III

It was early evening by the time they arrived in the small town. Chalworth. It seemed to Buffy that they'd been driving forever, and the rental car, while a lot better than Giles's old rattle-trap back home, was still cramped. Between the car and the plane flight, Buffy was feeling so antsy she was ready to run along behind the car, just to keep moving.

She looked out the window curiously at the sights. It wasn't much of a town; a main street with a few shops, and smaller streets with brick houses, one next to another. With all this open space, you'd think they would have used it for the yards, but the houses had only tiny postage stamp yards, usually surrounded by a fence or a wall.

"I know you're tired," Giles said, speaking for the first time since they'd passed the cut-off for Oxford and he'd pointed it out. "I can drop you at the house if you want, but I need to get to the convalescent home."

"No, it's okay, I'll come with you. I mean, I thought that was part of the point-that he wanted to meet me."

"It is," Giles agreed. "But it's been a terribly long trip. It can wait 'til you've rested."

"Except you don't know that. Maybe it can't."

He glanced at her, yet another look she couldn't figure out on his face. Then he looked away and nodded. "You're sure?"

"Yeah. What, now suddenly you don't want your father to meet your slayer?"

"No, it's not that. In fact, I'm sure he'll be happier to see the slayer than the watcher."

"Do I detect some unresolved issues here?" she asked.

He chuckled ruefully. "You could say that."

"So, what's the sitch? Come on, so I don't say something embarrassing."

"It's nothing," he dismissed. "Just your usual case of the son not measuring up to the father's expectations."

"You're a watcher. What other expectations could he have?"

"I think he feels I should be a better watcher. I should be more devoted to my calling."

"How much more devoted? You never take your nose out of a book as it is."

"But for many years I merely went through the motions; my heart wasn't in it. He never understood that. My fits of rebellion were seen as betrayal. Betrayal of all he taught me, all he stood for."

"But you went back. You became the watcher. You've got a slayer, Giles, that's more than he can say."

He glanced at her. "Don't say that to him."

"Duh!" she rolled her eyes. "I'll behave myself, don't worry."

"I'm not," he said, but didn't sound convinced. "I'm sure he'll be charmed by you." Then he sighed. "I'm afraid this will be rather awkward."

"Are you sorry I came?"

"No," he answered immediately. "No, I think I'll be very grateful for your company. But it will still be awkward. He's likely to give you the third-degree."

She shrugged. "I can handle it."

He smiled. "Yes, I believe you can. If anyone could handle my father, it would be you." He returned his attention to the road, pulling into a lane. Back some distance loomed a large manor house. Brick and stone, it sat forbiddingly at the end of a circular drive.

"That's it?" Buffy gawped.

"Yes."

"This is a nursing home? It looks like a great place to have a murder mystery. You know, 'Murder at Moldy Manor' or something."

He chuckled. "You have too vivid an imagination. But actually, it was a manor house, back when I was a lad. The family had to sell up and the county bought it. It was a school for a time, but it's been the home for, oh, ten years or so." He pulled alongside the gravel drive and stopped the car.

She shook her head. "You really did grow up here."

"Yes, I told you that. Until I was nineteen."

"Then what?" she asked as they climbed out of the car.

"Oxford."

"And then?"

He sighed. "London. Then I spent a few years in York, then back to London. Then I came to California. And you now know the world travels of Rupert Giles." He took her arm, escorting her up the front steps.

The entry hall was brightly lit; obviously the building, despite its being old, was well kept up. There was a reception desk to one side, which was empty, and an office behind it, with the shadow of someone inside. Giles let go of Buffy's arm and knocked on the door. A middle-aged woman was seated at a desk.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Yes, my name is Rupert Giles," he began. "My father is-"

"Richard Giles," the woman completed. "Yes, of course." She came around the desk and took his hand. "I'm so glad you could come. I'm Miss Wentworth, the administrator. I'm the one who wrote you." She glanced at Buffy. "And is this your daughter?"

"Um..." Giles began.

"Yeah, sort of," Buffy interrupted. "I'm Buffy."

Giles spared her a frowning glance and she smiled in return. It was too impossible to explain their actual relationship and she figured daughter would cause less reaction than "companion" or "friend". She'd already seen him go postal when anything improper between them had been suggested. It was easier-and safer-for people to assume a family tie. If anyone asked, she'd pretend she was his step-daughter or something.

Giles, meanwhile, had turned his attention back to Miss Wentworth. "How is he?"

She frowned. "Not good. It shouldn't be long now. I'm glad you came when you did."

"Can I see him?"

"Yes, of course. This way." She led them up the stairs and down a hallway. "He's in considerable pain, so he's rather heavily medicated. It makes him groggy, so he sleeps a lot, which is probably for the best. At this point all we're trying to do is keep him as comfortable as possible."

Giles nodded, his mouth set in a grim line. Buffy took his arm and squeezed it reassuringly, wanting to give him all the support she could. He looked down at her and managed a feeble smile.

They stopped in front of one room. "He's probably asleep," Miss Wentworth told them, speaking in hushed tones. "We're past visiting hours, but under the circumstances...."

Giles nodded. "We won't stay long. I just want him to know I'm here."

She smiled. "If you need anything, just ask." Then she left them. Giles took a deep breath and headed into the room.

Even though it was a nursing home, it felt too much like a hospital room for Buffy's comfort. She'd never liked hospitals before. After her recent adventures there, she liked them even less now. But she told herself she was just being stupid. She was here for Giles, that was what was important. Taking her own deep breath, she followed him.

The man in the bed was hooked to oxygen to helped him breathe, but the breaths still rattled in his chest. His eyes were closed, their sockets deep and sunken. His shock of silver hair was a little thin at the temples, but still waved on the top and sides. In spite of how thin and frail he looked, Buffy could still see the strong jaw, the angular features she recognized in Giles. But it was eerie, seeing Giles's father like this. It was kind of like seeing Giles, a long time in the future, only Giles as an old man who was dying. She shivered at the thought, blinking away the tears. She couldn't stand the thought of Giles dying. She wanted him to be with her for...for as long as she needed him. Forever sounded about right.

Beside her she heard Giles swallow audibly. She wondered what he saw. He moved away, stepping up to the bed, and gently took the thin hand. "Father," he called softly, and there was a tiny tremor in his voice.

