Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5029588.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, F/F, Multi
  Fandom:
      Buffy_the_Vampire_Slayer
  Relationship:
      Rupert_Giles/Willow_Rosenberg, Rupert_Giles/Buffy_Summers_non-ship,
      Rupert_Giles/Cordelia_Chase_non-ship, Rupert_Giles/Sheila_Martini_non-
      ship, Rupert_Giles/Other(s), Willow_Rosenberg_&_Buffy_Summers, Willow
      Rosenberg_&_Vampire_Xander_Harris, Willow_Rosenberg_&_Ira_Rosenberg,
      Rupert_Giles/Buffy_Summers/Willow_Rosenberg/Sheila_Martini/Gwendolyn_Post
  Character:
      Willow_Rosenberg, Rupert_Giles, Buffy_Summers, Sheila_Martini, Ira
      Rosenberg, Sheila_Rosenberg, Vampire_Xander_Harris, Joyce_Summers,
      Watchers_-_Character, Vampires_-_Character, Original_Characters, Minor
      Characters, Amy_Madison, Catherine_Madison, Gwendolyn_Post
  Additional Tags:
      Demonic_Possession, POV_Alternating, Teen_Pregnancy, Adult/Teen_ships,
      Hospitals, Health_problems, Established_Relationship, Lies, Cheating,
      Trust_Issues, Mutual_Non-Con, Aftermath_of_mutual_non-con, juvenile
      delenquency, Arson, the_Slayerettes, all_girls_scooby_gang?, Action_&
      Romance, Angst_and_Feels, Gallows_Humor, Dark_Comedy, Villain_Ira
      Rosenberg, Aspect_of_the_demon, Episode:_s03e18_Earshot, Episode:_s01e03
      The_Witch, Misunderstandings, identity_theft, Bad_Parenting, Fake
      Marriage, Angry_Sex, Firefly_References, TV_references, Not_What_It_Looks
      Like, sort_of_what_it_looks_like, Caught_in_the_Act, Minor_Character
      Death, Murder, Fivesome-M/F/F/F/F, Willow_takes_charge, Yes_there_will_be
      a_sequal
  Series:
      Part 2 of Here_to_Watch_Girls
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-10-19 Completed: 2016-05-31 Chapters: 15/15 Words: 25356
****** "We're, Like, the Slayerettes!" ******
by MyEvilTwin_(ProtoNeoRomantic)
Summary
     In the second book of this exciting series the (literally) heart-
     stopping action-romance continues! Follow the adventures of
     starcrossed lovers Rupert Giles and Willow Rosenberg as they strugle
     against fate, The Establishment, social conventions, and the Incubus
     that still possesses his one remaining testicle! Oh, and Buffy and a
     lot of other girls are in it too. Together, they fight crime!
     ...Or...err...demons anyway.
***** Name Calling *****
Chapter Summary
     Buffy: The wooing stage is always fun.
     Willow: But it's weird. Now, rejection I can handle 'cause of the
     years of training, but this?
     ~BtVS 3.14 "Bad Girls"
Willow sat down in the different chair beside the same bed almost ready to
burst with excitement. Like always, she waited for the nurse to not be there
anymore, smiling nervously. But this time when the nurse left, her smile didn't
falter. It widened. It became more genuine. More the smile she really felt.
Giles must have felt it too. He looked more quietly happy to see her than ever,
less tired than in the days before, even though he'd probably spent a good part
of the morning being unhooked and reattached to things because of the move.
Today was the day. The day that it was different. The day that Giles was in a
regular room, with regular rules. The kind where they could talk. Finally,
finally, here they were at last! Talking!
Not three minute 'We beat the badguy, everything's fine, now get some rest'
talking; 'Let me fill you in on every single thing that has happened since
you've been in the hospital because we are that close and any minute you might
signal me that you are strong enough now and ready to talk about Us-us',
talking. 'I'm your friend and even if you're not ready to talk about Us-us, it
still feels good to be here and remember that we are at least a regular us'
talking. Talking as an act of being an us and maybe even an Us-us, talking!
Willow was so giddy she could have reached down and hugged Giles, kissed him
even. But she didn't want to move too fast, to ask too much. He was still so
weak. More in the mode of needing to lean than to be leaned on. She didn't
wanted to overwhelm him. So she talked. About every single thing in her life
and especially the Slayer and the slaying and the saving of the world that she,
Willow Rosenberg, had had a hand in, which she wouldn't have if they hadn't
become an us.
And then, just like that, like always, like with everybody, she said something
wrong. The look on Giles's face was so stricken! It took Willow a moment to
figure out what she'd done this time to screw everything up. But then, it was
suddenly kind of obvious. As in she should have known better. She had called
him 'Giles', which was not an Us-us thing to call someone.
Had she been doing it this whole time? Barreling roughshod over his pain,
trampling his already battered heart without even noticing in her eagerness to
impress him with what *she'd* done? She probably had. She was a bad girlfriend.
She was a bad *friend*. And now—she could see it in his eyes!—she was even
making him feel bad for making her feel bad, which was even worse.
“Sorry, Rupert,” she said dropping her eyes. “That's just... what we've all
been calling you the last couple of weeks.” It sounded so lame that she caught
herself starting to make further excuses. To shift the blame to others. “She's
just—Buffy I mean—it's just—” But if there was one thing Rupert Giles did not
need to hear about right now, it was how Buffy Summers could barely stand to
hear the man she would always see as her (pathetic, non-responsible) abuser—on
a bad night 'rapist'—spoken of at all, let alone called by his first name. How
she needed to hold him at arms length and for everyone around her to do the
same in order to feel mostly safe and sort of okay. How that couldn't help but
be a problem when he came home and Buffy had to see them being an Us-us.
Willow laughed nervously and did her best to cover. “It sounds more teachery,
anyway, doesn't it?” she offered. Though why that should matter now that he
wouldn't be working at the school they no longer went to, she didn't exactly
know. It was just something to say, and it showed. Giles (she really couldn't
help thinking of him as that now) clearly noticed. But he chose to let it go,
as she had hoped.
“Yes,” he agreed miserably, “Perhaps that's better, lest... lest someone
suspect...”
“That you're my snuggle bunny?” Willow suggested hopefully, searching his eyes
to make certain that this was still true. But the look of... uneasiness on his
face left her more in doubt than ever. “You are, though,” she asked worriedly,
much more pointedly than she probably should have, putting him on the spot in
his condition exactly as she had promised herself she wouldn't do, needing
reassurance like oxygen, “Aren't you?”
Against all of Willow's well trained expectations of what happens when a girl
asks a guy The Us-us Question straight out like that, a look of peace and
comfort spread across Rupert's face. His whole body seemed to relax, his whole
being even. “Always,” he murmured serenely, reaching up to brush her face with
his fingertips as she leaned anxiously over him.
Willow literally trembled at his touch, all but collapsed in fact. She hadn't
even known that she'd come so close, that he could reach her so effortlessly.
She had to force back tears. When had she even risen from her chair? It didn't
matter. She couldn't speak, she was so overcome with love. That didn't matter
either, the not speaking. Rupert spoke for both of them. Their hearts were one.
“Oh Willow!” he cried out in comprehensive passion, made up of everything a
human can possibly feel, pulling her into an awkward, standing-and-leaning-
down-over-a-bedridden-person-you-probably-should-feel-bad-about-kissing-but-
you-don't sort of kiss. “Always!” He repeated, when they paused to breathe,
their lips not a millimeter apart. He kissed her deeply once again before
adding, punctuated by half a dozen smaller kisses, “For as long as I draw
breath, no matter how far apart we may be, no matter what barriers they try to
put between us, I'll always be your—”
Giles stopped. Both the kissing and his declarations of love halted abruptly as
he seemed to process something that was news to him. “Hang on minute,” he asked
when she pulled back to search his eyes for the why-and-how-much of his
suddenly not wanting to kiss her anymore, “who's 'we all'?”
“Oh,” Willow replied lightly, all but laughing with relief that he wasn't
stopping for some more serious reason, that it was something she could easily
explain, getting a bit excited again in fact, eager to tell him more about all
the cool things that had happened. “Me, Buffy, and Sheila. Did I forget to tell
you about that part! There's just so much!”
But Giles did not look relieved or eager to hear more of her adventures. He
looked taken aback, almost comically so. It didn't take Willow long to learn
why. “Wait, what?” he stammered. “What about your, your mother? What does she
know about all of this?”
For a moment, Willow was pretty puzzled herself. Then she laughed with relief
and comprehension again. “Not Mom! God, I wouldn't tell my mom if I had a
regular boyfriend, let alone...” Giles made a face, and no wonder! How to label
the exact nature of their relationship (especially from a parent's point of
view) was another unpleasant subject that didn't exactly need to be brought up
right now.
“I meant Sheila Gluzman,” Willow explained instead. “Sheila's just, well... a
girl I've known since forever, I mean we were never really... but then she
helped us fight the vampires at the Bronze. And she—well when Xander was—” for
a moment, just trying to explain about Xander, to think about him even, felt
like getting stabbed in the heart, like the world was in danger of going dark.
“But well, when I couldn't,” she plowed forward, “Couldn't... you know... she,
she helped me run him off...”
Willow took a deep breath and forcefully shook off the shadows of that horrible
night, focusing on the night of triumph that had happened at the same time and
in the same place instead. As she pulled the two apart in her mind, she found
her cheerful, casually enthusiastic tone again. “And now she's helping, well
*we're helping* Buffy. It's like... she's the Slayer and we're, like, the
Slayerettes!”
***** The Sapphire Fish Tank Blues *****
Chapter Summary
     Willow: Let's get this straight. I don't understand it, I don't wanna
     understand it, you have gross emotional problems, and things are not
     okay between us.
     ~BtVS 2.14 "Innocence"
Giles blinked. Slayerettes? As in other girls to back up the Slayer. The way a
singer might be backed up by her very own all-girl band, if he was
understanding the idiom correctly. He wasn't sure quite what to say to that
notion. Obviously, if the Council wasn't going to assign proper staff support
to this mission—or until they did—someone had to assist the Slayer in her work.
That was especially true given that he was in no condition to perform the
duties of an active field Watcher. But still, it hardly seemed like a task for
a couple of ordinary (or even extraordinary) high school girls. Girls who
weren't even Potentials, let alone Slayers. Girls who had only the vaguest idea
of what a Slayer actually was.
If such a thought had occurred to Willow; however, she certainly wasn't showing
it. “We're using your apartment as our headquarters,” she explained. “Which is
great because we couldn't invite a vampire in by accident even if we wanted to.
I used your bank account information to order books and supplies and computers
and stuff; I knew you wouldn't mind.” Her tone was not the least bit hesitant
or ironic. I now pronounce you man and wife. Mazel Tov. Would you shut up, I
want to hear this! Rupert did his best to glower at the unseen presence rather
than the girl in front of him, which was a trick at that.
“And we get to do all this amazing, heroic stuff every single night!” Willow
went on obliviously, wrapped up in her own excitement once again. “We've
already killed six more vampires in just the last two weeks! *And* we stopped a
nest of demon eggs from hatching in the back room of The Fish Tank! It's really
amazing just to be a part of, of, of.... well, *everything*!”
The Fish Tank. The very mention made Giles exponentially more uneasy. For
reasons that had nothing whatsoever to do with finances. Nor for that matter
with the serious concern for Willow's physical safety that he felt he ought to
be expressing right now. If the Slayer or her 'Sayerettes' had had any
interaction with any of the regulars there... besides being an unsavory thought
in and of itself... what might they have learned about him?
Nothing if they don't know who they're hearing about, the demon pointed out
impatiently. And of course it was right. Seizing on the opportunity, eager to
hide his shame, Giles found himself adopting a faintly puzzled demeanor. “The
uh 'Fish'? 'Tank'?” He asked, raising an eyebrow, trying to sound as though
he'd no idea what sort of a place she was talking about. Doing a damned good
job if he did say so himself. Definitely. One of the best liars I've ever
worked with.Fuck off.
“Oh,” Willow explained, “It's just this really rank bar Sheila used to go to.
But well... with the whole demon egg thing? Buffy and Sheila ended up burning
the place down. Nobody was hurt this time though,” she hastened to add. “I
mean, not that Cordelia and Harmony were ever *really* hurt all that bad
before, but anyway...” That was taking a generous view of the situation, and
Willow seemed to know it. From what she'd told him earlier, it would have been
more accurate to say that they had both recovered well and quickly from
potentially life-threatening smoke inhalation injuries.
“And no charges filed this time either,” she went on, speaking ever more
rapidly, forcefully glossing over the palpable unpleasantness of what had
actually happened to the two girls. “They were real careful. Which is good,
because after I had to be Buffy's alibi for the school fire? Yeah, I can now
officially confirm that perjury is my least favorite sin. I thought I was going
to pass out right in the middle of Juvenile Court. And then get rushed to the
hospital and... yeeeah, badness, you know? But I didn't and so, so...” A look
of utter misery washed over Willow's face again. “Oh Rupert!” she all but
groaned, slumping back into the bedside chair, “What are we going to do?”
“Do? About...” You know what. And of course, he did. That was the closest she'd
come to directly referencing her pregnancy since his 'cardiac arrest', as she
and his doctors insisted upon calling it, heart attacks evidently being so last
season and no longer cool enough for Southern California.
“Nothing,” Willow mumbled miserably. “Never mind.”
“So...” Giles grasped for glasses that weren't there and then began
restraightening the bedclothes in relation to the various tubes and wires that
fed into him as he continued to grope for a change of topic. Coward. Not yet
alright, just, just...“So, this, this Sheila?” he said at last, “She, she knows
that Buffy is the Slayer and... well, as much as the two of you know about what
that entails?”
“Oh yes,” Willow agreed. “And she's been super cool about it. Not that she ever
would gossip or whatever. Sheila's a whole different kind of bad than that,”
she clarified with something that sounded oddly like both disapproval and
admiration. “Buffy says she's the best sparring partner ever because nobody
else would be crazy enough to try to kill her just 'cause she tells them to.”
“In deed?” Giles inquired, almost grimly, lips pursed, a bit concerned. Not
that he was in much of a position to tell Willow or Buffy what type of company
they should keep, but... Golly, you think not maybe?*But* “Does this Sheila
have any other, err... bad habits that, as Buffy's Watcher, I ought to know
about?”
Willow looked suddenly and acutely uncomfortable. Like a person being asked to
divide her loyalties, to betray a friend. Oh great. More guilt. You're no fun
when you're like this.“Well she smokes,” Willow admitted, and, with that same
sneaking admiration again, she added, “ever since the fifth grade. I was
lookout for her once. And then like three months later, she tripped Harmony
Kendall down a set of steps when she was being mean to me. Which was sort of
cool. It was just a few steps. No broken bones or anything. So yeah, we haven't
always been close, but we go back.
“When she showed up at the Bronze that night, it was like a total accident. She
was just looking for some guy. But, I mean, the *minute* the trouble started
she was right there with us, throwing chairs at vampires, helping us clear the
building. Everything. No questions asked. And now... with everything that's
happened... losing, you know, a couple of people that we've both known for so
long.... We've become really close really fast. All three of us. And, I'm
telling you, Sheila's a friend. You can trust her. So don't worry. Okay?”
Giles smiled a relenting, half-embarrassed smile. “I'll try not to,” he
offered.
“And if you're worried she'll be a bad influence on Buffy,” Willow continued in
a reassuring tone, “don't be. So far, it's been more like the other way round.”
Giles frowned. There were two ways to take that, and he really hadn't gotten to
know this 'Buffy' very well at all in anything other than a sexual sense. But
mercifully, Willow's meaning soon became clear.... until it became so clear as
to be unmerciful after all.
“In the last two weeks,” she declared, with all the vicarious pride of a true
friend, “Sheila's cut back to less than half a pack a day. She's given up pot,
switched from soda to milk at lunch, actually comes to school and stays past
lunch... oh, and she's quit drinking! Yesterday, I even saw her turn in a
homework assignment. I mean, I did most of it for her, but still... But,
just—you have no idea what a big deal it is for Sheila to not drink! Because I
literally don't think that has happened for three days in a row since the
seventh grade.
“I mean, she jokes that, you know, the not drinking is just because nobody but
the Fish Tank will believe a fake ID that says her name is Sapphire Martini,
but—” Giles must have looked exactly as startled and horrified as he felt,
because Willow stopped and stared at him. “Okay,” she half scolded, annoyance
unsuccessfully masking worry again, “what's wrong now?” And after all, doesn't
she deserve the truth(?) Sodomite. Doesn't hurt if I know you don't mean it.
“Willow,” Giles sighed in a tone of miserable apology and mild correction, “I'm
not sure your friend Sheila's recent enthusiasm for... eh, turning over a new
leaf can be attributed entirely to Buffy's good influence or even yours. I
suspect, in fact, that there is every possibility she may be pregnant.” And
planning to stay that way, the demon pointed out gratuitously, smirking. No
really? I thought she just wanted to be in great shape and really clearheaded
so she could properly enjoy her abortion(!)
“Wait, how would you kn—” but even Willow couldn't maintain incomprehension in
the face of the acutely sorry look Giles was giving her. “But, but...” Willow
shook her head. “She never said anything.”
“Well no, I imagine, not,” Giles pointed out, with a slight chuckle, he thought
quite reasonably. “I mean really, I assume you haven't told her about our...
situation either, so....” The look Willow was giving him now was not at all
sorry and steadily less confused. More angry. “Not that I'm saying it's
entirely the same situation,” he hastened to add. “Not by half, but—”
The redhead was unmollified.
“Willow, please don't doubt anything I've said about the depth of my feelings
for you, my, my, my love and, and admiration,” Giles found himself begging
desperately, feeling the love that he'd just realized his willingness to risk
everything from death to deportation for slipping from his grasp. “But, but,
well—”
“She does know,” Willow informed him bitterly. “That I'm pregnant. That it's
yours. That I love you. That I don't know what to do!” Willow began to wheeze
and sob in panic and distress. “Sheila *knows* all that. She has known. All
this time! And she hasn't *said* anything!”
You know, for a couple of geniuses, you're both a little slow on the uptake.
What the bloody hell are you yammering about now!?! Tonight on a very special
all-new episode of 'Will They Ever Figure Out the Obvious', things people
should realize that other people don't actually know, or: A Tragedy of
Errors... Oh Dear God.
“Willow, she doesn't know...” Giles struggled for precision as well as a
calming tone, “the *significance* of any of that. Because I never told
'Sapphire' my real name. I never saw her at school. We—what happened happened
at The Fish Tank.”
Willow's chin snapped up, and her eyes popped wide. Surprise quickly gave way
to the most profound look of heartbroken disapproval imaginable. “You mean the
'Fish' question mark 'Tank' question mark?” she demanded, mocking his raised
eyebrow clumsily but well enough to be understood.
“Yes! Bloody hell!” Giles admitted, turning his face away as if her eyes were
scalding him, feeling very much as though they were. “I was trying to deceive
you. I thought you knew enough to have a fair idea of the unsavoriness of my
activities, and I was ashamed to admit just how deep in this... cesspool I'd
been diving! It was bad enough to have to tell you about Buffy.”
“Which you did the minute you knew I was probably going to find out anyway in
the course of doing what *you* wanted,” Willow noted incisively, getting to her
feet, shaking her head.
“Willow, please!” Giles started to beg again, but he honestly didn't have a
clue what to say next. Not that he would have gotten the chance to say it.
“You *jerk*,” Willow said, with calm, definite conviction. “Buffy was right
about everything.”
“No,” he replied fiercely, desperately. “Whatever she's speculating about my,
my motives or, or.... She's eh whe—It's ju—she's pro-projecting! Because, well
because I—because of what ha—what I—” But with Willow looking at him like that,
he couldn't give what he had done with Buffy a name. “Willow please! I love
you!” he pleaded instead. “And, and I wanted to tell you the whole truth,
honestly! I just—”
“You *wanted* to tell me the truth?” Willow echoed, her voice half choked with
angry tears. “I'm sorry, but how exactly does that make it okay that you
*didn't*? I mean seriously 'I lied because I had something to hide?' That's
you're excuse?” Giles opened his mouth to object to her characterization of
what he'd just admitted. He tried, working his lips silently, but the most he
could force out was something between a grunt and a 'W' sound. He managed two
or three of those but nothing better.
The look on Willow's face grew even darker. Shaking her head even more, rapidly
swiping at her eyes, she stood and moved quickly towards the door, acting with
sudden clarity of purpose. All the same, she turned and paused with her hand on
the doorknob. Oh God! Those eyes! Rupert felt like he was about to have another
not-a-heart-attack. “Fish Tank s'not in the library, Giles,” she reminded him
in a small, regretful voice. And then she was gone.
 
