The meditation helped, as Giles had known it would. He hadn't been certain how Buffy would take to it, and indeed, he felt her fidget away the first ten minutes seated cross-legged beside him on the mat. Only when she at last relaxed and went still did he allow himself to sink deeper into the sound of Jane's voice, reaching that place deep inside himself, the still, inner core where his magic lived. It was a shipwreck of emotion: lingering, disrupted grief, joy, fear - and a strange amount of inexplicable anger. At Willow? He knew he should try to sort through it; even for someone with his relatively low level of power, it was dangerous to leave it a mess like that. He couldn't, though. Couldn't bring himself to touch it, not yet.

Nearly a week went by this way, before Giles quite realized it. Buffy slept late once the jet lag passed, giving Giles the rare opportunity to exercise his horse each morning, something he had missed terribly in Sunnydale, before showering and meeting her for breakfast. It was a few days before she felt ready to join the others at mealtimes, and he couldn't say he blamed her; the coven members were wonderful, but their collective good will could be overwhelming, if one was not in the mood for it. He certainly hadn't been when he'd been here before.

He didn't mind having her to himself, either. They'd not had time together like this in years. He'd never appreciated the library and the privacy it had afforded them until it was gone. The Magic Box had given them that back to some degree, but people were always in and out, interrupting. They began doing katas together again, on the beach or out on the grounds, beneath an old oak tree Giles had used as a meditation spot in the past. The color came back to her cheeks, her eyes brightened, and he found himself wishing they might never leave this place, ever.

On the fourth day they finished their katas, and for once it didn't look like it was going to immediately start pouring. They collapsed on the grass beneath the oak tree's wide, reaching branches. Their breathing was still synchronized, Giles noticed, and found himself reaching out to her. She rested her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes. "So different here," she murmured.

"In England?"

She made a noise. "No. The coven. You and me - we're different here. And you're way less stuffy tweedy book guy. I like it."

"Me too," he said, and shifted onto his side so he could see her better. "Do you mind if I ask how you're feeling? You seem better."

"I am," she said, turning her face into the sun. "It only hurts sometimes, and there's so much . . . I don't know. Peace, I guess? There's so much peace here. Is it always like this off the hellmouth? Did I just forget after five years?"

He shook his head. "This place is extraordinary. Rather like you."

She smiled up at him. "I guess being a miracle might have some benefits after all."

A few minutes later the expected rain clouds came scuttling towards them, and he accepted her hand up so they could dash down the hill to the house. They didn't quite make it and ended up squelching into the front hall, with Buffy making disgruntled noises and wringing her hair out over the tile. They were halfway up the stairs when Jane appeared, waving to them.

"Phone call for you, Rupert," she said. "A man named Robson?"

"Ah, yes. Is he on the line now?"

"No, he called while you were out."

"Ah. Think I'll, er, change first, then."

He trudged up after Buffy, who hadn't waited. She'd closed herself in her room by the time he arrived in their hallway, and he could hear the shower running in their shared bath. Undoubtedly she'd use up every ounce of hot water. This thought, with its mixture of affection and exasperation, was so typical - or had been, once upon a much simpler time - that it made him smile. They were both getting better. Thank God.

He swapped his rain-soaked jeans and jumper for dry ones, ran his fingers through his hair, and went to use the phone in Jane's study. He hoped there wasn't a problem with the flat.

"No, no problem," Robson said, once they'd exchanged pleasantries. "Everything's ready. Do you know yet when you might be coming down?

"No, not really. I'm hoping for another week here, at least. It's doing both of us a world of good."

"I see," Robson said, then paused strangely.

"Are you certain there isn't a problem?"

"Yes, of course," Robson said, in a tone that made Giles think he was lying. Giles stayed silent, waiting with his eyebrows raised. "There's been, well, a spot of grave-robbing."

Giles had been standing beside Jane's desk. Now he sat in the chair. "Where?"

"Highgate. The west side."

The old section, then, dating back to the Victorian era. Giles had walked through it on occasion, the last time years ago now, not long before he left for Sunnydale. He remembered it as a blur of ivy and elaborate gravestones adorned with angels whose eyes had seemed to track him. Beautiful, quiet, and very, very unsettling. "Hmm. What are they after?"

"Bones, it seems. There's only the one - so far - and there may be a few trinkets missing as well, but the body and shroud have been disturbed. I was alerted by my nephew, who works as a tour guide there. He's a bit of a family black sheep and has a bizarre fascination with London cemeteries, but he knows enough to recognize when vandalism is neither random nor caused by human maliciousness. The council, in their infinite wisdom, has stuck me with the mess, and I was hoping that you and Buffy might help investigate."

