?"
"Not horrible, just . . . inconvenient."
Giles lowered his gaze, the explanation getting older each time she used it.
"Hey . . . I'm gonna miss you so much," Buffy told him earnestly, already counting the hours. "Call me, okay?"
"Every day."
She offered a furtive smile, trying to raise his downed spirits. "We can have phone sex." Off his appalled look, she shrugged. "Well, think of it this way--if Mom caught us, we wouldn't have to worry about telling anyone." Another discreet glance at the tarot table again ensured their privacy. Breaking her own rule of no public display of affection, Buffy put her hand on his forearm, the fabric of his suit a poor substitute for the warmth of his skin. "Love ya."
Giles' gaze found hers again, his eyes speaking the words from his heart, even before his lips moved to reciprocate. "I love you, too."
* * *
Across the room, Tara happened to glance toward the front of the shop just as Buffy reached out a hand to Giles' arm. Normally, she would not have given it, or their private talk, a second thought. Like the others, she had assumed it was simply some last minute words of advice from a departing Watcher to his Slayer. But the way Buffy touched Giles was far from professional. It seemed personal, tender somehow . . . almost a caress. At first she thought she was imagining things, since she always saw love in the most unlikely places, until Giles mouthed those immortal words that brought everything into a bright, new perspective.
Buffy left the Magic Box without further ado, and, ducking her head as Giles turned back to the group, Tara leaned a happy smile against Willow's shoulder. If ever two people belonged together, it was Buffy and Giles. She was glad they'd finally figured it out, because everybody deserved to have somebody who cared.
And their secret would be safe with her.
* * *
London hadn't changed much in the years since he had left it, although Heathrow certainly had. Grateful for his single carry-on and one small valise, Giles navigated the bustling crowd without the difficulties of his fellow travelers, most of who were weighted down under far too much luggage and Duty Free. Quietly, without incident, he found his way curbside.
A cab took him to an address in Kensington. It was a heavy old, brown-brick building just off the High Street, built in the 17th Century but in no particular style. It was unremarkable and commonplace in its total lack of elegance and design, just the sort of 'secret' headquarters for a covert institution such as the Council of Watchers.
The front door was locked, but the burly man who answered the bell recognized his name and let him inside. The notion that he was expected became concrete, when he was met in the lobby by an attractive woman in her thirties, wearing a smart, tweed business suit, glasses, and with her hair tied back in bun, who had clearly been assigned to await his arrival.
"Mr. Giles, Emily Anderson," she introduced herself, holding out her hand in a gesture of formal greeting.
Shedding his topcoat and scarf, and laying them on top of his suitcase, Giles stepped forward to politely shake her hand. "Ms. Anderson."
"I say, you looked positively bushed. Long flight?"
He smiled wearily. "Too long." With his layovers in LA, St. Louis, and New York, he'd been in transit for the better part of fifteen hours. Time zone changes played havoc with his internal clock, and with Buffy having demanded his attention every night that past week, 'bushed' was an absurdly simple understatement. Locally, it was just coming up on noon, but his body was already starting to feel the sluggishness of jetlag and the lack of sleep.
"May I offer you some refreshments, then? Cup of tea, perhaps?"
"I'd like to see Quentin Travers," Giles said, shrugging off his fatigue and getting straight to the point; the reason he had willingly left the arms of his beloved Buffy and put the Atlantic Ocean between them.
"I'm afraid Mr. Travers is . . . unavailable. But Mr. Blair will see you."
"What do you mean, 'unavailable'? He knew I was coming. Today."
"He's been unexpectedly called away."
Giles scoffed in derision, his good mood deflating. The news was unanticipated, unacceptable, and absolutely bloody typical of Travers to string him along. "Poncey bugger," he murmured under his breath.
"I assure you," Emily said, loyal to her boss, "Mr. Blair is quite capable of overseeing any requests you might have."
