Drowning.

Fathoms deep and drowning. Choking in ice, encased in it, made of it; in too deep, in too far, struggling for air, for freedom, being dragged down and down, deeper and deeper, despite every effort, tangled in chains of steel, sinking, still sinking –

Down into the dark, into the cold, into smothering, all devouring darkness …

He woke with a gasp, every muscle tense with alarm, his heart pounding against his chest and his body drenched in sweat. The chains which had weighted his dreams were nothing more than the tangled remains of a shredded cotton sheet, twisted around him like a torn and tattered shroud.

"Damn," Rupert Giles swore, softly and resignedly. Reality sank back into his senses with jagged insistence; the quiet rustle and the harsh texture of supporting straw, the dimly glowing light from the bedside clock, the lowering ceiling of the attic space arching above him. He was lying twisted round on his makeshift bed, the blades on his right side partially extended, the ones on his left embedded deep into the bales which were meant to be his mattress. He took a long, slow breath, drawing welcome warm air into his lungs - and closed everything down, pulling steel into flesh and feeling the chill of exposed metal as it slid past muscle and settled against the bone. At least that didn’t hurt anymore. The worst of his wounds had healed and with careful practice the slide of the steel was becoming smooth and certain. It still felt odd though – uncomfortably so.

Once everything was back in place, he took another long slow breath, and rolled over, meeting the inevitable concerned eyes with a look of weary resignation.

Buffy was perched on the edge of the attic hatch, her dressing gown bundled over a pair of snug green and white pajamas. "It’s five o’clock," she said, preempting his usual bleary question. "Another couple of weeks and I might get to sleep through until breakfast. Or not," she added, coming the rest of the way into the angled room and looking down at him with worried eyes. "When did you finally come up to bed, anyway?"

He sighed. "An hour – two hours ago. Something like that. I-I’m sorry, Buffy. I – "

"No," she told him firmly, reaching to tug the quilted coverlet off the blanket chest and hand it to him. "No sorry’s. No apologies. No arguments," she added as he opened his mouth to do just that. He sighed a second time, sitting up to disentangle himself from the ruined sheet and dragging the quilt across to cover up what remained of his dignity.

"I just - don’t like being a burden," he said, for what was probably the umpteenth time. She gave him one of her patented ‘Buffy’s being mother now, and mother knows best,’ looks.

"You are not a burden," she insisted adamantly. "You’ve got – issues, and, honestly, a little screaming in the middle of the night is way preferable to what you-know-who wanted you to be doing. Giles," she continued softly, kneeling down on the edge of the straw and looking at him with sympathetic affection, "it’s only been a month. Nobody expects you to be cool with this yet. No-one but yourself – and you should know better."

He pulled the quilt in closer, and looked back at her a little forlornly. "I’m living in your attic. I-I’m sleeping on straw because I can’t be trusted on a normal bed – no, make that t-trying to sleep, because I don’t, I wake up screaming every night – and I wake you up, and probably Dawn as well … Buffy, I’m an a-absolute wreck. I can’t think straight, I can’t see straight. I can’t get through one day without a flashback or a panic attack, and … and on top of all that, I’m a monster. I am not ‘cool with this’, and I don’t know how I can be."

"With time and with patience," she told him. "And you’re not a monster. Anymore than Angel – or Anya is. Am I a monster, because I have all this strength and speed and super reflexes and stuff?"

He had to smile at that – reluctantly, and with a twist of effort that turned her heart over – but he smiled nonetheless, and that had been rare these past few weeks. "You’re the Slayer, Buffy. The chosen one. You’re meant to be that way."

She smiled back, looking at him with nothing but sympathy and love. "Okay, so I’m the Slayer. And you’re my Watcher and I wouldn’t have it any other way. So what if you’re also part Grigori now? They were Watchers too. Teachers. Beings of great light, and truth and wisdom. Cool stuff like that."