"Ah." Giles paused, considering. It sounded . . . well, it sounded fascinating, really. A mystery at Highgate, stolen bones - any number of things could be afoot. And yet he had to say no; Buffy wasn't ready for London. He wasn't ready for London, if it came to that. "Perhaps - perhaps if it's still unsolved in a week or so -"

"I have to hope it won't be," Robson said, "if only because eventually the press will get wind of it - do you remember that whole debacle in the '70s with that so-called vampire? Good lord, what shite."

Giles did remember, albeit dimly. He'd only just returned to the watcher fold at the time, and he'd had more important things to worry about than vampire hoaxes in an overgrown, ruined cemetery. "Are you sure this isn't just more of the same?"

"Very sure. The security around the cemetery is much better than it used to be - no more adrenaline junkies sneaking in at night to perform God only knows what rituals."

"Right. Well, I'm sorry to disappoint. Er," Giles hesitated, "do let me know if there are any developments, all right?"

"Of course. And you let me know when you want to come down - I'll meet you at the flat."

He rang off. Giles sat for a minute with his hand on the receiver, wondering if he should at least have mentioned a few resources that might help Robson, then decided he was being ridiculous. Robson was a top-notch researcher. He'd know what he was doing. It was, most definitively, not Giles's problem.

"Everything okay?" Buffy asked when Giles knocked on her door.

"Yes, just a bit of council business. Nothing for you to worry about."

"Good. Hey, you think there might be leftovers in the kitchen? I'm starving."

Giles nodded, trying not to let on that his throat had just closed up for no reason at all. "Yes," he managed. "I'm sure there are." He rested a hand on her shoulder as she moved past him and allowed himself to think for the first time that perhaps they were out of the woods - or at least near enough to see the light of day.

Which was why he should not have been at all surprised when, the next morning, Angel called.

Giles was out at the time, working in one of the greenhouses with Jane. He was covered in potting soil when he returned to the house, but pleased with himself. He was surprised to find Buffy sitting on his bed; she often came in and out - they'd been much less cautious of each other's personal space here than ever before - but never, to his knowledge, unless he was there. "Hey," she said. "Have fun with the green growing things?"

"I did, yes," he said, eyeing her curiously. "Everything all right?"

"Think so. Um." She looked away, avoiding his gaze, and he paused in the act of exchanging his soiled jumper for a clean one to look at her in concern. "Angel called. He - he seemed to think you might not've told me about him wanting to join us. I said you had, I just hadn't been ready to leave yet."

Giles held very still. "And now?"

She looked down at her hands. "Dunno. You know how I said before, in Sunnydale, that it wasn't confusing with Angel?" He nodded. "Well. It wasn't then. I didn't . . ." She looked up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly and shaking her head. "I didn't feel anything, Giles. Except bad. When I saw him I just felt bad and it blurred into all the other badness and I couldn't figure out what any of it was. So it wasn't really confusing - seeing him made me feel just as bad as anything else. But now, I'm not - not - I mean, I don't feel good a lot of the time still, but I feel better and it might be . . . yeah. Confusing."

"I see," he said quietly.

"And, and London. It's a big city. A big city, and I'm just not sure I'm ready for the noise and the people and the - and the everything." She fell silent. He glanced over at her and saw that she was biting her lip. "It's nice here," she added, almost in a whisper.

Giles mentally cursed Angel. He supposed he couldn't entirely blame him for not trusting him, but dammit. He could see where this was going. He sank down beside her on the bed. "You shouldn't let him influence your decision. The point of this trip was for you to heal yourself. It has nothing to do with him. Or me, for that matter."

"It does though," she said, leaning into him, bumping his shoulder with her own. "The quality Giles time has had a lot to do with it."

He smiled and pressed his cheek to the top of her head. "I'm glad."

"What about you? He said you two argued."

Giles gritted his teeth and wondered if Angel was trying to deliberately undercut him with Buffy. "We did, a bit. And I won't lie to you, I'm not entirely comfortable with the idea of sharing a flat with him. But . . ." Giles took a deep breath. "He does love you, in whatever way you wish to think, and if you believe -" He broke off. "I want what you want," he finished at last. "Provided that doesn't, er, endanger anyone else."

She nodded. "I hear you there." She looked down at her hands. "I wish he could come here. That'd make things easier."

Giles was just as glad he couldn't. This place was his sanctuary; the last thing he needed was the creature who'd murdered Jenny and tortured him encroaching on it, even for the best of reasons. "The coven has its laws," was all he said.

She nodded. "Well, then. London it is."

His heart sank. He'd wanted this to last just a little bit longer - just the two of them, in this lovely, peaceful place, with nothing more to worry about than where to walk that afternoon. He and Angel had agreed not to rush her; they had agreed that she should have as much time at the coven as she wished. And now he had called and it was over, just like that. Giles felt as though he'd been robbed. Ludicrous.