***** Sisters Under the Skin *****
Chapter Summary
     Mr. Whitmore: S-E-X. Sex. The sex drive in the human animal is
     intense.... With all sorts of hormones surging through your bodies,
     compelling you to action, it's often difficult to remember that there
     *are* negative consequences to having sex. Would anyone care to offer
     one such consequence?
     Willow: How about pregnancy? That would be a major one, right?
     Mr. Whitmore: Thank you, Ms. Rosenberg! Among
     teens unwanted pregnancy is the number one negative consequence of
     sexual activity. So, as discussed last week, I present you with your
     offspring.
     ~BtVS 2.12 "Bad Eggs"
“Are you pregnant?” Willow asked bluntly, without preamble.
Sheila smirked defiantly as she stood up from her slouching position by Giles's
back door. It was her proud-to-be-bad look, or close to it. But Willow, who
knew Sheila, could see that her eyes were narrowed. Watchful. Nervous. Scared.
She took an exaggerated drag on her cigarette before dropping it to the ground
and grinding it under her heal. “What if I am?” she said. “What makes it your
business?”
“Because I'm your friend?” Willow suggested. Sheila's face returned to it's
usual, guarded, bulldog-like expression. “Because I told you?” Willow ventured,
attempting a winning smile. No buy in. “Because we're in the same boat?”
Sheila, who knew Willow pretty well too, gave her an even more impatient look
and folded her arms. Waiting for the truth. Willow made a slightly melty face
and let out a little, involuntary mewling sound of misery, “Because I think
maybe it was my boyfriend who got you pregnant?” she admitted apologetically.
At that, Sheila laughed out loud, leaving a very genuine and only slightly
cruel smile on her face. “You're so dead if Buffy hears you call him that,” she
pointed out breezily. But then she actually came over and sat down at the
little wrought iron patio table and continued to act not-hostile as Willow
pulled out a chair and joined her. It was still a little weird, this new,
inconsistently-but-noticeably friendlier Sheila. “Anyways this guy was no
librarian,” she assured Willow so confidently that it made her heart hurt.
“This was some spiky-haired biker dude I banged in the stock room at the Fish
Tank because he bought me a drink and showed me his wicked tat. You know the
jackass actually thought I was a hooker?” she added, with about the same mix of
amusement and indignation that Willow would have felt if she'd been mistaken
for a middle-schooler or a Kirk/Spock slasher.
Somehow, disturbing as it had been in it's own right, Giles's version of the
story had managed to leave that part out. But Sheila's account only got more
disturbing from there. “Maybe because I laughed at his dumb jokes,” she mused,
half bored with the subject already. “I mean, when I asked him his name, he
said it was John Doe Number Two.” Sheila stopped and snickered a little at the
memory. “Actually though,” she admitted, “that is pretty funny, considering.”
Willow tried not to physically cringe, as she mumbled, “Sure, I guess.” She
tried to appreciate the context, that maybe a girl 'working' a bar frequented
by meaner things than had ever walked the streets of Whitechapel was meant to
feel relieved and reassured by a good-ole anonymous-john-could-be-a-mass-
murderer-but-probsbly isn't joke. But all she could find it in her to say was,
“That really doesn't sound like Giles.”
“That's what I'm saying,” Sheila agreed. “Dude was so not a bookworm. Not even
that smart either if he doesn't even know what a real hooker looks like. So,
anyway,” Sheila confided with a triumphant smirk, “I made him give me fifty
bucks just for thinking it.” She seemed oddly confident that the joke had been
on Mr. Doe, that his opinion of her had been in no way validated by the fact
that the money he'd offered had actually changed hands.
Willow's stomach turned over. It must have showed in her face, too, because
Sheila declared, in her I'm-pushing-you-back-because-I'm-rude-not-scared tone,
“I'm not sorry either. Not about that, and not about getting knocked-up, so
don't start in how it's some big deal decision. You may be worried about
wasting your 'potential' or whatever,” she added, jutting out her chin
aggressively, “but I don't have any of that.”
Willow frowned, brows knit together, because even though she would never have
said anything remotely like that about anybody.... In Sheila's case it was sort
of true. Up until the last couple of weeks anyway, unlike Willow, Sheila had
not had the sort of life her mom (or anyone) was going to accuse her of
throwing away by having a baby, not even if she dropped out of school, which
frankly, most people probably expected her to do anyway.
So no, if 'potential' meant people expecting you to do good and important stuff
that would make you happy and put food on the table, Sheila really wasn't any
worse off in that department than ever. If anything, the opposite was true. It
was more like she'd woken up one morning and decided having a future sounded
like a much better plan than dying at fifteen and a half after all. That was
her reaction to getting pregnant, to start acting like some things actually did
matter; even to the point of not only helping to save the world but actually
bothering with the follow up.
That truth was startling to Willow, who'd only ever heard of teenagers being
diminished by parenthood and adults being enriched by it. And just like that,
what she'd always though was obvious suddenly seemed absurdly over simplified,
an explanation for a child. The exact same event that was always and entirely a
curse as a teen could not possibly become always and entirely a blessing by
having a few more birthdays intervene and/or getting married. She thought of a
docudrama she'd once seen, about a cancer patient who'd said that being
pregnant (at twenty-four, with a husband) had given her a reason to keep
fighting. Something to live for.
Willow shivered. Sheila's rep had always been as the scary chick who just
didn't care. Nobody had ever thought to ask her if she felt like she had
anything in her life worth caring about. For that matter, no one had ever asked
Willow who or what she was preparing to go to college for, or what any of the
stuff she seemed most likely to succeed at was supposed to mean after she'd
done it. If she listened to what she already knew her parents and everyone else
would tell her, the only conclusion would be that having the baby was the wrong
thing to do, all down side. But suddenly, she felt she had a firmer grasp on
what she had known in her gut all along, what it really was that had made this
decision difficult. The truth was, even at sixteen, there were heavy things on
both sides of the scale, good things to be lost and gained as well bad things
to be suffered and avoided either way.
Which was all a lot to think about and process and understand. Especially
before saying anything to someone as vulnerable and messed-up and scary as
Sheila and then having it turn out to be a wrong or mean or stupid thing to
say. Willow sort of wanted to retreat, just to say something like
'congratulations' or 'let me know if you need anything'. The last thing she
wanted to do was to take away Sheila's new-found reason for not self
destructing, or to make her feel bad or weird about it even. This despite the
fact that Willow herself felt pretty weird about both of their pregnancies
already. Mostly in a 'What exactly were you supposed to call other mother of
your child's sister or brother?' way.
But Giles would be coming home in a few days. And whatever was going to happen,
it needed to be talked about without him in the middle of it having another
cardiac arrest, or just a heart attack even. So Willow said, “Giles has a
tattoo. On his arm. Like a 't' that's holding a snake and a trombone at the
same time.” If she had any doubt left, it was soon crushed.
“No way!” Sheila exclaimed, almost as if Willow had just said something cool
and interesting in a fun and not at all gut twisting way. It was clear she
recognized the description. Willow's heart sank just a little lower than what
she'd thought was it's lowest setting. Then, that skeptical look came creeping
over Sheila's bulldog face again.
“I still bet it's not the same guy,” she argued aloud with both Willow and
herself. “This guy was maybe late thirties,” she explained, knowing that Giles
was just a few weeks away from turning forty-five. “And besides,” she added,
her eyes glittering with Bad Girl Pride, “You couldn't even handle this guy. He
was like... I don't know what he was like... like one of those big dogs, like a
Rottweiler maybe, the kind you wanna pet 'cause you know they can rip your
throat out but they probably won't, you know?”
Willow made a pained face and shook her head. Because she didn't know. She
really really didn't. Willow only wanted to pet nice, friendly dogs. Like big
shaggy Collies or Golden Retrievers who would never, ever rip anyone's throat
out at all. She didn't know what kind of a person would want to be around that
other kind of dog. Except maybe a Sheila. Which Willow definitely wasn't. And
maybe she really, really didn't know Rupert Giles at all if Sheila did.
“I wish I had a picture,” she said miserably. There's not one in the whole
house, I've looked.”
“I found one,” Buffy said coolly, “tucked inside one of his Diaries from the
library. I used it as a bookmark in that big vampire book, to mark the section
on Angelus.” Both girls turned to see her standing at the open back door,
looking sweaty in her sweats and disapproving in her disapproval. “Way
younger,” she admitted, “but definitely him. With an earring and a leather
jacket.”
 