The old man stirred and opened his eyes. They blinked several times before focusing on his son. But Buffy saw the confusion of sleep clear and become the surprise of recognition.

"You came," he said softly. His voice was reed-thin and tremulous.

"As soon as I could," Giles answered.

His father struggled to take a deep breath and coughed. "Good."

And then he stared at his son. Unlike Giles's eyes, which were a gentle green-pretty, if you wanted to think of them like that-Mr. Giles Senior's eyes were steel gray and sharp as glass. Buffy could see, even as sick as he was, how his stare must have intimidated Giles when he was younger. Like he always had to be proving himself. She looked back at Giles, who was glancing at his father, then flicking his gaze away nervously. Like he was still having to prove himself.

"F-father," Giles managed, "I've brought someone to meet you." He let go of his father's hand and gestured to Buffy, inviting her to approach the bed.

Buffy smiled and moved to him, touching his arm as she passed. Mr. Giles was staring at her. She had to admit, it was a very intimidating stare; she had to force herself not to squirm.

"This is Buffy Summers," Giles said and she was astonished to see the change in the old man's expression. From hard skepticism to open awe.

She approached the bed and took his hand. "I'm glad to meet you," she said.

"The honor is mine," he replied, his voice a little stronger. He stared again at his son, who was smiling. But his next words shocked her. "Why did you bring her here?"

Giles flinched as his smile disappeared. "I...I thought...I thought you would like to meet her," he stammered. "And she...."

"So you took her away from her duties? Who is protecting that devilish little town of yours while she's here?"

Giles rubbed at his neck nervously. "I...she...that is...."

"Use your head, Rupert," the old man scolded. "You can't go dragging the slayer off on a whim. She has responsibilities."

Giles ducked his head. "I know that, Father," he said, his tone soft. "But we won't be gone for long and I...I didn't want to leave her on her own, without a watcher." He looked at his father through upturned eyes, like a little boy who thought he was going to be punished even if he did something right. "And I need to be here."

"Then you should have contacted someone to take your place. You know the rules, Rupert. You know how it's supposed to be done, and yet you consistently fly in the face of-"

"There wasn't time," Giles insisted. "I'm sorry. But there wasn't time." His voice dropped to barely a whisper and he lowered his head, not looking at his father.

Buffy looked from one to the other. Even practically dead, Mr. Giles kept putting his son down, telling him he was a failure. Inadequate. Poor Giles, it was like no matter what he said, no matter what he did, his father wouldn't ever think it was good enough. But he didn't know his son, not like she did. He didn't know anything about him.

It was up to her to set him straight.

"Anyway, it wasn't Giles's idea to bring me," she interrupted. "It was mine."

The old man stared at her. "Why?" The steel-gray eyes were piercing.

She returned his stare with one of her own. "I wanted to meet you."

"You wanted to meet a dying old man? Whyever for?"

She frowned. Nothing would ever be easy with old man Giles. "I wanted to tell you...I want to tell you how glad I am that he's my watcher."

Giles looked at her sharply and his father gave out a wheezing chuckle. "So you think he's a good watcher, do you?"

"Yes. I do." Let's see what he made of that.

"And why is that?" It was obvious from his tone that he didn't agree with her.

"Because...."

He raised his hand to stop her. "Just a minute, young lady." He turned his attention to his son again. Giles looked a little embarrassed, but also pleased. At least he didn't look scared anymore. "Clear off, Rupert, I want to speak with your slayer alone."

Giles's mouth opened in surprise, but no sound came out. "Er, yes, all right," he finally said. "I'll...um...I'll be down the corridor." He reached over and gave Buffy's shoulder a reassuring pat, whether reassuring to her or to himself she wasn't sure, and left the room.

She returned her attention to the old man in the bed and for a long time they were silent, looking at each other. Assessing. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her. How many other slayers had he known? Even though he'd never had one of his own, he must have met some of them before. Was he comparing her to them? How did she measure up? She tried not to fidget. "So?" she finally said.

"Why do you think my son is a good watcher?"

Well, at least he got right to the point. Directness was something she could deal with. "Because he is," she answered simply. "Because we've been together for more than a year and I'm still alive. Because he knows things. He teaches me things. And because he's Giles."

She watched his face, looking for a reaction. If there was one, she missed it. All she got was that penetrating look, the one which made her feel like a bug under a microscope. "Merrick was your first watcher," he countered. "Surely he...."

"Merrick is dead," she said flatly. "Giles isn't." There wasn't any comparison between Merrick and Giles, not as far as she was concerned. "Giles understands me better than Merrick ever did. He never tried to understand what my life was like, how I felt. That never mattered to him. It does to Giles. To Merrick, I was just the slayer. To Giles, I'm Buffy."

The old man seemed to think about that for a moment. "And your training?" he asked, as if he didn't believe she could possibly be getting any training at all.

"It's going good. It must be, I mean, I defeated the Master." She smiled. That was something to be proud of, taking out two of the most powerful vampires in history, within a year of each other. It was the sort of thing she would have liked to brag about, if there'd been anyone she could have bragged to.

"And nearly died," he reminded her.

She scowled. Figures he'd want to tarnish her good deed. "Did die," she corrected. If he was gonna be fussy, she might as well make sure he was accurate. "But I wasn't done yet, so I came back," she grinned.

"That was very careless on your watcher's part."

"Are you kidding? He did everything he could to keep me safe. I'm the one who went in against his will."

"He should have stopped you."

"It's pretty hard to stop me when I've made up my mind about something," she told him. "Besides," she looked away guiltily, "I slugged him and knocked him out just so he wouldn't try and stop me." She peered back at him, waiting for his reaction.

There was a snort of laughter from the old man. That wasn't what she was expecting. "At least we don't have to worry about whether you have initiative. But your watcher should never have allowed matters to escalate to the point where it became necessary for you to-"

Buffy sighed, exasperated. "Look, he's made a few mistakes, is that what you want me to say? Well, I've made even more-big ones. Huge, even. And every time I screw up, he's there to bail me out. Without yelling, without scolding, without making me feel worse than I already do. He's there with strength, and support, and that way he has that makes you know it'll be all right. That no matter how stupid I am, no matter what terrible things happen, he'll still be there for me."

She remembered all the times she'd messed up, all the times things had gone wrong. All the times he'd had to smooth things over, make it better. He hadn't always said the right thing, but the intent was never less than genuine, and she always knew what he meant, even if he managed to get the words muddled.