"Giles?" she said, frowning at him.

"All right," he said, dredging up a smile for her. "London it is."


As promised, Robson was standing on the stoop of their building when Giles parked the Citroën - a much newer model than the one he'd owned in Sunnydale - out front. Giles was half-relieved, half-annoyed to see him; Buffy had grown first pensive, then monosyllabic, and finally silent over the course of the drive into London and he wanted to get her upstairs and into the quiet flat as quickly as possible. But there were matters he and Robson needed to discuss and they might as well do that now, he supposed.

Buffy was not thrilled to hear that Robson was council. Giles felt her withdraw minutely when he introduced them, and once Robson had shown them around the flat she disappeared into her room and shut the door. Giles stood looking at it, then removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry, she's usually much more - er -"

"Say no more," Robson said, appearing unconcerned, or at least unoffended. "After what she's been through, it's perfectly natural."

"Yes," Giles said, not willing to correct Robson's assumptions. That would open up a host of problems he wasn't prepared to deal with. "The special arrangements, by the way -"

"For the vampire, yes." Robson led him over to the third bedroom. "Shades to block out sunlight," he said, gesturing, "and there's enough O-neg in the refrigerator to last you through the weekend." He turned to Giles. "Rupert, are you sure this is a good idea? Two days ago you said neither of you was ready, and now, here you are."

Giles sighed to himself. Robson had been Giles's only liason to the council in times of great difficulty; he knew, perhaps more than anyone save Willow and Xander, how badly Giles had suffered at Angelus's hands. "It's what she wants," he said quietly. "We'll be fine. You haven't told anyone, have you?"

Robson shook his head. "If Quentin knew the Scourge of Europe was in town, you can bet they'd have a wetworks team in here. You'd never even have time to spit out the story about his soul." He hesitated. "Speaking of which -"

"It's not a problem."

"It wasn't last time either, until suddenly it was."

"The event that triggered it will not be repeated." Giles had to hope. Pray. Get down on his knees and beg, if necessary.

"If you're sure," Robson said. Giles nodded. "Right, then. Holy water in the cupboard, stakes in the umbrella stand, as usual."

"I have my own, but thank you. Not just for the stakes, I mean, but for - for -" Giles gestured expansively as he walked Robson to the door. "For arranging all of this."

"It wasn't any trouble," Robson said, smiling, "but if you feel the need to pay me back, you could lend a hand with that matter out at Highgate."

"Still not solved?" Giles said, raising his eyebrows.

"No. There haven't been any more graves disturbed, but there have been a number of other strange incidences - well, I have some theories, which I'd be more than happy to share when you have time." Robson raised an eyebrow at him. "It might make a good project for Buffy. Help her get her mind off things."

Giles snorted. "Wandering around a Victorian cemetery might make a good project for my severely depressed, recently resurrected slayer? I think not."

"The irony does rather jump up and smack one in the face, doesn't it?"

"That's not irony," Giles said, opening the door and leaning against it. "That's . . ." He waved a hand vaguely. "I don't know what." Robson stood in the threshold, eyebrows raised and smiling faintly. Damn the man; he knew Giles far too well. Giles sighed. "Perhaps. Let me see how she settles in, all right?"

Robson smiled, tipped his hat to Giles, and left. Giles stood in the entry way for a moment, then retrieved a stake from the umbrella stand and took it into his bedroom, where he stashed it under his pillow. If Angel lost his soul again, there would be no dithering about, waiting for Buffy to kill him.

By the time Buffy emerged from her room, he'd hidden stakes in the lounge (under the sofa cushions), the bathroom (behind the sink), and the kitchen (in with the sharp knives), and was throwing together an elaborate salad from the contents of the refrigerator. Angel hadn't said when he would arrive, but Giles guessed it wouldn't be until well after full dark. They had a little time yet.

He paused in chopping tomatoes when she padded up beside him in bare feet to wrap an arm around her shoulders. "All right?"

She leaned against him. "I'll be okay."

Giles laid the knife down altogether. "That . . . would seem to indicate that you aren't okay right now."

She turned her face into his side. "Too loud, too bright, too many people." She gulped quietly, and when she spoke her voice shook every so slightly. "I thought I was better, Giles, but it was easy to be better at the coven."

"Say the word and we'll -"

"No." She shook her head and stepped away. He could see her gathering herself. "It'll be fine. I just have to get used to it." But she picked at her dinner, her recently renewed appetite entirely vanished, and afterward disappeared into her bedroom again. He stayed in the lounge, flipping back and forth between a ridiculous reality show on the BBC and a ludicrous documentary on Channel 4, fretting about Buffy and on edge from listening for Angel.

