X

A couple of hours later, Buffy came out into the parlour. Giles was taking a momentary break from the seemingly never-ending stacks of papers when she walked into the room, bent over double, and stretched, touching her knees with her forehead, her hands grasping the backs of her ankles. His own spine winced at the movement, but he was glad she was so flexible; she was the one who needed it, after all.

"Stiff?" he asked.

"Not used to this much...nothing."

"Well, we haven't worked out properly since we've been here." He put his teacup down. "Let's do that now."

Buffy straightened. "Your father has weapons?"

"We won't need weaponry today. Come on, outside."

"Giles, it's raining outside."

"It's barely drizzling. Come on, you won't melt."

"I'll get all wet," she insisted, pouting.

"You'll dry." He folded his arms and gave her a stern look. "Or are you getting soft?"

Buffy sighed exaggeratedly. "All right, but if I get sick, you get to explain to my mother what I was doing running around in the rain," she mumbled.

They shrugged into jackets and Giles led them to the large back garden. The grass was overgrown, but there was plenty of open space to work.

"You can't be faulted on your weaponry handling. And your strength is considerable. But we need to concentrate on your energy."

"My what?"

"You expend so much energy in fighting, you tire quickly. All it will take is a vampire with better stamina and you'll be in trouble."

"I do what I need to do," she insisted.

"But you do it...sloppily. We're going to work on conservation of energy. Learning to control your energy, letting it work for you, letting your opponent's energy work against him."

"Huh?" Buffy frowned.

"I'll show you. Come at me. Try to attack me."

She got a glint in her eye. "You sure about this?"

He just smiled and motioned her on. She moved in on him, but as she did, he took her arm, backing away, pulling her off balance. She recovered quickly and came at him again, and again he managed to get her off balance.

She frowned. "What are you doing? You're not doing anything."

"I must be doing something, I keep evading you, and you keep practically falling."

"I'm just out of practice," she scowled.

"And you're using so much energy that I can deflect it, make it work against you."

She stopped. "How?"

"It's very simple," he grinned. "Here, I'll show you."

For the next hour, he taught her some martial arts defensive techniques which relied not on her own strength and speed, but on her being able to anticipate her opponent, to use his strength against him. With this technique, she was never the attacker, but always ended up victorious. And she didn't wear herself out nearly as quickly. It was the kind of training Giles especially liked. Something other than getting himself pummeled by Buffy week after week. He wasn't nearly as inept as she seemed to think he was, but it took something like this, something which used intellect as much as pure strength or stamina, to prove it to her.

He followed the training up with some rudimentary chi kung exercises which showed her how to channel the energy she had, to focus it in certain areas, or to make it flow throughout her body.

It must have been successful, because by the end of the session, Buffy was practically glowing with energy. It seemed to vibrate through her almost electrically.

"Wow," she gushed, "why didn't you ever show me that before?"

He smiled, delighted at how successful the session had been, especially at how receptive she'd been to the new techniques. "You weren't ready before. This kind of training requires a great deal of discipline. And doing it wrong could have consequences. Headaches are just the least of them. We're tapping into your personal energy source, we must tread carefully, making sure we don't overdo it."

"How could I overdo it, I feel great!" And as in proof, she ran across the yard, leaping into a series of cartwheels and flips, all perfectly executed....

Until her foot slipped in the wet grass and she landed flat on her back. Hard.

"Buffy!" Giles dashed across the lawn. His breath was in his throat. The damage she could have done, landing like that....

She was staring straight ahead, mouth open in surprise. Then she gasped. "Whoops."

"Are you all right?" He started breathing again.

"Yeah," she sat up carefully. "That's what I get for showing off."

"Yes, but it did give you a clear demonstration of undisciplined energy," he smiled, offering his hand to pull her up.

"Swell," she muttered. "Oh, Ick!" She looked down at her muddy, grass-stained clothes.

"It's all right. You'll wash."

"I'm all wet!"

"And dry. Come on, let's go back inside."

She nodded and walked with him back toward the cottage. "Maybe," she began, looking up at him, "we can try this again tomorrow?"

"Yes, all right," he smiled. "In the morning. We've got to be at the funeral home all afternoon and evening."

"All afternoon?"

"From about three o'clock on. You'll probably be desperately bored, make sure you take a good book along."

"I don't have one," she said mournfully. "There's nothing to read here."

"Buffy, my father's house is full of books."

"Yeah, but nothing I want to read. They're all, like, scholarly."