"He's the one I turn to for all the answers," she went on, "not just slayer stuff, but life stuff as well. You think he should be perfect? Well, I don't. Perfect I don't think I could stand him, he'd be too...well, perfect. I like my Giles just the way he is. And since I'm the slayer, I think my opinion here should count for something. I don't want another watcher. I want Giles. And if I don't have Giles, I wouldn't give a rat's..." She caught herself and tried to backpedal. "...um...a...well, a something worthless for my chances out there. He saves my life, and he saves my sanity. And that's good enough for me."

The old man gazed at her for a moment. She gazed right back. He wasn't going to scare her any more.

"I didn't expect such a fervent testimonial," he said.

She shrugged. "You asked."

"Yes, I did," he chuckled. "And you answered me admirably. How old are you?"

"Seventeen."

He shook his head. "Dear God, they get younger all the time. And you've already been the slayer for two years."

"Lucky me," she grimaced. Sometimes it seemed like just yesterday she was happy and carefree, gossiping with her friends after school and trying to make every boy on the basketball team ask her out-mostly so she could tell them no. But then other times, most of the time, actually, it seemed like there wasn't ever a time in her life when she wasn't doing this. When she wasn't creeping out after dark and risking her neck night after night, facing creatures she would never have believed could have existed-if she hadn't seen them herself.

"You don't like it?" he asked.

She frowned. Was he serious? "You're kidding, right?"

"Not at all." His expression was one she didn't understand. Was he testing her?

"No, I don't like it. I don't like knowing I'll probably be dead before I'm old enough to drink. I don't like having no life. I don't like putting my friends in danger. I don't like constantly lying to my mom. I don't like so many things. But ask me if I'll stop and the answer is no."

"Why not?"

Her frown deepened. What did she want from him?

"Because I can't," she said, and realized it didn't matter what he wanted. She'd answer him the best way she knew how. "Because this is who I am. Because somebody I can't even imagine decided that one girl had to be the slayer and I got the short straw. So I'm sorry to disappoint you, but if you don't think Giles is a perfect watcher then you should know I'm not a perfect slayer, either. I don't have that burning dedication that slayers are supposed to have. I'd rather be going to the mall or watching videos or, or painting my toenails. And if the Hellmouth were to swallow every vampire in Sunnydale tomorrow and then seal itself up, nobody would be happier than me. I'm a slayer because I have to, not because I want to. And God, I'm doing it again!" What was it with this guy that she kept baring her soul like that? Was it because he was Giles's father? Or was it because she had a captive audience. Finally, someone, someone who wasn't her watcher or her friends, who she could tell this to.

The old man laughed, but the chuckle turned into a cough and she reached for the glass on the bedside table, holding it for him while he sipped. He settled down again and she put the glass back.

"I'm glad to see your passion," he finally said hoarsely. "But don't sell yourself short."

Okay, so she'd passed his test, whatever it was. But that was only part of it, and not really the part that mattered. "Make a deal with you," she said. "I'll try not to sell myself short if you try to do the same with my watcher."

Mr. Giles's expression changed to weary sadness. "Old habits are hard to break," he said softly. Almost as if he wanted to accept his son, but somehow felt like he couldn't.

"Well, maybe you should take a look at him and realize that he's a grown-up now. Before it's too late."

He stared at her, but the flint in his eyes softened.

"Be honest with an old man, Buffy," he said, his voice still sad. "Do you really feel that you're being guided appropriately? That your watcher is providing you with all of the assistance you need in order to carry out your responsibilities successfully?"

He'd gone from being an angry, bitter old man to being a sad, dying one in the blink of an eye. He was her watcher's father; he deserved the truth. She took a deep breath. "Honestly, I don't think there's anyone on the planet who can give the slayer all of the assistance she needs. I mean, when it comes right down to it, I'm the one who has to go out and do the dirty work. Not the watcher. Me. But Giles gives me all the backup that's humanly possible, sometimes more. He's there for me. And he understands. I know I'm alive today because of him. That's got to count for something, doesn't it?"

"Yes, I suppose it does," he murmured, still sounding sad. He reached for her hand and she took it, holding it gently. "Why don't you go find him, tell him I want to speak with him." The last words came out in a wheeze. The old man seemed to have very little strength left.

"You should rest," she coaxed.

"You said...before it's too late."

Buffy shivered, realizing what he meant. Old Man Giles wasn't sure he'd still be around tomorrow. She blinked rapidly. He was a tough, crotchety old bastard, even sick as he was, but she kind of liked him. Even if he did come down pretty hard on his son.

"I will," she said and set his hand down.

"Thank you for coming to see me, Buffy."

"You're welcome." She realized as she said it that she meant it. She was glad to have met him. She didn't totally understand him or how he could be so hard on Giles, but she was still glad to have had this chance. Maybe it would help her understand Giles better, seeing where he came from, who he came from.

"Tell Rupert to give you the diaries. You should see them."

"Diaries?" she frowned.

"He'll know what I mean."

"Okay, whatever," she nodded. "Good night."

"Goodbye."

She found Giles right outside the door, leaning against the wall, hands shoved deep in his pockets, staring at the floor. He looked up at her approach and she could see the glitter of moisture in his eyes, even behind the glasses. Poor guy, he looked so miserable. And standing here, he had to have heard the whole thing.

"Have a good eavesdrop?" she asked, gently teasing.

"I-uh, that is...." he stammered.

"That's okay. Nothing I wouldn't have said to your face if I could figure out how not to die of embarrassment in the process."

He stopped, momentarily speechless, then put an arm around her, pulling her close. She hugged him tightly. Sometimes they didn't need to say anything because there really was nothing to say.

"He wants to see you."

He let her go, nodding. "I should only be a few minutes."

"Okay. I'll just see if I can find a pop machine or something. Then when we're done here let's find food; I'm starving."

He smiled and turned toward his father's room. He took a deep breath, seemed to steel himself, then stepped inside.

His father was watching him.

"I'll only stay a few minutes," Giles said. "I don't want to tire you."

"What am I saving my strength for?" But before his son could answer, he went on. "So, that's your slayer."

"Uh...yes."

"You've got your hands full."

Giles smiled. "Yes. But for each difficulty, she makes up for it at least twice over. She's extraordinarily gifted. Skilled, clever, resourceful."