He shivered, all the way to his soul. "The Grigori fell, Buffy. They failed. There’s nothing left of them but shadows and pain." The smile had vanished. His eyes were bleak and full of anguished memories. "Nothing left b-but me. And I’m a pitiful excuse for a man right now, let alone a fallen angel. I know you don’t want sorrys, but – I am sorry. Sorry I have to put you through this, sorry I can’t just pull myself together and be the rock you expect me to be. I know what you want, and I can’t do it. I just can’t face what I am. Why I am. I’ve let you down – "

"No," she denied, sounding surprised and hurt that he should think such a thing. "No, you’ve never let me down – well, other than that stupid Slayer test thing, and that wasn’t really your fault – no, no letting down, no failing me … Giles, do you have any idea how proud we all are of you right now? I was there, remember? I know how hard you fought, how much you struggled to deny him, to hold on to who you were. You have incredible strength and you needed every bit of it. Used every bit of it. Iolaus told me that was probably why he’d chosen you in the first place. Because you were strong and you weren’t going to give in – and you didn’t. I know it’s hard. It’s got to be hard. He hurt you so much I – " She broke off for a moment, swallowing the sudden catch in her voice. "You can and you will get through this – but don’t think, even for a moment that you’re letting me – or anyone, down, just because you need some space to do it in …" She shifted round, so that she was sitting next to him, sliding her hand inside the warmth of the quilt so that she could wrap her fingers in his. She squeezed – a Slayer’s squeeze, firm and confident – and he squeezed back, drawing strength from her touch. "I need to tell you something," she said gently, "something I should have said - something I should have done weeks ago. When I – came back, I let everyone think I’d – well, that I’d been somewhere bad.

"And I hadn’t."

She tightened her grip, meeting his eyes with determination. "Willow – pulled me from the Light. I was in heaven and I didn’t want to leave."

"Oh dear lord," he breathed, staring at her in utter horror. "Buffy – "

"Uhuh," she interrupted firmly. "I’m not done. You gotta hear this out. I really struggled, those first few weeks. Everything was too harsh, too loud, too hard to bear. I felt as if I’d been dragged from bliss and plunged into hell. This world was hell. For me. And I had to pretend I was grateful, that I wanted to be here, that nothing had changed. I didn’t know how to face any of it. And then – then you came back, and I just – I just pushed everything into your safe, sane sensible hands and left you to cope for me. You’ve always been a rock for me, and I hid myself behind all that. Because that way I didn’t have to think about anything. Didn’t have to face up to all the things I needed to face. Oh," she allowed, giving him a brave – and grateful – smile, "I know you didn’t mind, I know you were just trying to help, and you did. It’s just that I wasn’t living, Giles. I was just going through the motions. And I know you. Sooner or later you’d have figured out that you were carrying me – and that you’d have to walk away. Let me fall on my feet – or just fall.

"That would have been hard," she admitted. "For both of us. But you always do the right thing, so – you’d have found a way. Lived with me being angry at you and probably hating you for leaving me. Hated yourself for doing it, but doing it all the same. Because you love me."

His fingers tightened on hers. "You - grew on me," he admitted softly. "I didn’t think you would, but – you did."

"Shallow Buffy all grown up now," she smiled, then sighed, looking away into the darker corners of the attic. "Living hurts. I didn’t know how much until I had a chance not to – but Iolaus is right. Sometimes that’s the only way you know that you’re alive."

He shivered, and it wasn’t from cold. "He ought to know. I don’t think I-I have his kind of strength, Buffy. I wish I did."

She threw him an exasperated look. "Giles," she said, "you have exactly his kind of strength. Even more now, because he gave you some of his fire. I don’t know what you’ve done with it, but it’s there. Holding you together, I suspect. The thing is," she went on, hastening past that line of thought to get back to her previous one, "you didn’t have to walk away from me. There I was, sitting comfortably on my rock, and a demon stole it out from under me. Took it away and tried to carve it into something all jagged and nasty and not a rock at all. And when I got it back – well, it was kinda fragile and shattered and in need of tender care and – I can’t lean on it anymore. I have to let it lean on me. At least until the cracks heal up and the bruises fade, and it gets a little more used to this new shape it’s got … "

It was his turn to sigh. A sound weighted with effort and misery. "I don’t know how long that’ll take," he said. "I don’t know if I ever will."