"Not all. I'm rereading The Man in the Iron Mask."

She wrinkled up her nose. "No thanks. I'll wait for the movie."

He sighed. "What sort of book are you looking for?" he asked as they got inside and hung their wet coats up in the mud room. They left their shoes there, too, and Buffy stripped out of her muddy jeans, tugging her baggy sweatshirt down over her hips as she padded on stocking feet toward her bedroom.

"How 'bout a cheap, trashy romance?" she called, going to get changed.

"I'm afraid I can't help you there. But what about a gothic romance?"

"Like what?"

"Oh, like Jane Eyre."

She came out of the bedroom, pulling up her sweatpants. "What's it about?"

"It's about a young woman who becomes governess in the home of the handsome Mr. Rochester, a mysterious man with a dark secret," he told her, doing his best to sound "dramatic".

Buffy grinned. "Sounds promising." Then she frowned. "Is it...icky language?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You know, weird English that's hard to understand."

"No. The style is a little more formal than contemporary writing, but you should have no problem understanding it. Let me find it for you, then you can take a look and decide for yourself."

"Okay," she agreed, and he left her in the bathroom, trying to drag a brush through her snarled, wet hair. While he was in the study, looking for the book, he heard the bathroom door shut and the tap run. He sighed. He'd never seen anyone who took as many baths as Buffy Summers did.

When she came out, he handed her the book and after thumbing through it quickly, she put it in her room. They went back to their sorting. Buffy was done with the bedroom and now worked in the dining room, going through everything. Giles was still sorting papers. Anything which was questionable got stacked on the dining room table, so it was a slow task. It seemed to him that no sooner did he get one stack worked down than two more popped up in its place. Already he'd filled up one box of things he needed or wanted to take home with him. No doubt he'd have quite a few more by the time they were done.

A couple of hours later, Giles stood up from his work. "My eyes are crossing," he said. "That's it for tonight."

Buffy got up from where she was sitting in the corner of the dining room, going through the silver. "Well, you're making progress, at least. Isn't that stuff there from the den?" She pointed to one of the stacks of paper on the table.

"Some of it. But there's even more in there." He shook his head. "I swear the man never met a piece of paper he didn't like."

Buffy giggled. "Or anything else, for that matter."

"Quite," Giles agreed and stretched. "How'd you like to go out for a little while?"

She frowned. "Out where?"

"Just down to The Maiden for a drink."

The frown didn't let up. "Am I allowed?"

"You can't drink, but you can certainly go in with me. You've been there twice before, why the problem now?"

She shrugged. "The first time was for food, and the second time was for you. I didn't know what the rules are in English bars for minors."

"Pubs in the city probably wouldn't let you in, certainly not if you were by yourself. But we're a bit...laxer out here. It's at least as much community meeting place as drinking establishment. Come on, I could do with a walk."

Buffy looked at the window. "Is it still raining?"

"I think it's stopped. Do you want to go?"

She grinned. "Sure. Why not?"

They walked down to The Maiden. The evening air was chilly, but at least the rain had stopped. It felt good to just walk. They didn't bother to talk; they didn't need to.

There weren't very many people there, just the handful Giles figured were the regulars, having a pint at their "local". Several of them greeted him as if he were an old friend, expressing their condolences about his father.

"You know them?" Buffy whispered once he returned with their drinks.

"Haven't a clue." He sat down next to her. "Friends of my father, undoubtedly. I'll probably meet them again tomorrow or Wednesday. Perhaps then I can put a name with the face."

She nodded and took a sip of her soda. "Hey, it's diet!"

"I remembered to ask this time," he said, smiling.

"Cool, thanks." She looked at his glass. "That's not that same stuff from the other night."

"No, this is cider."

"Cider?" she frowned. "Like apple cider?"

"Yes...well, no, not exactly. That is...it is, but it's hard cider. It's fermented."

"Fermented apple juice? Eww." She made a face.

He laughed. "Not at all. You can try some if you'd like."

"I think I'll pass," she shook her head.

He leaned back in the booth. "You're not much of a drinker."

"And that's a problem?"

"No, not at all. But most young people your age seem to go out of their way to look for chances to drink. You seem to avoid them."

"Well, the one time in recent memory I had a drink I almost became dinner to a giant snake guy, so it kind of put me off," she said.

"I can see where it would," he agreed.

"And mostly I don't like the taste. I mean, beer? Yuck. And have you ever had a martini?" She shuddered exaggeratedly.

