Full Circle

[shapinglight]

So, here it is - the final story in my Spike/Giles season 7 series (which is still searching for an overall title. I thought of Secondary Theatre - as in, theatre of war, Sunnydale being the primary theatre of the war against the First in season 7. But if you google 'secondary theatre' (or indeed 'theater') you just get links to secondary school theatre programs. So perhaps not?).

Anyway, this may not be what some of you were expecting as the end of this series, but it is the way I always imagined it ending. And it is a series. There are many references in this story to what has gone before, for which see here for previous stories in the series. I'll put up a link to the series on Ao3 when I've posted it there (which won't be till after I have an overall title. Sigh!)

Setting: Charles Robson's flat, London. The evening of the same day of the previous story, Secrets.
Rating: PG-13/R-ish (mainly for swearing and mention of attempted rape).
Pairings: Spike/Giles. Mention of Spike/Buffy.
Beta: dwyld read it through for me. All mistakes are mine, of course.
Author's Note: That's it! No more WIPs.

Full Circle



Giles stood amongst the crowd on Woburn Place. Most of them had been evacuated from the British Museum, and the School of Oriental and African Studies, but there were shop workers and restaurant staff too from the affected streets, along with passers-by and other gawkers.

The road on the other side of the black and yellow police incident tape was thick with dust, which drifted through the air in clouds, settling on everything and making people cough.

Giles held his handkerchief over his lower face. He couldn't take his eyes off the destruction - the absolute devastation - of the scene.

"What was that place anyway?" he heard someone ask.

Someone else replied, "A government department, I think. Very hush-hush. Shouldn't be here, right next to all these public buildings. It's a wonder more people on the street weren't killed."

There were mutters of agreement from the crowd.

A hulking shape topped with flashing blue lights loomed out of the dust. A police officer unfastened the incident tape to let the ambulance through, while other officers gestured to the crowd to stand back.

The ambulance crawled past the onlookers, then, siren blaring, accelerated away. Giles watched it go. Were there badly injured survivors inside, or was it just ferrying corpses?

Either way, he was doing no good standing here.

With a last look at the dust-choked street and the tangle of metal and stone which was all that remained of Watchers' HQ, he turned and started to walk in the direction of Oxford Street, where he might stand a better chance of hailing a cab.

He had a demon to see about a spot of counterfeiting.

*

"Dreadful! Absolutely dreadful!" Robson was pale-faced as he stared at the television screen. His hand, resting on the back of a chair, was shaking.

Giles said nothing. He looked beyond Robson, to where the three girls were sitting, Molly and Annabelle huddled together, Norah a little separate. Molly had a puzzled frown on her face. Still trying to come to terms, perhaps, with the idea of a television hidden away in a cupboard, and what's more one with a black and white picture.

The screen was very small, and the monochrome made it difficult to work out what was going on, but in the circumstances, Giles thought that was probably a good thing.

He cleared his throat. Despite showering on his return to the flat, he could still taste dust in his mouth.

"You said there might have been survivors," Robson said, suddenly. His face, when he looked at Giles, was drawn and haggard.

Giles could guess who Robson was thinking of. "Possibly," he said, then cleared his throat again. He sounded as hoarse as he felt. "I don't know for sure. There was an ambulance, and it left in a hurry. I daresay we'll find out soon one way or the other."

Robson didn't reply. After a moment, in a fretful tone, he said, "This place is filthy. What were the clean-up team thinking, leaving it in such a state?"

Giles glanced around the room. Robson was right. Since their return, Spike had piled most of the wreckage from their fight with the Bringers in front of the door as a barricade. But no one had made any effort to clear it in their absence, and there were still smears of blood on the parquet. In fact, all that had been done in the way of clean-up was to remove the dead Bringers' bodies.

Very sloppy work indeed.

A sour voice in the back of his mind told Giles that the Council operatives hadn't bothered doing a thorough job because they'd known Robson wouldn't be returning. But surely Travers hadn't shared his murderous intentions with such lowly members of staff.

"We'll give it a good clean tomorrow," he said, as brightly as he could. "You should rest, Charles. You still seem a bit...well, not quite yourself."

Robson grimaced. "Frankly, Rupert, I feel dreadful. But we can't stay here. You know we can't. Where can we go?" He looked panicked suddenly. "There's nowhere to go. The Bringers are everywhere. And they know about this place. How long until they-"

"I'll sort it out, I promise," Giles interrupted, loudly. It seemed Robson was still 'not himself' to the extent that he'd forgotten the three girls were listening. "In fact, I ran a few errands when I was out earlier - passports, and so on."

"Ah." Robson grimaced. "You summoned Mr Zagam, I assume?"

Giles nodded. "Just so. He was as tricky to pin down as always, but I did it in the end. The passports and visas will be ready tomorrow afternoon. Until then, we'll have to lie low."

And hope for the best, he thought, but didn't say.

"Zagam's a very dangerous demon," Robson protested. "You should have taken me with you. I have more experience in dealing with him." He swayed as he spoke and grabbed hold of the chair again to support himself. "I hope you remembered to stay well inside the circle when you said the incantation."

"Of course," Giles assured him. "And you were in no fit state to accompany me, Charles. You're still more or less out on your feet. Please just rest. We're going to need you later."

This seemed to strike home with Robson. "You're right."

He gave the television screen with its depressing scenes of destruction a final anguished look and trudged towards the bedroom.

At once, Norah was on her feet. "Can I get you anything, Mr Robson?"

Robson tried manfully to smile at her. "A cup of tea, if you would, Norah. That would be wonderful."

"Coming up," Norah said, her own smile forced and unnatural. She hunched her shoulders and made her way towards the kitchen, making a big detour around Spike, who was leaning against the wall at the back of the room.

Spike grimaced, but he said nothing. Molly, meanwhile, whispered something in Annabelle's ear, which made Annabelle snort through her nose in a very unattractive way. They watched Norah until she disappeared from sight. Then they both burst out laughing.

Giles frowned. He could well imagine the sorts of spiteful idiocy the two girls were exchanging. Just now, though, he didn't feel like reprimanding them. There was no reason why they should listen to him anyway. He'd taken them to Watchers' HQ, and as a consequence they'd almost died.

The best thing he could do was to get them out of the country as quickly as possible before either the Bringers, or Griffiths' superiors, came looking for them.

The thought of Griffiths sent a pang of guilt through Giles. It was no good telling himself that they couldn't have taken Griffiths with them, or even reminding himself about the three men Griffiths had murdered in cold blood. They'd left him alone in that pit under the earth, and now Griffiths was dead.

Giles could only hope, for Griffiths' own sake, that he'd never regained consciousness before the explosion.

"Penny for 'em," Spike said, suddenly, right in Giles's ear.

Giles jumped almost out of his skin, and Spike raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"Sorry." Giles cleared his throat, in embarrassment this time. "You startled me."

Spike just looked at him. "It's okay, Giles. I'm me. I'm not under the 'fluence or anything."

Giles blinked. "Glad to hear it."

"Thing is," Spike went on, "How long's that gonna last?" He gestured around the room. "We're barricaded inside. You're barricaded inside. With me."