"You will," she assured him. "You just need time. And Giles – don’t keep it in. You’re not on your own in this. We want to help, anyway we can. Talk to us. Help us understand what you’re going through."

"No-one can understand that," he murmured, trembling despite his determination not to. It had been a month, and the memories were still raw and savage; a tumble of terror and helplessness and self loathing. Knowing what had been done to him. Knowing what he’d done …

"Try me," she offered softly. "I just confessed my terrible secret. Give me one of yours."

He turned to look at her, seeing himself reflected in her eyes. Why hadn’t he recognised what was there as plain as anyone could see? There was a light about her, an aura of strength and beauty that echoed the glory of a much greater light. The light the Archon carried, the light which had delivered him from the dark.

"Maybe I could guess," she suggested, since he showed no sign of answering her request. "I mean, I was there, and I know how cold it was, and how he hurt you, and then there’s all the stuff about the changes and the blades in your bones and the armour under your skin – all of that’s gotta be pretty hard to deal with – but no, you talked all that over with Iolaus and he said you’d be okay with it once you’d had a little time to adjust … Only you’re not adjusting, because there’s something else that – "

"Buffy." His interruption was a bare breath, a whisper of sound that escaped almost before he could prevent it. He didn’t want to tell her, but she was right. The dreams were killing him. He had to get past what happened, had to find a way to move on. Somehow. He had to tell someone – and she was the only one he could trust. The only one he knew wouldn’t pity him, once she knew.

He laid his other hand over hers, letting the pain well up, letting the tears he’d been holding back, holding in, slip out as he wrestled to say the words. Sometimes being strong wasn’t about keeping things locked away. Sometimes it was about finding the strength to share them.

About finding the strength to lance the wound and let the blood flow free …

"He didn’t just – hurt me," he said. "He - he raped me." It was confession, and it was acceptance, finally facing it as he’d not been able to face it, this long painful month of pretence and inner torment. He closed his eyes and he bowed his head, shivering, feeling stripped and helpless, as naked and exposed as he had been the day the demon had possessed him, body and soul.

"Oh my god," Buffy breathed, a soft and heartfelt prayer.

Then her arms were folding around him like angel wings, pulling him into her warmth, offering him her love and her forgiveness, holding him – holding him with a Slayer’s strength, the strength which had saved the world. He curled into that embrace, and he wept, shuddering, pain filled tears, like a lost child, like the wounded soul he was.

And the heat in them cracked a little of the ice that had settled in his heart …

"I get dibs on the chocolate milk," Dawn announced, flinging the front door wide and remembering to turn and wave at her school friend as she and her mother drove away. "I brought cookies!"

"Great," Buffy mouthed, hastening in from the kitchen and pressing her finger to her lips. "Sssh. Keep it down. Have a good day at school?"

"It was school," her sister answered, frowning at her puzzledly. "Why are we whispering?"

Buffy glanced over her shoulder. "Because Giles is asleep." She grinned happily. "Out in the garden."

"Out in the …?" Dawn tried to bounce past her to take a look and Buffy herded her back into the living room. "He’s not been out during the day since – well, since. And you mean asleep? Really, truly asleep? Not just – I’m gonna wake up any minute and have the screaming heebie-jeebies routine?"

"Mmhuh," Buffy nodded, still grinning broadly. "He’s been out there since lunch. I made ham and mustard sandwiches, and a plate salad and whole jug of juice, and I took it out to the lawn, and I told him, if he wanted to eat, then he was going to have come out and get it. And after the ‘if I get flashed fried, it’s your fault’ discussion, he made it as far as the French windows …"

"No flash fry?"

