Giles had crawled as far as he could into the shadows, retreating from the sunlight, tangling himself up in chains and bloodied sheets until he could go no further. His world was nothing but a shiver of pain and confusion. His body screamed enough and his soul howled as the darkness slowly strangled it. He was in deep and drowning, going down for the third time, immersed in foulness, floundering for direction and knowing he was fighting a losing battle.

The light had come, just he’d prayed – and the light had been pain, a searing rejection of his flesh, a denial of what remained of his humanity. Agony flared across his back, down his arms, along his legs, the burgeoning blades finally freed to cut the air, opening his skin all the way to the bone. The cold gnawed at him, eating into his existence, numbing everything but the endless clamouring fire of the steel that shaped and reshaped him, inside and out.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to deny the world, deny himself, deny time and existence both, needing to retreat and having nowhere to go.

He was nothing, He was empty. He was going to crack – and yet he held on, a stubborn, hopeless defiance, praying for it to end, praying for it to be over.

And still refusing to let go.

Someone came to stand over him. Came to stare down at his huddle of misery, his shivering, foetal crouch around which the blades had blossomed like some obscene flower. Light caressed him – a light so bright it was pleasure and it was pain all at once. He was past caring now, but there was something about that light that tugged at him, that dragged his beleaguered soul up from the sucking pit that had engulfed it. He opened his eyes reluctantly, wincing as the brilliance pierced his lids and stabbed its way into his perceptions. There was a figure outlined in the light; a figure cut from purple and gold, wreathed in glory and draped in angel wings.

Perhaps he was dreaming.

Perhaps this was where the madness began.

Perhaps this was the answer to his desperate prayers.

"Kill me," he begged. "Please … 

Salamiel fled deeper into his fortress, the son of Zeus and a furious Slayer hard on his heels. He scrambled up crumbling stairways, scurried over dizzying walkways and loped through endless rooms and passages, darting into and out of the light, never entirely escaping it, still driven by anger and pain. They never quite lost sight of him, despite the odd misstep and the twisting turns of his route. One time Buffy slipped and stepped on thin air, nearly falling but for the hasty snatch of a demi-god’s hand; he tugged and she went flying, gaining ground in a directed tumble that lifted her back to her feet barely yards behind their quarry. Hercules leapt after her, ignoring the suspect support of the decaying bridge to somersault the yawning gap and hit the ground running. They fell back into step, his long, easy strides matched by her determined pounding paces. They had to catch the demon. Catch him before he found refuge in the dark, or advantage in a hostage at the end of the trail.

It was a frenzied chase.

Buffy went on running, despite the agony of drawing breath. Each intake filled her lungs with ice. Each expiration seared her throat with fire. Her feet pounded hard on cold stone, sending jarring impacts up her legs, and the sword was a lead weight in her hands. But she was the Slayer. This was what she’d trained for, what she’d prepared for. Her eyes were fixed on her prey and her focus was absolute. There was nothing but the chase, nothing but the need to catch him, nothing but him in her thoughts and her mind –

Well, that and the endless replay of Giles’ gentle advice, his encouragement, his patient – and not so patient – training, his mantras and his words of wisdom running through her head, over and over, like a litany. Like one of those cheesy montages they always used in TV shows whenever the hero went after the bad guy who’d killed his best friend …

Another angled stairway, spilling into nothing at the top. A leap and then a scramble down, past tumbled stone, past broken archways, along another battlement, Hercules finding his second wind and beginning to pull past her, to close the gap with a determination that fired her own. Still the demon evaded them, diving down a spiralling twisted slope, round a corner – and in through a recessed, hidden door.

Buffy was first through the gap, charging in without a thought. Hercules was right behind her – and nearly collided with her as she came to an abrupt, startled halt, faced with the tableaux that lay inside the room.

Iolaus was there, crouched on the far side of the room, the light of his wings driving darkness out of the shadowed curve that lay beneath the broken roof. Salamiel was crawling towards him, his blades extended and his voice uttering soft, guttural curses. And there – under the angel’s hand, huddled and shivering, was an impossible figure – a virtual echo of the Incandescent, wreathed in matching steel, torn, bruised and painted with blood.