He raised his eyebrow again, as if to say, so what are you going to do about it?

For a moment, Giles just stared at him. He was so tired he could barely keep his eyes open, and his brain was definitely not firing on all cylinders.

"Oh!" he said, at last. "You mean...."

"Yeah." Spike took his arm, steering him out of hearing of Molly and Annabelle. "You said we're stuck here until tomorrow, so give me that Prokaryote Stone thing, all right? Now. Before I bottle out and scarper."

He tilted his head. "There was stuff you were gonna tell me too - like who's messing with my head, and what the fuck were you thinking of, taking us to Watcher Central in the first place."

"I was," Giles agreed. He wished he didn't feel so damn tired.

Too tired even to be as worried as he should be about their current situation, which was certainly cause for anxiety; trapped in a known location, easy targets for the Bringers, and locked up with an agent - albeit an unwitting one - of the enemy.

But Spike was right. It couldn't wait any longer.

Giles crossed the room and put his head around the door of the spare bedroom - the one where he and Spike had spent their only night in the flat. He had to admit it didn't look very inviting. The bed was now so much firewood, and the sheets on the mattress were bloodstained from where their Bringer prisoner had lain on them. Otherwise, the room didn't contain so much as a mirror.

It would have to do, though. Giles beckoned Spike to join him.

"Help me get this room ready for the girls to sleep in. Then when they've gone to bed, we'll do...what we have to."

Spike gazed around the room, grimaced, then shrugged. "Yeah, okay."

He bent and tore the dirty sheets off the mattress. "Bed's in bits. No salvaging that. One've 'em can have the mattress, I 'spose. The others'll have to sleep on the floor. 'Less you're gonna turf your mate Robson out of his room."

Giles shook his head. "No, best to let him sleep. There are clean sheets in the airing cupboard in the bathroom, if you wouldn't mind. And spare quilts and pillows inside the ottoman, and in that big wooden chest in the hall."

Spike was kicking bits of broken wood into the corner.

"I'll bring the stuff here, but I don't do housework. Kiddies can make up their own beds."

"Fine." Giles left him to it.

Back in the living room, Molly and Annabelle were dozing in front of the television. There was no sign of Norah, but Giles had a feeling he knew where she was.

Sure enough, when he opened the door of Robson's room a crack, Norah, fast asleep herself, was curled up in the armchair next to the bed, in which Robson slept like the dead. A mug of weak-looking tea sat on the bedside table, going cold.

Giles looked at Norah's face. It was pale and strained, and there were tear tracks on her cheeks. He frowned. Then he went to the chest where Robson kept spare bedclothes, took out the biggest, warmest blanket he could find and draped it carefully over her. He shut the bedroom door behind him when he left the room.

It was probably better this way, Giles told himself. Molly and Annabelle were thick as thieves, and Norah was very much an outsider. What's more, all three girls were scared out of their wits and on edge as a consequence. Making them share a room could result in who knew what unpleasantness.

Back in the living room, he shook Annabelle awake. She sat up with a start and a muffled scream, which had Molly instantly on her feet, belligerent glare on her face.

"Yeah, what d'you want?"

"It's late." Giles resisted the urge to take a step back. "The two of you are nodding off. We've made a room ready for you. Best if you try and get some sleep."

Molly only glared harder. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? We fall asleep, who the fuck knows what you'll do to us?"

Giles gritted his teeth. He couldn't blame Molly for being suspicious, but he was so damn tired!

"I've no intention of doing anything to you, Molly," he said, "except trying to save your lives. Which is what I've been attempting to do all along. But I understand why you find that difficult to believe. Barricade yourselves inside the room, if you like."

Molly still glared, but Annabelle put a hand on her arm.

"He did save us down in that cave, Molly. I think we should do what he says."

Molly shook off her grip. "Yeah, but you're a dozy bitch."

But when Annabelle only yawned, and headed towards the spare room, Molly followed reluctantly in her wake. The door shut behind them with a bad-tempered bang. There followed muffled sounds of Molly complaining, and Annabelle trying to shush her. Eventually, these subsided into silence.

By that time, Giles's own eyes were drifting closed. He startled from his seat when Spike put a hand on his shoulder.

"Sorry, Giles. Can see you're exhausted, but this can't wait. Here, I made you some tea."

Giles blinked his tired eyes, taking in the steaming mug on the occasional table in front of him. Spike had switched off the ancient television. The picture had shrunk to a tiny white spot in the centre of the screen.

"Surprised it still works," Spike remarked. "Thing's practically steam-powered."

Giles hadn't the energy to laugh.

He drank the tea. It was weaker than he liked, but acceptable. Spike, meanwhile, had perched on the edge of one of Robson's uncomfortable looking armchairs.

"Out with it, then."

Giles sighed. Where to begin?

*

"So you're telling me," Spike said, in a sceptical tone, "that we're fighting the manifestation of a dodgy philosophical concept?"

Giles put down his empty mug.

"I suppose I am, yes."

"And it calls itself the First Evil?"

"Yes."

"And it's intangible?"

"That's right."

"Bit rubbish really," Spike said. "As arch-nemeses go, I mean. It can't hurt anyone. It can't touch anything. All it can do is play ghosties with us and sneer a lot."

Giles frowned at his levity. "There are enough dead Watchers and Potential Slayers to give the lie to that assessment. The First doesn't need a physical form. It has the Bringers. It may well have other earthly servants. And on a metaphysical level, it's very powerful. It has you firmly in its claws, Spike, as I shouldn't need to remind you."

Spike had the grace to look uncomfortable.

"There is that."

"Don't you have the least idea how it happened?" Giles asked him.

He reflected - not for the first time - that, beyond the bare fact of him acquiring a soul, he knew nothing about Spike's doings in the period of time between his leaving Sunnydale and turning up on Giles's doorstep in Bath.

Was it only a month ago? It felt like forever.

Spike shook his head. "Not really. But a lot of stuff that's happened since I got my soul's...fuzzy? Dunno how else to describe it."

"But you remember the bad dreams? The voices? They would tell you to kill, you said. That you'd feel better if you did."

Spike shivered. "Not bloody likely to forget 'em."

"And you did kill Harriet Harkness, didn't you? Stabbed her to death with a kitchen knife and buried her body in a field. Do you not even remember that?"

Spike's expression grew anguished. He shook his head vehemently. "'Course I don't bloody remember it. I wouldn't do that. Except..." His voice trailed off.

"Yes?" Giles prompted, as gently as he could, though the thought of Ms Harkness's miserable death at the hands of a guest in her house made him feel very angry. Not least with himself for taking Spike there in the first place.

Spike sighed. "Except, when the phone call came the other night, I knew I must have killed the old girl. Don't remember doin' it, but I knew." He grimaced. "'S' why I let you shoot me. Was worried what I might do next. Just never expected to wake up in a Watchers' Council holding cell."

Giles frowned. Was Spike trying to change the subject?

"I didn't see any other course of action," he said. "The First's servants - the Bringers - were killing Potential Slayers with impunity. I knew they'd be back for Norah and the others, and that Robson and I on our own hadn't a chance against them. I genuinely thought we'd be safer."