"No flash fry. No smoke. Not even a blister. So he takes the sunglasses I hand him, and he – walks out into the sun. We had a picnic. And I left him out there with a book – that Latin thing Anya brought him last week – and when I peeked a little later, he was fast asleep."

"That is so great," Dawn decided, flouncing down onto the couch and hunting for the TV remote. "Spike was telling me these stories, you know? About how the witchfinders would torture their victims by refusing to let them sleep? And then they went mad. The victims, not the witchfinders. And he said – "

"You shouldn’t listen to Spike," her sister interrupted with a frown, peering into the cookie box Dawn had dumped on the table. "He only tells you things like that to give you nightmares."

"I don’t get nightmares," Dawn shrugged. "You think maybe I should? Or just leave that to – "

"Dawn," Buffy snapped warningly. The girl subsided repentantly.

"I’m sorry," she said. "I didn’t mean to be facetious. That’s the word, right? Facetious? Great word. Anyway, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m – I’m glad Giles is starting to feel better. He is getting better, isn’t he?"

Buffy sighed, sinking onto the couch beside her and staring at the cookie she’d pulled from the box. "I don’t know, Dawny. The stuff we can see is healing, but – it’s the stuff we can’t see that I’m worried about. You know that – that the demon - tortured him, don’t you?"

Dawn nodded, her eyes wide and serious. "I know. Hercules told me that – he’d been very brave and we had to be understanding, because – because wounds like that take time to heal …"

Her sister smiled, recalling how patient the demi-god had been with the wide-eyed teenager, answering her anxious questions when everyone else had been too anxious themselves to explain in ways she would understand. "Hercules is a very understanding man. Demi-god" she corrected. "And he was right. Giles needs time – and we need to support him through this as best we can. He’s got a lot to deal with. To accept."

"The – the demon stuff?"

Buffy nodded. "The demon stuff. And – some other things. But he’s Giles, Dawny. He’ll figure it out. You’ll see." She bit into the cookie, and then held it out, letting Dawn take a playful bite of her own.

"I’m glad, you know?" the teenager told her, savouring the confection. "That – you found him and stuff. I mean – after mom and you - everything …"

The correction wasn’t hasty enough to hide the original word. Buffy reached out and hugged her sister, pulling her in close. There had been too much loss in their lives; death was part of the Slayer’s world, but sometimes there had to be something given back. Something that proved the fight was worthwhile. Living hurts, the angel had said – but he had chosen to return to it, to give up eternal bliss so that the darkness could be kept at bay. "I’m glad," she murmured softly, "that I was here to help bring him home …"

She was still glad an hour later, when Willow and Tara came back from college. The two of them arrived deep in conversation, discussing some lecture or other, to find Dawn and Buffy still sitting on the couch. There were empty glasses on the table, painted with a residue of chocolate milk, and an nearly empty cookie box spilling crumbs beside them. Nearly empty, because the two of them had wordlessly agreed that the last one was to be saved for the man still sleeping out on the lawn. Buffy had actually crept out to check on him a little earlier – and had crept back with a quiet smile on her face.

"In such little things, we see the triumphs of the heart," Willow quoted with equal happiness once the situation had been explained to her. "Sleep is good. Sleep is a healing thing. We’d been thinking, maybe, you know – a little sleeping spell might have … but this is better."

"Much better," Tara agreed, giving her girlfriend an indulgent look. "I was – worried," she explained, "that a spell might – well, keep him asleep but not keep the nightmares away."

Buffy shuddered at the thought. Now she knew some of what haunted her friend, she understood why he might well wake, sweated and screaming in the darkest, coldest hours of the night. But the sun – which had held a completely different terror for him – had welcomed him back, and given him a moments respite, a heartbeat of peace in the middle of his desperate, anguished struggle against memory.