"I'm sure he is," Giles said, resigned. He hadn't come all this way just to be disappointed. He would simply make the best of whatever curves the Council threw at him. "Perhaps I will have that tea, after all."
"Certainly. This way."
She led him to the forth floor chambers of one Tobias Blair, Assistant Director, the outer room of which served as a sort of secretarial office. Emily rounded the single oak desk in a manner that suggested familiarity and ownership. She was clearly Blair's personal aide. Behind her desk, a small area had been reserved for tea making facilities, and was presently home to an electric kettle, a Chatsford pot, china cups and saucers, and a matched set of three wooden tea chests.
"Darjeeling, Oolong, or Earl Gray?" she asked over her shoulder.
Making his choice, Giles browsed the bookshelves while she prepared the tea, noting that most of the volumes on display were of the harmless variety, the normal sort of business texts and legal paraphernalia one might find in any successful London establishment. It was the Watcher's Council at its diabolical best; saving the world with bureaucratic bull. To them, a Slayer was simply a means to an end, a tool wielded by their collective hand that was both expendable and replaceable. Pulling political strings to acquire and maintain control of that tool was where their real power lay, and it made him angry, and at the same time shameful, to have once shared their cold-blooded principles.
"I must say, your reputation precedes you, Mr. Giles," Emily said, drawing his attention. He turned to find her paused over a tea cup with a blue and white carton. "Milk and sugar?"
"Thank you, yes," he answered, watching her add both to his cup. "Although I'm certain I have no idea what you mean." He stepped closer to take the saucer she offered him, and nodded his thanks.
She motioned him to a comfortable-looking guest chair, and then seated herself opposite, behind her desk. For a moment, they sipped in silence, the hot Indian tea hitting the spot and almost making him feel among the living again.
"What's it like?" she suddenly asked, abandoning propriety for a genuine case of hero worship.
"Pardon?"
"Living on the Hellmouth, risking your life night after night, your Slayer at your side? Sounds terribly dangerous."
Giles smiled fondly at the thought of Buffy. "I suppose it is," he admitted. "But worthwhile, nonetheless. I find it . . . fulfilling." He rested his cup on the saucer in his other hand. "And frustrating sometimes," he continued, thinking of their present zero amount of information on Glory. "Often quite painful, in a physical sense. And in an emotional sense . . . "
"Your Buffy sounds quite a handful."
"There's no other place I'd rather be."
Emily quirked her head at such revealing honesty, making Giles instantly regret being so candid. Buffy had long been a proverbial thorn in the Council's side, from the very start refusing to play by their rules. He, too, had eventually turned his back on a generation of duty and conformity. If the Council had even the slightest inkling of his and Buffy's romantic entanglement, then he didn't doubt their pettiness in refusing to help simply out of spite.
"Even after the Cruciamentum?" Emily asked, genuinely interested.
The question gave him pause. They both knew Council policy demanded that all Watchers maintain a strictly professional relationship with their charges. They also both knew that it rarely worked out that way, for it was humanly impossible for two people to go through so much together and not form some sort of attachment. To that end, the Council imposed the Tento di Cruciamentum when each girl reached the age of eighteen. This test, in which the Slayer was administered a drug to temporarily nullify her powers before she faced a vampire opponent, was allegedly to demonstrate proficiency, but thanks to her Watcher's part in the proceedings, it carried a rather nasty side-effect of breaking any and all emotional bonds between the two. Although it had been a Council mandate for hundreds of years, it was nothing more than a cruel and barbaric act that ultimately tore a Slayer from the safety of her Watcher's care, if the test itself didn't kill her first.
In short, the Cruciamentum made certain that the Watcher/Slayer relationship remained objective and impersonal. Accounts of it were well documented within Council annals, although by tradition, of those few Slayers who actually survived, the majority never fully forgave their Watchers' betrayal and thus, tragically, never lived to see their next birthday. Whether by the test, or from the resulting rift thereof, the Council heartlessly culled its Slayers on a regular basis, ensuring subservience and allegiance, by manipulating the emotional detachment of its two key players.