"Giles?"

It was the very last thing she’d expected. Despite everything Salamiel had said, despite the hints he’d dropped and the horrors she’d imagined, she had never come to this; to bear witness to her mentor – her friend – tormented, corrupted, and remade in a demon’s image.

The heir to the demon himself …

"He’s still with us," Iolaus announced, his own voice thick with horror. "Just. I’m holding onto him Buffy – but I need your help."

"No!" Salamiel lunged forward, pushing the angel away from his captive with determined strength. Iolaus went flying, slamming into the wall with painful impact. The stone shook and pieces of it tumbled down to shatter on the flagstones. "You can’t have him," the demon crooned, his eyes alight with pain and madness. "He’s mine. My freedom. My gift to the world …" He reached for the huddled figure possessively, wrapping him in a protective embrace.

"You bastard," Buffy swore, torn between horror, disgust – and agonised pity. She took a step forward, lifting the sword, feeling her heart splinter with pain. "Giles …"

He heard her.

Deep and drowning, clinging to the last fragments of his sanity, shredding his soul on the angel’s light in preference to the darkness that devoured him, Rupert Giles heard the voice of desperate love and answered it.

"Buffy?" The word was barely a breath. Salamiel hissed and turned to glare at her – just as his victim, dragged to awareness by a summons he could not ignore, recognised the creature that held him so closely. Giles let out a wordless cry of pain – and struck out blindly, slamming his forearm hard against his tormentor’s chest, trying to push him away, denying him with all his heart.

A pointless, useless gesture from a broken man – but a savage, deadly blow from the demon he had become. No other blade could have pierced that armoured breast with such precision. No earthly steel could have stabbed the demon’s heart, or ripped through his flesh with such certainty. The Incandescent let out a gasp of outrage and pain. He looked down; down at the silvered steel embedded between his ribs – and his face creased in total confusion. "Rupert?" he questioned in soft astonishment. "I – I gave you everything. Don’t you understand? I made you. In my image, I made you …"

He pushed the man’s arm away, pulling out the blades, opening bright wounds from which the blood welled, shimmering and gleaming. Gently, so gently as to deny all his darker nature, he tugged the heavy ring from his middle finger and slid it onto the hand he held captive in his own. "My freedom," he whispered, reaching to stroke the tortured man’s dark hair. Then, very softly, almost too softly to hear, he said: "Thank you …"

And fell.

Limp and lifeless his body tumbled down the shallow steps, his blades clattering against the stone and gouging pieces of them away. Released from his will, the last of his power surged out of him like fire; there was the briefest, blinding flare of light – and then he was gone, consumed by his own Incandescence, nothing left but a soft, drifting ash – and a few bright, fading splashes of blood against the stone.

Buffy blinked, clearing the after images from her eyes.

"Whoa," she said. "That was unexpected. Giles!" She threw the sword away and flew to her friend’s side, going to her knees – and then hesitating, unsure of just where or how to touch him. Across the room, Hercules was busy helping his partner to his feet, dusting down his wings and making sure nothing was broken.

"No time for that, Herc," Iolaus said a little dazedly, leaning on a proffered arm and nodding at the huddled figure under Buffy’s hand. "We still have a soul to save."

"She called me back." Giles considered softly, studying the ring on his finger, polishing the stone with his thumb. "Iolaus gave me his fire - used it to strengthen and cleanse my soul - but it was Buffy that kept me anchored while he did it. It was her voice that guided me out of the dark. Her love that brought me home."

"Amen to that," Angel said, just as softly – and just as fervently. The storyteller lifted his eyes and met the vampire’s gaze; the look that passed between them spoke soul to soul.

"Go Buffy," Cordelia approved happily. "And go Giles. I’m kinda glad you didn’t go all – big bad and ugly on us. That woulda been just weird, you know?"

"Yes," Wesley agreed dryly. "Rupert Giles, destroyer of worlds – doesn’t exactly have a ring to it, does it."