She hoped it would continue to do to. He couldn’t go on like this, and they both knew it; he had to face what had been done to him, face it and move on from it, accepting – not just the horror and the hurt but the gift he’d been given to help him overcome it. When he finds the fire, Iolaus had promised, that last day, just before he’d left, then he’ll be healed. You’ll see …

She hadn’t seen it yet. She suspected she wouldn’t see it for a long time to come.

"I don’t think he’d want that," she decided, smiling at Tara’s concern, and patting Willow’s hand to thank her for hers. "We just have to let him – take this one step at a time."

"Sounds like a good idea to me." They all looked up, with an almost guilty start; the man they’d been talking about was leaning against the kitchen doorframe, looking a little rumpled and bleary in his old jeans and a sports shirt that had seen better days. He needed a shave too – but for all his disheveled state, there was still something unmistakably Giles about the whole effect. Perhaps it was the way he dangled the borrowed sunglasses from one hand, or the slightly world weary, long suffering expression he wore. Whatever it was, it was the most welcome sight in the world.

Because for a month past, he’d been less than an echo of his old self, a beaten and wounded man, beset by shadows only he could see.

"Giles!" Willow exclaimed, a happy surprised sort of sound. "Ah – you woke up. Umm – course you woke up, Willow that’s a silly thing to say, he’s not sleep walking, and I am really going to have to shut up because I’m babbling and – shutting up – right – now, " she concluded sheepishly. He found her a half smile – then sighed and rubbed a weary hand across his eyes.

"I’m not so sure you’re wrong," he said quietly. "I feel like I’m sleep walking. And I really, really want to wake up …" His voice tailed off and Buffy sprang into the threat of awkward silence with admirable timing.

"What you need is a cup of tea," she decided, getting to her feet and ushering him into the space she’d just left. "Dawn brought cookies. We saved you one. Will, can you put the kettle on? And Tara? There’s some cake in the cupboard – oh, ah. It needs frosting …"

"Ooh, ooh," Dawn reacted thrusting her hand up eagerly. "I can do that."

"Race you," Tara offered, and the two of them made a dive for the kitchen, followed by a smiling Willow – who glanced back in time to see the Slayer sink back to the sofa so that she could lay claim to their friend’s hand.

"You okay?" Buffy asked softly. Giles gave her a haunted look.

"No," he answered, just as softly. "But I’m working on it."

"We’re working on it," she corrected firmly. "I meant what I said. One step at a time. And today was a big step. Sunlight, sleep – two firsts in one go. Yay, Giles."

He smiled despite himself and she squeezed his hand in supportive sympathy. He squeezed back, bringing his other hand over to capture hers and hold it firmly. For the first time in a long time his skin felt warm, as if he’d spent those hours not sitting in the sun, but absorbing it, soaking it up, the way an empty sponge draws in water until it can take no more. It had taken days to get the ice of Malador out of him, days of wrapping him in heated blankets they’d then had to peel off him again, drenched in fevered sweat and blood; he’d felt chilled ever since.

"Big step," he considered, dropping into a thoughtful frown, then added, a little reluctantly: "I need to take a bigger one. Buffy," he announced, gathering his thoughts and his courage and turning to look at her, "I need to get away. Right away," he continued, before she could open her mouth to protest. "I can’t stay here. I – I really appreciate what you’re trying to do – what you’ve done for me, but – I just – I need – " He grimaced, half at his feelings and half at the way he was struggling to express himself. Words were his forte, his area of expertise; his inability to use them spoke eloquently of his state of mind.

"Giles .."

"Hear me out," he begged, the plea in his voice turning her heart over. "I don’t want to go, I – I have to. I have to get away from here, away from Sunnydale, just away. I can feel the hellmouth, Buffy. I woke up just now and –" He broke off, closing his eyes and fighting down the tremble that threatened to overwhelm him. She tightened her grip on his hand.