He chuckled. "Yes, well some alcohol is definitely an acquired taste."

"Besides," she went on. "I don't like the idea of...not being in control. Especially with slayage. I don't want the vamps to ever have the upper hand."

"That's quite wise. Alcohol is a neural inhibitor, it slows your reflexes."

"And it gives me a headache," she admitted. Then she looked at him. "Hey, I just thought of something."

"Yes?"

"When I was fourteen, we had...well, there was this party and things kind of got out of hand. But anyway there was drinking and I don't remember how much I had but I know I was pretty looped. And the next day I was a little hung over but okay. The next year I went to another party and had a drink and right away got this terrible headache, and that was only from one drink. And about a month after that is when I met Merrick. Do you think I was already the slayer by then and the alcohol hit me differently?"

"It could be. I don't believe there have ever been any studies about the effects of alcohol or other drugs on the slayer's metabolism. She's much too valuable to be used for experiments of that nature. And since she's always a young girl...."

"It's usually not an issue," Buffy completed.

"Quite."

They fell silent; the mood had turned introspective. It still felt relaxing to sit here, unwind after the day, but they could no longer pretend they were just two ordinary people, out for a drink at their "local". Buffy traced a finger through the glass rings on the table top. "That's something else I used to wonder, too," she said softly.

"What is?"

"Whether virginity affected a slayer."

He felt a shiver go through him. "Pardon?"

"Well, one of the, you know, signals...is cramps, changes in my periods, stuff like that. So I used to wonder if virginity had anything to do with it." She swallowed and looked down. "But I guess it doesn't."

Giles looked at her sympathetically. He knew Angel had been her first, and that it hadn't been something she'd done lightly. It was a very precious gift she had given of herself, and it had been soiled by the events which had followed, a single act with continuing repercussions.

"No," he said gently. "It makes no difference. Because slayers are all young women, a majority have been virgins, but not all. There were even instances where a slayer was married and the marriage was consummated."

She stared at him, wide-eyed. "How do you know it was consummated?"

"It was mentioned in the watcher's diary."

"She told her watcher?" Buffy looked both fascinated and appalled.

"Er, her watcher was her husband."

Her expression lost the fascinating part of the equation and Giles hurried on. "In certain time periods, certain societies, the only way a man and a young woman could be alone together would be as husband and wife. Now, it's true that some of those were simply marriages of convenience, little more than documents on paper. But not all. And one particular instance, in the 1830s, I believe, was clearly a love-born union. In fact," he smiled, "it's really quite a romantic story."

Buffy scowled. "Yeah, until she became vampire food."

Giles's smile faded. He supposed if he were in Buffy's shoes, he wouldn't want to hear about it, either.

"What about pregnancy?" she asked. "Did any of them ever get pregnant?"

"No, I don't believe so."

"'Cause I think it would be pretty hard to slay vampires when you've got this big belly in front of you."

He smiled. "Yes, I imagine it would."

She sat up abruptly. "None of the married slayers ever got pregnant?" she asked again.

"I...I don't know. I don't recall reading that they did."

"Or any other slayer?"

"Not to my knowledge. Why?"

"Maybe it's because we can't."

"What?"

"Get pregnant. Maybe we can't. I mean, how can a slayer slay while she's carrying a baby? Maybe that's one of the things that happens when the slayer becomes, you know, the slayer. She becomes...sterile or something." She slumped back in the booth, a sorrowful expression on her face.

Giles frowned, considering. It would make a certain perverse sense. A slayer with child would be an impossible situation. But the idea that along with the slayer's extraordinary gifts of healing and strength came sterility.... It was a bloody unfair setup.

But then, he'd always thought the whole thing was bloody unfair.

But to Buffy he said, "You told me once that when you first became the slayer, before you knew of your calling, your body began behaving strangely and you went through a full battery of tests."

"Yeah?" Buffy looked at him suspiciously.

"Wouldn't those tests have shown up something abnormal, like the inability to bear children?"

She shrugged. "Maybe they didn't know what to look for."

"And maybe there was nothing there to look for," he suggested. "Buffy, I don't have an answer for you. When we get home, you can see your doctor, if you're that worried about it."

"No, it's just...." She took a deep breath. "I mean, it's not like I'm planning on having kids any time soon. Maybe never. But to know I can't.... I don't know, that would be kind of harsh."