"Even after," Giles answered quietly, painfully remembering Buffy's Cruciamentum--the look in her eyes as she threatened to kill him if he so much as touched her, and his own strangling fears that she would never trust him again. But she had forgiven him, and their bond not only survived, but flourished. They had been through so much together in the two years since, all the ups and downs, the laughter and the tears. Now the look in her eyes, each time they made love, only reaffirmed to him that what they shared was truly unbreakable.
Until one of them died.
Reminded of the reason he was there, Giles looked up and caught Emily's eye with an expression of renewed determination. Sitting forward, he slid his half-finished tea onto the corner of her desk, feeling fortified by it and the memory of his beloved. He didn't want to lose her. He wouldn't. "Perhaps I could see Mr. Blair now."
* * *
He expected Tobias Blair to be one of Travers' peers; a gray-headed, or even balding, man in his mid-to-late sixties, a Council paper-pusher who fought with a pen rather than a sword, who had probably never faced a vampire in a fight in his entire life. So to discover Blair was, in fact, a well-dress, well-educated, athletically built Englishman a bit younger than himself, came as something as a shock.
"Mr. Giles, I'm sure I needn't remind you that you are no longer a member of this institution."
"I'm well aware of my standing with the Council," Giles said, trying hard to remain civil. In truth, he'd just about had enough of the pompous decorum. But it would do no good to lose his temper, so he sat subordinately in the guest chair before Blair's desk, feeling ridiculously akin to a schoolboy called before his headmaster.
"Then you are also aware that we have every right to deny your request."
"Yes, but . . . I assure you, helping us would only be in the Council's best interest. If Buffy fights this 'Glory' creature and loses, who knows what hell-on-earth will result? The Council will be short one of the finest Slayers it's ever known and--"
"Buffy Summers is not the Council's concern."
Giles gritted his teeth, barely holding his temper in check. "No, but she is the only thing standing between mankind and the forces of darkness. Buffy's already died once. You know as well as I do that in the event of her passing, no new Slayer will be called. If she dies, then the world will be defenseless, and the Council's entire grand-bloody-purpose will be rendered invalid."
He sat back, troubled by the sudden ease with which he so coldly spoke those words. Buffy's death, while inevitable, was not something he liked to put into thought, much less speak aloud. It was this place, he decided, glancing at the imposing, wood-paneled walls. Council Headquarters still silently demanded his duty and compliance. He couldn't wait to leave.
"I'm not sure we can spare the manpower for such a research undertaking," the Assistant Director concluded.
"Of course," Giles returned in biting sarcasm. "Because writing requisitions for toilet paper and other sundries obviously keeps you all hopping."
Much to his surprise, Blair chuckled. "Quentin Travers warned me of your wit, Mr. Giles. I must say, you do not disappoint."
"I'm so glad I amuse you." Angered, Giles pushed to his feet. The only thing this meeting had achieved was to elevate his blood pressure. 'Arrogant bloody bastards, the lot of them.' They'd all been brainwashed into believing their way was the only way. He and Buffy would simply have to make do on their own. And if he lost her, if she died fighting Glory because of something the Council refused to tell him, then--by God--he would spend the rest of his days seeking vengeance on them all. "Seems I've wasted my time here. Good day."
He was halfway to the door, mumbling rash, inaudible threats under his breath, when Blair spoke again.
"I can grant you temporary access to the Central Library."
Giles slowly turned, eyes narrowing slightly as he waited for the catch. He found Blair still seated behind his pretentious oak desk, although now with his chair tipped back, and his fingers steepled across the middle of his three-piece suit, in a posture of idle compliance.
"Of course, you're just one man, and the stacks can be quite intimidating." Blair's dark eyes found his. "You made a good case for your Slayer's worth, Mr. Giles. I shall put your request before a formal hearing tomorrow." Tipping his chair forward, he reached for a pen and a slip of paper, and started scribbling. "Emily will arrange 'clearance' for you, for the duration of your visit. At this point, it's the best I can do. Should the Council approve your request, you'll have a lot more manpower at your disposal, and better chance of finding the information you need."