"Gets me that way sometimes," she admitted sympathetically. "You learn to live with it. Least – I did. Maybe you’re right. Sunnydale’s not exactly a health spa. Unless you’re dead, I suppose. But – leaving? Are you sure you’re ready for that? Where would you go? Home?" she queried, feeling a yawning void open in the pit of her stomach. His home was so far away …

"No," he answered hollowly, adding a slight, but determined shake of his head. "No, I’m not that desperate." The faint quirk of his smile held a note of wounded bravery. "Besides, that’s where the Council … They’d probably want to dissect me – all in the pursuit of knowledge, of course."

"Of course," she acknowledged dryly, thinking that the joke cut a little close to the bone. His bones. He’d been transformed into an echo of something that hadn’t walked the earth for millennia. And there were people on the Council of Watchers who might be prepared to do just what he suggested. Other people too – that law firm in LA which Angel had told her about, for instance. Once he’d got his head together, once he’d come to terms with what he was – well, that would be different. But right now he was vulnerable.

More vulnerable than perhaps he realised …

"I was thinking – maybe somewhere – warm."

"Warm? Giles – we’re in California. How much warmer were you thinking off?"

He shrugged. "Death Valley sprang to mind …"

She stared at him. He wasn’t joking. "You do know," she pointed out, trying to understand what was going through his head, "that it gets cold in the desert at night?"

"I know." He sighed, softly. "But the desert would be empty. Silent. Clean." He lifted his head to seek her face, fixing her with an anxious look. She was beginning to get used to the trace of violet that had claimed his eyes; somehow it had deepened the wisdom and compassion she’d always found there. Right now, though, they were haunted depths, echoing experiences he would never be able to share. "I’m lost, Buffy," he admitted slowly. "I need to find myself. Find my centre, find – find what and who I am. What I’ve become. I can’t do that here."

She wanted to protest. He wasn’t ready, not for such a big step. She wanted to wrap him up in cotton wool and keep him safe, to shut out the nightmares and save him from further pain. He had suffered so much. So much more than any man should ever be asked to bear. But if she didn’t let him go now – now, when he saw the wisdom in it, when his mind was set and heart in need of answers – would he ever be ready? The nightmares were inside him; they weren’t creatures of the dark she could hunt down and slay. This was his battle, not hers, and he had a right to chose the battleground, to face the conflict on his own terms.

It was just that – she’d thought she’d be there to help.

The way he’d always been there for her …

"Okay," she said after a moment or two. "If that’s what you want, then – then you need to go. Sunday," she decided, thinking things through. "Sunday," she repeated firmly as he started to protest. "You’ve been days without sleep, and you’ve barely eaten in a month. I know vision quests sit well with fasts and deprivations, but you are not driving anywhere until I’m sure you can see straight and can stay awake at the wheel. Sunday," she reiterated, finding him a warm and loving smile. "Stay with us until Sunday, at least."

"Now, you’re sure you want to do this?"

Monday morning, outside the Summers' house. Dawn hopping from one foot to the other, happy because Buffy had excused her from school that morning, unhappy for the reasons for her doing so. Xander, loading boxes and supplies into the pick-up he’d driven round an hour earlier, working through endless checklists with Willow and Tara, certain they’d forgotten something and frustrated because he couldn’t imagine what it might be. Anya, itching to get back to the shop but somehow anchored to the spot, watching events play out around her with confused fascination. And in the middle of all this activity, Buffy, talking to Giles as if this was just another day, just another routine moment in their never routine lives.

"I’m sure."