He looked in on her once. She lay curled beneath her blankets, not sleeping - she opened her eyes and looked at him. But she didn't invite him to join her and he didn't dare do so of his own initiative. The rules between them were different here, away from the coven.

He closed her door and poured himself a whiskey and soda.

He fell asleep on the sofa after his second. This was just as well, except that it meant he was startled awake at one in the morning by Angel knocking at the door and calling, "Giles. Giles," through it, fit to wake the whole building. Giles went straight for the stake he'd stashed between the cushions and sat for a few seconds, holding it. Then he stood and stuffed it in his back pocket.

He opened the door. "Angel."

He was as he ever was - tall, broad-shouldered, glowering. "Thought you'd never answer."

"I was asleep on the sofa." Giles looked at him across the threshold. "Did you have a nice flight?"

"Oh yeah, next time you have to cross the Atlantic I highly recommend going baggage hold. Much cheaper and no crying babies. Though there was this yappy little dog that wouldn't shut up."

"Did you eat it?"

"Tempting, but no. Are you going to invite me in or not?"

Giles crossed his arms over his chest. "You violated our agreement."

Angel leaned against the doorjamb. "Yeah, well, I thought you'd violated it first."

"I hadn't."

"I know. But I hardly think you can blame me for thinking you might have after our last conversation."

Giles shook his head and forcibly unclenched his jaw. "She wasn't ready. She needed another week at least."

Angel straightened defensively. "I didn't force her into anything."

"As good as," Giles hissed. He turned away. "Oh bloody hell, just come in."

He heard Angel step inside and close the door. "Look, Rupert -"

"Giles," Giles snapped, turning. "Giles. You don't call me Rupert. Ever."

To Angel's credit, he looked ashamed. "Sorry. Giles. Um. Have you been drinking?"

Giles laughed. "Not nearly as much as most people would under the circumstances." He turned away before Angel could reply, gesturing as he gave him the most perfunctory tour of the flat possible. "That's Buffy's room. That's mine. That's yours. It has shades to keep out sunlight. You sleep there. Are we clear?"

"Giles, nothing is going to -"

"You sleep there," Giles repeated, inserting what he damn well hoped was an edge of steel into his tone, "because if something does happen and you lose your soul, there won't be another homicidal rampage. There will be my stake through your heart."

Angel was silent. "Giles," he said at last, holding his hands up as though to show they were empty, "are you . . . all right?"

Giles shook his head. "You don't get to ask me that." He went into his room and shut the door, leaning against it until he heard Angel knock lightly at Buffy's. He took his glasses off and staggered over to the bed, where he collapsed and put his face in his hands. His head was suddenly splitting. The walls were thin. He could hear them on the other side, speaking indistinctly.

For almost two weeks now he'd been telling himself that it'd be fine, that he could do this for Buffy's sake. There was very little he wouldn't do for her, if only it would make her well again, and he shouldn't begrudge her this comfort. Angel loved her. He could be there for her in ways that Giles couldn't.

He just hadn't expected it to be so damn hard.

The two of them talked until nearly sun-up. Giles lay awake, fully dressed, listening to the muffled murmur of their voices. Only when he heard Angel leave did he allow himself to kick off his socks, struggle out of his shirt and trousers, and pull the covers over himself. He fell asleep out of sheer exhaustion, his hand tucked beneath his pillow to touch the stake.

He was woken at mid-morning when the phone rang in the kitchen. Less than half awake, he stumbled out to answer it and barely managed not to kill himself falling over a sofa that wasn't where he'd expected it to be. It turned out to be Jane, wanting to talk about her own concerns that they'd left too soon - sooner than she'd have recommended for either of them, she added pointedly. Giles struggled to get his brain in working order and then spent a good five minutes insisting they were fine, even as he wondered if Buffy would listen to Jane when she wouldn't listen to him.

"Very well," she sighed at last, to his relief. "But, Rupert, do you think perhaps that even if Buffy doesn't wish to come back, you might -"

"No," he said heavily. "I can't possibly leave her. Leave them. Together. Alone. I just can't, not in all good conscience - and I wouldn't anyway. I'm really all right, Jane, I promise."

She was quiet for a moment. "What kept you up last night, Rupert?"

He had no answer that wouldn't confirm what she already knew. He begged off instead, claiming he heard Buffy stirring, and she let him escape. He rang off and shuffled back to his bedroom, wondering if he might go back to sleep now, knowing it was impossible. He was exhausted but awake, and awake he would stay.

He showered, dressed in a pullover and jeans, and shaved over the sink. He looked haggard, he thought, staring at himself in mirror. Pale. Old. He hadn't looked like this yesterday.