***** The Better Part of Valor *****
Chapter Summary
     Buffy: I think you're underestimating the amount of pressure a parent
     can lay on you. If you're not a picture perfect carbon copy they tend
     to wig.
     ~BtVS 1.3 "Witch"
Giles was not awakened by the sensation of someone staring at him, so the demon
gave him a heads up. Hey, Rupert, Ira Rosenberg's here.“Wha—hmm?”Giles murmured
aloud as he came to his senses. Ira Rosenberg, the incubus repeated pointedly,
the father of the bride. He's staring at you. Watching you sleep, and not in a
wistfully lusting way either. I don't like the look of his face or his aura. He
knows something, or thinks he might. Nothing good.“Bloody Hell,” Giles cursed,
just before he'd become sufficiently conscious to realize that Dr. Rosenberg
could hear him.
“You're awake,” the doctor noted in a calm, even mellow voice. It was similar
to the warm, friendly tone he'd used when they'd first met, but just a hair
more synthetic. Which probably meant he was using his professional manors to
distance himself from the situation. Not untroubled, just keeping his cool.
Giles didn't doubt that the demon had given him an honest assessment. It stood
to gain nothing from his mishandling an encounter with Willow's father. And he
could tell by now when it was serious and when it was having a laugh at his
expense.
“Can I help you, doctor,” Rupert asked as evenly as possible. The effect of his
projected calm was somewhat spoiled by the were-recently-state-of-the-art
monitors pointing out exactly how much his pulse quickened and how much he
slowed his breathing to try to control it. He straightened his nervous little
smile when Ira looked back from 'casually' glancing up at the monitors.
“I have friends in this hospital,” Dr. Rosenberg pointed out in a serious-but-
still-very-calm voice, less bedside, more clinical. “People saw you.”
Giles took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He resisted the urge to close
his eyes and rub his temples. To stall for time. There were only so many ways
he could play this and none of them were safe. Procrastinating wouldn't change
that. It would only diminish the effectiveness of his least dangerous option.
Least dangerous, of course, meaning least honest, most cowardly. If you
confess, I'll murder you. I'm serious.Well, I certainly didn't think you were
joking. I may die yet from what you've already done, you know.Ira's patient
expression remained constant, but that didn't mean time wasn't passing or that
he didn't notice.
“I kissed her,” Giles admitted at last. “It was... impulsive.” Ira frowned at
him slightly, like Freud’s more reserved colleague. It was an expression that
made him feel all the more judged for not being able to say for certain who was
doing the judging. Oh he's doing it on purpose. This guy's good. He doesn't
know for sure if you're lying though. If he did he'd be a lot madder. Just be
cool.Rupert agreed, but none the less he dropped his eyes before adding, “I
know my behavior was wrong. I—well and then when I tried to explain that
nothing could come of it, I only ended up upsetting her.”
“I meant that people saw you at the Bronze,” Rosenberg clarified, still calm,
still serious. “The night you were brought in. Saw you follow those boys out
into the parking lot right before they disappeared.” Oh, Bugger. “When they
realized you were the same person my daughter was coming to see, they thought I
ought to know.”
“Ah,” was all Giles could think to say for a moment. “Well,” he sighed lying
back against his pillows, both very tired and affecting exhausted near-
indifference, “I haven't a clue what happened to those boys. And now I've told
you the rest of it. Probably best you know anyhow, I suppose.”
“Yeah,” Ira agreed, his tone finally sharpening just a bit, still passably
conversational, “Better that you've already admitted something clearly against
your interests. It'll add authenticity to your denials later when Willow turns
up pregnant.” Rupert's pulse rate rose so rapidly that the monitor actually
made noises of complaint. Ira ignored it. Either because he knew no one was
coming or didn't give a shit if they came. They were on his turf, after all.
Keep it cool, the incubus reminded him. He doesn't know for sure if he knows
anything yet or not. He's still all calm and watchful. Doing the hunter thing.
“I think you'd better leave, doctor,” Giles said finally. “I need my rest, and
I haven't the energy to deal with whatever it is you're accusing me of.”
“All right,” Ira said calmly. “If you'd rather talk to the police about all of
this, including those two missing kids, that's your choice. But I think you'll
find them even less interested than I am in hearing how this is all the fault
of vampires and demons. And yes,” he added into the stunned silence, “I do know
exactly what there is to know, and I do know 'for sure' that I know it. I'm
always calm, that's all.”
Giles didn't even have to say, who are you and what do you want?Ira answered,
“I'm exactly who I say I am, which makes exactly one of us in this room out of
about three and change.” At that the incubus laughed like a child who'd just
figured out a riddle. Ira smiled wanly. Giles seemed to be the only one not in
on the joke. Until his demon explained, He's infected with the telepathic
aspect of the Thraw'kwat Demon. He'll be able to read everyone's thoughts for a
few days, till it eventually drives him mad and kills him.
Giles was shocked, but Ira only shrugged. “It's a thing we do in my family.
Ritual purposes. Only the men. No need to worry on that account. My father's
been dead a year this past new moon, so it was my turn. Oh, no,” he clarified
in response to the other man's mingled horror and consternation that a man with
a family to support would do such a thing deliberately, no matter his ritual
purposes. “I can last twelve or fifteen years like this and then probably that
much more in seclusion. My father was infected for twenty-six years.
“We have a high tolerance for mystical energy of all kinds in my family. And
no, I don't get worked up about much of anything. I find it pretty annoying
that other people do, actually. It wastes my time and their energy. I do,
however, have certain standards, which I am very firm about. Particularly for
the good Jewish man that I want to marry my daughter and father my
grandchildren not less than nine years and two college degrees from now. So,
you see, Watcher, we have a problem.”
Giles could think of nothing to say. Or rather, he couldn't say anything he was
thinking, not that it mattered much. His head was reeling. He was having too
many thoughts. Too many, and the wrong kind. Thoughts like how useful this man
could be if only he could somehow be co-opted, wrapped around and tangled up
with how good-right-wrong it felt-smelled-tasted to fuck-finger-eat-be-eaten by
Willow. By Willow and the other girls, especially Sheila Gluzman, who was also
a child Rosenberg had no doubt know from an infant and whose offspring he
wouldn't want sharing genes with his descendants, regardless of whether or not
viewing Jewish endogamy with contempt was actually anti-Semitic or Romantic (in
a political sense or otherwise) or both.
Thoughts of protecting Willow from being forced to have an abortion against her
will seamlessly merged with the hope that Willow's father could make her see
sense and want to have an abortion regardless of the fact that that would
certainly mean losing her, which was not survivable, not that he wanted to use
her pregnancy to make her stay, and all of that subsumed in the fact that he
probably couldn't kill Ira without Willow finding out about it and that even if
he could have she'd still have been so hurt by it that that plan was a total
non-starter, which left him with no idea how to ever be safe again at all
rather than at the doctor's mercy, particularly since Ira was right there with
him inside his head at that moment, hearing it all.
Perfect(!) You want to throw in a line or two about his wife while you're at
it?Don't help. He doesn't need to hear me think that she's an even worse parent
than he is, especially while I'm still plotting to steal their
daughter.“Sorry,” Giles finally managed to say, rather sheepishly.
“Mostly only that I heard you,” Ira pointed out matter-of-factly, which except
for the bit about killing him was a pretty fair assessment. “Don't be,”
Rosenberg added, separately answering to that particular part of the 'sorry'.
“You'd be a fool not to have considered it at all. I'm in your way, and I mean
to stay here. Besides which, I've got you over a barrel and can have you
arrested whenever I want. Lucky for you, I have better uses for you than that.
And lucky for me, you need a grown-up American friend to get you a cover job
and help you stay in the country if the Council pulls their support. Ergo,
nobody's getting killed and we can both relax.”
Something clicked. Dear God, he's a sociopath!Are ya just now tunin' in?Ira
smiled, amused. “Sheila says not, but I think that's just because she's
emotionally invested. My Sheila, not your Sheila. Wow, you really aren't with
it today, are you?”
If Rosenberg was a sociopath, and one with plans he fit into, that at least
explained why the police hadn't been called already. That and the fact that
he'd gotten all his information from reading people's minds and didn't actually
have a witness to say they'd seen Giles follow Jesse and Xander from the
Bronze, though he'd certainly have evidence enough of statutory rape if the
right tests were performed, even assuming Willow could consistently deny it in
the face of Ira's claim of knowledge, which was doubtful of any young girl who
loved/feared/respected her father. But still, why did he want Giles to know so
very much of what was going on in his head and why?
“Because I want you to know I'm not going to get attached to you and change my
mind, that's why. And I want you to understand that I mean it when I tell you
that I'd rather bury one honor student than raise a house full of bastard
grandchildren. That and I just get tired of pretending to like people and worry
about their issues. It's nice not to have to bother. Freeing. I think I'm going
to enjoy not having to give a flying fuck what you think of me while you're
doing whatever I tell you to.”
Giles stood a moment trying to master his rage and swallow his horror. Despite
a marked physical resemblance, he could hardly connect this Cretin to Willow in
any concrete sense. Whatever their legal and biological relationship, Giles no
longer thought of Ira as a parent to Willow, but as a villain who held them
both at his mercy. Though why the bastard should be so confident in being
obeyed as opposed to opposed—“Because you're too smart to get heroic, that's
why.” Ira grinned again and, imitating an English accent rather badly, added,
“Discretion is the better part of valor, you know.”
 
***** The Pack *****
Chapter Summary
     Willow: You're having an expression.
     Buffy: I'm not. But if I was, it'd be saying, 'This just isn't like
     you.'
     Willow: Not like me to have a boyfriend?
     Buffy: He's boyfriendly?
     Willow: I don't understand why you don't want me to have this.
     ~BtVS 1.8 "I Robot; You Jane"
“It's creepy when she does that,” Sheila complained with casual sullenness, but
in a definite undertone, when—at Willow's and Sheila's mutually adamant yet
uneasy insistence—Buffy had gone back into the apartment to retrieve the photo
of Giles she'd found, leaving the other two girls to await the confirmation of
what Willow already knew and Sheila just didn't want to know. “The sneaky
listening thing,” Sheila clarified needlessly when Willow was too distracted by
her own thoughts to reply to her complaint about Buffy right away.
“I really agree,” Willow admitted with a sigh, just as quietly. What bothered
her more; though, was Buffy acting so smug and judge-like at a moment like
this. The same way she did about anything to do with Giles. Which, it wasn't
like she didn't have REASONS, but still.... Judging someone for what they did
while possessed by a demon was one thing, but judging another person for *not*
judging them was a little above and beyond. Wasn't it? Especially when you were
counting on that exact same person not to judge you for what you'd done while
basically enthralled by that same demon *and* not to judge you for judging?
“It's not normal,” Sheila agreed with her agreeing in a way that somehow made
Willow feel guilty about Buffy and her REASONS, as if *any* of this could
possibly be Willow's fault in any sense at all *unless* you judged her for not
judging. Then, with a slightly wistful smile, Sheila added, still thinking
about Buffy's sneakiness, still oblivious to the deeper issues of judginess,
REASONS, and guilt, “If she was a regular person I'd beat her ass.”
“She's not though,” Willow pointed out uneasily, feeling just a little bit
judgey herself after all. Sheila shrugged an acknowledgment that the point was
well taken but maybe not dispositive. Willow got the unsettling feeling that,
in this merry little band, she was actually the odd woman out in that the idea
of physically hurting a live person made her feel more ill than anything else.
Like maybe she was the big friendly Collie who hadn't quite noticed the pack of
Rottweilers forming up around her, accepting her as one of their number and
expecting her to act like it. Or as least to be cool about it.
Scary as they were though, these were all the friends she had, Willow suddenly
realized. There was literally no one else alive that she could tell any of the
important things that were happening in her life. No one she even wanted to
really. Not now that Xander was gone. And in a weird, still hard to fit her
brain around, sort of way; they were all becoming more than friends. They were
becoming a family. With a Daddy and Mommies and babies and that one weird aunt
who doesn't approve of anything or anyone but who still belongs just the same.
Unless she was going to change her mind again, Willow realized. Unless she was
going to unthink all her secret heart-not-brain thoughts about little, fuzzy-
haired Rupert-or-Willow snuggled to her breast and agree to not get to have
that after all. Unless she could unfall from the terrifying precipice of my-
heart-wants-the-not-right into the soft green valley of nothing-is-quite-right-
anyway-and-my-heart-wants, maybe it was a little too late to try and decide if
this was really the pack she wanted to run with.
When Willow saw Buffy seeing Willow seeing Sheila see the photo, there was no
denying any of it anymore anyway, no holding on to the slightest doubt. Buffy
folded her arms, pressed her lips sternly together, rolled her eyes and shook
her head. This all well before Sheila nodded and said, “Yeah, that's the guy.”
Uncharacteristically, Sheila dropped her eyes and added, a bit apologetically
in Willow's direction, “He was older, I thought thirty something, but yeah.
That's him.”
“It's okay,” Willow tried to say, but she could barely choke out the words, “I
ju—it's not like—” Willow laid her head down on the table and sobbed, trying
all the time not to. She wanted to be a grownup about this, and careful of
Sheila's feelings. It wasn't like Giles would have mentioned to her that he had
a girlfriend (if he'd even thought he had); and it would have been expecting
far too much of the Sheila that Willow knew and called her friend to think she
might have asked. The situation just was what it was. That was all. She wasn't
doing anyone any good by getting upset, and especially not by crying about it.
She always did that. She knew it was a flaw. Weak. Self-indulgent. An
imposition on other people.
Besides, she could feel Buffy getting mad at Giles all over again, like he'd
been caught doing anything that much different from what they already knew
about anyway. And no matter what else she felt, Willow realized, she still felt
protective of her sweet, smart, pitiful, helpless Giles. “Do you want me to
beat him up?” Sheila offered, not sounding malicious, but not joking either.
More like she was offering just to be friendly, trying to be helpful. In fact,
she sounded so absurdly willing the Willow couldn't help but sit up and laugh,
not so much with amusement as joy, tears still streaming down her face.
Because, in this case, it was not even the thought that counted, but the
feeling behind it.
Even Buffy laughed a little in relief. She was probably just glad to know that
they were all still on Willow's 'side' and not Giles's, but still... Willow
reached out an arm in either direction and hugged both her friends, both of her
new sisters, or whatever, family members. They both leaned towards her a little
just to let her know that they were her friends/family, that they were on her
side of anything there was going to be sides of. And knowing that made Willow
glad. There were ways, she decided, in which she didn't mind having family that
actually would beat the crap out of someone if that was what she really needed
to make her feel okay. Family who wouldn't ask what she'd done to make them
proud lately. Who wanted to be there even when she was crying. Even when she
was messing things up and being more trouble than she was worth.
As for Giles... just because the ladies of the house were all on each other's
side didn't mean they had to be against him, even if Buffy didn't know that
yet. The truth was, he had brought them all together, one way and another.
Their fight was the fight he had shown them. Their secrets were his secrets.
Their babies were going to be his babies. Their headquarters was his home, a
place literally under his protection from everything from bloodsucking demons
to landlords changing the locks or parents wanting to know what was up.
  The fact was they needed him. Not just his books and his bank account
numbers. All emotional and biological issues aside, even improbably assuming
that they could interpret his books just as well as he could; someone had to be
there to fill the bank account back up. And even if they could somehow find the
money to pay the rent and the light bill, none of them *lived* there, which
somebody had to do. Not to mention the fact that eventually there would be
things they couldn't buy, information they couldn't get, interactions to be had
with authority. To run a secret, nightly war against the forces of evil, they
were going to need at least one dependable grownup. And, practically speaking,
Giles was it.
Who else were they going to trust? Their parents? If Willow had tried to
explain any of this to her parents they would just have patted her on the head
and assumed it was some game they didn't understand. Or they'd think she was
acting out and put her in therapy or something. And they were really the best
of the lot as far as she could tell. Buffy apparently only had an every-other-
weekend-if-I-feel-like-it dad and a mom who worked seven days a week and
couldn't handle anything else right now. Meanwhile Sheila's grandma had all she
could manage keeping the drunk son and crackhead daughter she'd already raised
out of the house and away from the four grandkids she wasn't raising much
better.
Ergo, whoever learned to like it and whoever had to lump it, Giles was coming
home to stay. He was one of the pack.
 