Lorne snorted. "Huh!" he said. "Try Ripper – Demon prince of Malador. Scares me. Come on guys. He just told you. He killed the Incandescent. This man – demon – man – right here. Killed him. Stone dead. He is dead, right?"

"Right," Giles agreed, with a slightly embarrassed smile. "Not entirely intentionally, I have to say. Still," he added thoughtfully. "Better him than me, I suppose. Or him and me, which would have been worse. Much worse …"

"I wonder where they are with the tacos," Cordelia said, glancing at her watch. "They’ve been ages. And I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m hungry." She leapt to her feet. "Anyone fancy an oreo while we’re waiting?"

Giles watched her bounce into the kitchen with a wry, indulgent expression on his face. "I bare my soul to her," he sighed, "and she feels like eating oreos." He chuckled softly. "Some things never change."

Angel’s glance after his colleague was just as indulgent. "I hope some things never do," he said. "Just one thing – didn’t you say that Salamiel was the only one who could open the portal out of Malador? How did you get home?"

"Mmm?" Giles was still watching Cordelia. "Oh – ah, yes, I did, didn’t I. Well – Salamiel … or his heir. Xander helped Hercules figure it out." He smiled. "He’d been working on the problem for a while …"

"I don’t get it. I just don’t get it," Hercules said - for possibly the third, or fourth time. Iolaus sighed, resting his weary head back against the support of cold stone.

"If you don’t get it big guy, I doubt the rest of us will. What in Gaia’s name are you talking about?"

"The realm." The son of Zeus paced back from his watch on the walls and managed to encompass the entire dimension in a single gesture. "It’s still here."

"And that’s a bad thing, because? " Xander prompted, eyeing him worriedly. He was huddled up at the foot of the throne, wrapped in several of the blankets he’d found, his back to Buffy so that they could share a little of their mutual warmth. She was sitting on the steps, also draped in blankets, cradling a sleeping man on her lap. Or a demon, if you wanted to be pedantic about it. She couldn’t quite get her head around that concept. Giles was just – Giles. No matter what had happened to him.

"Because it shouldn’t be." Hercules perched himself on the arm of the throne, reaching to check that yet another of the blankets was safely tucked around his partner. Iolaus grimaced at him, but didn’t protest the fuss. "This is a – self contained hell dimension, right?"

"Right," Xander nodded. "There’s another kind?"

"Most of the pit is connected in one way or another," Iolaus explained, his voice sounding as tired as the rest of him. "In some places the walls between the planes are so thin that you can walk straight through. Almost without noticing. Go straight up," he added, pointing in the relevant direction, "and eventually you’ll reach the Light. There is this – buffer zone, in between. The one the archangels patrol. But there’s more or less free reign moving between the rest of the infernal planes. Now, Tarterus and Elysium," he went on, getting into lecturing mode, "Olympus, T’ir Na Nog, and some of those other places, they sit alongside the outer planes, in a different continuum. Realms of the gods. They have doorways in and out, but not so many, and not always in obvious places."

"Giles ought to be awake," Xander muttered sotto voce. "He’d love this …"

"He needs to sleep," Buffy countered bleakly. "I don’t think he’s slept for days."

"The thing is," Hercules interrupted pointedly, "this isn’t one of those places. Nor it is directly connected with the infernal planes. Now, there are pocket dimensions like this – usually created by a being, or beings of great power as a personal living space. Theory suggests that the realms of the gods started that way – and will revert to that if the power of the divinities concerned wane below their ability to sustain a greater realm. And that’s what I’m worried about."

"Olympus is safe enough," Iolaus said, rolling his eyes with a hint of indulgent impatience. "Your family are written into every piece of Western philosophy going. They’ve got greater influence now than they ever had."

"I’m not talking about Olympus," Hercules sighed, cuffing his partner affectionately on his shoulder. "I’m talking about here. This place – this prison, is - was - sustained by Salamiel’s power. It reflects his madness. The Malumbra might have the collective will to keep the place stable, but I doubt it. They’re rather single minded for that kind of subtlety. Salamiel is dead. His power is expended. So why isn’t the realm tearing itself apart?"