Buffy had stayed up at least as late as he had, so he hadn't expected to find her in the kitchen, staring listlessly into a cupboard containing boxes of cereal lined up in colorful row: cornflakes, Wheetabix - which Giles couldn't get near anymore, thanks to Spike - Special K with the ambiguously labeled "red fruit." She was clad in sushi pajamas and bare feet. He paused in the threshold, watching her, but she didn't move until he cleared his throat. "What's that you always say when you can't choose? Eeny meeny - er -"

"Miney moe," she finished with a shrug. "I don't care. You choose."

"I could make you eggs, if you want. An omelet. Or pancakes. Robson stocked the cupboards quite well."

"Cereal's fine."

Under other circumstances, he'd have made the eggs anyway and insisted she eat them. Today, he was much too tired. He settled for cutting a banana up over both their bowls. She poured orange juice in tall, clear glasses, then sat at the kitchen table with her chin in her hands, staring into the middle distance. He placed her bowl in front of her, seated himself across the table, and the two of them commenced crunching cornflakes in silence.

"What would you like to do today?" he asked when it finally became too much for him. "The weather looks decent so we could do the Tower, or possibly a boat down the -"

She was already shaking her head. "I can't, Giles, I really can't." She pushed her cereal away. "Too much."

"What about a museum? A small one, someplace quiet -"

"I said no, Giles," she snapped. "I'm not ready for it."

Stung, he didn't answer. He stood to put their dishes in the sink and ran water over them before soaping up a sponge. He could feel her looking at him. "I'm sorry," she said at last. "I just - give me today, please. All I want is to go back to bed."

He turned just in time to see her eyes dart to Angel's door. He felt his jaw clench. "Buffy, please, don't - don't let yourself slide backwards like this. You were doing so well." She looked away. He could have wept. He could have screamed. He could have cheerfully shoved a stake through Angel's sternum. "Fine," he said at last. "But tomorrow, let's do something. Something quiet. A gallery or a museum, even just the cinema."

She nodded. "Yeah, tomorrow. Or," she added, in the tone of someone making a peace offering, "we could patrol tonight. Cemeteries are always quiet."

He wasn't sure if slaying was the best idea right now, but with both him and Angel there it couldn't go too badly amiss. And it would get her out of the flat. He nodded. "Good."

She fidgeted, watching him. "You don't have to stay in today, too, you know. I'm just gonna sleep."

"You're going to sleep with Angel, you mean," he said flatly. He couldn't afford to be circumspect on this, as much as he would have liked to never think about it at all.

She shrugged. "Probably. I like sleeping with Angel," she added at his look. "And that's all it is - sleeping. Nothing's going to happen, Giles, I swear. God, the last thing I want right now is to - to -" She broke off, shaking her head. "Believe me, you're safe."

He raised his head from his contemplation of the counter's chipped tile. "It's not just my safety, Buffy. It's yours, it's his, it's the safety of every person in this city Angelus could kill. For God's sake, this is not paranoia!"

She stood and regarded him across the table, arms hanging down at her sides, her face nearly devoid of expression. "Go out for the day, Giles. You'll feel better if you do."

He didn't know what to say. He watched, speechless, as she crossed to Angel's room, opened the door just enough to squeeze inside, and shut it behind her.

Dismissed was the word that came to mind. He leaned against the counter. His throat was aching. This felt like losing her all over again. He could feel her slipping away when only yesterday he'd felt closer to her than he had in years - ever, perhaps. But hadn't it always been like this? She came to him when there was no boyfriend for her to call, let him hold her when there was no young man - no vampire - there to do it. She'd told Spike the truth, not him, not even when he'd been sitting right beside her, reaching out. She hadn't shoved him away at the coven, just the opposite in fact; she'd let him in more than she ever had. And now - now -

He flung the tea towel on the counter. She was right. He couldn't stay here today.

He went to the council, because it was the only place he could think to go. He spent the remainder of the morning sparring with potentials in their training facility, which had the double benefit of allowing him to let off some steam and keeping him well out of Quentin Travers's path.

By one o'clock he was sweaty and exhausted. He rinsed off in the showers and then sat down on a bench in the empty men's changing room. He couldn't stand the thought of going home just then; there was always the council library, but there he risked running into not only Quentin but also Robson, whose sympathy would only annoy him. He'd suggested the cinema to Buffy, but what he really wanted was a museum - a real museum, one he could get lost in and not emerge from for days if he wasn't careful.

The British Museum was the obvious choice, but he discarded it immediately. On any given day there were bound to be watchers about, studying the more mystical artifacts or looking at documents in the Reading Room. He hadn't been to the Imperial War Museum in years.