***** Control *****
Chapter Summary
     Buffy: Mm! Academic probation's not so funny today, huh, Giles?
     Wesley: The way you've handled this assignment is
     something of an embarrassment to the council.
     Giles: If you want to criticize my methods, fine. But you can keep
     your snide remarks to yourself. And while you're at it, don't
     criticize my methods.... I can assure you that Buffy is both
     dedicated and industrious, and I am in complete control of my Slayer.
     ~ BtVS 3.7 "Revelations" & 3.14 "Bad Girls"
“Yes, quite right. Everything is completely under control. The apocalypse was
handily averted by the new Slayer and my er... slight... uhm... demonic...
possession... issue is erm, well, completely resolved.” Giles clutched the
phone and waited tensely, hoping he sounded a lot more natural on the other
side of the Atlantic than he did in his own ears. The memory of his voice was
hard, bright and insistent, too full of forced cheerfulness. Meh, it's
passable, but you need to get it together a little more. They're already bound
to be suspicious.Do you mind? I'm having enough trouble organizing my thoughts
as it is!
“Haven't heard a peep out of the vile fiend since my unfortunate, or erm I
suppose fortunate, er surgery,” he added even more brightly when he couldn't
stand the silence on the line one nanosecond longer. Deep down, he knew the
demon was right. He was overselling, at least a bit, but he really couldn't
help it. Maybe because some small part of him wanted to be founded out, wanted
the Council to extract him from this intolerable situation. No, really? You
think?Oh, do shut up.
“And what about those two female students?” Quentin prompted finally, “Ms.
Rosenberg and Ms. Chase.”
“Well...” Giles lied, feeling ridiculously transparent, “I've broken things off
with Willow—er that is to say, Ms. Rosenberg—and I think she took it reasonably
well, well, considering. As for Ms. Chase, she seems to have put the matter
behind her entirely. And, well, as neither of them goes to school with Buffy
any longer....” You know they're going to check up on you eventually, right.
They're going to figure out you lied.Yes, but that's eventually. Willow will be
eighteen in twenty-two months. The longer we can stall them, the closer we are
to being able to disappear together without anyone else having a say in it.“So,
really, I don't think that will be a problem any longer.”
“Perhaps not,” Travers allowed more than a little skeptically, “but then, that
does leave the matter of your visible employment unresolved.”
“Not at all,” Giles assured him. “I've already been offered a position with the
County Building Commission as a Preservation Consultant to the Planning and
Zoning Board. Which incidentally, will afford me both the first look at any of
the ancient relics and prehistorical sites of dubiously human habitation that
tend to be unearthed regularly around here and an excellent excuse to spend
hours a day in my office pouring over ancient tomes potentially related to the
same.”
Travers, Giles guiltily noted had shifted from skeptical to impressed when he
asked, “Really? How the Devil did you manage that?”
“A erm friend, well, one of the doctors here at the hospital really, is
reasonably well connected, it seems in uhm, in local government circles and,
well, the school board may have taken an interest as well.... But at any rate,
he suggested it as something I could work into part-time as I'm getting back on
my feet, the presumption evidently being that the high school will be reopening
in a year or so and evidently they want to make sure I'll be available to
reclaim my position in the library. It seems, you see,” Giles continued,
something between nervously and dryly amused, “that they've had rather a bit of
trouble with librarians dying and or going mad before they've gotten a good
year's work out of them.” He forced a small laugh, “I can't imagine why.”
“Yes... well,” Quentin replied, just a slight hint of very grim amusement in
his own voice. “Do be careful Rupert.”
“Oh, certainly!” Giles assured him, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. A
bit!?! If this were an operetta you'd have burst into song just now!Oh, stuff
it. He's bought it. Why shouldn't I be relieved?Because your pregnant
girlfriend is living with a cold-blooded psychopath who has us by the one ball
we've got left and you can't even warn her without putting her in even more
danger, not that she'd believe you over him anyway?
“Rupert?” Travers doubled back, rather than making his parting pleasantries,
“You know, now I think of it, it wouldn't hurt for you you have a little
assistance, at least until you get back on your feet. Robson should be able to
keep an eye on Cleveland by himself for a bit longer. I'm going to send you
that new Watcher I meant to have him train up, Lydia Chalmers.” Oh Damn. And
it's not even like you can say you don't need the help, because you complained
that you did need it three weeks *before* you had your heart attack. Before you
nearly killed me, you mean?Yeah that.Shut up and let me concentrate so I'll at
least know what's coming.Hey, you're the one talking.Shut up!!!
“...and if this 'Master' is indeed the same one DuLac wrote of,” Travers was
saying, “which the presence of three of his better known minions (Luke, Darla,
and Angelus) would seem to indicate... well then, Lydia is somewhat familiar
with the lineage as her original research has tended to focus on William the
Bloody, who is, after all, an estranged member of their kindred.”
“Is he indeed?” Giles managed nervously when it seemed some reaction was
expected. At least his nervous reaction was not, in itself, suspicious. Not
considering the fearsomeness of the personage who had just been mentioned in
connection with the already formidable vampire foes the new Slayer had to face
here in Sunnydale.
The conversation continued in the same vein for some time, but Giles could
hardly maintain sufficient focus to make attentive noises at appropriate
intervals. The disaster that his life already was continued to become more
cataclysmic by the moment. Why? This Lydia a homely girl?She's coming to spy
and report on us, you berk!No, really(?)This is no time for your... your
witticisms! I need to concentrate or, or—But it was too late already. “I beg
your pardon?” Travers asked, sounding both puzzled and slightly affronted.
“I'm sorry,” Giles apologized, coming partially clean. “I'm afraid I've lost
the thread of the conversation a bit.”
“Well, I should say so,” Quentin reproved him calmly, with ever so much
dignity, “I just asked if your attending physician felt you were still in any
peril of death or in need of any further surgical intervention, and you said
'Mmm yes, quite right!'”
“Oh dear,” Giles replied worriedly and still more apologetically. “Well, I'm
afraid I'm taking rather a lot of medication just now. My head is a bit foggy,
I suppose. I had thought I was keeping up well enough but—” (He exaggerated but
did not have to fake a yawn.) “—perhaps we had better speak again in a day or
two when I'm a bit better rested. In the meantime, you needn't worry about my
shuffling off this mortal coil just yet. I'm told that if I keep improving as I
have been, I'll be out of hospital inside of two weeks.”
With that, at last, Quentin seemed satisfied. Two dozen collegial words later,
Giles replace the telephone receiver in it's cradle and fell back against the
bed, exhausted, proximally relieved, and distally worried. Glad as he was that
his conversation with Travers had ended so successfully, Giles couldn't escape
the feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach at the thought of Lydia's
arrival.
That she would almost certainly find him out as a fraud in all that he had said
to Quentin just now was horror enough. But worse still was the realization that
in doing so she would inevitably become a threat to Ira Rosenberg. Who had
other uses in mind for him. And who would do anything to regain control of a
situation that was, by the moment, increasingly out of control. The last thing
Giles needed was to be responsible for yet another innocent young woman being
thrown into the path of the evil doctor's as yet unknown but no-doubt
malevolent scheme.
That was it. Something twisted sickly and snapped painfully into place in
Rupert's mind. The only logical solution. He could not afford to put Lydia,
Willow, Buffy or Sheila in danger by setting them at cross purposes to Dr.
Rosenberg. He could not confide in them nor ask for their assistance to free
himself from his enemy's grasp.
Instead, he must co-opt them, manipulate them, control their actions even as he
was himself controlled so that (at least in the short and medium term) they
were not a hindrance but a possible asset to Dr. Rosenberg. If he could do
that, then for the time being, he could keep them safe and perhaps, when the
time was right, use his ability to turn them against Rosenberg (by revealing
all he would by then know of the man's plans) as leverage to gain the upper
hand.
Of course, as soon as they found themselves in the same room again, Ira
Rosenberge would be able to probe inside Rupert's mind and know exactly how he
hoped to eventually turn the tables. But most likely he wouldn't feel the need
to do anything about it right away. The arrogant bastard was so sure that he
held all the cards, pulled all the strings, that he'd probably be amused to
find that his faithful slave and deadly enemy was plotting against him right
under his very nose. Harboring the delusion that he could regain control from
such a master manipulator as himself.
And that very arrogance, that very certainty, would be his downfall. Rupert
would be ready. Waiting for an opportunity to present itself. Man, from what
I've seen, if it's a battle of wits and wills, my money's on you! No contest!
Even I can barely hold my own when you really put your foot down.Well now that
is delusional. Don't let's get just as cocky as he is. This is by no means a
brilliant and inevitably winning strategy. It's just the only one we have left.
It's not even a strategy really. It's a holding pattern. It's keeping a lid on
things and hoping that a strategy comes along.Well then, the demon opined
cheerfully, as soon as your luck changes completely, then it's like you said:
Everything's under control. 
***** If My Heart Had Windows *****
Chapter Summary
     Giles: You listen to me! A vampire isn't a person at all. It may have
     the movements, the memories, even the personality of the person that
     it took over, but it's still a demon at the core, there is no
     halfway. You have to remember that when you see him, you're not
     looking at your friend. You're looking at the thing that killed him.
     ~BtVS 1.2 "The Harvest", 1.7 "Angel".
That night he came again. Willow could hear him moving around on the balcony.
Just a little. More fidgeting than anything. Restlessly. Not knocking. Not
insisting. Just waiting. She tried not to even look out. This time she really
tried. Harder than ever. But it was harder than ever. It got harder each and
every night. So far, she hadn't resisted looking out. But at least she had
never let him in either. That would be a serious mistake.

Willow turned the music up even louder. This would be the night. The night she
would ignore him and he would go away. But it was kind of hard not to think of
him when she was listening to this particular mix tape. The one he'd asked his
mom to give her in his maddeningly ambiguous is-he-running-away-or-is-this-a-
suicide note. The one that had both of his parents so tied in knots that
Jessica did nothing but sit and cry all day while Tony looked for the answer in
the bottom of a bottle.

Under the circumstances, Willow could hardly have refused the gift that Jessica
had tearfully tendered to her with trembling hands. At least it wasn't anything
new. Or maybe that was the worst of it. Xander, her Xander, had made it months
ago, had scrawled across the white stickered on label in black magic marker:
'COUNTRY MUSIC (the music of pain)'. Well, it certainly was that, Willow
decided.

If it hadn't been, maybe she could have turned it off, could have stopped
listening to it over and over every night. If it wasn't for the fact that this,
of all things, he had wanted her to have. Not her Xander, of course. But kind
of... or at least... what was left of him. Remains. Somehow that term had never
seemed more fitting. And what was it that remained? How much of her friend was
really left? How much Xander was still in there?

Giles had said there was next to nothing left. Nothing human anyway. Nothing
feeling. Nothing real. But he had also said that all of Xander's memories would
still be in there. Everything they had ever been through together was still a
part of his experience, still played a role in shaping who he was and how he
saw the world. That didn't seem like nothing or anywhere near. It seemed like a
hell of a lot, in fact. But there was no love there, Giles had assured her.
Nothing to love with. No soul.

Still, the memory of a feeling always carried some of the feeling with it,
didn't it? And this Xander still thought like her Xander, at least a little. At
least enough to know that, even though Patsy Cline and George Jones were not
Willow's all-time favorites, not the music she wanted to dance to on a Saturday
night full of hope and joy; somehow, they would both sooth and sharpen her
pain. It was music to mourn to. For Xander. The love of him. The loss of him.
And hard as she tried to talk some sense into herself, Willow couldn't shake
the feeling that, while she mourned; out on her balcony, what remained was
mourning that loss just the same.

In spite of herself, knowing it definitely would hurt, Willow parted the drapes
just a little and peeped through. He stood there the same as always, looking
pale and serious as he never had in life. Looking sad. Lonely. Pitiful.
Pitiable. But in an endearing and somehow not quite pathetic way.

'But he's a monster,' Willow silently chided herself. A killer. After he gave
up standing on her balcony looking sad, in the wee hours between midnight and
dawn, as she finally slept, he would go out and kill again. He would kill and
he would feed. You might as well feel sorry for Hannibal Lector. Sorry enough
to let him out. Which would have still been safer than letting Xander in.

Still. It wasn't as though, in this case, the glass separating them really
meant anything one way or the other. Open or closed, he could never come in
uninvited.

Willow's heart thumped wildly. She knew she was on dangerous ground. The
proverbial slippery slope. Right over the yawning pit of hell. And yet, she did
something she had up to now resisted every night. Willow pulled the cord and
opened the drapes wide.

Xander smiled almost shyly. Hopefully. Still, she didn't open her window. Not
yet.

They stared are each other with eyes full of patient, restrained sorrow.
Helpless in the thrall of feelings so deep and complex they were difficult to
name, Willow walked closer to the glass until her nose was all but touching it,
until she could feel the cool of the night bleeding through into the warmth of
her room. Outside on the balcony, Xander did the same. Silently, without the
need of any word or signal, they each pressed a palm against the glass, hands a
quarter inch from touching. Willow knew he could feel her warmth just as she
could feel his lack.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered, eyes shining with tears.

Xander heard. Nodded. Understood. Sympathized. Willow was sure of it. She could
see it in his eyes. The longing. The regret. The concern.