"Stubborn," his father suggested.

"Oh, yes," he agreed. "But she's learned she only gets to win the little battles. The big ones are still-"

"A draw?"

Giles hesitated. How to explain the unique relationship he and Buffy had. "She's never refused to do something required. If her methods are unorthodox, it simply means she's found the way which works best for her."

"She seems like quite the girl. What does she need you for?"

Giles felt himself flush. How could a man on his death-bed still manage to intimidate him quite so thoroughly? "Why don't you ask her that?" he finally managed.

"I did. She seems quite enamoured of you."

"Well, then...."

"I'm asking you."

He wouldn't give up. And suddenly, Giles felt less intimidated than exasperated.

"I'm with her because it's where they told me I had to be. I won't start lying to you now and tell you how much I love my calling and how there's no place on earth I'd rather be. But I do take it very seriously. Since it's mine, I do it to the best of my abilities. Since Buffy is my responsibility, I'll do everything in my power to help her, keep her safe. Including dying for her.

"I may not be what you expect me to be, Father. But Buffy is not your typical slayer, either. And if what we have works, if she's still alive and her skills are increasing, I don't see any cause for criticism."

The old man stared at him for a moment, then chuckled, the sound rasping into a cough. "It's about time," he wheezed.

"What is?"

"You've finally developed a spine. Your little slayer must be good for you."

Giles was speechless again, caught between pleasure, embarrassment and anger. "I like to think I'm good for her, too."

His father smiled. "Perhaps you are. She certainly thinks so." Then the smile faded and he sighed. "It's such an important responsibility, Rupert. And I know there's no love lost between you and the watchers. I wanted to be sure you took it seriously."

"Very seriously," he affirmed.

"Especially this time, with this slayer. The circumstances are so exceptional...."

"I know. That's why the way we work is so exceptional. Buffy could never be a traditional slayer, she's had no chance. You can't expect her to be like her predecessors, and you can't expect me to treat her like one. I'm having to make this up as we go along. There is no precedent for an untrained slayer, especially not one who has subsequently survived for almost two years. We forced this on her, with absolutely no preparation. We must allow her to be her own slayer, to do things her way. She's not had the advantages other slayers had. She has to be allowed her shortcuts."

"Even if they mean her death?"

Giles felt his mouth dry. "Her death will come no matter what we do, Father," he said softly. "I'm just trying to prevent that as long as possible."

That's what it always came down to. The slayer's death. The watchers' creed spoke of training and guiding the slayer, to assist her in her calling. But in reality what they mostly did was train the future slayers to take the place of the one who would inevitably die. They couldn't keep her alive, no matter how they tried.

The old man coughed again. "I have the diaries. In my study."

"You do?" Giles was surprised. He didn't need to be told which diaries these were. He had all of the extant Watcher diaries in his possession. But these were something different.

"I was working with them, before I got sick. Show them to her; she deserves to see them."

"That's a bit unorthodox, don't you think?"

"You said yourself she's not a typical slayer. But it might do her good to know she's not all that different, either. That others had doubts and they all had fears."

Giles took a deep breath. How would Buffy react to learning about her predecessors? Thus far she'd barely even asked about them. As for himself, he'd only read a smattering of those journals his father spoke of. Some of them were simply too painful to read. "I'll tell her about them, but it will be up to her if she wants to see them." He paused a moment. "Burkridge doesn't want them back?"

"Just tell him you have them. You know whatever the watcher thinks is best for his slayer is considered acceptable, even if a bit unorthodox."

Giles frowned. Wasn't that what he'd just been saying?

His father continued. "You'll see Burkridge and the others at the funeral, so..."

"Father," Giles started to protest.

"No point denying it, Rupert," the old man interrupted. "It's why you're here, after all."

Giles just stared at him, shivering as the realization hit him again that his father was dying. Would be dead very soon. They hadn't been close, but he'd been there. Giles had known that if things got really rough, his father would always be there for him. Now that was being taken away from him.

"My God," he murmured. "I always figured you'd live forever."

Richard Giles quirked an eyebrow. "Too much a bastard to die?"

"Something like that," Giles smiled, feeling more affection toward this man than he'd felt in the past twenty-five years.

"It's my time," his father said wearily. "I've had enough, Rupert. It's time for me to rest." He sighed heavily. "I only wish I believed in heaven. I'd love to believe that your mother was waiting for me on the other side. I still miss her."

"I know." Giles took his father's hand. "Perhaps she is."

"Don't tell me you've got religion, suddenly."

"No. But there's a lot we don't know. I'm not prepared to discount any possibility."

His father smiled. "When I go and find out, I'll come back and haunt you, tell you all about it."

Giles smiled, too, affectionately, imagining his father doing just that. He jokingly thought that he'd need to pay special attention to the paranormal phenomena during the next few months. Just in case. "I'd like that."

"No you wouldn't, it would scare the pants off you."

"I live on the Hellmouth, Father. It's a lot harder to scare me these days."

The old man chuckled, which turned into a cough again. Giles held his hand, comforted him until the fit passed.

The conversation seemed to have run its course. His father lay still, holding his son's hand in a loose clasp. The fight, the anger and the arrogance seemed to have been drained out of him.

"Um, I'd better go," Giles said, "let you rest. And we've been traveling since..." he glanced at his watch, "sometime yesterday. Buffy is exhausted and hungry, and I'm not much better."

His father opened his eyes again. "Have you been to the house yet?"

"No, not yet."

"It's probably a mess. I wasn't in much shape for housekeeping and Mrs. Peavey's supposed to be looking after it, but...."

"Don't worry, I'll take care of it."

His father squeezed his hand, a weak, feeble gesture. "I'm glad you're here."

"So am I," he answered and realized it was true.

The old man coughed, then sighed, closing his eyes. Giles thought he looked almost contented.

He started for the door when his father's voice called him back.

"Rupert." His father was staring at him, the usual flint gaze boring into him. "The top drawer of my desk has everything you need."

Giles shivered again, realizing what he meant. "I'll take care of everything."

"I know you will, son."

Giles's breath caught in his throat. He couldn't even remember the last time his father had called him "son". "Good night, Father," he said gently. "I'll see you tomorrow."

But the old man's eyes had already closed, sleep claiming him. Giles watched him for a moment, fighting the tearing in his eyes, then turned and left the room.