"They do that?" Xander asked with a worried squeak in his voice. "Us with it?"

"Well," the son of Zeus considered, leaning his own weight against the stone, " I was rather hoping that the disturbances would be great enough to open the walls a crack or two. Let us slip out. Even if we’d ended up in another dimension, we could have found our way back to the material plane. We’ve done that before," he added confidently. Iolaus groaned.

"Oh, don’t remind me," he said with decided feeling. "I died twice on that trip, Herc. I don’t want to be doing that again."

"That was another option," Hercules admitted – not entirely seriously. Iolaus hoiked his hand out of his blanket and hit him. Hard.

Xander stared at them both. "Ah – " he offered, a little nervously. "Guys? I’d prefer a non-death choice, if you’ve got one. Mortal soul here. Not built for – dying and stuff. And Buffy – " he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Twice is – more than enough, right?"

"Right," she echoed, although her heart wasn’t entirely in it. She pulled Giles in a little closer, concerned at how cold he seemed to be. There was no warmth in his skin, and his face was pinched and pale.

Hercules looked up at the sky. The light from the sunstone was still bright, and some of the cloud cover seemed to have dissipated a little. "There’s no sign of instability," he said. "And unless there is – we haven’t got a chance of opening that door. The stone will give us, maybe, six, seven hours before it starts to go dark. And once it goes dark …"

"The Malumbra come back," Xander concluded gloomily. "Oh – that’s just great, isn’t it. Locked in here with a bunch of dead demons, a angel with flat batteries, a demi-god out of options, and a whole slew of ghosts – oh, I made a really intelligent decision stepping through that door, now didn’t I."

"Xander -" Buffy entreated softly. He put up his hand to silence her.

"No," he said, "I’m having my say, okay? If I’m going to die here – which is looking more and more likely – then I need to know it was worth it. That my life, and the one I was going to share with Anya, and the new project I’m due to start next week – that all of that, was worth being here, right now. I mean – we beat the bad guy, right? We stopped him taking anymore of those kids. Doing – what he did to them." Buffy winced. She’d caught a glimpse of the fragile corpse Hercules had carried away to bury, and that had been more than enough to twist her heart. Xander had found a whole room of them; an experience he’d be wrestling with for months to come. It hadn’t helped that, by opening the room, he’d seemingly released the children’s spirits, which appeared to have been as trapped as their bodies had been. Nightmares weren’t in it. They were talking major therapy here. Almost as much – she glanced down at the man in her arms … No. Nowhere near that much.

"We saved Giles, right? Saved his soul, even if he – well, if he – did inherit some of whatisnames particular spikiness, and stuff. He’s still Giles, isn’t he? I mean – if we didn’t do all that, and he’s going to wake up prince of this realm and start – "

"That’s it!" Hercules exclaimed, leaping off the throne and clapping Xander on the shoulder with enthusiasm. "Xander, you’re a genius."

"Thanks," the young man responded bemusedly. "Ow."

"Sorry," the son of Zeus apologised. "Buffy – remember what Salamiel said, just before he died? What he did?"

"He said – thank you," she recalled, still shivering from the memory of it. He nodded.

"Yes – but before that. Remember? He said – I gave you everything. And then he gave Rupert that ring …"

"Yes. This ring," she confirmed, gently pulling chilled fingers out from their sheltering blanket and lacing them with her own. "I’d forgotten all about it."

"That," Hercules told her with a relieved smile on his face, "is the Eye of Harmony. That’s how we’re going to get home."

"You know how to use it?"

"No." His smile didn’t diminish in the least. It was a rather nice smile. Reassuring. Comforting. "I don’t need to. Rupert will."

"Giles? But – I don’t understand. He’s not – we stopped all that. He’s safe. Isn’t he?"

"More than safe," Iolaus assured her, leaning forward to stare at his partner in bemusement. "After everything we did? He’s got more angel fire in his soul than you have, Buffy – and that’s more than you think. Where are you going on this, Herc? He’s not the Incandescent."