He reached across the table and took her hand, hoping to offer what little comfort he could. He didn't know what to tell her. If it was true that slayers were unable to conceive, it hadn't been written about in any of the extant volumes he'd read. But that didn't mean anything. He was surprised, sometimes, at the things the other watchers managed to leave out. This would be just like them-a topic considered too "delicate" to be discussed, yet one of burning importance to a young woman. "But you don't know. And unless you're prepared to have the tests to find out...."

"No," she said. "No, I just.... I don't know. Just me being weird."

He smiled gently and squeezed her hand. "Don't let it worry you. Should the time come that you want to consider the issue seriously, then we'll look into it further." Perhaps he'd look into it on his own, to further increase his knowledge about the slayer and to benefit those generations to come. And, most importantly, for her.

She nodded and he let go.

Another of the neighbors came up to the table to offer their condolences and to tell Giles that they'd be at the wake tomorrow.

"So what's this gonna be tomorrow?" Buffy asked when they'd moved off. "A service?"

"No, just a chance for people to pay their last respects. The funeral will consist of a short service at the funeral home on Wednesday."

"How come not at a church?" she asked.

"My father didn't attend any church. As a boy, I was raised in the Church of England, but that was my mother's faith, not his. I drifted away from it after she died, and any religion he might have had died with her." He sighed. "I think he missed it, having a faith like hers. I know I did."

"What do you mean?" Buffy frowned.

"Religion can be a great comfort, especially in times of trial. Without that faith, you have nothing to fall back on. You can't, for example, trust in God, because you don't believe that God is there."

Buffy's frown deepened and she looked down, her finger once again tracing the circles of wetness on the table. "What do you believe?" she asked softly.

He sighed wearily. "Sometimes I'm not sure anymore. I know I believe in good and evil. Seeing the things I've seen, doing the things I've done, it would be rather...difficult not to. I believe in a higher power, whether you call it God or something else. But I have a hard time with God as conceived by most organized religions, with their structures and strictures. I suppose it's not God I have problems with but the organization of religion. There's a great deal of power in ritual and symbol. I know, I've seen it. The idea of that power being misused...."

He gazed at her gently. "We've never really talked about religion, have we?"

"It isn't something I think about a lot," she admitted. "We didn't go to church when I was growing up. I've really only ever been for holidays and...and things like funerals. And I went sometimes with my cousin, Celia, when I was younger. They went.

"But it's kind of hard not to think about it when you're faced with evil, isn't it? I mean, religion is supposed to be the opposite of evil."

"Religion can be used to combat evil," he corrected, "but religions themselves are not necessarily the opposite of evil. In fact, worshipers of Satan have a religion by any definition, even though what they worship is evil. Even the "good" religions have been full of evil over the years, though it's often misguided rather than intentionally malicious."

Buffy sipped her soda thoughtfully. "Why do crosses hurt vampires?"

Buffy always surprised him. Most of the time she did her job, didn't question, didn't look too deeply at anything. But he knew that those depths were there, hidden just below the surface. She'd never asked a lot of the questions he'd expected of her when they first met. At the time, he'd assumed that Merrick must have given her all the answers she needed, though his journal never mentioned her asking. Or else she simply hadn't thought about them. It wasn't until he'd gotten to know her that he realized that she didn't ask because she knew that the answers wouldn't change what she had to do. In a way, it showed far more insight than most. Buffy wasn't about to clutter her life with useless information, not unless that information would be essential toward keeping her alive.

He answered her directly. "They're a symbol of good. Evil creatures fear their opposite."

"But it's a Christian symbol," she said. "What if your vampire's not Christian? I mean, what if you've got a Jewish vampire?"

"It doesn't matter. It's the power inherent in the symbol itself, not whether the vampire believes in the cross, or even whether the wielder does. It's the cross itself which has been imbued with power against evil, by generations of believers. And therefore its power can transcend the belief of a particular vampire or demon."

Buffy sat back, a look of amazement on her face. "Wow. Heady stuff."

He smiled. "Yes, I suppose it is. That's what I meant when by the power of symbol. Most people think of them as nothing more than...icons. But the oldest symbols are much more than simple representations. They're manifestations of power."

"Do all symbols have that kind of power?"

"Potentially. It depends on the symbol and how it's used. The cross is a very potent symbol because of its prevalence and the history of its believers. The Star of David has power to a much lesser extent because its people never used it as a ward against evil. But there are other symbols in Judaism which are much more powerful. The yin/yang's power is quite different, because the meaning of the symbol is very different. But there are some very potent Eastern symbols. And the Muslim star and crescent have a potency similar to the cross, though less prevalent in this country."