Still, she did not open her window. She did not let him in. Not yet.

“Goodbye, Xander,” she sighed even more quietly, even more sadly. Xander
paused, tilted his head to one side, as if he were examining her words of
parting, trying to understand what she meant. Then a bear flicker of a smile
twitched sadly at the edges of his mouth.

Looking more miserable than ever, but also firmer, stronger, more resolved;
Xander nodded once. Solemnly. Definitely. Stoically. “Goodbye,” he answered, or
maybe just mouthed silently. Either way, that was all he had to say. There
would be no waiting around for hours this night. The vampire turned, stepped
nonchalantly up and over the balcony railing, and was gone.

Willow knew she ought to feel relieved. She tried. But the ache in her chest
felt anything but. Xander was gone. And for the first time since he'd first
come to her window, three nights after the battle of the Bronze, Willow was no
longer sure that he would return. And no longer quite so sure that she didn't
want him to.

Pulling the drapes, needing the dark, she lay on her bed, curled on her side,
and wept loudly, brokenly, not caring who heard. She felt as if she had lost
Xander all over again. She knew her courage was failing, knew that if he did
return to her another night she might not have the strength to send him away
again. She should call Buffy, Willow realized, tell her about his nightly
visitations. Make plans to put a stop to them, to put Xander's body and
hopefully his soul to rest at last.

But Willow didn't reach for her phone. Didn't make that call. Not yet. The kind
of 'not yet' that longed to last forever.
***** Dreams Are Meaningful *****
Chapter Summary
     Angel: You have to know what to see.
     ~BtVS 2.14 "Innocence"
“At last,” Ira said, in restrained celebration of patience rewarded. “I was
beginning to think you might sleep all day.”
“You again,” Giles sighed, opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling, not
bothering to raise his head.
“I left you alone for more than a week,” Ira pointed out calmly. “I notice my
daughter has also,” he added, grimly amused. “Of course, that could be because
you've told the staff that you don't want any visitors. Or it could be that
letter you wrote her. She's been crying her self to sleep even harder than
usual since you dropped that bomb shell on her. I have to say I'm impressed. I
didn't think you had the stomach for it.”
“You've told me the problem as you see it,” Giles replied stiffly. “I'm doing
my level best to solve it. Without any births or burials. I can stomach
whatever I have to to keep her from any worse harm than she will inevitably
experience living with you, even if that means keeping her away from me, at
least for the time being. And don't bother needling me about the pain she's in
either, because as far as I'm concerned, you are primarily responsible for that
at this point. She wouldn't be suffering nearly this much if I could afford to
support her in making the best choice for herself regardless of anyone else's
opinion. And the fact that I can't is entirely down to you.”
“Well it's still not enough,” Dr. Rosenberg informed him grimly. “She won't die
from a broken heart, and she's still ghost surfing child-development sites and
lurking in the teen mom chat rooms. This morning she was thinking about names
again. And whether an epidural is more wrong than birth pangs are scary. And,
you know, I've just realized, you knew this would happen all along!”
“Yes,” Giles answered with a wan smile. It was his turn to be amused for once,
in spite of his suffering. “Who would have ever guessed that telling a strong
willed young woman that she must see reason and follow the only sensible course
of action would only increase her determination to do as she sees fit?”
“I'm going to have to start reading you more often.” Dr. Rosenberg noted
thoughtfully. “And you are going to have to do a better job of getting me what
I want. This 'baby' business has gotten completely out of hand. There's more to
it than just defiance, too. You know what it is: it's that other whore of
yours, Sheila. She's half the problem. They've got some sort of Solidarity
between them. Like they're workout buddies or in a suicide pact or something.”
“Mmm, yes,” Giles replied scornfully, feeling his temper rising, “I believe
it's a little something called friendship. I wouldn't expect you to
understand.”
“Huh. This is one time I don't think you get to play the 'normal' card against
me,” Rosenberg pointed out, clearly amused again, feeling more in control now
that he knew he was getting the other man's goat. “You're the one fucking the
little darlings, not me.”
Hold it in, the incubus reminded Giles, worriedly. It doesn't matter what he
says, only what he does. “I see,” Giles answered crisply, heeding it's warning.
He struggled for a change of topic, something to mask or at least rechannel his
resentment. “How long have you been just sitting there waiting for me to wake
up, anyhow?
“Long enough to know what you've been dreaming about,” his enemy chuckled.
Good Lord, why didn't you warn me?The incubus remained curiously silent though
palpably present. Perhaps it was angry with him? And yet, he felt almost as
little emotion from it as from Dr. Rosenberg. And if he hadn't known any
better, he'd have sworn what little emotion it was expressing towards him was
something strangely akin to sympathy.
Ira, in contrast, continued to smile cruelly, clearly feeling no sympathy at
all. “You don't remember your dreams?” the doctor scoffed. “Too bad. They were
very entertaining.” But at the guilty, panicked hypothesis that flashed into
Rupert's mind, the enemy only wrinkled his nose in a disturbingly Willowish
show of genuine distaste. “Not *that*,” he sneered. “I'm a Sociopath, not a
pervert.”
“And I'm a heart patient not a mind reader!” Giles snapped at him harshly,
losing all patience. “Just tell me what more it is you want from me, and I'll
see what I can do.”
“I want you to patch things up with Willow,” Ira answered seriously and calmly.
“I need you to get back into a position in which you can more readily influence
her decisions. Do whatever you have to do. Don't let any little things like
laws or scruples stop you now. Because, clearly, they never have before, not
when it was something you really wanted. And believe me, if you're really as
interested as I know you think you are in protecting Willow, you should want me
to be happy with her a lot more than you've shown so far.
“You'll be going home in a week or so. You can wait until then to actually see
her, but in the meantime soften her up. Send her flowers and a heartfelt
apology, something like that. Assure her of your undying love and unconditional
support. Then at the first opportunity, drive a wedge between her and Sheila.
That's the weak spot. Without Sheila, Buffy and Willow will inevitably clash
over how to deal with you and this whole alternate family fantasy will go up in
smoke. That's when you step in with one last hard push to sell the easy way
out.”
Giles took a deep breath and tried in vain to think without revealing his
thoughts. So this was the current fantasy. Ira wanted him to worm his way back
into Willow's good graces the better to manipulate her into doing what Ira
wanted rather than what she felt was right. Which is what you were all resolved
to do last week, before you chickened out. Shut up.
“I won't bother pretending to agree to adhere to that,” the Watcher began at
last, tiredly. “You know as well as I do that I'm looking for a way around you.
One that I genuinely believe I will find and that you are confident I will not.
But I'll play it your way as far as I can in the meantime, as much as anything
because I'm as miserable without Willow as she is without me, silly as that may
seem to you. As for her pregnancy, you know how many different directions my
conflicting motives run. I suppose we'll both just have to see how that settles
out. I won't let you harm her, I promise you that. If that means genuinely
manipulating her to act against the dictates of her own conscience... well, we
both know that I hope it never comes to that. But I'll do whatever I have to
do. Whatever it takes to keep Willow safe and well. That's the bottom line as
far as I'm concerned.”
“And I'll do whatever I have to do to maintain the public reputation of my
family and to protect my own position and interests in the Godforsaken town,”
Ira replied, every bit as seriously.
“Well then,” Giles noted stiffly, I think we understand each other.
“Yes,” Ira agreed, smiling evilly again, “I believe we do. Completely.”
Finally! The demon declared the moment the doctor had left the room. Yes,Giles
thought back dryly,alone at last. My isn't this relaxing. Just me and you and a
straightjacket built for two.Not at all!The other voice in his head replied,
sounding strangely cheerful. Relaxing isn't remotely the word for it. Things
are just about to get interesting.Giles tried not to even wonder what it meant,
tried not to waste his meager reserves of energy rising to the bait. But the
damnable creature was all but humming aloud the melody of “Dream a Little
Dream”.
All right, fine, Giles demanded at last. What exactly was I dreaming that both
you and Dr. Rosenberg find so awfully amusing?Ha,the demon smirked, you
wouldn't believe me if I told you.Oh come off it!The Watcher snapped back,
exasperated. You're just bursting to tell me. I can feel it. So, go on! Hit me
with the punchline. What's been happening in my head while I was asleep that I
don't know about? Nothing,the demon insisted, his unspoken words shot through
with the very essence of laughter. Nothing at all.
 