He looked Spike straight in the eye. "If I had to do it all again, I would probably make the same choice."

Spike tilted his head. "S'pose I get that. And you did say - well, not say, but I know what you meant - that the only thing you regretted in this whole sorry business was having sex with me."

Yes, Giles thought. Spike was definitely trying to change the subject. Further evidence that he knew more than he was letting on.

"That's right." He nodded. "I told you, Spike, before we left the Westbury house that we couldn't be...be intimate any more. I stand by that. I'm only sorry it happened in the first place. You weren't in your right mind, and I knew it. I can only apologise for taking advantage of you."

Spike blinked. Clearly, an apology was the last thing he'd been expecting. Then his face cleared.

"So, it's not that you find me ugly, or disgusting, or...or..." His voice trailed off again, but his expression, when he looked at Giles, showed his relief.

At this stage, Giles thought, he hardly knew himself what he thought of Spike, beyond that, consciously or not, Spike was keeping secrets from him.

"No," he said. "It's not that."

"So, if I was in my right mind," Spike went on, "you think you'd have second thoughts?"

His eyes, scared and eager at the same time, implored Giles to say yes.

Giles winced inwardly. He was still tempted. It was hard not to be when someone as attractive as Spike looked at you like that.

But even if it were that simple, there was no way to be certain.

Reaching out, he patted Spike's cold hand.

"Not the point. We're trying to get to the bottom of the First's hold on you, remember? Tell me, Spike, what does the song Early One Morning mean to you?"

Spike's face closed down again at once. He looked away across the room.

"S'just a song," he muttered. "My mum's favourite. She used to sing it to me, when I was...when I was a baby."

"Your mother?" Giles stared at him.

Odd. Until this moment, he'd never even considered that Spike might have one.

"What about her?" he asked.

Spike was looking increasingly defensive. "Nothing about her. She was a nice lady. We got along fine."

"Nevertheless."

Giles waited, but when Spike's mouth stayed shut, he got up and crossed the room to where he'd stowed Robson's knapsack containing the precious books. He took out Bay's Book of the Dead and stood, holding it in his hands.

One of the only two books remaining from the Watchers' Council's great collection. The rest was dust blowing down a London street. Centuries of knowledge gone forever.

It hardly bore thinking about.

"Giles?" Spike broke in on his reverie. "You still with us?"

Giles shook himself, gave Spike a brief smile, and came to sit down again. "Of course."

Spike watched apprehensively as Giles thumbed through the pages of the book until he found the right incantation. It was a simple one, fortunately. No extra ingredients necessary, just the Prokaryote Stone itself.

Giles took the stone out of his pocket. It sat in his palm, a tiny, polished pebble.

"The stone will move within your mind," he told Spike. "It will unleash thoughts, feelings...memories. Hopefully, once you understand the root of the First's hold on you, you'll be able to break free of it."

Spike stared at the stone, as if it were his enemy. His hands, Giles saw, had begun to tremble.

"Won't ask you how you're gonna get it in my brain," Spike said. "That Travers bloke made it pretty sodding clear."

"Good." Giles kept his voice neutral. "Shall we get on with it, then?"

"S'pose." Spike looked dubious. "Think it might be a good idea if you chained me up again first, though."

Giles couldn't argue with that.

*

"Kun'ati belek sup'sion. Bok'vata im kele'beshus. Ek'vota mor'osh boota'ke."

Giles kept his eyes on the stone as he chanted, fascinated by the way it writhed and twisted, before becoming a pool of dark liquid in the palm of his hand.

He turned to Spike. "Ready?"

They'd retreated to the kitchen, the room furthest away from the bedrooms. Spike was perched on a spindly-looking kitchen chair, body wound about with every remaining restraint in Robson's collection. The manacles on his hands and feet were anchored to the ancient gas cooker, the most solid item in the room.

"Not really." Spike was sweating. His eyes were fixed on the inky liquid. He licked his lips and swallowed. "Wouldn't wanna let that Lydia bint down, though. Seeing as she's dead an' all."

He tilted his head back as far as it would go. His Adam's apple jerked in his throat. "Get to it."

"Very well." Giles held Spike's eyelids apart with his finger and thumb and tipped the liquid into the corner of his right eye.

Spike's body jerked, making the chains rattle. "Fucking hell, that hurts!"

He opened his mouth to scream, but Giles was ready for him. A moment later a thick wad of cotton gauze from Robson's first aid supplies was jammed behind Spike's teeth, holding his mouth open and blocking his howls of pain.

Spike huffed frantically through his nose. His eyes clung to Giles's face, imploring him to relent.

Giles shook his head. "I'm sorry." He covered Spike's mouth with a large strip of duct tape, to hold the gag in place. Meanwhile, darkness, like a splash of ink in water, seeped from the corner of Spike's eye, glazing over the white and pupil. Spike writhed and spasmed in seeming agony as the darkness crept into the other eye. His feet drummed an urgent tattoo on the ancient linoleum.

Giles watched Spike's struggles dully. He should feel bad, he thought, to make him suffer so, but he was too exhausted to feel much of anything.

All the same, it was a relief when Spike finally went limp. Both his eyes were black pools of inky darkness, behind which...who knew what was going on? Certainly, without Travers' amplifier box and its attendant magics, Giles had no way of telling.

In an effort to keep himself awake, Giles made another cup of tea. He sat at the small kitchen table drinking it, while Spike slumped unmoving in his chains. Even so, he nodded off, only to jerk awake some while later at the sound of muffled groaning.

Spike's eyes were clear again. Black tears, like droplets of glutinous ink, were sliding down his cheeks and dripping onto the floor. As Giles watched, the droplets coalesced into a shimmering pool, which a moment later, was a stone again.

It was over.

Spike was pale and haggard, every inch of him defeated and small. When he saw Giles looking at him, he turned his face away and hung his head.

Giles grimaced. Standing, he went through cupboard after cupboard, until he found a bottle of cheap scotch, tucked away behind a vegetable rack. Robson wasn't much of a drinker.

He poured a generous tot into two tumblers and set them down on the table. Then, he ripped the duct tape from Spike's face. Spike howled through the wadding in his mouth, but he held still while Giles prised it out.

The gauze was sopping. Giles threw it in the bin with a shudder of distaste. He turned to find Spike watching him, silent and pale.

"Here." Giles put the tumbler of scotch to Spike's lips and held it steady while he drank. The scotch was gone in two convulsive gulps.

Giles turned from putting the glass down on the draining board, to find Spike looking at him again.

"Seems we've come full circle."

Giles blinked. "What do you mean?"

He realised what Spike was getting at, even as Spike went on, "'Course, last time, it was your sitting room you had me chained up in. The booze was better too. This stuff tastes like shit."

"There are similarities to the two situations, I suppose," Giles admitted, "but...."

Spike interrupted him.

"One thing hasn't changed, though. You still look like you hate me."

They stared at each other. Giles realised his mouth was hanging open and shut it.

Do I?

He resisted the urge to feel his face.

"That's ridiculous," he said. "I do not hate you."

Spike stared at him, dull-eyed, much as he had that first morning in Bath.

"Why the bloody hell not?" he said. "You should."