Buffy grinned. "Knowledge guy strikes again."

"As you said, pretty heady stuff." He chuckled.

"It's...good, though, knowing you know all this stuff. It's like, whatever I need to know, I know you'll know about it, so I don't have to know about it ahead of time."

He laughed softly at her compliment. "I don't know everything, Buffy."

"No, but you know enough. And you know where to find the rest of it."

"Yes, that's what I do."

She grinned at him. "So that's good."

"Yes, I suppose it is." He sighed and finished his cider. "Well, we'd best be getting home."

"Yeah, I guess," she nodded. "But it was...kinda nice, just to talk. We don't do that much, not really. I mean, not without some crisis or other brewing."

"No, we don't," he agreed. "And we should. We get so involved in training, in doing research, we sometimes forget simple communication. Part of what I'm here for is to guide you, advise you in any situation, not just those which deal with vampires or demons. You should be able to come to me and talk about any topic. They're all relevant to the slayer."

She smiled, a sweet expression. "I'll remember that."

"Good. Well, come on." He stood up.

"You're not still gonna work tonight, are you?" she asked, drinking down the last of her soda.

"No, actually I was thinking about going to bed and sleeping in come morning."

"Works for me."

They both slipped back into their jackets and left the Maiden, saying good bye to all of the people there who were saying good night to them.

Outside, Buffy stopped. "Oh, ick, it's raining again!"

"Yes," Giles extended his hand, "it is most certainly raining again."

In fact, the rain was falling steadily, much more heavily than it had done for most of the day.

"I'm gonna spend my day soaked," she complained.

"You'll dry." He turned up the collar of his coat and set out.

"But I'm freezing."

"Then walk quickly," he replied, continuing. He wanted to get home and out of the wet; he wasn't going to stand around and coddle her.

"Yuck," she muttered, but obediently trudged through the rain, catching up with him.

They were drenched by the time they got home. And cold. Buffy was absolutely freezing. She dashed straight for the bedroom, stripping off her wet things as she went, not caring about the puddles she was making on the floor. She changed into her sweats and toweled her hair dry.

"I'm putting the kettle on," Giles called to her. "You want tea?"

"We don't have any hot chocolate, do we?" she called back.

"I don't know, I'll check."

She was still freezing, so she opened the large standing wardrobe, searching for something she'd seen earlier. In the corner was a thick chenille bathrobe. It screamed "Fifties", but was soft and warm. She slipped that on over her sweats and padded out to the kitchen, careful not to step on its hem which trailed on the floor. Mrs. Giles was obviously taller than Buffy.

Giles, still in his wet things, was pottering around the kitchen.

"We're in luck," he said, smiling when she came in. "I found some drinking chocolate."

"Some whating whoey?"

"Drinking chocolate. Like cocoa."

"You mean real cocoa?"

"Yes, of course, what were you expecting?"

"The stuff in the packets?"

"Not here. Here you get the real thing." He grinned as he poured milk into a saucepan and set it on the burner. "Here, keep an eye on this while I go change. Don't let it boil."

She nodded and came over to the stove. He was looking at her, a gentle, sad sort of smile on his face. Then she realized he was looking at the robe. "I hope you don't mind," she said, touching it. "It was in the closet."

"No, of course not," he reassured her. "I told you you were welcome to anything you found. It's just...I hadn't seen that in twenty-five years." His voice sounded wistful.

"Well, I don't know if I'll keep it, it's just...." She stepped closer to the stove to check on the milk and put her foot in a wet spot on the floor. "Oh, ick, Giles, you're dripping on the floor and I just stepped in it. Go, get out of here before you make more puddles."

"Sorry," he apologized and went upstairs.

When he came down again, in clean trousers and a sweater, Buffy was stirring the saucepan. "It's just about to boil, what do we do now?" she asked.

"Put in the chocolate and the sugar," he said, measuring each into the milk. "Now stir it 'til everything dissolves. Then let it heat up again."

In a few minutes, they had cocoa: rich, smooth, warm. Delicious. Buffy was still cold, but the hot chocolate was helping.

They sat in the parlor and Buffy tucked her feet up under her, huddling to get warm.

"Are you really that cold?" Giles frowned.

"Freezing. It's like, every time I start to warm up this trip, something happens and I get cold again."

"I'm sorry. I should have warned you." He rubbed a hand up and down her arm.