***** One More Thing *****
Chapter Summary
     GILES: All right, everyone! Pay attention! In just a few moments that
     curtain is going to open on our very first production. Now, everyone
     that Willow's ever met is out in that audience, including all of us.
     That means we have to be perfect. Stay in character, remember your
     lines, and energy energy energy, especially in the musical
     numbers!... Acting is not about behaving, it's about hiding. The
     audience wants to find you, strip you naked, and eat you alive, so
     hide.... It's all about subterfuge.... Now go on out there, lie like
     dogs, and have a wonderful time. Now, if we can stay in focus, keep
     our heads, and if Willow can stop stepping on everyone's cues, I know
     this'll be the best production of "Death of a Salesman" we've ever
     done.
     WILLOW: No! This drama class is just ... I think they're really not
     doing things in the proper way, and now I'm in a play and my whole
     family's out there! And why is there a cowboy in "Death of a
     Salesman" anyway?
     ~BtVS 4.22 "Restless"
The hallway was crowded. Students pushing and shoving everywhere. Willow had to
stand on her tiptoes to even see the table with all the clipboards, or rather,
to see the especially dense cluster of anxious humanity that marked it's
location. The air was warm and stagnant, pungent with sweat and the
apprehension of disappointment. Oxygen seemed in short supply.
For a moment Willow thought about turning around and pushing her way right back
through the crowd and out into the fresh air and sunlight of Fondren High's
main courtyard. But that was impossible. Wishful thinking. She could already
hear her father's voice inside her head, angrily claiming to be not-angry-just-
disappointed that she had, without justification or excuse, done irreparable
damage to her college prospects by willfully failing to sign up for any extra-
curricular activities. Never mind that between fighting demons and preparing to
bring a new life into the world she barely had time for her curricular
activities. That was a secret she had to keep as long as possible, at all
costs.
Suddenly, a friendly face stood in the midst of that churning sea of strangers
and acquaintances. Willow latched on with a sigh of relief, like a castaway
grabbing hold of a raft of driftwood, grateful for the slenderest protection
from the riptide that threatened to pull her under. “Amy!” she called in
enthusiastic greeting. For a moment, her friend seemed not to hear her. “Amy,
hi!” Willow called just a bit louder, her smile and her voice desperately
cheerful.
At last, Amy raised her head and smiled back, walking in Willow's direction.
“Hi,” she said amiably enough, but with a sort of odd reticence that Willow
decided she must be imagining.
“Wow,” Willow over enthused, trying to resuscitate the already flagging
conversation, “you've lost a lot of weight.”
“Had too,” Amy agreed with a sheepish smile.
Again, their conversation seemed destined to die in infancy. “So... what are
you signing up for?” Willow tried again valiantly.
“Cheerleading,” Amy answered serenely, as if it were the answer to the meaning
of life.
“Oh?” Willow asked, genuinely surprised. “I never knew you wanted to be a
cheerleader.”
“Well yeah,” Amy said, as if it should have been obvious to anyone, though she
had never once mentioned it in all the years they'd known each other. Then,
seeing how puzzled Willow still was, she added with a nervous little laugh,
“I've always wanted to be a cheerleader, like my mom, I guess I was just afraid
to say so because I thought I never really could, you know, because of my
weight? But, then, when I *finally* started listening to my mom and letting her
lend me the wisdom of her experience, the pounds just flew off. And now we're
training together six hours a day.”
“Wow,” Willow said. She couldn't really think of anything else to say. She
couldn't imagine anyone willingly subjecting themselves to six hours of daily
training with Amy's mom, least of all Amy. They couldn't even get through
dinner without screaming at each other. Amy had spent most of the eighth grade
sleeping over at Willow's house, until Ira had finally put a stop to it, saying
that you don't get to be a healthy, happy, well-round A-student by spending all
of your time with fat, miserable academic failures who think playing video
games should qualify as a sport.
“I know,” Amy beamed, all bubbly again, “she's been pretty great. I wish I'd
started listening to her sooner instead of letting my dad turn me against her.
He's always been such a big stupid loser. But Mom, wow! She's the best! It
feels good to finally be the daughter she deserves.”
“Um... okay,” Willow managed nervously, feeling more lost and alone than ever
in the company of this new, improved Stepford Amy. Then, a new worry suddenly
struck her. “Umm, Amy?” she pointed out nervously, “maybe you want to sign up
for a few different things. I mean, the competition is pretty steep for
Cheerleaders, and I heard they're only making three slots for Sunnydale girls.
And, you know Amber and Joy are going to get two of them, so...” Willow's voice
and courage started to fail her and she noticed how perturbed Amy was getting.
… so... umm... you know, maybe you shouldn't stake every thing on just
cheerleading is all I'm saying.” she stammered to her conclusion, looking into
a pinched, exasperated face that suddenly reminded her much too much of Amy's
mother.
“You know,” Amy replied breezily, as though she had nothing more in mind than
casual chit-chat between friends, turning her smile back on like a lightbulb,
“you could stand to loose a few pounds yourself. Your face has really rounded
out in the last year, and I'm guessing those overall have a little more to hide
these days too. I mean, nobody older than twelve would wear *that* if they had
the figure to pull off a grown-up look, would they?”
Amy laughed lightly as Willow's heart sank and she found herself fighting back
tears. Partly because insults always hurt twice as much from someone you're
used to calling 'friend' than they do from the usual suspects. But also because
she knew Amy was pretty much right. She was a dork. Apparently a huge fat dork
who looked more and more pregnant every day. Pretty soon everyone was bound to
know.
Willow only hoped she could hold out until twenty-four weeks or so. Then maybe
at least she wouldn't have to have quite such a huge fight with her parents
about why she wanted to 'throw away her future' by not having an abortion. But
that was the distant future, a virtual lifetime of weeks and months away.
Meanwhile, the unpleasantness that was the here and now was still unfolding.
Amy looked at Willow expectantly, defiantly challenging her to make some
retort. With a small, miserable sigh, Willow ducked her head and turned away.
She wished she could have talked Sheila into coming here with her, at least for
moral support. But she had begged off, joking that she didn't feel safe in a
room full of athletes and club joiners because that much school spirit was
bound to be contagious. Willow felt a moment of secret, guilty pleasure
imagining Sheila's response to Amy's teasing. They'd probably be lucky if they
only got thrown out of the sign-ups and not expelled from school.
So, on second thought, maybe it was better that she'd come on her own.
Strangely, though, it didn't feel better. In fact it felt worse by the minute,
as though her value as a human being were somehow at stake. Surely, Willow told
herself, she had to have some friends here. Didn't she? After all, she'd been
going to school with these people for years. Some of them since kindergarten.
What kind of a loser couldn't make and keep more than one or two friends in all
that time?
Once again, Willow cast her eyes about, feeling as desperate as a storm tossed
mariner, searching for land. Finally, she saw someone in the crowd ahead. Chris
Epps! He was definitely and for sure her friend. Wasn't he? But Chris didn't
answer when Willow called to him. He just stood there, grimfaced as was usual
for him lately, stoically awaiting his turn at the clip boards.
There were plenty of other people there that Willow kind of knew, but no one
else she would really call a friend. Jonathan Levinson, with whom she'd gone to
school and temple and Hebrew School her whole life, was probably the closest
thing. But right now he was doing his very best imitation of a potted plant,
trying desperately to ignore four jocks who were making jokes at his expense
literally behind his back.
Willow knew the from extensive personal experience that the last thing anyone
in Jonathan's position wanted was for someone to call even more attention to
them. And that went double for anyone of the opposite sex. That would only give
his tormentors more ammunition in the form of an excuse to tease them both
about their theoretical love lives.
Taking her cue from others of her own (dorky) kind, Willow waited; face
forward, eyes down; shuffling forward at the pace of inertia until it was her
turn at the table. She looked over the clipboards to see what was left. Every
group had done things differently, however the existing Fodren members and
their faculty sponsors saw fit. Some, like the Cheerleaders, had allowed anyone
to audition but severely limited the number of new kids they would accept.
Others had taken all who signed up on a first come basis until they were full.
Willow felt a deep sense of relief that both the Debate Team and the Glee Club
had taken the latter approach and were now filled to capacity. At least that
was a solid, verifiable excuse that she could give her father for not
subjecting herself to the humiliation of auditioning for either. Instead she
signed up for Chess Club, hoping that it would be as do-nothing a club as she
had always hated Sunnydale's for being. That left Orchestra, yish! And Jazz
Band, worse. And... okay... what else?
Oh! Science Club! It was new at Fodren this year, sponsored by Dr. Gregory, who
was one of dozens of Sunnydale teachers the school had made room for on it's
faculty, saving the school board from having to buy out too many contracts and
beefing up their numbers to handle the dramatically increased student
population. Willow was heartened to see Chris's name on the list as well as
half a dozen others she recognized. On the down side, if Science Club did as
many activities this year as it had last year at Sunnydale, it would be a
serious drain on her time. Still she couldn't possibly think of not signing up.
Her dad knew how much she loved Science Club and foregoing that pleasure would
be a dead giveaway that something was seriously wrong.
That was two. Less than half as many activities as she'd signed up for at
Sunnydale just a few weeks (and a lifetime) ago. Willow knew she needed at
least one more to keep her dad even halfway satisfied. Something that he would
have termed 'scholarship worthy'. Before the fire, he had insisted she sign up
for two sports (she'd picked tennis and volleyball) because Title IX, yodda
yodda yodda. But now she couldn't risk letting herself in for anything that
physical. It would only bring her condition to light sooner rather than later.
So, with a sinking feeling of doom, Willow looked over the remaining sheets and
chose the least worst option. Drama. There were scholarships for that. And it
was pretty easy to not stand out at without being to obvious about wanting to
blend into the background. But, the horrors of stage fright aside, if there was
one thing her life didn't need even a tiny bit more of, it was Drama.
As it was, she could barely even think about Giles and the mess that was their
too over and not over enough relationship without completely falling to pieces.
Pile on top of that the not knowing what disaster would happen with Buffy when
he got home, the not being able to talk to anyone about it, not even Sheila,
and she was living on the edge of a catastrophic thermonuclear meltdown. And
that was before taking into account her parents expectation or the nightly
visitations of the undead at her bedroom window.
Just one more thing, Willow thought. If one more confusing, terrible,
potentially life-altering thing descended upon her any time in the foreseeable
future, she was going to finish out her teen years in a padded cell wearing a
straight jacket. Willow took a deep breath and repeated one of her father's
saying over and over in her head like a mantra. 'Babies cry about it; big girls
get it done.' But deep down inside of her, there was one tiny part that really
wanted to be a baby, that was waiting for that one more thing to happen so that
she could let it all drop and lay down to cry the world away at last.
And then there it was, sitting on her desk in homeroom. A great big huge
overwhelming arrangement of two dozen roses. The florist had delivered it to
her here, even though it wasn't her birthday or valentines day or anything. She
stared at the card for five or ten minutes, frozen, unable to react. One more
thing. One more thing she had thought was settled even if settle for the worst
that now had to be worked through all over again.
    Reason is for fools. Call me but Love and I will never see sense again.
             Yours alway, or as long as you will have me, Tristan
***** I Already met you *****
Chapter Summary
     Gwendolyn Post, Mrs.: The council wishes me to report on the *entire*
     situation here, including you.
Hey, Rupert, wake up. You've got another visitor.Better than the same one,Giles
noted sleepily. Too true, his demon agreed. True to his word, Dr. Rosenberg
hadn't missed a single day in the last week popping in to read his mind. Anyone
else, whoever they were, whatever they wanted, was bound to be an improvement.
Prettier too, the incubus noted approvingly.
For an instant, Rupert's heart leapt at that, sure that Willow must have
returned. But no. She would have only just received his floral apologies this
morning. Willow was not an impulsive girl. She would need at least a day or two
to decide how to react. Whether she could trust him. Whether she could forgive
him. Eh, she'll be back. But this one will do in the meantime.
Groaning, sure that anything and especially anyone of whom his unwelcome
companion approved had to be trouble of one kind or another, Giles reluctantly
opened his eyes to see a blonde woman in her late thirties looking down at him
with serious, businesslike disapproval. Her expression was so gravely superior,
so clinically detached that, in that first moment, Giles had a bit of trouble
making sense of the fact that she wasn't wearing scrubs and therefore wasn't a
nurse.
She might have been a doctor, except that she wasn't wearing a white coat
either. In fact, she was rather smartly pulled together in a classic, neutral
skirt-and-blouse ensemble which flattered her figure without suggesting any
conscious intention to draw the eye to her perfectly proportioned, beautifully
womanly body. Her swan-like neck was adorned only by one small, impeccably
tasteful, string of pearls. She was, in point of fact, rather lovely, despite
the sour look she was giving him and that odd looking mole above her lip.
To his deep annoyance and even deeper embarrassment, Giles felt his body, once
again, reacting as instantly and intensely as that of a dog who'd just scented
a bitch in heat, just as he'd become so grudgingly accustomed to expect in the
weeks prior to his hospitalization. Well, that wasn't much of a break, was it!
Sometimes I'd swear that you're actually trying to kill me.Oh come on. I've
behaved for over a month. I have to have a little fun some time, and they're
practically ready to send you home anyway. Let's give that ol' ticker a little
test run, whadda ya say!Drop dead.
For a moment, Giles would have sworn that this woman, whomever she was, knew
exactly what was going on inside his head... and inside his hospital gown.
Unless he was imagining it, she looked him up and down once again, very
thoroughly, with utter and complete disdain. But then she smiled so warmly that
he was sure he must *have* imagined it. Perhaps she had only been frowning in
puzzlement and was now relieved to have worked out whatever it was she'd been
unsure about where he was concerned. Nope, I saw it too. She thinks you're
garbage.Thanks ever so for that clarification.She's just faking nice. Badly.
Look, you can see the strain lines around her eyes from pulling that smiley
face and trying to hold it on. Probably wants something.
The woman extended her hand in greeting and Giles shook it hesitantly. “How do
you do...” she began, every bit as fake-warmly as her now clearly fake smile
suggested, but in a very real, very posh, London accent. Five bucks says she's
that Lydia chick from the Council. “... you must be Mr. Giles.” Huh, I doubt
it. She's much to old to have just just qualified as a Watcher. I say, you are
getting rather desperate for a good shag, aren't you?It's been a month!A month
is the worst! A decade is easier; you forget what you're missing, but a month?
Pure torture.
“Yes, I'm afraid I must,”Giles tossed off with only a slightly forced laugh,
trying to ignore the demonic voice inside his head.Bet me! Bet me she's not
Lydia Chalmers! If she is, you have to fuck her.No.
“Ah,” she said through her tight smile, not even bothering to fake a laugh,
“how very droll.” If she's not, I'll leave you alone for another month!No.
“ And you are?”Two months!I'm not going to wager on, on—Six! I won't even
talk!You're on. I know she happens to be British, but there's no way...
“Lydia Chalmer. I'm sorry, I'd assumed you'd been told I was coming.”
Ha! Score! Well, go on. Charm the pant off of her. Work the helpless little
wounded bird angle. Skirts are suckers for that. Sometimes literally... which
is always a good warm up for the main event in my book.“Miss Chalmer...” Giles
began stiffly, trying harder than ever to ignore a stiffness of a completely
different kind.
“*Ms.* Chalmers, if you please.” Lydia corrected him curtly, her smile wearing
very thin indeed. “Let's do try to maintain a professional level of decorum,
shall we, Mr. Giles.” Her tone was so scathing, that Giles felt embarrassed, as
if she'd caught him thinking his impure thoughts about her. She couldn't really
tell though, could she? Lying under the covers as he was, there was no way she
could see that he had an erection, was there? Not unless she has X-ray vision.
Oh, thanks,Giles caught himself thinking, without the least bit of irony,
feeling genuinely relieved and grateful for the reassurance... which in
hindsight felt pretty ironic. Well it shouldn't. I keep telling you we should
be friends. I could help you a lot if you'd just listen to me. What, in between
bouts of statutory rape?  Well, you certainly can't object to doing this old
broad on those grounds.Touché(!)Giles mock conceded, his tone now very ironic
indeed.
“I say,” said Ms. Chalmer, frowning dutifully with concern that seemed every
bit as fake as her smile of greeting, “are you quite alright.”
“Well, not quite,” Giles answered, his own polite demeanor feeling equally
strained, “but I will manage. They tell me I'm to be released tomorrow or
Friday if all goes as expected. If you will just give me a ring when you know
where you'll be staying...”
“I hardly think that will be necessary,” Lydia cut him off crisply. “I shall be
staying at your flat, the better to assist you in all your duties, as the
Council has instructed.”
“What!?!” he gasped, taken aback. “You, you, mean... no one ever said....”
“Come now,” she interrupted his stammering a bit more gently, which felt oddly
worse. Patronizing. “you can hardly be expected to live on your own in your
condition. Now,” she added, nodding sharply, with an air of having settled the
matter, “I shall require your keys so that I can put the place in order for
your return. We wouldn't want you coming home to cobwebbed ceilings and expired
groceries, now would we.”
“Erm, no,” Giles agreed weakly, “certainly not.” You have to tell her
something.I know that! Just... give me a moment to think of something that
doesn't sound false or illogical! I have no idea what Willow and her friends
have done to the place after commandeering it for their headquarters or what
she might find there, other than the three of them. I can hardly tell her that,
can I!No, but you could tell her you have no idea what *Buffy* and her friends
have done to the place since you opened it to her for use as a headquarters and
they tagged along before you know anything about it. Unfortunately, that will
put the two of you sleeping under the same roof without her having any idea
that someone else has a prior claim on your affections, but sacrifices must be
made for the cause, eh?Has anyone ever told you that you are the most
diabolical fiend ever to plague the soul of man?
Thank you, I work out.
Lydia pulled a genuinely sour face again at last. “Is there something amusing
in this situation that I am unaware of,” she all but hissed, bristling with
Watcherly dignity.
“No, no,” he assured her truthfully if not quite honestly. “Not in the least.”
 