A few days sleeping in the sun had put some colour back in the Englishman’s face; to a casual observer he was no paler than he’d ever been, sequestered in his library and living late into the night. Not that he looked much like a librarian, right there and then. Not even an ex-librarian. They’d clubbed together and bought him sensible gear for a going away present; a new pair of jeans, a stack of good plain t-shirts, a soft ‘snuggle you up at night’ jumper, a couple of casual shirts – and Xander’s piece de resistance. The jacket. Not a fashion thing, but an understated, practical piece of dark brown suede and leather work, inlaid with just a hint of embroidered canvas for decoration. A travelers jacket; one designed to take a little dirt and be thrown into the ground to be sat on and still be dusted off sufficiently to be semi-respectable around town. Giles had raised a decidedly surprised eyebrow when they’d produced it, but it was comfortable, and it was practical, and he’d taken the gift with good grace. If he’d made anything of the fact that the sleeves could be unzipped right down to the elbow, he’d not mentioned it.

Nor, prudently, had anyone else.

"You know where you’re going?"

He shook his head. He had a few places in mind, but nothing concrete. Nothing he could put on an itinerary and discuss with a travel agent, at least. "East and South. Wherever the road takes me."

She smiled, her eyes betraying the effort it was costing her. "Sounds like a plan. Giles – " She took a deep breath. "Come back?"

He thought about it for a moment, studying her eyes as if committing them to memory. "I will," he breathed at last, giving his word, even though he wasn’t sure he could keep it. Echoes of madness whispered through his mind, images of dreams; dreams in which Salamiel stood behind the Slayer’s shoulder and laughed as he drove a slender blade into her defenseless body.

Buffy’s eyes, wide with surprise, her mouth open in a silent scream as the blood bubbled up – and wider still as her own Watcher smiled in turn and drove a matching blade through her heart …

Giles shuddered and looked away, controlling the emotion, locking his reaction deep. Those lurking moments were one of the reasons he had to run. Had to put space between himself and his friends. At least until he certain he wasn’t a danger to any of them.

"Okay," Xander said, coming round from the back of the truck and holding out the keys. "You got food, you got water, you got extra gas, you got the camping gear – you know how to use all that stuff?"

"Xander," Giles reacted patiently, "were you ever a Boy Scout?"

"Me?" He laughed. "No way. GI Joe, yeah." And he grinned at Buffy, who gave him a wry smile in return.

"Well, I", Giles told him archly, taking the keys from him, "was a Cub, a Scout, and a Senior Cadet when I was at school. I probably know more about camping than you have forgotten. Or ever knew in the first place."

"Cool," Xander decided, not at all put out by the mild remonstration. "Just don’t get bit by any rattlesnakes."

That was almost unworthy of comment. He was a demon, for god’s sake. With steel beneath his skin and blood on his hands… All the same, he smiled, knowing what it really meant, the concern for his welfare and the regard the young man would have trouble expressing any other way. "I won’t. The same goes for you and vampires."

"Got it," Xander agreed with a nod and a clownish grin. He hesitated, his manner awkward, his body language embarrassed. "Ah – " He put out his hand and Giles took pity on him and took it, not at all surprised when the young man gripped his fingers with both hands and gave them a fierce squeeze. "Take care of yourself, okay?" He let go and backed away, making room for Anya to step up. She tilted her head slightly to one side and gave her business partner a quizzical look.

"You’re really going away again, aren’t you? I - I mean, you still trust me to run the shop and do stuff and – "

"Anya," he interrupted, stepping forward to embrace her with a considered, friendly hug. "The shop is yours. Just don’t sell any of my books, and please – no ‘free curse with every purchase’ promotions?"

She returned the hug – a little awkwardly, and smiled bravely. "No curses. I can do that."

His smile was wry. She’d do something, he knew she would. Because she was Anya, and that how she was. "I’m sure you can." He turned – and Willow was there, throwing her arms around him, hugging him tight.

"I wish you weren’t going," she said worriedly. "But I know you have to. Stay safe, Giles. We’ll miss you."

This was hard. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, shivering, despite all his determination not too. "I’ll miss you too," he said, putting out his other arm and gathering Tara into it. A moment later Dawn had added her warmth to the group, hugging him as hard as the other two put together.