It wasn't as crowded as it would have been in the height of the summer tourist season, but there were plenty of school outings about to make up for it. Giles kept tripping over little pockets of blazer-clad children. He quashed his annoyance with a cup of tea in the museum café while he waited for them to clear out. They mostly had done by half four, leaving him time enough for a quiet wander before closing. He took his time, not bothering to read much for once, letting his eyes slide over the items in the glass display cases: personal items, mostly, donated to the museum for posterity, medals, clothing, service revolvers.

It was . . . well, Giles thought "damn depressing" summed it up well. He wasn't sure why, though, not until he found himself facing a wall with the start and end dates for World War II: 1939-1945. Six years. Even the bloody Cold War had ended eventually, when people had sometimes thought it never would. Eventually, all wars ended.

All except the one he was fighting. The one Buffy was fighting. That one never ended. No way to opt out either, and he had tried. So had she, come to think of it. Only here she was, forced to fight on. And here he was, forced to make her. No, not forced, not really - he wanted her to fight on, because it was the only way he could have her with him.

Giles sighed, declared the exercise a failure, and went out through the foyer to collect his coat. He paused briefly, looking up at the belly of the Spitfire suspended overhead. He'd imagined flying one of those once. He'd had stacks and stacks of books about Spitfires and Lancasters and anything else Britain had put in the sky during the Second World War. When his father had told him he was to be a watcher, Giles had binned them all in a fit of pique. He'd regretted it later, of course, but it was too late by then. Not even the sword his father had given him on his twelfth birthday a few months afterward had quite made up for it.

Next time he'd find an art gallery, he decided morosely.

The hot, airless press of people in the Tube on the way home did nothing for his temper. By the time he climbed the stairs to the flat, he was in a foul mood indeed. He hoped they did go patrolling after all. He wanted to stake something.

The smell of frying onions and garlic hit his nose the moment he let himself in the door. Since Buffy's culinary abilities stopped at picking up the phone to order a pizza, it had to be - it couldn't possibly be Angel.

It was though. The blinds in the living room were down and he stood at the stove in the kitchen, pushing chopped onions and mushrooms and peppers around in a skillet. He had another pan going over a second burner, with a bit of oil, and two raw steaks in some sort of pungent brown marinade ready to go in. Giles hung up his jacket, still staring, and felt both his rotten mood and his determination to have nothing to do with Angel waiver. "You cook?" he said. "You don't even eat."

Angel shrugged without looking up. "It's a new skill. Cordelia made me take this class with her at the - never mind. Where were you?"

"Out," Giles said shortly. "Where's Buffy?"

"Shower," Angel said, equally short. Giles paused, listening for the water running in the pipes. Not that Angel had any reason to lie to him, really. Satisfied, he stood by, watching as Angel laid the steaks down in the pan.

When Angel put the spatula aside and turned to face him, Giles realized one of them would have to say something. He cleared his throat. "Angel -"

"You were right."

Angel said it so quietly, Giles almost thought he'd misheard. He paused, blinked, and said, "I'm sorry?"

Angel crossed his arms over his chest. "You were right. I thought you were overreacting last night, being protective of Buffy, distrustful of me - but you were right. She wasn't ready."

Giles let out a breath. He could not help feeling slightly vindicated, but this was something he'd rather have been wrong about. "What makes you say that?"

Angel shook his head and turned back to prod the steaks with the spatula. "She's a million miles away, Giles. Even when she's lying right beside me, even when we're talking. She's not here. Was she like that at the coven?"

"No," Giles said quietly. "She was quiet, but - but present." He sighed. "Since yesterday I've been thinking - I don't know. That I was losing her. To you. But -"

"It's worse than that," Angel said. "We're just losing her."

Giles nodded. The water shut off in the bathroom. They glanced at each other and Angel turned back to the stove whilst Giles reached up into the cupboard to get plates down to set the table.

He was rummaging in the silverware drawer when Angel said, "Giles." He looked up. "I know you have every right to hate me. But I think that should stay between us. It's not her doing and she can't - we can't let it get in the way."

Giles cleared his throat, slightly ashamed that Angel had had to be the one to say it. "Yes. I quite agree."

Moments later Buffy emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam and a sweet smell like honeysuckle. She was wrapped in her bathrobe, with her hair piled on top of her head, and she paused when she saw them together in the kitchen. Giles heard Angel's breath catch, just slightly. Giles thought she looked better than she had that morning - not as pale, though she might have simply been flushed from her shower.

"You're back," she said to Giles. "And you haven't killed each other yet." She sighed. "Well, that's something." She vanished into her bedroom and shut the door.

He exchanged a glance with Angel, who flipped the steaks over with twist of the wrist that almost looked natural. "She wants to patrol tonight," Angel said. "You think it's a good idea?"

Giles took the plates and silverware over the table in the dining nook. "I think it's something to do. And in that way, yes, I think it's a good idea. You are, of course, welcome to join us."