He found Buffy down the corridor in the lounge. An ancient telly was on, its picture flickering wildly. Buffy stared at the set as if mesmerized, her head resting on her hand. She looked absolutely exhausted and he smiled fondly. He was grateful to have her here. Someone to share the difficulties with. They'd already shared so much in their short acquaintance, it somehow felt right that they should share this as well. And if it meant that she learned more about him, including things he wouldn't have ordinarily shared, well then, so be it. He'd learned better than to try and keep things from her.

"You ready to go?" he asked softly, not wanting to startle her.

She blinked and looked up at him. "Is he...?"

"Sleeping," he answered. "I told him I'd be back in the morning." He extended a hand to her.

She levered herself up off the lumpy sofa, still with one eye on the telly. "Giles, what am I watching?"

He stared at it for a moment. There appeared to be animated figures doing some sort of dance. "I haven't a clue."

"Oh, good. I thought I was hallucinating."

He smiled and took her arm, escorting her down the hall.

Back in the car, he set them again toward town. "No one's been at the house in over a month, so there won't be anything edible there," he explained. "I'm not sure where else to go, but we'll see what we can find."

"I don't suppose there's anything like Denny's here."

He chuckled. "No, not hardly."

"Where did you go as a kid? To hang out? I mean, this place doesn't look like it has a Bronze."

"Well, there weren't that many children my age here in town when I was growing up. But we didn't do a lot of 'hanging' the way you kids do. There was the cinema, and once you were older there was the pub. Beyond that, if you were home, you were doing things with your family-chores or...or other things." Things like studying to be a watcher.

"Yawn," Buffy said.

"It was a different life then. I don't know what the young people today do."

"And I thought Sunnydale was boring."

He chuckled. "Well, you'll notice I left home when I was nineteen and never returned."

She glanced at him. "Not ever?"

"For visits. I didn't really live here again once I started at Oxford. By that time my mother was gone and my father and I fought. We were both happier away from each other. I spent about two months back here, after the troubles. But then I went straight back to school."

He pulled up in front of a stone building on the main street with a hanging sign which proclaimed "The Maiden".

"The kitchen's probably closed, this late, but I'm hoping we can cadge something from them. Especially if I explain the situation. My father's quite well known in this town, hopefully, we can use that to our advantage."

"Do you think they'll remember you?" she asked as they got out of the car and he took her arm again, escorting her into the dim interior of the pub.

"I doubt it. I was never a regular here." He showed her to a table in the corner and went to the bar. The familiarity of the place, the comfort of a small "local" washed over him. So much like so many other small pubs in so many towns throughout England. There wasn't anything comparable in the States. Even the small bars there had a totally different ambience. No, this was the sort of establishment which was thoroughly English, and it, almost more than anything else, reminded him that he was home.

"Evening, sir. What can I get you?" the bartender asked.

"Good evening," he smiled. "I don't suppose the kitchen is still open."

"Sorry. Closes at six."

"Ah. I was afraid of that. Do you know anywhere else we can get a meal? We've just come over from America to visit my sick father and we haven't eaten since early this morning."

The bartender grinned. "You don't sound like an American."

Giles smiled. "I grew up here."

"Oh, well, let me see what we can do for a local boy. It'll probably be something cold."

"Anything at all would be appreciated," Giles affirmed. "It's been a terribly long day."

"I'm sure. Hang on, let me check." He disappeared into the back, reappearing a minute later with an older woman, who looked Giles over critically.

"You must be Richard Giles's son," she said.

Giles flushed a little. "Yes, I am." By now he ought to be used to this reaction; he'd certainly gotten it enough in his youth. Anyone who saw the two of them would never doubt they were related.

"I'm sorry to hear about your Da," the woman went on. "He's a good man."

"Thank you," he nodded, accepting the condolence. He imagined he'd hear a lot more of that in the coming days, too.

"I can make you a sandwich and some salad, if that'll do you," she said.

"That will suit us just fine, thank you."

"Us?"

Giles indicated Buffy, who was sitting at the table, her head once again resting in her hand as she struggled valiantly to stay awake.

"Your daughter?" the woman asked.

"Um-yes, that's right," he said, suddenly understanding why Buffy had said the same thing earlier. It was easier to say that than to try and explain things. While the watchers and slayers weren't unknown here in Chalworth, as the years went on, there were fewer and fewer of them, so not everyone knew or understood about the clandestine organization. And most would certainly not understand why a forty-three year old man was traveling with a seventeen year old girl who was not a relative.

"All right, then, two sandwiches coming up," she said, and headed back to the kitchen.

"What can I get you to drink?" the bartender asked.

"I'll take a pint of bitter, and she'll have, um, a Coke?"

"Right," he nodded and poured the two drinks. "Can you get bitter in America?"

"You can barely get drinkable beer in America," Giles commented. "Most of it's that insipid light stuff."

"Gad, I've tried that-you might as well be drinkin' piss!" the bartender exclaimed and Giles laughed. He paid for the drinks and the sandwiches and took the two glasses over to the table.

Buffy jerked awake when he set her glass in front of her. "What...? Oh, sorry."

"That's all right, you've every reason to be tired. The kitchen's closed but they're making us sandwiches. It seems being a native son has won me points."

Buffy smiled. "Yay us." She sipped at her Coke. "Eww, it's not diet! And it's warm."

"That's the way soft drinks are served here," he explained. "And I didn't ask for diet, I'm sorry."

"What are you drinking?"

"Beer."

"What kind?"

"It's their house draught, called bitter."

She raised her eyes at him imploringly and he sighed, sliding the glass over to her. "Just a sip."

She took the sip and immediately made a face. "Yuck!"

"That's what you get," he chuckled.

"Suddenly warm regular Coke tastes a lot better than it did before."

Just then the woman came out with their food. "Here you go, dears, get yourself around that. I just wish we could give you more."

"This will be fine," Giles said. "We're grateful."

"Yeah, thanks a lot," Buffy said.

"Oh, your daughter's American!" the woman commented.

"Um, yes, she's-" Giles began.

"I'm his step-daughter, actually," Buffy interrupted. "My mom's American."

"Oh, and where's she?"

"She had to work," Buffy said sadly. "But I had the week off from school anyway, so...." She reached over and put her hand over Giles's. "I wanted to come with him. He should have a member of the family here." She smiled sweetly at him and he was impressed again at how shamelessly she could lie.