"I..." Giles found he had no answer. He sat down at the kitchen table and poured himself another drink.

After a moment, Spike said, "I'd say sorry for every horrible thing I've ever done, if I thought it would make any difference. But words...they're worth bugger all, aren't they? Least of all to..." he looked away from Giles again..."her."

Giles took a big gulp of his scotch. Spike was right. It was pretty poor stuff.

Taking off his glasses, he laid them down on the table and rubbed his tired eyes.

"Spike," he said, at last. "I hardly know what to say to you, except to reassure you again that I don't hate you. More to the point, though, has the Prokaryote Stone worked? Has it helped?"

Spike's face was wet. "Dunno if it's helped. But yeah, it worked." He looked away again. "Knew it all along really. Was time I faced up to it, I s'pose."

"Faced up to what?" Giles put his glasses back on. He would have to be careful. Ask the wrong question and Spike might clam up completely.

Spike blinked tears from his eyes. "My mum," he said. "You may not hate me - thanks for saying that, not sure I believe it - but she did."

"The stone showed you this?"

Spike nodded miserably. "Reminded me, more like. Can't explain otherwise why she...why she..." He hung his head again. "Oh, Christ!"

Giles waited a moment, but Spike didn't seem inclined to continue.

"Why she what?" he asked, in the end.

When there was still no answer, he leaned forward, and patted Spike on the arm. "I realise this is difficult for you, Spike. Anyone could see that. But it's just the two of us here. You can tell me. I won't breathe a word to anyone."

After a moment, Spike looked at him again. "No one? You won't even tell Buffy?"

That gave Giles pause. "I won't lie to you," he said, at last. "If her life depended on it -if the fate of the world depended on it - then, yes. I would tell her."

Spike nodded. "Fair enough." He took a deep breath. "Was very close to my mum, all right? My father died when I was very young and she brought me up alone."

"This would be when?" Not that it really mattered, Giles thought, but he was curious, and Watcher records about Spike's human life had been scanty at best. There was even some uncertainty as to who exactly had sired him.

"Late eighteen hundreds." Spike's gaze had gone very inward looking, his lip lifted in a slight sneer, as if contemplating his human self gave him no pleasure. "Wasn't unusual, of course, at the time - a bloke in his twenties living with his mum - but she kept me close as a kid - was what was referred to back then as 'delicate' - an' when I grew up, I stayed close."

His gaze focused on Giles again. "Then, one of the few nights of the year that I did go out, I met Dru."

"Ah." So that answered that question.

Giles wasn't sure whether sympathy was in order or not at this point, so he kept his voice neutral. "Go on."

"One siring later," Spike said, "Dru's all ready to take me home and show me off to daddy - not that she told me that. But first things first."

He fell silent again, and after a moment, Giles prompted him, "Which would be?"

Spike grimaced. "Dru's a great believer in family tradition, see? Angelus killed his entire family when he was sired, so she thought I should do the same. Not that she told me that either. 'Spose she thought I'd work it out for myself. An' I did - after a fashion."

There was another silence, longer this time, while Spike looked at Giles expectantly.

"Ah," Giles said, at last, when yet again more information failed to be forthcoming. "I suppose you killed your mother?"

No wonder Spike was upset, he thought. If he'd been close to her, the memory of that long ago murder must have hit him especially hard after he got his soul back.

"Well, yeah," Spike said, after a moment, in a tone that implied that Giles was being stupid on purpose. "Goes without saying I killed her. But there's more."

Again, the expectant look, and this time there was a touch of desperation in it.

After a moment, Giles exclaimed, "Oh, I see."

He felt queasy suddenly. "You didn't just kill your mother, did you? You sired her."

Spike's face showed his relief at not having to spell it out. "S'right. She was sick, you see. Had TB - consumption, they called it back then - would've killed her soon enough, and probably me not long after. I thought...I thought if I turned her, she'd be cured. And we'd be together. Forever."

Giles's queasiness turned to astonishment. He'd never heard of such a thing. The human familial bond didn't endure past siring. Every Watcher knew that.

Except that in Spike's case, it apparently had.

Yet another corrective footnote to be added to the canon of Watcher lore.

Which no longer existed, Giles reminded himself.

"And what did Drusilla make of that idea?"

Spike gave him a lop-sided smile. "Not a lot. Don't think she fancied my mum tagging along with us wherever we went." His Adam's apple jerked again. "She needn't have worried, though."

It was clear that they'd reached the crux of the matter. As gently as he could, Giles prompted, "Go on."

Spike licked his lips. He looked away across the room once more, as if he couldn't meet Giles's eyes.

"Went back for mother the next night. She was cured all right. Not just of TB, but of...of me. Made it pretty clear I'd never been anything but a millstone around her neck and that she didn't fancy an eternity of the same."

His head drooped. "Then she said that to be rid of me she'd give me what she knew I'd always wanted - to crawl back inside her. And she...she..." He looked up, face stark with misery and shame. "She opened her gown, and...and offered herself to me."

Giles stared at him, lost for words. After a moment, he forced himself to ask,

"And did you...did you take up the offer?"

"What?" Spike gaped at him, as if he'd gone mad. "'Course not. What d'you bloody think I am? I dusted the evil old bitch. Then I left, telling myself I'd never look back."

His face twisted with anguish. "Not the bloody point, anyway. Don't you see? She always hated me. My own mother hated me. It was only convention that kept her from saying so while she was alive."

His gaze went inward again. "S'why I'm like I am. S'why I do what I do. I want women to love me the way I love them, but how's that possible when even my own mother couldn't stand me? So they reject me, because you bloody would, wouldn't you, and I get angry, and I hurt them. Over, and over, and over."

He met Giles's eyes again, solemn-faced. "So when Buffy told me she didn't want me any more I couldn't accept it and...well, you know what happened."

After that, there didn't seem to be anything else to say. Giles poured himself a third scotch and a second for Spike. Again, he held the glass to Spike's lips while he drank. He didn't offer to unchain him, and Spike didn't suggest it.

Giles glanced at his watch. It was two am. It must be nearly forty-eight hours now since he'd had any sleep.

Spike saw his gesture. "You should get some kip. I'll be all right like this. Just bring me a blanket."

Giles opened his mouth to say no, but he was too tired. All he could think about was stretching out on Robson's cramped, uncomfortable ottoman and sleeping until morning.

"I don't think I'm free of it," Spike said, suddenly, and Giles jumped. He'd almost nodded off again, he realised.

"The intangible bugger's hold," Spike went on. "I don't think it's broken."

"Oh dear." Giles couldn't think what else to say.

"Bummer, yeah?" Spike grimaced. "'Course, you could always put it to the test, if you want."

Giles thought of the feral emptiness he'd seen in Spike's eyes as recently as the early hours of this morning. He shuddered.

"Perhaps not just now."

Spike's shoulders slumped. "No." He watched as Giles levered himself up from the chair and made towards the kitchen door. "Think I know what will break it, though."

Giles paused with his hand on the door knob. "And what might that be?"

Spike's face was hollow and haunted in the fluorescent glare.

"Forgiveness," he said.