Angel nodded. "Sounds like fun."

"Oh, yes, happy days, I'm sure."


Their patrol went . . . well, it went. Giles rang Robson to ask where the council tended to take potentials and then led Buffy and Angel off in the other direction, toward Hyde Park. It didn't start off well - the Tube was a poor choice, Giles realized too late, even if it was relatively empty at eight-thirty on a Tuesday night - but she came alive when they met their first vampire on the edge of the cemetery Giles had chosen. Or seemed to. Giles hung back, letting Buffy and Angel toss it back and forth between the two of them, and tried to pinpoint what was bothering him.

His realization came at the exact moment Buffy's stake slid home and the vampire exploded.

No banter. She'd been utterly silent throughout the fight.

It was ironic, really, Giles reflected, as Buffy led them off through the cemetery, dodging grave stones and forcing Giles to jog to keep up. He'd spent years telling her to focus during fights, to not engage in repartee that would only get her killed. And now, the very lack of that banter made his blood run cold.

Angel was as expressionless as ever, but something in the lines around his mouth made Giles certain he'd noticed it, too. Neither of them had the time to say anything, though - and Giles didn't have the breath for it, either. Buffy kept up a grueling pace for the next two hours, pushing them through the first cemetery, then back to the Tube over Giles's objections and onto a second. By the time they finally arrived back at the flat, Giles almost stumbling in his exhaustion, it was two in the morning. They'd killed four vampires.

"That was lame," Buffy said, stripping her jacket off to drop on the bench in the entry way. It was nearly the first thing she'd said all evening. "Three hours, two cemeteries, and only four vamps. In Sunnydale it'd have been double that."

Giles picked her jacket up and hung it on the hook beside his own, trying not to let on that he had a stitch in his side so painful he could hardly straighten up. "We're not on a hellmouth here," he pointed out. "In fact, there probably isn't even a need to patrol every night."

She shrugged. "Might as well."

She disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door. Giles let himself lean against the wall, hand on his side. Angel eyed him. "You okay?"

"As the only one of our merry band without greater-than-human strength, I found that rather bracing." Giles gritted his teeth and forced himself upright. "I'm fine. Buffy, however -"

"Not so fine." Angel shook his head. "She was pure slayer out there. Made me want to get out of her way."

There are worse ideas in the world, Giles managed not to say. Barely. He discarded a number of other options as unhelpful as well. The front of his brain knew he had to set all of that aside and deal with Angel in a civil, adult manner; the back of his brain was significantly less convinced. "I'm taking her out tomorrow," he said at last, neutrally. "I'll see if I can figure out what she's thinking."

"Feeling," Angel said, ambiguously. Giles raised his eyebrows at him and Angel shrugged. "Thinking's not the issue here. She doesn't want to feel anything, is my best guess. And she doesn't have to when she slays. Not when she's like she was tonight."

Giles nodded, frowning. "I'll see what I can find out tomorrow."

Sod all, it turned out. She took him up his offer of the cinema, and so they spent two hours in a dark room, not speaking. The film was shite and she slept through the second half. He watched her sleep, curled in the fetal position in the theater seat, and wondered what he was doing wrong - what more he could possibly do. Jane might know, but Jane wasn't here.

Afterward, he took her down to the path by the Thames and they walked along, passing beneath each of the bridges, the lights of Embankment, and the London Eye. "How are -" he began.

"Don't, Giles," she said, flatly.

"Buffy -"

"Don't," she repeated, glancing at him and away. "Please."

He obliged, even though he knew he shouldn't, and together they fell into a pattern they repeated until Giles was ready to weep out of pure frustration. Buffy, whose chatter had once made him wish permanently implanted earplugs were practical, barely spoke - at least not to him. She said more to Angel, though Angel insisted it was of little real substance. She was keeping them both at arm's length, and Giles was left wishing desperately that she would let one of them, either of them, in enough to find out what was really going on inside her head.

By the third day Giles had stopped forcing her to come out with him. She stayed in with Angel - Giles held his tongue - and he left the flat every morning for the council's offices. Sparring did nothing to decrease his growing frustration and anxiety, but between the potentials' aikido lessons and Buffy's marathon patrols, at least he was well on his way to being in the best shape of his life.

They'd been in London exactly a week when Robson caught him on his way down to the training facility for his daily pummeling. "Giles!" he heard and turned to see Robson jogging towards him, waving him to a halt. "Sorry, sorry," Robson said, catching his breath. "I wanted to catch you before you went downstairs. Would you like a cup of tea?"

Giles shook his head. It was probably rude, but the last thing he wanted was a nice, friendly chat with Robson. He wasn't up to social niceties. "Thank you, but I'm just on my way -"

"Have a cup of tea with me, Rupert," Robson said, a bit more firmly. "You won't regret it, I promise."