"No," Hercules countered. "But he is his heir. Look around you. Look at the realm, Iolaus. Feel it. It’s stable. The storm clouds have settled, the air is calm – I even think it’s getting a little warmer. At least where the sun’s been shining. Malador has a prince. A mortal prince, with angel fire in his soul. Don’t you see? Salamiel gave him his inheritance before the corruption was complete. That’s why there’s been no dimensional breakdown."

"Whoa," Iolaus reacted. "Come on, Herc. Maybe there’s something in that, but - there’s a big step between technicality and reality. He’s no more a demon than I am."

"And you’re an Archon who’s been in exile from the Light for over two thousand years. Don’t start talking technicalities, Iolaus. The rules are the rules. That’s how the whole thing works. That’s why Buffy’s the Slayer, you’re my guardian angel – and Xander owes us both a pizza."

"I do?"

"You do," Hercules assured him. "Iolaus likes anchovies on his half."

"Oh." Xander looked decidedly bemused. "Okay. Extra crispy, or thick crust?"

"Guys," Buffy interjected. "If you’re right – then you’re saying he can open the door? Just like that?"

"Just like that," Hercules affirmed. "All he’ll need to do is think about where we need to be. Buffy – we have to leave. The Malumbra won’t be held back by the light forever. And the cold will kill us, even if they don’t. Rupert needs to be somewhere warm, somewhere safe. And so do both of you. I know you don’t want to wake him. I don’t want to wake him. But we’re going to have to. Just for a moment or two."

She hesitated, looking down at the pale figure in her lap. It had cost nearly all of Iolaus’ strength to exorcise the darkness which had been fighting for the Englishman’s soul. The Archon had had nothing left to spare to heal the hurts which echoed the days of torment Giles had been subjected to. If she woke him, it would be like finding himself still in a nightmare. Still chilled to the bone. Still in pain.

But safe in her arms …

"Giles," she murmured softly, giving him a little shake. "Giles, can you hear me? I need you to come back for a while. To be strong just a moment longer."

"Buffy?" His voice was faint, barely a breath. But he opened his eyes, blinking a little owlishly in the pale sunlight. She blinked back. There was a distinct tint of violet lurking within what had been hazel depths. "So cold," he murmured, looking up at her with clouded, pain filled eyes. His body was shivering. "So tired …"

"I know." She squeezed his hand, feeling her heart turn over at his helpless pain. This was too much to ask. "And you need to rest. But it’s a just a moment. Something I need you to do."

He smiled at her – a faint, wan echo of his usual, patient smiles. "There’s always something more," he complained, without heat, without hint of reproach. Just his quiet, confident love. "I’ll try to - rise to the occasion …"

"Uh – don’t do that," she said hastily. It had taken a great deal of persuasion to get him to close the blades and sheath the back spikes which now lay hidden beneath his skin. Doing so had hurt him terribly. Opening them up again would be even worse. "Just – um – think of Willow, will you? Willow and Tara, waiting for us? Back in Sunnydale? Can you do that?"

"Willow?" His eyes lost their focus for a moment. "She’s been helping herself to herbs again. In the shop. Thinks I don’t notice. Silly girl. God job we buy more than we need …" He broke off with a shiver, distracted by a resurgence of pain. "You think she knows any – healing spells?"

"Lots," Buffy assured him. The stone in the ring was glowing softly. "If you just think of her – find her – I’ll get her to cast every spell she knows …"

He nodded wearily, closing his eyes again to do what she’d asked. The glow in the stone grew brighter – and silently, without warning, without fuss, the portal shimmered open, spilling in the warmth of a Californian night.

"Time to go," Hercules announced, reaching down to scoop the injured man up into his arms. A bare moment later, they were standing in a Sunnydale graveyard, bathed in witchlight. Giles gave a deep and weary groan - and went completely limp, slipping back into the depths of oblivion. Buffy glanced back with sudden concern – but the portal had vanished as if it had never been there.  