*

When Giles woke, it was still dark in the room. He lay for a moment, staring up at the ceiling, trying to remember where he was, and why his body ached so much. There was a dull throbbing in his knee, and his back was sore from lying on a hard surface.

Of course; Robson's wretched ottoman.

Surely, Giles thought, as he shifted his aching back, trying in vain to find a better position, a more uncomfortable item of furniture had never been invented. He couldn't explain otherwise why, after being so deadly tired, he'd woken again before morning.

Fumbling his glasses off the occasional table and onto his face, he peered at his watch in the gloom. Four am. This was ridiculous. He'd only been asleep for a couple of hours.

He sat up. Perhaps one of the armchairs would be better? Reaching out, he switched on the standard lamp, then jumped nearly out of his skin.

The chair he'd been planning to move into was already occupied.

"Hey, Giles," Buffy said. "How's it going?"

For one terrible moment, Giles thought it was really her, and his heart lurched in his chest. What was she doing here? Had something bad happened in Sunnydale?

He looked in the direction of the front door, expecting to see the makeshift barricade thrust aside. But everything was as it had been before they'd retired for the night.

He turned back, to regard the figure on the chair with cold fury.

"How dare you take on her likeness?"

The First laughed, in Buffy's voice. "Hey, she's died twice. Can if I wanna."

As it spoke, Giles realised the semblance was wearing the formal dress Buffy had been buried in after her fall from Glory's tower. He'd chosen it himself.

Somehow, this was the worst violation of all.

The First seemed to divine his thoughts. "Cute outfit, huh?" It gave Giles a coquettish smile. "I should let you dress me more often."

Giles's stomach lurched. The implication was all too clear.

He gritted his teeth. Don't let it provoke you!

"What do you want?"

The First put its hand on its chest. "Little me? Just wanna see how my guys are doing." It smirked. "My Watcher, my vampire..."

"I don't belong to you," Giles protested. "And neither does Spike."

The First's smirk grew broader. Giles hadn't thought Buffy's face could look so mean. "There's an old folk song - you know the one- that says different."

Giles opened his mouth to respond, but shut it again. He had no answer for that.

The mockery of Buffy grinned in triumph. "Poor little Spikey. He's set himself an impossible goal, hasn't he? You think she'll forgive him, Giles? You think she even should? I mean, I'm Ultimate Evil so I'm kind of fuzzy on the subject, but attempted rape is pretty bad, right?"

Giles only glared. "I am not discussing that...that incident with you."

"No, huh?" The First pouted a little. "But then you don't really know what happened, do you? Cuz he hasn't told you. Cuz he didn't dare."

It leaned forward, giving Giles back glare for glare. "You think you'd still have taken him into your home - into your damn bed - if you'd seen the bruises he left on her body?"

Giles resisted putting his hands over his ears, which were burning with shame and anger.

"You sent him to me," he gritted. "You wanted us to be intimate. Why did you do that, if this is what you think?"

The First only laughed - a sneering, unpleasant laugh, nothing like Buffy's.

"Oh hey," it said, "I don't care one way or the other who you boink. All I care about's causing as much pain and misery as I can. But that doesn't change the fact that you had sex with the guy who tried to rape your precious little Slayer, and Ultimate Evil - by which I mean me - called you on it. That's kind of rich, don't you think?"

Giles's skin crawled at the accusation. Again, he had no answer. Because it was true. All true.

"But it's not the first time you've betrayed her, is it?" the First sneered. "What about that Cruciamentum thing, huh? You poisoned her, took away her Slayer powers, almost got her killed. Fine father figure you are."

Giles put his head in his hands. This was unbearable.

The First laughed again. "And what about last year, when she came crawling back from the dead, all depressed and stuff? What'd you do that time? Walk out on her, that's what, because you were tired of playing nursemaid. When it comes to betrayal, Giles, you are a master. Couldn't have done it better myself."

Please stop, Giles wanted to say. Somehow or other, he managed to keep his mouth shut.

This was the First talking, he told himself. He had to remember that. Everything it said - even the truth - was lies and deceit.

But it was very cold comfort.

"Yeah," the First went on. "After what you did to her, it's no wonder she whored herself out to a vampire. Guess she thought she was pretty worthless. Picked herself a real prince, too, didn't she?"

Its tone dripped venom. So much so that Giles looked up again. The First's face was twisted and vicious. Suddenly, it didn't look like Buffy at all.

"And not just a rapist and murderer," the First hissed not so much at him as past him, "but a loser too. Pathetic, useless, can't even do evil right. I mean, what is with this getting a soul business? Who told him he could do that?"

It wasn't even looking at Giles now. Instead, its tirade appeared addressed only to itself.

"I'm Ultimate Evil," it snarled. "I'm the boss of him. Hell, I'm the boss of all vampires. But did he ask my permission? Did he hell!"

Its gaze focused on Giles again. The eyes - Buffy's eyes, and yet not - the green of poison.

"Also, just to be clear, I did not 'send him to you'." It made air quotes around the words. "Why would I? I mean, how dumb would I have to be, given how much of my precious time you two have already wasted? I did not make him come on to you either. And I sure as hell didn't make you say yes. You made the decision to betray your l'il Buffy by screwing him, all on your own."

It clapped its hands. "Good job."

Giles stared at the figment in astonishment. Could it really have just said what it had said? It might be trying to trick him again, of course, but a small voice seemed to whisper in his ear, "It's actually rather stupid, isn't it?"

"Hey, Giles," the First said, loudly, "pay attention. We're talking about what a fuck-up you are, remember?"

Its face became even more twisted and un-Buffy-like, as it snarled, "What's she gonna say, huh, your pathetic little Slayer whore, when you turn up at the Hellmouth hand in hand with her rapist? You think she'll be pleased to see you? You think she'll welcome you back with open arms?"

It laughed again. "More like it'll break her heart."

"Forgiveness!" The First seemed to swell, as if it could hardly contain its own malevolence. Its voice was a serpent hiss. "How could he be forgiven? He doesn't deserve it, and neither do you."

Giles looked at the First's distorted features - its twisted mockery of Buffy's face - of her entire being.

He laughed.

"You're wrong," he said. "But I'm not going to explain why, because I really can't be bothered arguing with you. In fact, if all you can do is sit there and sneer you're wasting both our time. I'd be obliged, thank you very much, if you'd bugger off and let me get some sleep."

The First blinked. For a moment, it deflated, looking genuinely taken aback at being talked to in such a fashion. Then, like the Meowlur demon bursting out of the body of poor Mrs Finch, it seemed to turn itself inside out, Buffy's face distorting out of all recognition, all teeth and screaming, like a black mouth leading to hell.

Then it was gone, its final words, still in that cruel parody of Buffy's voice, echoing in Giles's ears.

"Fine. Be like that. But you're still my guys - both of you. And, like it or not, you'll still do what I want."

*

Giles sat for a while, pondering what had just happened. At last, he got up and took all the remaining spare bedding out of the ottoman. It was a matter of moments to make up a bed of sorts on the floor. Then he went to the kitchen.

"Spike? Are you awake?"

Giles peered at the huddled figure on the chair.

"Wassat?" The figure sat up straighter. "Giles, that you?" Spike's voice was muzzy with sleep.