It was with genuine relief that Giles stepped back to Blair's desk, and took the piece of paper so casually offered between two fingers. "Thank you," he said, looking at the tiny slip. It seemed so insignificant, but in truth, that one small scrap of paper and the authorization it gave him, might very well turn out to be the difference between Buffy's life, and death.
* * *
A gentle hand on his shoulder roused him from a deep sleep. Lifting his cheek from the page of the book open before him, Giles groggily sought to right his glasses on the bridge of his nose. "Buffy?"
He turned stiffly in his hard-backed chair, still disoriented by the darkness beyond his tiny pool of lamplight, instinctively reaching out a loving hand. It wasn't until she tensed under his caress that reality came rushing in.
"I'm sorry," he apologized, mortified to realize where he was and who he was with. He quickly turned his attention back to the books and empty Thai takeaway containers strewn haphazardly across the table in front of him. "I thought you were . . . that is . . . I never intended . . . "
Emily smiled as she drew out a neighboring chair, her pleasant features now illuminated in the soft glow. "Perfectly all right," she said gently.
"I . . . worry about her," he admitted ambiguously, keeping his telling gaze well away from hers, lest she learn too much.
"I understand." A thoughtful frown appeared as she continued to study him in profile. "Do you have somewhere to go?"
The question brought his bleary eyes back to hers. "Go?"
She smiled again, not without affection. At some point during the long afternoon and evening hours they had spent together researching, just the two of them against the almost overwhelming contents of the Central Library, something mutual had clicked. Giles had found himself actually enjoying her company, something he never anticipated in light of her present employer. Emily was bright and witty, a willing and capable research assistant who, once she dropped all that toffee-nosed, Council-born posturing, became a welcomed companion in his one-man crusade.
"In case you haven't noticed," she explained, "it's somewhere on the lonely side of three in the morning. If you don't already have a hotel room for the night, I'm afraid, at this point, you're not going to get one."
He grunted in reply, readjusting his glasses and pulling a fresh book toward him, getting his second-wind. "I'm not tired."
She laughed. "Of course not. But I am. And unfortunately, my orders were to 'keep you in sight at all times'. So until you decide to call it a night, I am, sadly, stuck here."
"Blair's idea?" Giles asked with a smirk. It was difficult to completely dislike the man, when he had already helped so much, yet almost impossible not to when he insisted on the babysitting detail.
Emily nodded, unable to hold back a yawn. "I suppose I could take you home with me." Her eyes widened in horror the moment the words left her lips, a ruby blush tinting her cheeks as she met his gaze in the intimate circle of lamplight. "Good Heavens! Did I really say that?"
Giles gave her a companionable smile. "I'm afraid so."
Her turn to be embarrassed, Emily glanced away. "Forgive me. I simply meant . . . "
She hesitated a moment too long, giving Giles his final clue. She was attracted to him, and confirmation of what he thought he'd been feeling since their first shared cup of tea had the power to simultaneously flatter and terrify him.
"I simply meant, I live alone, and I have plenty of room." Finding the courage to look at him, she added, "I assure you, the offer is entirely innocent." She found another small smile. "Although perhaps a tiny bit selfish. I truly do need some sleep, Rupert."
He raised an eyebrow, wondering when they'd gone to a first name basis. "Perhaps you're right," he agreed, looking at the latest tome he had opened before him. To be truthful, the ancient Latin text seemed to be doing the backstroke across the page. He rubbed his tired eyes under his glasses, knowing that since they hadn't found any useful information about Glory yet, in their fatigued states it was unlikely they would find it tonight. He had nowhere else to go, so, in a decided move, he slapped the book cover closed and pushed back his chair. "You're certain I wouldn't be putting you out?" he asked, lifting his discarded suit coat off the back of another.