"You did. I just didn't believe any place could be this cold all the time, especially not in the spring."

"Spring doesn't really come here 'til April. We can get snow up until Eastertime."

"Uggh," she shuddered. "Hey, does the fireplace work?"

"It used to, but I've no idea when the chimney was last swept. I can try, but it might smoke."

"I'd love a fire," she said, giving him her best 'wistful' look. She knew she did wistful well, it ought to do the trick.

"All right," he chuckled. "Let me see what I can do." She wasn't sure whether he bought her "poor pitiful me" act, or if he was merely rewarding the performance. But as long as she got warm, she didn't care.

He spent the next several minutes, doing various "fireplace" things, then finally lit some tinder, coaxing it as the flames began to lap at the logs. However long it had been since its last tending, the chimney still functioned; the smoke rose as intended, leaving nothing but light and heat and that wonderful wood smell behind.

"Ah, warm," Buffy purred happily as she dropped to the floor directly in front of the hearth. She simply sat there, eyes closed, feeling the heat leech into her body, feeling it banish the chill that went bone-deep.

Eventually, she sighed, stretching.

"Better?" Giles asked.

"Much. Thanks." She slid back toward the couch, leaning against it lazily. Giles handed down her cocoa and they sat peacefully, letting themselves enjoy the warmth and...and the not doing anything. She rested her head against his knee and he gently stroked her damp hair, smoothing it. The soft corduroy of his trousers felt good against her cheek.

"Domestic scene with watcher and slayer," she said softly and he chuckled.

"Yes, it's nice, every now and then, to have some down-time. A chance to re-charge."

"Mmm," she sighed in agreement, closing her eyes. His gentle touch of her hair felt nice. Soothing. Made her feel...content. His fingers would start at her temple, slowly smoothing the hair away from her face, following it down behind her ears, where his fingers would tenderly brush her hair away from her neck. Her mother would sometimes stroke her hair like that, conveying her love with a tender touch. It always made Buffy feel so...cared for.

She sighed again. "You ever thought about having kids?"

His hand stilled, then resumed its gentle caress. "I, uh, well, I suppose I thought about it when I was younger," he finally answered.

"'Cause I think you'd be a good father," she said, in case he was wondering where her question had come from. She raised her head and looked at him. He was flushing slightly, but smiling, too.

"It isn't something I've given a lot of thought to, especially not recently. My life these days isn't exactly conducive to fatherhood. Besides which," he cleared his throat, "I'm missing a rather crucial element in the equation."

She realized what he meant and looked away guiltily. He could have had that, if not for her.

They sat silently for a time, and eventually, he resumed his stroking of her hair. But Buffy didn't find it soothing this time. Every touch reminded her that he was sitting here with her because he couldn't be sitting here with Ms. Calendar. If she'd still been alive, he would have brought her on this trip, not Buffy.

"I just don't understand," she whispered.

His hand stilled. "Understand what?"

"How you can not blame me."

She didn't say anything more. She didn't need to; he knew what she meant.

"I don't blame you because it wasn't your fault," he answered simply.

"Yes, it was." She turned away and drew her knees to her chest, hugging them. "Hormones, that's all it was. Stupid hormones."

"Yes," he agreed. "You acted impulsively, but I know how powerful hormones can be at your age. Besides," his hand rested on her shoulder, "you couldn't have known what would happen. And I know how much you loved him."

A lump formed in her throat. "That's what's so hard," she said, choking past her tears. "I l..love him. In spite of everything that's happened, everything he's done, I still love him." The tears were flowing freely now and she made no move to stop them.

"You can't just turn love on and off, Buffy. Like a faucet. It will take time. Especially...especially since Angel was your first love. Your first lover."

"It hurts so much," she cried. "He's so cruel now. But then...he was so gentle...." She buried her face against her knees, sobbing.

He let her cry for a moment, then she felt his hand rubbing her back soothingly. When he spoke, his voice was a gentle whisper. "Shh, Buffy, it's all right. Hush now. Sh-shh."

His hand felt good on her back, and his voice was soft and comforting. But Buffy didn't want to be comforted. She didn't deserve his affection. She raised her head, struggling to swallow back the tears, savagely pushing the emotion away.

A square of cloth was pressed into her hand and she used it to wipe her eyes, blow her nose. Then she looked at the cloth balefully.

"Ugh, I icked it up."

He chuckled softly. "That's what it's for."

"Yeah, but now I have to...do something with it."

"That's what laundries are for."