"That's very sweet, dear. I'm sure he's grateful that you're here," the woman said kindly.

"Um, oh, yes, I am. Very grateful," he answered, unable to look Buffy in the face for fear he'd start laughing at this little game they were suddenly playing.

"Well, you eat up now, and if there's anything we can do for you, you let us know."

"Thank you," Giles said, and the woman went back to the bar.

Giles gazed at her, and she smiled. "How'd I do, Dad?"

"Next time you pull something like that, do you mind telling me beforehand?"

"I thought I did, at the nursing home."

"Yes, and you caught me off guard there, too."

"You wanna explain this?"

"No. You did well." He squeezed her hand. "And I am very grateful you're here." He let her go. "Now eat up."

The sandwiches were ham, on homemade bread, with mustard, tomatoes and lettuce, and homemade pickles on the side. They were wonderful, and quite hit the spot. Their conversation was kept to a minimum; food was more important.

Eventually, they'd eaten their fill and their glasses were empty.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

She nodded and he stood, extending his hand to her. They said their goodbyes to the bartender and his wife, and left the pub, climbing back into the car.

"How much farther 'til we get to your house?" Buffy asked.

"Not far. Nothing here is too far from anything else. The house and the nursing home are probably less than three K apart, and they're on opposite sides of town."

"Do you live here in town?"

"It's within the city limits, but it's more out in the country."

"Like that manor house?"

He smiled. "You'll see."

He turned down the lane that led toward home. Then he turned again, stopping and opening the gate at the bottom of the hedge. He drove through, stopped and re-latched the gate.

Buffy, meanwhile, was staring at the house in awe.

"Giles! It's a cottage!"

"That's right," he said, smiling. The house hadn't changed much since his last visit here, almost two years ago. At least, he couldn't see if much had changed in the dark. It looked a little more run-down, a little neglected. But it still stood, whitewashed walls, thatch roof, trellises around the door, shutters on the windows.

He parked on the gravel area to the side of the garden and they climbed out. Buffy started heading straight for the house but he called her back for her suitcase. He was too tired to be playing beast of burden tonight.

They walked up the flagstone path to the front door and he dug out the key. "It's bound to be a mess," he warned. "He was living here by himself and he wasn't in good health. And the neighbor who's been looking after the place isn't any younger than he is."

He opened the door and fumbled for the light switch. I hope the electricity is still on, he suddenly thought. But his fingers finally found the button and he pushed. The overhead light in the foyer went on and he breathed a sigh of relief. Whatever else, they had power.

He ushered her inside, closing the door behind her, then moved past her into the parlour, finding a table lamp and turning it on, bathing the room in a warm glow.

Buffy, meanwhile, was gazing around the room in awe.

"This is so cool!" she gushed. "You never said you lived in a cottage!"

"You never asked," he answered, smiling. It was interesting, seeing the house through her eyes. He'd grown up here; he'd stopped appreciating its uniqueness and its charm. It had been home for many years, and then it had been a place of sadness. Seeing it again, he felt nostalgic, but a bit sad, too, knowing that their task this week was to close up the place and dispose of its goods.

He gave the parlour a critical eye. It was mostly in order, except for the ubiquitous stacks of books and papers which were his father's love and life. But there was a thin coating of dust over every surface. It looked...neglected.

It was also cold, having been closed and empty for a month. "I hope there's coal," he muttered, heading toward the big stove in the kitchen with its coal burner. The behemoth stove served as food cooker, water heater and furnace for the old cottage, and it was fueled by shovelsful of coal, kept in the scuttle to the side and stored in the shed out back. The scuttle, alas, was practically empty.

"Damn." He sighed and opened the side door on the stove, dumping in what coal remained. Buffy had followed him into the kitchen, still looking around curiously. "If there's no coal, this could be a chilly evening," he told her. "Go ahead, look around, get comfortable. I'll be back."

He headed out the back door with the scuttle, walking down the path to the coalshed. It was practically empty, though he did manage to scrape together most of a bucket's worth, enough to last through the night and into the morning, if they weren't too over-enthusiastic about their hot water. But he'd need to arrange for a small amount of coal to be delivered tomorrow.

Back inside, he filled the hopper and lit the fire, the great stove roaring to life.

He went in search of Buffy, finding her again in the parlour, looking at the photos on the mantelpiece.

"Oh, my God, Giles, that's you!" she exclaimed.

He squinted, examining the photo she pointed to. Sure enough, it was a photo of himself and some of his classmates in their Oxford robes, sitting in one of the quads, smiling. God, had he really ever been that young?

"If I remember, that was taken my final year at Oxford. Which would have made me, um, twenty-three, I think."

"Wow," she gushed.

He smiled, pleased, for some silly reason, with her delight. "We should have heat soon, but it won't last long. We'll have to lay in some more fuel tomorrow."

She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. "Good. I haven't been warm since we left home."

"I did warn you," he said with a teasing scold. Her thin California blood was no match for the chill of England in March.

"How did you stand it?" she asked.

"Stand what?"

"The cold."

"You get used to it. It's actually what I'm more comfortable with. And the reason I cannot abide the heat in California." But because he was a gentleman, he removed his jacket, placing it over her shoulders again. "Did you pack warmer clothes like I told you?"

"I didn't pack my winter woolies. You should have told me I'd need them."

"I told you it gets chilly here."

"Yeah, but you didn't tell me it would be winter."

He sighed. She really had no idea what a true winter was like. "Buffy, have you ever even seen snow?"

"Of course. I went skiing a couple of years ago."

Of course. Skiing. He should have figured. "Never mind. It will warm up soon."

"Good," she stifled a yawn behind her hand. "I'm wiped."

"Yes, I'm tired, too," he agreed. "Here, let me show you where you'll be sleeping." He led her out of the parlour and down the hall. "You've seen the kitchen," he pointed behind her, "and that's the bathroom. And here's where you'll stay." He flipped on the light.

The room was at least as dusty as the parlour, if not more so. The heavy wooden furniture he remembered from his childhood was elegant, despite the neglect. His mother's dresser was still arranged neatly. He didn't think his father ever touched it, except perhaps to occasionally dust it. It remained a shrine to a long-dead wife. His father's own chest was piled with an assortment of things-cufflinks, a broken watch, a nail clipper, and even more papers. He smiled, thinking how much like each of them their dressers were, his mother's neat and tidy, his father's in chaos. The wooden bedstead had a thick duvet pulled up over the bare mattress. He hoped he would be able to find the sheets.