She shook her head, fighting another yawn, also finding her feet. "I'd be more put out if you insisted on staying here."
Giles helped her gather the cold remnants of their Thai dinner and empty tea cups. While she found the trash bin and then rinsed the china, he took a moment to stack the books in a more orderly fashion before turning out the light.
Something jumped in his gut as he headed for the basement elevator with her, making him realize that despite his unbreakable love for his beautiful Buffy, the jolt he'd experience upon learning of Emily's attraction to him wasn't such a bad feeling, after all.
* * *
She lived less than ten minutes away by car, and he was grateful for the fact that her modest, double-story, flat had two cozy bedrooms upstairs; at least he didn't have to spend what remained of the night on the couch.
"It's not much," Emily said, cautiously remaining on the threshold as he moved into the small guest room. A single bed nestled against one wall, looking inviting beneath a traditional patchwork quilt, while a bare dresser and chair sat opposite. "But I think you find it comfortable."
Putting down his luggage, Giles turned to favor her with an indebted smile. "I'm sure I shall."
"I have the heat on," she added as an afterthought, "but there's an extra blanket in top of the wardrobe, should you get cold." She pointed out the door, to the left. "WC's the second door down the hall, to the right. I'll lay a clean towel out for you before I go to bed."
He nodded. "Thank you."
She smiled back, hesitant to leave. He waited for her to say something, until the silence bordered on awkward.
"Well . . . goodnight," she said finally, turning into the hall and heading for her own bed.
"Emily," Giles called, aware that he had used her name for the first time. It seemed natural, given the friendship they'd forged during their long hours of research, but he immediately regretted using it for fear it gave the wrong impression.
Sure enough, when she faced him again, he found a wistful look in her eyes. "Yes?"
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be bothersome but . . . would you mind, terribly, if I made an overseas phone call? I will, of course, reimburse you for all charges."
For a moment, she simply stared at him, baffled by the fact that what he asked and what she wanted were not the same thing. "Oh!" she exclaimed, finding her bearings again. "Um . . . of course not. I'll just . . . bring you the cordless."
After she left to retrieve the phone, Giles let go a long breath and sank onto the side of the bed to kick off his shoes.
"Good show, Giles," he murmured to himself, well aware that what Emily wanted from him was not a polite reminder of his significant other. He was a man, after all, and he had been feeling the vibes and reading the signals all evening. He wasn't deaf, dumb, or blind. He was simply taken. While the knowledge that another woman found him attractive was extremely flattering to his ego, his heart remained steadfastly true to the love of his life, in Sunnydale.
He shucked off his suit coat, finding a hanger for it and his overcoat in the empty wardrobe. Lifting his suitcase onto the bed, he unzipped the main section and began searching for something suitable for night attire. He hadn't given any thought to sharing digs with a companion, much less with one of the female persuasion, and since packing space was an issue, he figured a t-shirt and boxers would suffice. A decision, which in hindsight, he would surely live to--
Something black and frilly caught his eye, peeking out from beneath the small pile of clothes in his bag. Curious, he lifted a couple of folded Oxford shirts to examine it more closely. It wasn't until he had retrieved the item and was holding it up for inspection that he realized, with a longing moan, it was a pair of lacy black knickers. To be precise, a pair of Buffy's lacy black knickers.
'The little minx . . . '
With Ripperish glee, he recalled the last time he had seen her in them . . . and out of them . . .
Emily returned with the cordless phone, catching him mid-fantasy. Mortified, Giles turned to meet her, swiftly tucking Buffy's naughty little surprise behind his back before she noticed. With a friendly smile that suggested she hadn't seen a thing--or if she had, she had the good grace not to mention it--she stopped just inside the door and held out the phone to him. He took one long stride forward to take it from her, then another equally long one back.
"If there's nothing else . . . ?" she asked, sensing his discomfort.
"No, thank you. You've been more than kind already."
They shared another amiable, yet somehow regrettable, smile before she turned and left. This time, he closed the door behind her.
* * *