"Buffy let me stay at her house for a while," Giles concluded matter of factly. "I was ill for most of it. My body - took some time to adjust. Hercules and Iolaus hung around as long as they could – but, they had to go in the end. They got their pizza from Xander, though. He – ah – ordered a dozen one night. All with extra toppings. We sat around and we watched some hokey movie or other. That was weird," he said, recalling the moment with a bemused frown. "The son of Zeus prefers light beer and his guardian angel can eat olives, anchovies and jalapenos all on the same piece of pizza. I used to think Xander had a cast iron stomach …"

Wesley frowned at his friend, only too aware of the hints he’d been dropping earlier on. My body took some time to adjust … How much longer had it taken for the man himself to come to terms with what had been done to him? What agonies had he suffered in the long night of his transformation? And how do you face the reality of inheriting a piece of hell – when your whole life has been spent opposing the very forces you might now be numbered among?

He opened his mouth to ask a question – only to be interrupted by the sound of the outer door, spilling further company into the hotel. Fred came in laughing happily; Gunn struggled in behind her, his arms laden with a filled box – and between them, adding her own warm tones to Fred’s amusement, was a stranger. A tall woman, with long dark hair and a body fit to die for, all hard curves and elegant lines. She’d been poured into her close cut fashion jeans and the shirt she wore over her t-shirt merely served to enhance rather than conceal her long limbed beauty. This was a woman of the world, fit and confident, with an independent air and a soft smile that suggested mystery and depth behind her dark eyes.

"Where were you?" Cordelia complained. "We’re all starving here – and Giles has started talking about pizza."

"We tried three taco stands before we found one that did the extra cheese and green salsa dip," Fred explained, not sounding at all put out. "Oh – and Sky nearly arrested somebody. That took a little while."

"Just a petty dip," the woman elucidated with a shrug. She spoke with a soft, southern lilt, although it was backed by the barest hint of some other accent. "I put the fear of god into him. I did suggest next time he tries pick pocketing someone that he check they’re not a cop first – and he seemed to think that was a good idea."

"She was great," Fred enthused.

"She always is," Giles smiled, getting to his feet. The woman threw him a haughty look.

"And what do you know about it?" she asked. "You weren’t there."

"I didn’t need to be," he countered. "I have every faith in the competence of an experienced police woman – who also happens to hunt vampires on the side, and is well acquainted with the ways of certain demons."

"Only certain ones?" she asked, moving closer. Close enough, in fact, to catch hold of him and insinuate herself into his arms. They were almost an exact match in height. "Hallo, husband."

"Hallo, wife," he answered – and kissed her. She kissed back. With enthusiasm.

"Whoa!" Gunn chuckled, dropping his box on the counter. "Put him down girl! You don’t know where he’s been."

"Yes, I do," Sky retorted, coming up for air with a smile on her face. Her hand reached to ruffle her husband’s hair, shaking a little debris out of it. "How many did you dust this time?" she asked with a soft chuckle. He looked vaguely abashed.

"Only three," he admitted. "They started it."

Angel threw Wesley a questioning look; Wesley nodded wry confirmation of the claim. "He took out Lovello in the bar – and the two that jumped us in the underpass." He stood up as she spoke, extending his hand to the woman in friendly greeting. "You must be Sky," he smiled. "How do you do."

She disentangled herself from Giles’ arms and took the proffered hand in a firm and confident grip. "And you must be Wesley," she decided warmly. "Gotta love that British accent."

"Oh – ah, yes," he reacted. "Well - you must do. I suppose." He glanced warily at his fellow Englishman, who’s answering look held a slightly martyred air. Wesley suppressed a knowing smile. He knew that look. It was the one his fellow Watcher had often employed when Buffy was being – well, Buffy. A look of interminable, loving patience, countering otherwise mortified sensibilities. Giles might be madly, and deeply in love with this striking woman – but he was also extremely fond of her, which suggested this might be a match that would last.. "That is – ah – I’m very pleased to meet you."

"Likewise, I’m sure. I’ve heard a lot about you."

He frowned. "You have? Ah – you have?" Sudden panic scurried through his mind. What had Buffy and Xander and Willow been saying about him …?

"Well, yes," she laughed, smiling at her husband – who was looking more mortified than ever. "Rupert’s mother tells some wonderful stories."