"Yes." Giles switched on the kitchen light. Kneeling at Spike's feet he began to unfasten the chains that bound his ankles.

"What're you doing?" Spike protested. "Thought we agreed s'best to leave me chained up."

"Perhaps." Giles hauled himself to his feet with an effort. His knee - the one he'd fallen on when Spike had pushed him clear of Griffiths' bullets - was stiff and painful. "I find it doesn't sit well with me, though. I would rather you slept with me."

Spike rubbed his wrists, where the heavy manacles had left red indentations in the flesh. "So you can keep an eye on me? S'pose it might be best."

"It might," Giles agreed. "But that's not what I meant. I want you by my side." He looked Spike straight in the eye. "Where you belong."

Spike's mouth dropped open. "Come again?"

His eyes narrowed. "Is that intangible fucker with the terrible taste in music messing with your head too now?"

Giles put a hand under Spike's elbow and urged him to his feet. The First might be listening, he thought.

Not that it mattered. Let it.

"After a fashion. Come with me, and I'll explain."

Taking Spike's cool hand in his, Giles led him into the living room. He drew Spike down onto the makeshift bed, the two of them lying side by side in the dark. Giles let go of Spike's hand, which was stiff and unresponsive. He could feel the tension emanating from Spike's body.

"Tell me, then," Spike said, out of the darkness. "'Cos if you don't mind my saying, this is all a bit weird."

Not that it was so dark now, Giles noted. The sky behind the blinds was growing pale. The traffic noise was louder too.

"As you surmised," he told Spike, "I had a visitation from the First. It appeared to me as Buffy."

Spike tensed. "But I thought..."

"Yes," Giles agreed, "it can only take on the form of the dead, but Buffy's been dead, remember? Twice, in fact. Something the First took great pleasure in reminding me of."

"That bastard!" Spike growled. "What did it want?"

"What it's wanted all along, I assume. To spread fear and distrust among its enemies, and to destroy the Slayer line." Giles could just make out Spike's face in the gloom. "But, in my opinion, it's afraid too."

Spike rolled onto his side and propped his head on his hand. "What of?"

"Of you, for a start," Giles told him.

"Me?" Spike reached out and switched on the lamp. He stared at Giles in blatant disbelief. "Why the bloody hell should it be afraid of its own puppet?"

"Because that's not all you are, is it?" Giles countered. "The First may tell itself that it knows you inside and out, but it doesn't. Any more than it knows Buffy, despite taking on her shape. For instance, it's of the opinion - or claims to be- that she'll never forgive you - that she, indeed, shouldn't."

Spike seemed to shrink a little. He looked away across the room. "Maybe it's not wrong."

Giles grabbed his face by the chin and forced him to look at him. "Maybe. But it's really not the First's to decide one way or the other, is it? Any more than it's mine. Or yours."

Spike blinked. "When you put it that way..."

"I do. Buffy herself must make the decision. And you've decisions to make of your own. If you want her to forgive you, Spike, you'll have to work for it. As you said yourself, words alone are meaningless."

The same applied to himself, Giles thought, but he wouldn't muddy the waters for Spike by mentioning that just now.

Spike gazed at him, solemn-faced. "Fine by me," he said. "Always was crap with words anyway."

"Glad to hear it, because tomorrow night, we're flying to California, and I see no point in you accompanying us if you're not prepared to make the effort."

"'Course I'm prepared," Spike protested. "Don't see how I can come with you, though. Can't fly, can I? Not without getting fried anyway."

"It's all arranged," Giles assured him. " You'll be travelling, cargo, Spike. It will be a relief to your grieving family, I'm sure, to have your body returned to them. Once it's light, I'll go and collect the travel documentation from my contact, then our mode of transport. Then I'll drive us to the airport."

Spike whistled softly. "Sounds like a bloody good contact if it can arrange all that."

"It is."

Giles didn't add that he'd had to pay through the nose for services rendered, and not just in cash. Spike doubtless knew how the demon black market worked and would understand what was involved.

But Spike was looking uncertain again.

"You really think this is a good idea? Can't just turn up at Buffy's house, can I? Not after...well, s'not like she's gonna want me around, is it? Also, what if I go bonkers on the journey - break the plane, or something, and kill everyone? This First bugger might think making me do that'd be a right hoot."

"It might," Giles agreed, "but I doubt it. Despite its rather blatant attempt to turn me against you again, I think it wants us - or rather, it wants you - in Sunnydale, near Buffy. In fact -"he grimaced, "-that's been its aim all along. But you see, Spike, you keep blindsiding it."

Spike frowned. "What do you mean?"

Giles smiled at him. "I mean that you keep doing things it doesn't want you to do. Going by what it said to me, it's outraged that you've acquired a soul, for one thing. It does seem like a bit of a slap in the face to ultimate evil, wouldn't you think, a vampire doing that?"

Spike pondered this a moment. "S'pose so," he conceded.

"In fact," Giles went on, "based on previous experience, the First appears to find the very existence of a being such as yourself - a vampire with a soul- an affront to the established order. The last time it surfaced, four years ago, it tried to get Angel to kill himself."

Spike raised an eyebrow. "Should've tried harder. Old Caveman Brow was still knockin' around last time I looked, more's the pity."

"That's not for you to say, is it?" Giles frowned in disapproval. "Buffy persuaded Angel to go on living. She told him he had to keep fighting - that he still had a part to play. I believe that the same is true of you, Spike. I believe the First thinks so too. Hence its desperate attempts to control you."

"You really think so?" Spike was gazing at him, expression ranging from hope to doubt and back again.

Giles nodded. "I do. The First wanted to make you its servant, so it played on your feelings about siring your mother - your shame, your fear of being unloved- and inserted the trigger in your brain. I daresay it meant you to return directly to Sunnydale, where it would sequester you in some dank basement and work its will on you, then use you in its quest to destroy the Slayer line. But instead, you came to me."

Spike chewed his lip. "Or maybe that's exactly what it wanted me to do? Bloody hell, Giles. We can't go on second-guessing this fucker."

Giles grimaced. Of course, it was possible that the First had been double-bluffing him, but what on earth would it gain from doing so?

"Maybe," he said. "But I doubt it. I think all that's happened since you came to me in Bath has been the First scrambling to keep up. It has to use the material to hand, after all. In our case, it tried to separate us, that didn't work, so it decided to keep us together but on its terms. After that, it's been busy herding us in the direction it wants us to go."

"So," Spike mused, "in that tunnel under Watchers' HQ, when we found we couldn't turn back to warn your Watcher mates, and when I said I thought it wanted us to see that bloody great hole full of dynamite, I was right all along, was I?"

"Indubitably." Giles nodded. "It wanted us out of there and on our way to Sunnydale. Quite possibly, shooting you in the head and taking you to Watchers' HQ is the only time I've done the complete opposite of what suited it."

No wonder, he thought, that the First had taken the time and effort to taunt him with his helplessness in face of the coming catastrophe.

Spike frowned. "But if it wants you to take me to Sunnydale, why the bloody hell are you doing it?"