 
***** Reorganization *****
Chapter Summary
     Anya: Can I just say... Men.
     Cordelia: Second it.
     Anya: Apart from being without class, the guy's obviously blind.
     Deserves whatever he gets.
     ~BtVS 3.9 "The Wish"
“Tristan?” Sheila asked, leaning back against the metal door of the bathroom
stall, holding the card from Willow's roses out in front of her and squinting
at it as if she were trying to decipher some kind of ancient hieroglyphs.
“Seriously? Like Brad Pitt in that dumb ass movie with the horses?” She looked
at Willow askance but handed her a big wad of tissue at the same time, doing
her best to be helpful.
Willow blew her nose loudly. “More or less,” she mumbled. It didn't do any good
to explain these things. It just made her seem like even more of a freak. And
God knew she felt freaky enough using a toilet for a chair, skipping class,
hiding out in a bathroom stall with her best friend, reading a love note from
the father of both of their unborn children.
“Wow,” Sheila teased with a tiny, lopsided, half mean, half sympathetic smile,
trying to break the uncomfortable silence without admitting that anything could
make her uncomfortable, “that's really lame.” Willow shrugged. Sheila puckered
up her face like a bulldog again, thinking. “Why didn't you tell us he dumped
you?” She asked at last, not one for beating around the bush.
But Willow couldn't afford to be quite so blunt in her response. Instead she
minced her words a little, hoping Sheila wouldn't catch on to any of the ways
that she could possibly be offended by her reasons. “Because of Buffy,” she
said, “... mostly.”
“She'd have been pissed,” Sheila agreed. Then, with a short bark of laughter,
she admitted, “Hell, I'd have probably wanted to beat the crap out of him too.”
Which of course was exactly what Willow hadn't said. Sheila (Buffy too for that
matter) was great as a friend to turn to for help handling really rough
situations. But for keeping things smooth in the first place... Willow just
wasn't sure she could trust either of them to be able (or even willing) to do
that. Especially where Giles was concerned.
“So you're getting back with him, right?” Sheila asked, her tone suggesting
that was what anyone in Willow's shoes would do. It rankled her just a little.
But the truth was the truth, so she nodded and wiped at her tear streaked face
and still weeping eyes with another wad of toilet tissue. “But not today?”
Sheila guessed, mischief and the love of mischief edging her voice again.
Willow looked up at her. She had that slightly mean smile again. “Alright, what
are you thinking?” she asked just a little warily.
Sheila's smile widened. “I'm thinking that today seems like a good day to buy a
Cadillac.” Wait, was she serious? Willow searched her friend's puggish face.
Sheila was totally serious.
“But I can't do that!” Willow gasped out, truly shocked by the suggestion.
“Sure you can,” Sheila insisted, her offhand tone almost more conversational
than conspiratorial.
“But... but... that's... That's sealing!” Willow objected.
Sheila shrugged. “You did it to get all those books and computers and stuff,”
she pointed out.
“But that's different!” Willow insisted defensively. “We need all of that stuff
to help Buffy! *And* Giles! And, and to protect the planet! From vampires and,
and stuff!”
“Right,” Sheila countered. “The next time I see a vampire I'll throw your new
wireless modem at it.”
“But... but...” Willow grasped for another counter argument, holding to her
position by instinct and guilt rather than for any good reasons she could name.
“Are you really going to say it wouldn't be right,” Sheila chided her gently.
“After what he put you through the last few weeks? Trust me. Between the jerks
I've dated all and the rodents Mom and Nonna have brought home over the years,
I know what 'I'm sorry' presents are supposed to be like. From a guy with that
much money, who was that big a shit to you, two dozen roses doesn't say 'I'm
sorry I stomped on your heart and I'll do anything to get you back'. It says
'I'm still a shit and I think you're a chump, but I'd kinda like to fuck you
some more.' First make him pay what he deserves to pay. Make sure he really is
sorry. Then you can take him back if you want.”
“But won't that just make him mad?” Willow asked worriedly.
Sheila shrugged. “If it does, then you'll know he's full of shit. He's not
sorry, just horny.”
Willow thought for a moment and sighed the sigh of giving in to something you
really want to do but expect to regret. “Not a Cadillac though,” she bargained.
“We have to be practical. What we really need is baby stuff.”
“But he's s'posed to buy us that anyway,” Sheila argued right back. We have to
get at least one huge expensive thing that says 'lump it if you want me back.'”
“Something bigger than a crib and layette?” Willow asked doubtfully, feeling a
bit stifled, a bit sick.
“Yeah,” Sheila insisted. “Something way bigger. Something that all that other
stuff will fit inside.”
“Something like a used minivan?” Willow guessed, hopeful that whatever Sheila
was thinking wouldn't be any worse than that. Giles's bank accounts were pretty
healthy, but they did have their limits.
“'Course not,” Sheila said, slightly reproachfully. Something way classier than
that. And a lot more practical too. Especially in a town all full of vampires.”
The bell rang. Lunch was over. Sheila tried to excuse herself, with un-Sheila-
like punctuality, to get to her next class on time. When Willow tried to insist
on more of an explanation of what she meant, Sheila just laughed and called
over her shoulder, “You'll see.” And she did.
“Sheila?” Willow asked doubtfully as they stood in front of an unassuming
storefront on Main Street at three-thrty that afternoon, “What are we doing at
a real estate office?”
“Shopping,” Sheila replied with wicked glee. She moved towards the glass front
door of the local Century21 office, motioning with her head for Willow to
follow.
“Wait, stop!” Willow all but wailed. She reached as if to grab Sheila's arm,
but under the force of the brunette's tough-chick glare of warning the redhead
checked herself. Sheila stopped anyway, turning to face Willow, arms crossed
impatiently. She wasn't the only person looking at Willow expectantly. Half a
dozen small town heads had turned, hoping for drama.
Willow dropped her voice to a plaintive whisper and inched slightly closer to
her friend. “Sheila,” she rasped out in quiet desperation, “Giles cannot afford
to buy us a house!”
“Duh, really?” Sheila mocked, rolling her eyes. She turned and walked into the
office with Willow trotting at her heels, not knowing whether to spit or
swallow the lump of panic in her throat, weather to run or to pass out.
“Ah, Ms. Martin,” The Agent called cheerfully, beaming at her with the hopeful
avarice of real estate agents everywhere. “Right on time.” He shook Sheila's
hand, not seeming to notice her getting-away-with-murder grin, then turned to
Willow, his hand politely extended. “And you must be Ms. Gluzman.”
“Um, yeah,” Willow agreed hesitantly, letting him grasp her hand briefly in
token of a shake.
“I have the lease for unit 7B right here, if you ladies would be so kind as to
have a seat...” He motioned them toward two chairs placed side by side at a
small conference table as he took the seat facing them. The table sat so close
to the big plate-glass front window of the shop that it made Willow feel as if
they and their dubious business were on display for all of Sunnydale to see.
Willow was so panicked and confused that it took her a good fifteen minutes of
listening to the agent ramble and dutifully scanning documents to figure out
what was going on.
They were renting the apartment next to Giles! In Sheila's mom's sort-of-maiden
name, her first name plus the last name of one of her step-father's, Nonna
Serretti's third husband. With Willow posing as her girlfriend! Using *another*
name that was also more or less Sheila's mom's name. Her middle name and the
last name of the first husband who was legally, but not really, Sheila's dad.
The papers were all filled in, complete with two different dates of birth (both
in 1976) to go with the two names. And the two social security numbers that
Willow didn't recognize at all!
Fraud! This was fraud! It was a crime. It was illegal. They could go to jail!
Then, they'd be criminals. Pregnant teen criminals. In jail! That could not
happen! That was way beyond statistics. That was a soap opera. Throw in a few
demons and the weird reincarnating warrior-maiden subplot and it was
practically an Indian soap opera. Both of her parents would kill her, tag-team
style.
Willow dropped her pen midsignature. “Um... will you excuse us for a minute,”
she asked nervously, nervous in all directions. “We have to go to the
bathroom.” The real estate agent blinked twice and raised his eyebrows, but
said noting as Willow stood and frantically motioned for Sheila to follow her,
smiling tightly. Sheila yawned, rolled her eyes, crossed her arms and finally,
impatiently stood and walked with her friend to the tiny restroom at the back
of the office.
“What?” she asked when they were alone inside with the door locked. It sounded
to Willow like Sheila was trying to sound bored, but she actually sounded
mildly pissed off. Which probably just meant she was rankled, because when
Sheila got pissed off there was never anything mild about it.
“I thought we were supposed to be spending *Giles's* money,” Willow hissed
frantically, “on something practical.”
Sheila smiled proudly. “We are,” she explained. “I need a place to live since
Nonna kicked me out, and you need a place to tell your parents—and Buffy—your
'sleeping over' that won't get you or your dude busted. It's perfect. You'll
even be close enough to come to the phone if you have to. Plus, when the rug
rats pop out—”
“Oh my God!” Willow cried, her brain finally catching up to what Sheila had
started out with. Then, remembering to whisper, she hissed, “Why didn't you
tell me you got kicked out?”
Sheila shrugged, looking genuinely embarrassed, a feeling Willow had not known
for sure that she was capable of until that moment. “Why didn't you tell me you
got dumped?” she mumbled, looking away.
Willow shrugged guiltily herself and changed the subject back to the whos and
hows of the scam they were running. By the time Sheila finished explaining,
Willow was sort of impressed. “Well it's not like I invented it or anything,”
Sheila pointed out. “I bet my nonna's done it ten times. Usually to an ex or
someone like that so it doesn't matter if their credit gets trashed. And
anyways all we're really using of Mom's is her credit score and she kinda owes
me that anyway. Giles is still going to be the one paying the rent, through
that dummy account you set up to pay for our cell phones so it doesn't look
like he's paying for those.”
“Okay,” Willow persisted, still a bit confused, “I get that there's no real
harm to your mom as long as the rent gets paid, and I get that she owes you a
place to stay, cause she's your mom, and I even get the part about her dead
cousin's number and everything, but how, exactly, does she 'owe' you her credit
score?”
“Cause,” Sheila explained, just a trace of bitterness edging her voice, “the
only reason she still has good credit is because when I used to live with her
she put all her cards and stuff in my name then filed bankruptcy on me twice,
once when I was five, and once when I was thirteen.”
Willow blinked at Sheila. Her mouth literally gaped for a moment before she had
the presence of mind to close it. Then tears welled up from her heart into her
eyes from the sudden feeling of tenderness and affection she felt towards
Sheila. She had an almost (but not quite) overwhelming impulse to hug her
friend and tell her that all her years of neglect, abuse, and exploitation were
over. That everything in her new, better family would be alright. That she,
Willow Rosenberg, would make it alright.
Willow wanted so much to hold Sheila. To comfort her. To stroke her hair, to
kiss her.... “Oh, oh no,” Willow gasped as she was slammed by her second huge
shock in as many seconds. All those feelings! It was eighth grade and Amy all
over again. It was... some kind of transference, or, or... well something.
Willow knew now that she was not gay, even though she might have thought so
then, because, well, she was in love with Giles. Wasn't she? Unless that was
just a magic thing after all. Demons toying with them.
“Oh, don't make a big production,” Sheila groused. “Just sign the lease so we
can get out of here. I want to get to the mall before Baby Bump closes.”
Willow nodded and followed her out of the bathroom. In another five minutes all
the papers were signed and the agent was handing Sheila and Willow each a key.
“Just out of curiosity,” he asked, “How did you hear about the vacancy so fast?
The tenant just disa—uh, decided to move last week.”
Sheila looked at Willow expectantly, as though it were still perfectly clear
that bright ideas and quick answers should be her department. “Oh, uh, um...
Giles! Uh, Mr. Giles, next door. He used to work at our school, so... um, that
is the school we used to go to when we went to school, years and years ago.”
“Oh, yes, well,” the agent said, clearly feeling awkward about her obvious but
unexplained distress. “They seem like a nice couple.”
“Couple?” Willow asked, feeling nothing but puzzled as to why he would think
that, her own lies and anxieties momentarily forgotten. “It's just him, though,
isn't it?”
“Oh no,” the agent assured her. “Mrs. Giles was just in here a few hours ago to
pay their rent.”
 