Buffy was looking around the room curiously. "This is your parents' room?"

"That's right."

"Is that your mother?" she asked, looking at a photo on the wall.

Breath caught in his throat; he'd forgotten that picture, taken when his mother was barely twenty, when she was being courted by his father. A pretty woman with bobbed hair and a bright smile, she looked down on the room like a blessed angel, keeping watch over the men in her life. "Yes," he finally whispered.

"She's beautiful," Buffy said softly.

"Yes, yes she was," he agreed. It always surprised him how much he could still miss her, even after more than twenty-five years.

Buffy turned and looked at him, her expression one of gentle sympathy. "When did she die?"

"A long time ago. When I was about your age."

"Oh," she commented, surprised. "She wasn't very old, then."

"No, she wasn't. Not even forty."

"How did she die?" she asked, her voice soft, tentative, as if afraid to ask the question.

"Cancer. Ovarian cancer. It was less than three months from the diagnosis."

She frowned. "That doesn't sound very good for you, both parents getting cancer."

"I live on the Hellmouth," he said gently. "Cancer is the least of my worries."

"I just don't want anything to happen to you," she said, a note of real fear in her voice.

Her concern for him touched him like nothing else possibly could. "Don't worry, I'll be around. For a long time."

He reached a hand to her and she moved into his arms, hugging him tightly. He held her close, a hand stroking her hair soothingly. A month ago, he would never have dared to hold her like this. But a lot had changed in a month. They had both changed.

She sniffed and he eased the hug, looking down at her, surprised by the tears in her eyes. "Hey," he soothed, "what's brought this on, then?" She just shook her head helplessly, resting against his chest and sighing shakily. "I think you're over-tired. Let's get the bed made up, and then you can get some sleep."

She nodded and moved out of his arms, sniffing away the emotion. "Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for. This week is going to be full of memories and strong emotions. We'd better get used to it."

She looked at him and he smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way. It must have been good enough, because she answered with a smile of her own.

"Where are you sleeping?"

"Oh, my old room. It's upstairs."

"Upstairs?" she frowned. "What upstairs?"

"There's a...well, it's an attic room, upstairs. I'll show you." He led her back into the hall and to the doorway which led up the steep narrow steps to his old bedroom. He flipped on the light but nothing happened. "Damn. Bulb's probably out. He never came up here; it's probably been burned out for years and he's never noticed. Mind the stairs, they're fairly steep," he cautioned and led the way up, feeling his way in the dark over familiar territory.

At the top, he opened the low door and ducked into the room, crossing to the dresser and turning on the lamp. Good to know some things hadn't changed. Buffy stepped into the room, barely having to duck at all, and stood in the middle of the floor, looking around her.

It was even dustier up here; Giles knew that his sinuses would be giving him fits after a night in here, but there wasn't anything to be done about it. He could hardly let Buffy stay up here. Besides, he didn't think he could sleep in that other room. Not in their room, with its memories and sorrows.

"This is so cool!" she exclaimed. "You grew up here?"

"Um-hmm," he nodded.

"And you even fit in that bed?" She looked at the narrow bed along one wall.

"More or less," he conceded. In truth, his feet hung over the end; he got used to sleeping curled up. Since the heat rarely made it this far, curled up was the best way to sleep anyway.

She laughed. "Why don't I sleep up here? At least I'll fit in the bed."

He shook his head. "There's no heat in this room. You'd never survive."

"How will you?"

"I'm used to it."

"Not anymore you're not."

"You'd be surprised how quickly one can adapt," he dismissed. "Come on, let's get your bed made up."

He escorted her back down the stairs, guiding her through the dark, and put lightbulbs as yet another item on his mental checklist.

The sheets were stacked neatly in a chair in the bedroom. Mrs. Peavey must have done them after he'd gone in, and not knowing what else to do with them, she'd set them where they'd be found.

Together, they made up the bed. The linens were worn but clean, and by the time they'd finished, the bed looked warm and cozy.

With a smile, Buffy grabbed her suitcase and went to get ready for bed while Giles headed for the kitchen in search of a cup of tea. Thankfully, there were still teabags, but that was about all that was left in the pantry. Any food which had been there had probably gone off, or Mrs. Peavey had taken it. The refrigerator contained an open bottle of flat beer and a moldy hunk of cheese. The mental list now included groceries.

"Giles?" Buffy called from the hallway.

"Yes?"

"No shower?"

He shook his head, then realized she couldn't see him. "No, there's a tub."

"How do I wash my hair?"

"You'll manage. There used to be a little spray thing that attached to the tap. Is that still there?"

There was a pause as she went to look for it. "I think this is it. How does it work?"

He sighed and headed down the hall. "Are you decent?"

"Sort of."

"What do you mean sort of?"

She peeked out of the bathroom, clad in a towel. "It's more than at the beach," she shrugged.

He shook his head, exasperated. Sometimes he was certain he would never understand her. He stepped into the bathroom found the spray hose, and showed her how to hook it up to the tap. "We don't have a lot of hot water, so use it sparingly," he cautioned. "And don't discount the pleasure of a deep, old tub like this." He tapped the side of the big footed tub.

She grinned coyly at him. "Why, Giles, you hedonist, you," she teased and he laughed. He was extremely fond of taking long soaks, but the tiny bathroom in his apartment came equipped only with a shower. He hoped he'd have the chance to take advantage of the tub while he was here.

"Are there any bubbles?" Buffy asked, bringing him back to the present.

"I have no idea," he replied. "You're free to use anything you find." With that he left her to her bath and returned to his cup of tea.

Cup in hand, he wandered into the parlour once more, gazing around the room, feeling his throat constrict with the realization once again that he was going to have to go through all of this and deal with it. Most of it was old furniture and household items he had no use for, or else had no sentimental attachment to, certainly not enough to warrant shipping them to the States. But the books and papers would have to be gone through. He knew somewhere were albums of family photographs. And personal property: his father's clothes and, for all he knew, some of his mother's things as well.