Giles patted his shoulder. "Because, like I said, it thinks it knows you, but it doesn't. It doesn't know Buffy either. I think it's in for a shock."

Spike's eyes glistened. He turned his head away. "God, Giles, I hope you're right."

"I am." Giles wondered even as he spoke at his own certainty. "Now, if you're quite finished feeling sorry for yourself, I'd rather like to kiss you."

*

Spike's eyes widened in surprise, but his lips parted to let Giles's tongue enter. His eyelids flickered closed. He sighed into Giles's mouth, and his fingers dug into Giles's back.

Giles clutched Spike closer. Spike's leg slid over his. For a moment, they strained against each other, groin to groin. But then Spike's leg fell back onto the bedding. A moment later, Giles's hands fell away from his shoulders.

They broke apart, staring at each other.

"What's the matter?" Giles asked, at last.

Spike gazed at him, blue eyes bleak. "Would you believe me if I said it's not you, it's me?"

"I see."

He'd been a fool, Giles thought. He'd allowed his relief at the First's unintended revelation to override his better judgement. It was too late to go back. Too late for both of them. And maybe, despite the longing he'd seen in his eyes earlier, Spike didn't want to.

"I'm sorry." Giles sat up, then made to get to his feet. "I shouldn't have...Spike, I'm sorry. I've been an absolute bloody idiot. You sleep here. I'll go back on the ottoman."

But Spike grabbed his hand. "It's not that. God, Giles, it's not that I don't want to, for fucks' sake. There's nothing I want more." He raised Giles's hand to his mouth and kissed his bent knuckles. "I wanna roll on my belly for you. I want you to fuck my brains out. But...I can't. I just..." He shook his head. "Oh, fuck!"

Giles took slow breaths, forcing his body back under control, which, after what Spike had just said, was somewhat difficult. At last, he lay down again, put his arm around Spike and drew him close.

"I understand," he said, because it was blindingly obvious. "It's because of Buffy, isn't it?"

Spike nodded. "I just can't. Not until..." he drew a ragged breath. "Not until we've beaten this First fucker and she's forgiven me. If she ever does."

Giles looked deep into his eyes. "Are you still in love with her?"

Spike's gaze was steady. "Even if I am, it doesn't matter. That's over. I know it. Giles, I wouldn't touch her, I swear. I won't go near her - won't even speak to her, if she doesn't want me to."

"Good." Giles noticed that he hadn't answered the question.

Spike frowned. "I mean it, Giles. I want to be with you. But I have to earn that too. I came to you because I wanted you to look after me - stop me from hurting anyone again, the way I hurt Buffy. But I see now that's all bollocks. Only one's gonna stop me hurting people is me. An' until I get my head straight, I'm no good to anyone."

They stared at each other again. The room was light enough now that Giles could see without the lamp on.

"And when you have 'got your head straight', as you put it?"

"I'm yours," Spike said, simply. "If you still want me?"

Not too late after all, Giles thought. More like too soon?

Not just for Spike. For both of them.

There was a long silence. Outside, the sound of traffic had become insistent. Bright daylight spilled through the gap in the curtains.

Giles took Spike's face in his hand, leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth, until he felt Spike's cool lips warm against his.

At last, he let go, smiling at Spike, who gazed back at him with lips parted and wondering eyes.

"I hope that answers your question."

*

Giles pulled in to the kerb. For a moment, he sat with the engine running, using the side mirrors to look up and down the street. There was no one in sight, and after a moment, he turned off the ignition.

The envelope of precious documents lay beside him on the front passenger seat. Giles picked it up, opened the van door and climbed down onto the pavement.

It was still light, but shadows were gathering, clustered under trees and in doorways. When Giles looked up, the blinds on Robson's flat were closed, no chink of light escaping them. All seemed peaceful, and yet...

Giles shivered. A knot of unease was coiled tight in his belly, and no amount of telling himself that the First wanted him to take Spike and the girls back to Sunnydale and therefore a Bringer attack at this juncture was very unlikely could make it go away.

He opened the back door of the van, to check its contents a final time. One cheap pinewood coffin, lined with hessian, all ready for its occupant. Spike would be provided with blankets, of course, but travelling in such a fashion would be a big test of his resolve.

Giles closed and locked the van doors, and turned to enter the flat. But as he did so, his eye was caught by a blur of movement far down the street. For a moment, he thought it was his eyes playing tricks, but then the shadow under one of the trees resolved itself into the cowled form of a Bringer.

It stood, staring in Giles's direction, as if its sightless eyes could see him. Sunset light gleamed on the blade in its hand. Then, it stepped back into the shadows and was gone again, like ink poured back into the bottle.

Giles realised he was holding his breath and let it go. All at once, the mild evening light seemed sinister and full of menace. Clutching the envelope close to his chest, he hurried off the street and up the stairs to the flat.

*

"You look like you've seen a ghost. What happened?" Spike's voice was accusing. "Bloody idiot, goin' out on your own. Should've waited till it was dark so I could've come with you."

Giles waited until they were safely inside and Spike had piled the barricade back into place before answering. Seeing the Bringer lurking outside had rattled him thoroughly- a threat, or a warning, he wasn't sure which - and he needed a moment to calm himself.

"That wouldn't have helped me if a certain song had started playing, would it?" he said, at last.

Spike frowned. "Thought you said this First bugger wants us together, if only so you can take me back to old Sunnyhell. Thought you said it wouldn't do anything to us until we get there?"

Giles put the envelope down on the hall table. "I still think that. But, as it told me itself, it has many strings to its bow. I daresay it would still have found a way to get you where it wants you, even with me out of the picture."

Spike hunched his shoulders. "S'pose. When're we goin', then?"

Giles glanced at his watch. "There's a van outside with your...er, mode of transport in it. The flight's not till ten thirty, but we should leave at once. Is everyone packed?"

Spike grimaced. "Yeah, about that. While you were out, there was this phone call, see, an' your mate Robson..."

But he was interrupted by Robson himself, looking a great deal better. Almost cheerful, in fact. He gave Spike a deprecating glance, as if to say, it's not your story to tell.

"There you are, Rupert. I have news for you. Would you mind stepping into the kitchen a moment?"

Giles glanced at Spike, who shrugged helplessly.

"Of course," Giles said, to Robson.

He followed Robson through the living room, where Molly and Annabelle were sitting together on the ottoman, flicking through a magazine, and Norah was at a small table polishing Robson's collection of brass ornaments. The bloodstains on the parquet were gone, Giles noted. In fact, the whole flat had been cleaned.

Rather a waste of time in the circumstances, perhaps, but if it had kept Norah busy, that was a good thing.

Norah gave Giles a defiant glare as he went by. Her mouth was set into a stubborn line.

The niggle of unease started up in Giles's stomach again, which only increased when Robson closed the kitchen door behind them.

"All went well, I hope?"

Giles nodded. "I have the documentation - passports, tickets, visas. Unfortunately, I also have first- hand experience that the Bringers are still around."

Robson frowned. "You saw one?"

Giles nodded. "Right outside. I think it was watching the flat. The sooner we leave here, Charles, the better."

"Yes, indeed," Robson said. Then, all in a rush, "I should tell you, though, that I shan't be coming with you."