"I like something I can throw away better," she said and stuffed the soiled handkerchief into her bathrobe pocket. She sniffed and he stroked a hand down the side of her head, pressing it to rest against his knee again.

"Feeling better?" he asked, his hand smoothing her hair once more.

She shook her head. "But at least I'm not falling apart at the moment." She sighed. "Feeling better's too much to hope for."

His hand on her hair stilled and he hooked a finger under her chin, tipping her face toward him. "You want somebody to blame you," he said softly, "because then your own self-blame will be easier to accept. You'll feel justified in your anger and your guilt. But you're not going to get that from me, Buffy, I told you that already."

She pulled away, his gentle touch too hard to bear. "How can you just forgive like that?"

"There's nothing to forgive. And even if there were, why should you be so undeserving of forgiveness?"

She stared up at him. "Because of what I did."

"What did you do? You made a mistake. You acted impulsively, not maliciously. And I'd say that you've paid for your error, paid many, many times in excess of your supposed crime. You can go ahead and beat yourself up over it, but don't expect my help in doing it. I told you before that all you will ever get from me is my respect, and my support. And my love."

Buffy ignored the tears which streamed down her cheeks unchecked. Why did he love her like this, when she was so undeserving of his love? When her selfishness got the love of his life killed. How could he still stand to be with her? She bit her lip to keep her chin from quivering.

"Buffy," he murmured, extending his arms, offering his love in the form of a hug. But she knew if she accepted it she'd be lost, so she got to her knees, moving away.

"N-no, I think I'm just...gonna go to bed." She refused to look at him, didn't want to see the compassion or the pity in his eyes. She stood up. "G'night."

"Buffy," he repeated, but she turned away and left the parlor, left him behind.

She held it together until she got into the bedroom and closed the door. Then she collapsed on the bed and let herself weep.

Giles stood in the middle of the parlour, watching Buffy's retreating back, listening as she shut the bedroom door behind her with a firm click. Hearing the silence, and then the weeping. He closed his eyes with a silent groan. There was no way to "jolly" her out of this mood of hers, no way to convince her that he didn't blame her, he didn't hate her, he certainly didn't condemn her. And even if he had, what good would it have done? It wouldn't undo what had happened. It wouldn't bring Jenny back.

It all came down to Jenny: what she'd been, especially what she'd been to him. He had loved her, even while feeling the sting of her deception. And he had honestly believed her when she said she had no idea what would happen if Angel experienced true joy. But she was dead now because of that single moment, a moment which directly linked back to Buffy. Of course Buffy blamed herself; how could she not, after seeing so vividly just what Jenny's death had done to Giles. The poor girl had had to deal with a suicidal watcher not just once but twice thanks to his relationship with Jenny. That wasn't in the contract, that the slayer had to pick up the pieces when the watcher self-destructed.

Buffy blamed herself. And he was at a loss as to how to convince her that the blame was not hers. That the blame, if any could be assigned, rested firmly on Angel's shoulders, rested with a 240 year old vampire who, soul or no soul, ought to have known better than to become involved with a mortal girl, especially one who was the slayer.

And it rested with Giles himself, who should have put a stop to the relationship before it could progress so far. But he hadn't wanted to face the fact that Buffy wasn't a child, she was a young woman with all the urges and desires that youth was heir to. And he'd been so grateful for Angel's assistance, for his knowledge and strength, he was willing to ignore that part of him which was screaming "you're letting your slayer date a what?!"

He sighed, rubbing a hand across his face. He supposed this particular "scene" had been too long in coming. It was inevitable that eventually they would need to talk about what had happened, painful though it might be. She needed to know exactly where he stood, and he had to know what she was feeling, what she was thinking.

But how to convince her that everything would be all right? How to put a smile back on her face? If the other watchers saw a sorry little waif with him tomorrow, what would they think about the way he was handling her?

Come to that, what would they think anyway? Letting the slayer get romantically involved with a vampire. What the hell had Giles been thinking?

He would have a lot of explaining to do tomorrow.

With a sigh, he banked the fire, making sure it was burning down safely, re-stoked the stove, and turned off the lights, climbing upstairs to go to bed. The rain was still coming down, if anything, harder than before, and it made a soft rustling sound as it struck the thatch. He lay under the eaves, listening to it, remembering lying in this bed as a boy, listening to the rain and imagining himself lying under a tent someplace exciting and romantic.

He smiled ruefully at the memory. Excitement and romance were over-rated.