"Group hug," she muttered, trying to make light of the moment and failing miserably. He maneuvered himself away, leaving the three of them clinging together – and then there was just Buffy, standing by the open driver’s door, looking controlled and contained, and every inch the Slayer he had trained her to be.

"Do you know how proud I am of you?" he asked, speaking aloud almost without realising it. Her smile twisted and she fought back emotions that would serve nothing by being expressed.

"I know," she told him softly. "Giles – if there’s anything – anything you need, just a friendly voice, just a word – call me, okay? Whatever the reason, no matter what time it is, no matter where you are …And if you need me? I’ll come. I promise." She caught his eyes with her own, reinforcing her words with a silent message from the heart. She knew one of his secrets, understood part of his pain – and her love was a gift she offered him without conditions or restraint. "Through hell, if I have to," she whispered. "But I’ll come."

His own smile was just as fraught, just as much a façade. He didn’t want to go. But nor could he stay – not like this, not being a shattered rock she couldn’t lean on, a Watcher who needed watching, a man who wore a demon’s shape and was afraid of what he might become.

What he might do.

"I know," he said, an answer as soft as her own. He reached out and brushed her check with his hand – and she smiled and caught his fingers, kissed them – and let him go, stepping back, releasing him to his fate.

He took one last, lingering glance – at her, at the rest of them – then slid on his sunglasses, climbed into the truck and drove it away. Away from the hellmouth, away from Sunnydale, away from safety and support and the people he loved more than anything else in the world.

"He’s gone then." Spike was lurking in the safety of the house, like a lean and lugubrious shadow, waiting for Dawn to leave for school, for Willow and Tara to return to college, for Anya and Xander to head for the shop as if life went on as normal. For the first time in weeks the two of them were alone.

"Spike," Buffy greeted him with vague surprise. "Yes, he’s gone. I don’t know where exactly, but - I’m sure he’ll be alright."

"Yeah," the vampire agreed, trying to sound offhand about it. "Sure you’re sure. I’d’ve – come to wave him off, like, but – group hugs in the sun … not my scene. ‘Bout time he got himself outta here, anyway. Moping around like that. As if turning into a demon’s such a big deal. It’s not like he hasn’t done it before, right? Mind you," he added thoughtfully, watching her face with wary expectation, "this was a little different. Big leap between a Ferahl and the Incandescent, I’d say. He’s losing it, you know?"

"No, he’s not," she denied, rounding on him with an angry glare. He laughed.

"Oh yes he is, Buffy love. I was with Dru a long time, remember? I know the signs."

She shook her head, denying his words, refusing to listen. "He’s not losing it. He’s hurt and he’s confused, but he’s not going mad."

"So why did he run out on you then? Why did he run away from the safest place he could possibly be? What’s he gonna find out there, he couldn’t find here – with you and the rest of them mothering him, so tenderly?"

She turned to stare out of the window, at the empty space where the truck had been. "You wouldn’t understand," she murmured, her voice betraying a tremble, the start of the cracks in her armour that she could no longer conceal.

"Try me," he suggested gently. She shook her head in wary denial.

"No point," she said. "You’re a blood thirsty, murdering, monster – and he’s – he’s a soul in pain. You don’t have a soul, you don’t know pain, and you won’t understand."

"Maybe not," he agreed, moving closer, putting his hand to her shoulder. "But I know you. I know what I do understand. You’re hurting too. Because you can’t help him. Because he left you when he needs you the most. Because you weren’t there when the Malumbra came. Buffy – " He turned her round so that she was looking up at him, the tears glistening in her eyes. "You did your best. You saved his soul and you brought him home. Whatever happens, whatever becomes of him – it’s not your fault."

Wordlessly, weeping as she’d not been able to weep before, she threw herself into his arms and clung to him, finding comfort in a dead man’s embrace. He gathered her up and he held her as gently as he could – and then he picked her up and carried her upstairs to make love to her.

And she found some comfort in that, too …

Long Sea Crossing - Interlude One. 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