For a moment, Giles thought he hadn't heard right. "I beg your pardon?"

Robson looked contrite. "I'm sorry. I know it means more responsibility on your shoulders, but I'm afraid I can't leave. Not now."

Giles sat down at the kitchen table. He gazed at Robson in astonishment. "But why the bloody hell not?"

He leaned forward earnestly. "It's not safe here, Charles. You said so yourself. The Bringers are outside right this very moment. It's only a matter of time before they break in again, and I doubt anything we could do would keep them out."

"I know all that," Robson said, equably. "But I had a telephone call, you see. From Nigel's mother. He's alive."

Giles stared. "De Souza's mother called you?"

Robson nodded. "He never told her about us. Said she wouldn't understand, and of course I respected his wishes and kept quiet. She thinks we're just friends, which is why she phoned me. He's in St Thomas's - unconscious and badly hurt. She needs my support, Rupert, so of course, I said I would come at once."

Giles thought of Lydia. Might she be alive too?

"What about the others?" he asked. "Does she know about any of them?"

Robson shook his head. "I'm afraid not, but since I'm staying I'll endeavour to find out."

It was on the tip of Giles's tongue to tell Robson what De Souza had done to him. To say to him that if he thought this act of kindness to his mother would make De Souza love him back, he was in for a rude awakening.

But it seemed too cruel. Not to mention dismissive of Robson's gentlemanly urge to support Mrs De Souza at a difficult time.

He must say something, though. Not least because he now understood the expression on Norah's face.

"You do realise, don't you, that if you stay, Norah will want to stay too?"

Robson grimaced. "She's already intimated as much. Perhaps it might even be better if we travel separately? She seems to have rather taken against your vampire, and she doesn't get on very well with the other two girls."

He looked faintly embarrassed. "Spike leads me to understand that you and he have...as it were, reconciled?"

"Er...yes," Giles agreed. "I suppose we have." He frowned. "Really, Charles, aren't you being rather cavalier about this? If Norah stays here, she will be unprotected apart from yourself. If - when the Bringers attack again...well, do you really want that on your conscience?"

Robson shook his head. "Of course not. Believe me, Rupert, I've tried to persuade her she should go. But she won't have it. And I really don't see you faring any better. What choice is there, short of knocking her unconscious and bundling her into the coffin with Spike?"

Giles opened his mouth, then shut it again.

It was, he realised, the same dilemma that Griffiths had faced. And just as then, there were no palatable choices. It was either force Norah to go with them against her will - and, as Robson had said, Giles wasn't sure how that was to be accomplished - or leave her, and save what he could.

"Please, Charles. I beg you to reconsider."

But Robson shook his head. "I'm sorry, Rupert. My mind's made up. In fact, even if Mrs De Souza hadn't called me, I would have stayed anyway."

"What?" Giles gaped at him."But why, man, why?"

Robson gazed at him, solemn-faced. "I'm a Watcher," he said, simply.

The words resonated inside Giles's skull. He'd heard them before, and recently too.

Of course, he thought. Griffiths.

"Robson's a Watcher," Griffiths had said, contrasting him with Giles. "Unlike you, he still believes."

"I understand it's different for you, Rupert," Robson was saying. "You have a personal relationship with the Slayer, and she needs you. But it's our duty to ascertain how many of our comrades survived the explosion, help them where possible, and pass on information to other Watchers still in the field. So one of us must stay here."

Giles thought of the Bringer in the shadows under the trees. With Spike on his way to Sunnydale, there was no reason why it should hold back.

He shook his head.

"I disagree, Charles. You'll die, and for nothing."

Robson only looked grave.

"You can leave us our passports and visas," he said. "Once I've done what I can for any other survivors and made sure that Nigel's mother will be all right, Norah and I will follow you. I must say, I'm rather looking forward to it. Never seen an actual Hellmouth."

"I'll hold you to that," Giles said, against his better judgement.

*

Giles let the blind drop. The van stood where he'd left it. No sign of any Bringers outside at the moment. They should leave while the coast was still clear, he thought. Just one thing left to do before they went.

He turned back into the room, looking from Molly and Annabelle, already standing by the door, to Norah, her hand threaded defiantly through Robson's arm. To Spike, who was staring back at him, a troubled expression on his face.

Spike thrust his hands in his pockets, and crossed the room to stand by Giles.

"Not sure I can do this," he said.

Giles frowned. Not Spike too!

"What do you mean?"

Spike glanced over his shoulder, then lowered his voice. "Like I said last night, I can't just turn up at Buffy's house, can I? Wouldn't be right. Anyway, she'd slam the door in my face - maybe even stake me. An' she'd be right to."

"That's true," Giles agreed. "Just as well I was about to call her, isn't it?"

He reached for the phone.

Spike looked panicked. He put his hand down over the receiver. "No, please..."

"Spike." Giles looked at him. When Spike didn't move his hand, despite the others in the room, Giles leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth. "You know we have to."

Giles ignored Robson's embarrassed little 'harumph!' and the gasps of surprise from the three girls. He ignored, too, the tittering that followed from Molly's and Annabelle's direction. His feelings for Spike weren't going anywhere, and there was a long journey ahead. Best to let them get used to it.

The phone rang several times before anyone answered it. Giles glanced at his watch. It was early in California, but still a school day. Buffy should be up, if only to get Dawn up.

"Hello?"

Buffy's voice. Giles's heart leapt at the sound. It had been so long, and he'd missed her so much.

How had he not realised that before?

"Buffy? It's Giles. How are you?"

"Hey, Giles." Buffy sounded pleased to hear him too. "I'm fine. Well, when I say fine, a lot of freaky stuff is happening. Same old, same old, I guess. How's it going with you?"

The First's mocking tones echoed through Buffy's voice, but now he heard the real thing, there was no mistaking them, Giles thought. None.

"Things are rather...er, freaky here too," he told her. "I'm catching a flight later this evening, Buffy. I shall see you tomorrow."

"You're coming back?" Buffy exclaimed. "Glad to hear it, Giles, 'cuz when I say freaky, I mean hinky and strange, and weird as all get-out. Does From beneath you, it devours mean anything to you? Evil things keep saying it to me, and it's weirding me out big-time."

The knot of unease in Giles's belly tightened. Not that Buffy's words had surprised him.

"There's a wrongness spreading through the earth," the First had said.

It hadn't lied then either.

"I'll explain everything when I get there," he told Buffy. "Also, just so you know, I won't be alone. I'll have three companions, one of whom wants to speak to you. You may be shocked when you realise who it is, and I know that talking to him will be difficult for you. But I ask you, as a favour to me, to hear him out."

"Huh!" Buffy said. "You've gotten me seriously intrigued now, Giles."

Her voice took on a note of caution. "It's not that Quentin Travers guy, is it, cuz I can do without that first thing in the morning?"

"No," Giles assured her. "It's not Travers."

He reached out as he spoke and grabbed Spike's hand in his, arresting his headlong flight away from the phone. "Here."

Spike took the handset from him. He was shaking all over, like a man in a fever. But he held the handset to his ear and took a deep breath.

"Hello, Buffy. It's me."

THE END