To the one side of the room was the archway into the dining area. He didn't bother to turn the light on in there, figuring he'd deal with that room later. To the other side, tucked in a corner, was a tiny room which served as his father's study. It was here he went next, finding the desklamp and turning it on. The glass-fronted bookshelves went from floor to ceiling and covered one wall. The large desk was buried in books and papers. He unearthed the telephone and picked up the receiver, not too surprised to hear dead air on the other end. No doubt his father had the phone service cut off when he realized he wouldn't be coming home again.

Not coming home again. He shivered. It was beginning to be real. Seeing his father tonight, how frail he'd become, how... diminished...made it real. His father was dying.

He sniffed, blinking away the emotions. There would be time for those later.

On one side of the desk he saw the diaries his father had mentioned. He ran his hand over the stack. There were only nine of them, some with nice leather bindings, others in cheap cloth or cardboard. All written in a girlish hand.

All stopping abruptly.

He sighed. His father told him to give them to Buffy. But would Buffy want to see these very painful records of the girls that had gone before? Would she want to see exactly what her destiny was?

He shivered, and not just from the chill in the old house. Whenever he thought about what would happen to her-what would happen, not what might happen-Giles felt vaguely ill. He knew, knew beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she would die. Violently, most likely painfully. Certainly messily. She would die doing the job that only she could do. Eventually, she'd meet an opponent who was stronger, faster, more clever. Or perhaps they'd just catch her when her guard was down, or when she was in a weak moment.

And she would be dead. All his training and all his planning and all his watching wouldn't make a damned bit of difference. She would still die.

And a part of him would die as well.

This was why he'd been so opposed to this calling of his. Not because he hadn't wanted to sacrifice his life to it. But because he hadn't wanted to sacrifice hers, whoever she might be. It was cruel to ask it of anyone. Crueler still to ask it of a young girl with the blush of womanhood just upon her, who ought to have her entire life ahead of her. Cruelest to insist that he watch it, knowing that ultimately, he was powerless to stop it.

"I'm sorry, Father," he whispered. "I'll never be the watcher you want me to be. But if I can keep her alive, any way I can, I will. Because that's the watcher I want to be."

He looked at the pile of books again. That beautiful, delightful woman/child who was in the bathroom right now, in search of shampoo and bubble bath, was really no different from the young women in these volumes. He knew she kept a diary as well. He bit his lip in impotent fury, vowing that he would never let her become some nameless, anonymous statistic to future watchers, her journal a curious artifact to be examined and analyzed. She deserved more dignity than that.

He would make sure that she got it.

With a sigh, he turned away from the books, opening the top drawer of the desk. In a file folder lay a sheaf of papers: a copy of the will, bank accounts and insurance policies, the solicitor's business card, phone numbers of everyone who would need to be contacted, as well as a hand-written note containing personal, specific instructions spelling out not only his father's preferences regarding interment, but also regarding the disposition of his material goods.

Giles closed his eyes in relief. As dread-making as this task ahead of him would be, his father's meticulous planning would make the entire process easier. He tucked the folder back into the drawer, not yet ready to face those details. Not while his father was still alive, anyway.

Back in the parlour, a book was lying face down and open on the arm of the couch. Giles inspected the spine, smiling to see a copy of Dumas' The Man in the Iron Mask. He remembered being a young boy and having his father read to him from this book, every night for weeks. First, The Three Musketeers, then this one, and finally The Count of Monte Cristo. Filling his head with deeds of daring do. Filling his heart with a love of words. He picked the book up, skimming the page to see where his father had left off. Before he knew it, he was once again absorbed in the story of the king of France and his brother.

"Giles?" Buffy called.

He looked up, suddenly realizing that she'd called his name several times. "What? Sorry." She was standing in front of him, her wet hair brushed away from her forehead, arms wrapped around her torso, her t-shirt and sweatpants no match for the cool air. She looked very tiny, very vulnerable-a word he seldom thought of in reference to Buffy. "Didn't you bring anything warmer than that?"

"Not to sleep in," she moaned.

He sighed. Warm clothes for Buffy got added to his mental list. "Go crawl into bed, you'll warm up soon enough."

She nodded, but just stood in front of him, frowning, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

"Is there something you need?" he asked, concerned at her reticence.

"Your father said something about some diaries?"

He felt a shiver go down his spine. He hadn't realized he'd mentioned them to her. "Um, yes. Let's talk about those tomorrow, all right? Right now, you need your sleep."

"What are they?"

"Tomorrow, Buffy, there's a good girl."

"Giles," she protested. "Come on, don't get all over-protective on me."

"I'm not. It's just...well, they're going to require some thought, and I don't want you to have to think about them tonight. For tonight, just rest, close your eyes, clear your mind and get some sleep. There's plenty of time to talk about them tomorrow." He escorted her, gently but firmly, back to the bedroom. "We can sleep in if we want, though I do have to go back to the convalescent home. And we need to get some supplies in. But part of the reason I brought you here was so that you could relax-away from the Hellmouth, away from... er, other influences." He cringed. He hadn't wanted to bring that up, especially hadn't wanted to bring him up. But Buffy knew, without his name ever being said.

She swallowed and looked a little paler. "I know. I guess I'm just so tired I'm edgy, you know?"

"Mmm," he nodded, understanding. He was almost at that point himself. "But try and

get some sleep, you'll feel better in the morning." She crawled into the big bed and lay down, pulling the thick duvet up. He tucked it around her, brushing her long bangs away from her face with a gentle touch. "Sleep well," he said softly. Then he left her side, turning off the light and closing the door behind him.

He sighed wearily, the exhaustion of the past day-or was it two-finally catching up with him. Suddenly, the idea of reading, even Dumas, was too fatiguing. He moved through the house, turning off lights and locking the doors. It wasn't necessary to lock the doors here in Chalworth, but city habits were hard to break. He simply felt more comfortable knowing he was behind locked doors. He re-stoked the stove, then dragged his suitcase up the narrow stairs to get ready for bed.

The bed was smaller and lumpier than he'd remembered. It would make for interesting nights. He could only hope that he was tired enough to sleep anywhere. And hope that his year in California hadn't thinned his blood too much, because it was much colder in the room than he was used to.

Not that he'd ever admit that to Buffy.

With a sigh, he turned over, tucking the thick duvet up to his chin, feeling his muscles relax one by one. There was so much to be done. But it could wait.

Chapter II