Giles raised his eyebrows. "Highgate?" Robson nodded. Giles shifted his duffel bag to his other hand. "All right. One cup."

Robson positively grinned at him in satisfaction and led him down the hall and up a lift to his corner office on the sixth floor. Giles made properly impressed noises. Robson had risen high in the council, enough to warrant a thick pile carpet, windows that let in brilliant natural light - or as much of it as England had to offer - and a heavy, dark, mahogany desk. Giles tried not to be envious. As watcher to the active slayer, he hardly had anything to be envious of, after all. On the other hand, he would not have minded some of the trappings of respect, if the council were so inclined to grant him them. It was not inclined, of course. Not as long as Travers was in charge.

Robson had obviously planned this, as there was a pot of tea and two cups waiting on tray on his desk. Scones as well, and clotted cream. Giles's stomach rumbled embarrassingly. Robson seated himself and waved Giles into the chair across from him. "I suspected you could use a bit of comfort food," Robson said, by way of explanation.

Giles wasn't about to argue. He sipped and nodded appreciatively. It was something spicy and unusual, but with good black tea at its heart. "Excellent."

Robson waved this away. "Eh. Middling. You've just been in America too long." Giles grimaced in agreement. "Speaking of which," Robson added, not at all smoothly, "how are things?"

Giles frowned at his tea cup. "Not as well as I'd hoped."

"I'll translate that as bloody awful. Is it the vampire or Buffy or -"

"Buffy," Giles answered with a heavy sigh. "She's - I don't know really. She's shutting me out. With Angel - well, it's about how I expected it to be. He keeps his distance."

Robson nodded in sympathy. "You'll tell me if there's anything I can do?"

"Right now the best thing you can do is give me something to think about. How are matters out at Highgate? You said you had some theories?"

"Mmm," Robson said, and lay a sheaf of papers on the desk, carefully avoiding the tea pot. "I know you've been a bit out of the loop lately, so you probably haven't heard about the mystical disturbances over the last three weeks."

Giles shook his head. "No. Here in England?"

"All over. We've reports coming in from the continent, from South America, from Australia, Africa - anywhere there are ley lines, actually. Glastonbury is a right mess. Quentin's finally given in and dispatched a team to investigate." Robson slid a sheet of paper across to him. "That's a summary of events."

Giles glanced down, skimming. Manifestations, congregations of demons in numbers not usually seen off a hellmouth, unexplained phenomena of every flavor. None of it especially alarming on its own, but within a two week period it was striking. The tabloids must be having a field day. "And you think Highgate is more of the same?"

"I do. A ley line runs straight through the Cedar of Lebanon, you know."

"But grave robbing seems so mundane compared to this," Giles said, indicating the paper. "I'd have thought - well, in Sunnydale, it usually indicated some sort of vampire cult after an artifact."

Robson shook his head. "There's been no sign of anything like that. Certainly, there are always vampires in and around Highgate, but this is something else, I believe." He paused, sipped his tea. Giles raised an eyebrow at him. "I think the spell to bring back Buffy had unforeseen consequences."

"That goes without saying," Giles said dryly.

Robson's lips quirked. "Quite. The situation with Willow, by the way - is that in hand?"

Giles winced. "That depends. Am I talking to you or to Quentin?"

The slight smile vanished. "I see."

Giles shook his head. "I can only deal with one crisis at a time. I don't think she's a danger at the moment."

Robson frowned, deeply, and leaned back in his chair. "I'm afraid I have to beg to differ, Rupert. That spell took an enormous amount of raw power, and not all of it was channeled where it should have been. I think that when she brought Buffy back, it caused a surge of mystical energy along the ley lines, the results of which are this." He tapped the summary. "It was careless and reckless, and you of all people should know what a deadly combination those two traits are when combined with power like Willow is capable of. She doesn't have to be malicious to cause a great deal of irreparable damage."

Giles wished he could rule out maliciousness entirely. Now was probably not the time to tell Robson that she'd threatened him. "I take your point."

"Good. Anyway, I'm not sure what's going on just yet. Glastonbury's had to take priority because a couple of people have been hurt, and now it looks like an American tourist has been possessed by something nasty. I just received word this morning that the team I'd lined up to investigate the Highgate issue has been sent there instead."

"It doesn't seem urgent."

"Neither did Glastonbury at first. Come now, Rupert, I can tell you're intrigued."

Giles drained the last of his tea and set his cup aside, frowning to himself. Perhaps it was just the thing, really. Certainly nothing else he'd tried had come anywhere close to breaking Buffy out of her depressive solipsism , and Robson wouldn't bother them with it if it weren't important. "All right," he