Eventually, he fell asleep, but awoke to a loud crack of thunder, followed by more flashes and crashes in rapid succession. In between the peals of thunder, there came another sound, a banging. He sighed. That meant one of the shutters had come loose and was banging against the house. He hauled himself out of bed and went downstairs to check on the windows.

It was the shutter in the dining room which was the culprit, and he quickly closed it. While he was up, he checked the others, tightening a few of them just to make sure.

There was another bright flash, another loud crack of thunder, and Giles heard the bedroom door open.

"Giles?" Buffy's voice was timid, wary.

He moved to the hallway. She was little more than a silhouette against the light coming from the bedroom, a small thing hunched into her thick robe. "Did the storm wake you?"

She nodded. "I...don't like thunderstorms. I guess that's pretty stupid, huh?"

"You don't get them very often in California, you're just not used to them," he said by way of comfort. "Actually, they're not that common here either, but not unheard of, exactly, especially in the spring.

There was another flash and Buffy jumped. "A..are we safe here?"

"Safe?"

"W-what if lightning hits the roof? I mean, it's straw...."

"We're grounded. In the unlikely event, we'll be fine. It's more apt to hit the stable, and even that's got a lightning rod. Don't worry. This house has stood for over a hundred years without ever being hit by lightning."

"Oh." She didn't sound convinced.

"Is the shutter closed in your room?" he asked.

"I don't think so."

"Let me check." He moved past her and closed the shutter against the flashes and the wind. "There, now you won't see the lightning, even if you'll hear the thunder."

"Thanks," she said, her voice still small.

"We'll be fine, just go back to bed."

She nodded, but didn't make any move toward returning to her bed. Her complexion was pale and she looked like she'd cried herself to sleep. He didn't want to push, especially not after earlier. So he just gave her a smile he hoped was reassuring, and patted her shoulder as he passed.

"Giles?" she called just as he left the room.

"Yes?" He turned around.

She stood there for a moment, torn between wanting to say something and wanting to forget the whole thing, the emotions playing out across her expressive face.

Just then another crack of thunder shook the house.

"Can...can I be stupid and childish?" she blurted.

The way she said it almost made him laugh, but he didn't want her to think he was laughing at her. "What do you need?"

"Can you...can you stay and talk to me?"

"About what?"

She shrugged. "I don't care, I just...if I'm listening to your voice, I won't hear the thunder."

He smiled to himself. It was touching, the idea of his strong, brave slayer, being afraid of a thunderstorm. She wanted to rely on him to keep the "big mean thunder" at bay.

"Where's your book?" he asked, coming back into the room.

"I don't want to read," she protested, "I need..."

"I know. Come on," he put a hand on her shoulder, "back into bed."

A look of relief flashed across her face. "Oh. Over there." She pointed to the nightstand where the copy of Jane Eyre lay. She crawled into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin, and he sat down on the edge of the bed next to her.

"Have you started it yet?" he asked, picking up the book. She shook her head. "All right. Now just relax." He brushed her hair away from her face, and with a gentle thumb, stroked across her brow and between her eyes. "Close your eyes, that's it." Her eyes fluttered closed

and he opened the book.

"Chapter One. There was no possibility of taking a walk that day. We had been wandering, indeed, in the leafless shrubbery an hour in the morning; but since dinner (Mrs. Reed, when there was no company, dined early) the cold winter wind had brought with it clouds so sombre, and a rain so penetrating, that further out-door exercise was now out of the question."

"Giles?" Her voice was small again and she was gazing at him with big, sad eyes. "I'm sorry about before."

"Shh," he soothed and took her hand. It was cold and he held it tight. "You'll need to come to terms with what happened, Buffy, one way or another. But I will always be there for you, whenever...or however...you need me."

A tear formed in her eye again and she blinked it away. "I know. Thanks."

He raised her hand to his lips, then set it down. "Do you want to talk? Or do you want me to read?"

"I want you to read," she said and rolled onto her side, facing him, the smallest of smiles playing on her face, a look of gratitude in her eyes. She reached for his hand again, interlacing their

fingers.

"All right," he agreed, squeezing her hand. "Going on." He cleared his throat and began again. "I was glad of it: I never liked long walks, especially on chilly afternoons: dreadful to me was the coming home in the raw twilight, with nipped fingers and toes, and a heart saddened by the chidings of Bessie, the nurse, and humbled by the consciousness of my physical inferiority to Eliza, John, and Georgiana Reed...."

Chapter IX