"Oh god," Wesley said, going decidedly pale at the thought. Cordelia, busy bustling with plates and dips and napkins, looked across at Giles in surprise.

"You’ve got a mother? I mean – of course you’ve got a mother, I mean – you’ve got a mother?"

"Everyone has a mother, Cordy," Angel told her with a grin. "Even I had one once."

"Not like mine," Giles assured him with a roll of his eyes. Wesley concurred with a small shudder.

"Doretea Giles is – a remarkable woman," he said with heartfelt conviction and a whole load of diplomacy. "A superb teacher, a talented psychic - and I swear she has eyes in the back of head."

"She doesn’t need them," Giles assured him, sinking back to his seat and pulling Sky down onto the leather with a casual tug. "She can see through walls. Read minds. And knows what you’re going to say before you say it. Conversations with my mother are – an art form," he concluded with a pained note. "And I know you absolutely adore her," he told the amused woman beside him, "but you mustn’t believe everything she says."

Sky chuckled, leaning against him with comfortable familiarity. "I don’t," she said. "And you just love her completely to bits, you know you do. So don’t pretend any differently. She’s very proud of you, you know."

"I know," he sighed, giving her an indulgent look. "Despite everything."

"Because of everything," she retorted pointedly. She smiled her thanks at Fred, who’d flopped onto the seat beside her and handed her a napkin and a loaded taco.

"That’s the green salsa and the sliced pickle – and did you really want maple syrup on it?"

"Oh yeah," Sky nodded, picking up the fragile shell and sinking her teeth into it with enthusiasm. "Got this real craving for it just recently …"

Lorne looked at Wesley. Wesley looked at Cordelia, and she looked at Angel – who nodded in nonchalant confirmation. Twins, he mouthed, holding up two fingers.

"Go, Giles," Cordelia muttered, breaking into a broad grin. He caught the comment – smothered a very proud grin, and looked away, going a little pink. Lorne adopted a thoughtful frown.

"So – ah," Gunn threw himself down opposite Fred and bit into his own tacco, ignoring the ooze of sauce which threatened to spill onto his jeans. "You’re a cop, right? Forgive me for saying so, but – you two don’t strike me as a – type, you know? The hardbitten cop and the mild mannered librarian plot kinda went out with Doris Day movies. And – uh," he added with a grin, "with you, I don’t get the – you look prettier without your glasses line. If you see what I mean."

"Gunn," Fred protested with an embarrassed smile. Angel smothered a snort of laughter and Cordelia nearly choked on her taco.

"S’okay," Sky reacted around a mouthful of meat and seasoning. "I know what he means. But I like clichés. And he does look prettier without his glasses. I wouldn’t exactly described Rupert as – mild mannered though." Her sideways glance held warmth and affection. "He’s an absolute demon between the sheets."

It was Wesley’s turn to choke. He coughed and he spluttered and Cordelia had to hastily pound him on the back and hand him a glass of water. Giles sighed and shook his head, reaching to help himself to a tacco and adding a generous dollop of soured cream. "I really don’t think they needed to know that, dear," he protested mildly, sounding – for that one moment - so quintessentially British that he might as well have been helping himself to scones and jam.

"So – um," Angel asked, deciding that moving the conversation on was probably a good idea, "how did you two meet, anyway?"

"Oh," Sky laughed. "Well, ah – you could say it wasn’t the most auspicious way to start a relationship."

"That would be one way of putting it," Giles agreed quietly. "She arrested me."

"Arrest – " Cordelia stared at her in astonishment. "You arrested Giles? Whatever for? Overdue parking tickets?"

"Mmhuh," the policewoman denied, taking a moment to finish her current mouthful of food. "Child Molestation and Murder …"

Long Sea Crossing - Chapter One. Part Nine. Disclaimer:This story has been written for love rather than profit and is not intended to violate any copyrights held by anyone - Universal, Pacific Rennaisance, or any other holders of Hercules: The Legendary Journeys or Buffy the Vampire slayer trademarks or copyrights.
© 2003. Written by Pythia. Reproduced by Penelope Hill