***** Our Mrs. Giles *****
Chapter Summary
     Willow : Why should I trust you?
     Riley : Just sort of hoping you'd think I have an honest face.
     Willow : I've seen host faces before. They usually come attached to
     liars.
     ~BtVS 4.7 "The Initiative"
“Rupert, we have a problem,” Ira said seriously and without preamble as he
strolled into Giles' hospital room without warning or invitation.
Giles didn't bother to protest his barging in. It wasn't as though he needed to
make his feelings known. Ira knew them all already. “What problem?” he said
instead, just as seriously. If it was really a problem they both had, it had to
be something to do with Willow.
“It is,” Ira confirmed. “She's going to tell her mother about you. She was
planning on doing it tonight at dinner. Of course, when I caught her thinking
it I told her to go sleep over at her friend Sheila's so that her mother and I
could have a romantic evening. But that only gives you until tomorrow to fix
things, so you'd better make it snappy. I already did your discharge paperwork.
I signed for both of us. So come on and get dressed; let's go.”
“Wait, what?” Giles asked. His head was verily spinning. “How is this
happening? I'm not a mind reader you know. Were the flowers the wrong gesture?
Was, was she insulted? Oh, I should have known not to try that old maneuver on
such a bright young woman,” Giles fretted.
“No, no,” Ira assured him, handing him a shopping bag containing a stylish new
suit of clothes in his own size. “The flowers went over great. Sheila saw
through them, but Willow was bowled over anyway.”
See, Rupesy, I told you all women in love were suckers. So you did. And please
don't ever call me that.“Well what then?” Giles persisted even as Ira helped
him into his new clothes, “Why this sudden crisis? Does it have something to do
with Sheila?”
“No,” Ira explained, grimly amused. “It has something to do with your wife.”
“My what?” Giles cried out, aghast. “My who?”
Ira cocked his head sideways, then threw it back in a howling laugh of both
amusement and relief. “No, you really don't. Well this should be a cinch to fix
then. But boy she sure thinks you do, I wonder—” But then, suddenly Ira knew,
because Giles knew. It has to be Lydia. There was no one else who could
possibly have any reason to make such a claim. And she'd as much as said she
planned to move in on him bag and baggage.
Ira clamped his mouth shut. Giles wished he could do the same with his brain.
He hated giving away both his frustration with Lydia's presumption and meddling
and his worry for her safety on account of it. He hated realizing that what Ira
wasn't saying was no doubt that she ought to be dealt with before she learned
things that she shouldn't know and that, even if the cold-hearted doctor hadn't
been thinking that before, he might well be now because of Giles thinking it.
This is no time to worry about her,the demon chided him.We need to focus on
getting Willow back on the home team and keeping Dadzilla off our back.
Ira smiled thinly. “Your friend is right,” he agreed. “I need you to get your
ass over to Sheila's and convince my daughter to keep your secrets. By whatever
means necessary. Now come on, I'll wheel you downstairs and get you a cab.”
Giles hardly had time to consider alternatives. He knew nothing would be gained
by asking this bastard why he'd taken the ridiculous and counterproductive step
of insuring that Sheila would be present to witness and interfere with his bid
for Willow's heart, so he didn't bother. Instead, he asked for and received
Ira's rather amused assurance that no parents of guardians would be on hand to
report him to the proper authorities.
Giles didn't quite comprehend the source of the other man's mirth until minutes
later, when he was bundled into a cab and heard Rosenberg giving the driver
Sheila's address. “Wha—but that's—” The good doctor just grinned and nodded.
Dear good!Giles though, shaken. Maybe still shaking. And then some!His demon
agreed. The address in question was in his own complex, in the unit right next
door to his.
Bloody hell, Giles fumed silently,why doesn't she just move right in with me
and my 'wife'!?! And Willow too, the more the merrier(!)Might save you some
money if she did, the incubus sort of agreed. How's that? Oh no, you don't
really think...No, of course not. I'm sure the little Catholic hooker's *mom*
decided to celebrate kicking her pregnant ass out of the house by leasing her
an apartment for $1300 a month.
Rupert's budding indignation withered on the vine, cankered with guilt. Of
course. Yes. I must be paying for it. And I ought to. Willow was right to help
her, even if for the wrong reasons.Well at least you won't have to brave the
vamp infested streets just to come over and baby sit so the little vixen can go
out and bag another child support payor.Something to look forward to,Giles
snarled silently. Well you don't have to get pissy about it. I'm just
saying.Why don't you stop buggering up my life and I'll stop getting 'pissy'
about it, Rupert thought shortly.
Too soon, the taxi arrived at it's destination. Giles took his time getting
out, finding both his footing and his intentions uncertain. Bloody hell, what
on Earth was he going to say to her? To either of them for that matter. All he
could hope for was that Buffy wouldn't be there. And that neither would his
'wife' Lydia.
Dear God, something had to be made to change. The thought of Lydia and Sheila
living next door to one another with he and Willow caught in the middle, not to
mention Buffy! It was all just completely intolerable. Isn't that grounds for a
divorce in California? Shut up.
Taking a deep breath, Giles stepped up to what was now evidently Sheila's front
door and rang the bell. While he waited for a response he straightened his tie.
And his pocket square. And his cuffs. And his glasses. Which he then cleaned.
Before ringing the bell again. After another interminable silence, he knocked
hesitantly. Then a bit harder.
“Mr. Giles,” the voice he recognized as belonging to Lydia Chalmers drawled
languidly, “I wasn't expecting you home until tomorrow at least. I say, you
haven't forgotten which flat is your own have you? I suppose you've been
thoroughly checked for any sort of brain damage?”
Giles turned to find her standing at his own open door. He couldn't help
glaring at the woman a bit, despite needing desperately to be on good terms
with her. “I was just going to have a word or two with my neighbor,” he
countered, just the fainest hint of indignation edging his words. “But she
doesn't seem to be at home.”
“Ah, yes,” Lydia said sounding a bit scornful herself, or perhaps just haughty,
“those two young women. Strange, from the size of the van deliveries they were
getting earlier in the day I'd have sworn they were only just moving in.”
Giles couldn't help but be surprised, and he had spoken before he thought. “You
mean a moving van?” He'd have thought any parents who would toss out their own
child at such a terrible time wouldn't have been decent enough to have sent her
with much more than a suitcase.
Lydia wrinkled up her forehead and pursed her lips in a studied but obvious
imitation of speculation, 'guessing' at things she clearly knew, “Actually, to
me it looked more like a delivery van from some furniture shop. At any rate,
they unloaded enough for an entire household, nursery and all.”
“Ms. Chalmer,” Giles replied thinly, formal courtesy stretched tight over his
growing temper, “If you would be so kind as to step aside and let me enter my
own home, perhaps we could discuss this privately.”
“Of course,” Lydia answered with chilly civility, “Let's.” But her manor didn't
remain so chilly once they were inside. In fact, the discussion was soon quite
heated on both sides and Rupert's temper far from controlled.
“... Because you have no bloody right!” he was shouting when Lydia began to
shout over him, losing her temper for the first time. The mood he was in, once
was once too often. He grabbed Lydia and pulled her to him, down onto the sofa
where he rolled on top of her. For a moment, he thought he would strangle her.
Then, suddenly, inexplicably, they were kissing.
Moments later they were groping and fondling one another. At some point Giles
must have ripped Lydia's blouse open. He had a vague memory of fabric straining
and giving way as tiny round buttons scattered like a handful on confetti. One
of her breasts was in his mouth, the other in his hand when he felt her hands
squeezing and rubbing his now naked and very firm cock.
“Lydia, what on earth are we doing?” he murmurer against her neck as they went
on nuzzling and kissing. At the same time, he grabbed her ass under her hiked
up skirt and gave her buttocks an appreciative squeeze before pulling her
underclothes down below her knees.
“Nothing of my design,” she panted, sounding at one and the same time very
cross with him and utterly breathless with passion.
“Oh dear God,” Giles moaned. Well this is just cheating.Hey, I'm just
collecting on a bet. You're the one trying to Welch.“Vile Fiend.”
“I beg your pardon?” Lydia huffed indignantly as she put one foot down on the
floor in order to spread her legs wider apart and make it easier for Giles to
mount her.
“Not you,” Giles sighed apologetically as he probed her labia gently with the
head of his cock. Finding her entrance warm, slick, and ready; he plunged in,
terrified by his racing heart but thrilled to the bone with sexual excitement
nonetheless. “The, the inc—” Careful there buddy,the vile fiend tried to warn
him. You gotta keep your story straight.
But it was too late for that. “The incubus!” Lydia cried out as she rolled her
hips against him, writhing and squirming with physical pleasure, in strange
contrast to her angry, indignant tone of voice. “Mr. Giles! Oh, oh my. Oh! Oh!
Yes! Yes!” Her intended screed was interrupted by an unscheduled orgasm.
Giles kept fucking her, hard and fast, ready to be done but unwilling to stop
without reaching his own release. “Oh, oh, Lydia! God, Lydia! You feel—I
feel—Oh, God, Yes! Lydia!” In moments the point of climax came and passed, for
both of them. For a little while, all they could do was lie there and hold one
another, catching their breath. Well, at least she didn't give me a hear
attack.Yeah, I told you. You're fine. Don't worry so much. There's just one
little problem...
Suddenly, the hardwood floor flew up and smashed Giles in the face so hard he
was afraid his glasses would be broken. Or his nose. By the time he had
determined that both were fully intact after all, it was entirely clear what
had happened. Lydia had pushed him from the couch to the floor with a
surprising degree of force.
Oh great. Another one. Just what I needed. Thanks ever so. Hey, wait just a
minute!“Strange,” Lydia cut through his thoughts frostily. “I seem to remember
being told that the incubus was no more. That it had been defeated by your
semi-castration.” Ouch, boy is this bitch pissed at you!I shouldn't wonder. How
were you even able to make this happen so far from the Hellmouth? Your demonic
energies should be weak here.“Well?” Lydia demanded.
“Evidently, I was wrong,” Giles offered sheepishly as he gingerly picked
himself up off the floor, pulled up his underpants from around his ankles and
sat down on the couch next to her. Her skirt was smoothed down over her
otherwise bare thighs and her arms folded. A pair of plain white nickers waved
from one ankle like a flag. God help him, satisfied as he was, though his
desire for her was no longer so overwhelming, it was still heavy and palpable.
“I was just trying to ask the bastard how he managed such a thing so far from
his body and his power center,” Giles explained crossly, though it was hard to
say at whom. “But I think he prefers laughing at my ignorance to enlightening
me. Look, I'm awfully sorry about all this,” he apologized, his tone a bit
softer, entreating her forgiveness.
“Indeed?” Lydia sneered, somewhere between bristling and mocking. Yeah, about
that, you keep calling her 'Lydia'... Shut up. I've heard enough from you. “If
you'll excuse me *Mr. Giles*...” she began, rising to her feet with ever so
much dignity. But her sentence was never finished.
Instead the night was broken by a horrifying scream. It was like something from
a slasher movie, a young woman's voice become the embodiment of a gaping
emotional wound. A shriek like the sound of a soul being ripped apart by the
furies and dragged to hell.
It was Willow.
***** Out of the Bag *****
Chapter Summary
     Eve: What's the promlem officer?
     Xander: That's not Eve.
     ~BtVS 7.11 "Show Time"
Willow's jaw snapped shut a moment too late. The scream was already out. It had
felt like shock and pain, but must have sounded like rage. Giles's wide worried
eyes told her that much, but all Willow felt now was empty and sick. It didn't
matter, Sheila was clearly angry enough for both of them. She pushed her way
past Willow and through the door, shaking her fist threateningly and cussing a
blue streak.
“Please,” Giles begged, “This isn't what it looks like!” Of course, that was
just about exactly what anyone in his position would say. The weird thing was,
he didn't seem to be trying to convince his wife, or even the girl who was
inches in front of him calling him a son-of-a-long-and-colorful-something and
threatening physical violence. No, that would be too easy. His tortured,
pleading was firmly fixed on Willow, as if she were the only other person in
the room who mattered to him at all.
And now Willow felt sick and empty and sad and pitiful and wrong and wronged
and furious. How did he have the balls to look at her like that after what he'd
just been doing? Especially given who he'd been doing it with! Steeling
herself, not listening to the huge traitorous part of herself that wanted to
feel sorry for him, Willow stepped forward and gave him her best, most scathing
glare. It was exactly what she imagined her mother would have done to her
father... in some alternate universe in which he would ever do what Giles was
doing just now.
For a moment, everyone was still and silent, even Sheila. But as the moment
aged Willow knew something had to be said, and it seemed to be her turn. She
opened her mouth to speak... to say... what exactly?
“All right,” Giles preempted her, sounding defensive and mortified at the same
time. “Clearly it is *what* it looks like....” because how could he deny it.
“But—But, wh-what you need to, to understand...” But what else was there to
understand? There she was, torn open blouse, crossed arms, blazing eyes,
shredded pantyhose thrown over a fallen lamp along with his tweed paints. And
even without all that, her Londony accent and proprietary attitude would have
been enough. This was Giles's wife!
“Shut up jerk wad!” Sheila shouted, clearly done hearing him out. “Nobody wants
to hear your lame-ass excuses!”
“Out of the mouths of babes,” Mrs. Giles agreed with frosted irony. “I couldn't
have said it better myself, Rupert Dear. Now if you'll excuse me, I've had a
long day. I believe I shall go upstairs and have a long hot bath while you...
tidy up down here.”
Everyone silently watched her go, mainly because Willow still had no idea what
to say. She had never in her wildest dreams ever imagined herself in a position
like this. These kinds of situations happened to other people. Really, really
bad people. Or at least really, really messed up people. From broken homes.
Delinquents. Sluts. Home wreckers. Sheila's.
“Well?” Sheila demanded so sharply that for one terrifying moment Willow
actually though that her friend had read her mind. But, of course, she was
talking to Giles.
“That woman is not my wife!” Giles insisted quietly but frantically. “Willow, I
swear to you, I never saw her before today. She's just—” There was a swirl of
frantic motion as Sheila took a swing at Giles and his sentence was cut short.
Willow was prepared to see him rolling on the ground, moaning in pain. Maybe
even to jump to his aid. But that wasn't what was happening. Giles had deftly
sidestepped Sheila's attack, leaving her off balance and soon sprawling
harmlessly across the couch.
“Don't,” Willow whispered gently as she helped Sheila to her feet. Her soul
painfully divided against itself she added, glaring fiercely in Giles's
direction, “He's not even worth it.”
“Ah yes,” Giles murmured as if aside to an unseen audience, “bound to.”
Sheila tilted her head quizzically for a moment, like a slightly confused dog.
Then, like a switch being thrown, the matter was decided. Sheila dealt with
uncertainty by one simple rule. When in doubt, get mad. “Hey,” she demanded,
“Who the hell are you talking to like that?”
Giles laughed in a way that could only be described as on the borderline
between irony and hysteria. “Well, I'm talking to the demon in my testicle,
naturally. I'd tell you it's name but I'm afraid we've never been properly
introduced. But then, neither have you and I. So, really, why stand on
ceremony?”
“Wait,” Willow couldn't help but interject, gesturing as though she were
clearing cobwebs, trying to banish her confusion and strip this tangled
conversation down to its functional essence, “What do yo mean she's not your
wife? Who is she then?”
Giles leaned in towards the two young women and lowered his voice almost to a
whisper. “She's a fellow watcher, Lydia Chalmers. The Council has sent her to
watch me, to make sure my little possession problem has erm resolved.”
“Which it hasn't,” Willow pointed out exasperatedly
“No, clearly not,” Giles agreed. Then, his voice filled with resentment that
was clearly pointed elsewhere, “In fact it seems to be getting worse.”
Willow still wasn't sure she understood. “But why?” she pressed. Why would you
tell them—” and then she got it. A welter of confused vowel sounds ensued and
before she knew it Willow was wrapped in Giles's warm, strong arms. Filled with
love and sad, conditional joy. Lost in their mutual weeping and caressing.
“Hey, lovebirds,” Sheila intervened, jarring them back to reality. “I hate to
break up your hot date, but what happens when Princess Dianna up their drops a
dime on us?”
“I'll have to talk to her,” Giles murmured, half to Willow and half to himself.
“Make her see reason.”
“But what if you can't?” Willow worried aloud.
“Look, I'll take care of it,” Giles insisted with the kind of desperate
firmness that is clearly only masking deep and terrible doubts. “You girls
just... go next door and call Buffy. Make sure she does patrol and doesn't come
by here to talk about it, alright?”
The two girls exchanged puzzled looks. Was he actually giving them orders?
Should they follow them, even if they were quite reasonable? It wasn't as
though he'd given them the slightest shred of real evidence that he wasn't
married to Lydia. But whatever the truth turned out to be about that, they had
both seen enough to know that Watchers and Slayers were the real deal when it
came to saving the world. How could you not help with that?
Agreeing with less than a shrug of overt communication, the two young women
turned to go and do as they'd been told. They were halfway to the door when
Giles turned to them, raised his head and added, “And erm Sheila? If there's
ever anything you need, for yourself or, or for the baby, don't hesitate to
ask. I may be a lot of things, but I'm no shirker of responsibility. If you,
both of you, can be strait with me, then I'll try to be strait with you. No
more lying or second guessing each other's motives or doing things behind one
another's backs, alright?”
Sheila shrugged. “Sure whatever,” she said indifferently.
“When have I ever not been straight with you?” Willow demanded. But thinking of
the little shopping spree she'd just finished, she knew she wasn't quite
entitled to her self-righteousness.
But Giles didn't call her out on it. “I'm sorry,” he whispered with genuine
regret, anguish filling those big puppy-dog eyes. “So, sorry,” he murmured,
dropping his head in shame. Willow wanted to run to him and throw her arms
around him again, but somehow she couldn't quite. Not with the lump growing in
her throat and Sheila wriggling in place. Anxious to be gone, however coolly
she tried to play it off.
So Willow made a face that wanted to be a smile but wasn't quite, shrugged her
shoulders and followed Sheila outside. Where they almost ran smack dab into two
plainclothes police detectives with guns on their belts and their badges pinned
right to their shirts. Willow almost spoke to them, almost asked what they were
doing at her boyfriend's front door. But Sheila tugged her in the direction of
their own front door, and (thinking better of it) Willow followed her inside.
Before Willow could speak a word of regret for not getting to hear all the
action, Sheila was pulling two water glasses from a boxed set of six and
handing her one. They listened. And once again, for what felt like the
millionth time that day, Willow was so shocked she hardly knew what to think.
“I'm Detective Stein,” the man explained, “and this is Detective Winslow. We'd
like to ask you a few questions about the murder of Lydia Chalmers." 
 
***** A Better Hand of Cards *****
Chapter Summary
     Buffy: Interesting lady. Can we kill her?
     ~BtVS 3.7 "Revelations"
“Murder?” Giles blinked at the two detectives stupidly for a moment. His mind
was still half focused on the desperate scrambling he'd just done to get his
trousers on and Lydia's stray bit's of clothing shoved under the couch...
except.... “Murder?” he repeated in astonishment and confusion. Then the
obvious answer hit him with full force. That's what I've been trying to tell
you, the demon explained exasperatedly. No way is that woman named Lydia.
There's too much lag time on recognition when you called her Lydia, and then
half the time when she does get it she looks much too amused.I told you she was
too old to be still in training. Dear God, she killed Lydia just... well... to
be her? For what?The glamor of the swinging Watcher lifestyle?Ha. Ha.
“That what I said,” the male detective repeated, “Lydia Chalmers was found dead
in a bathroom stall at Sunnydale Regional Airport, strangled to death with her
own scarf. No luggage. No purse. Only thing in her coat pocket was this
address, with your name on it. You wanna tell us about that?”
“Wha—I... don't know what to say,” Giles fumbled to answer. Between being
stunned by this news and struggling to keep his eyes off of the (objectively
rather plain) female detective standing behind his more active interrogator, he
was more than a little flummoxed. “I know the name,” he assayed bravely.
“A—uhm—well, she's a, erm... friend of a friend of a... relative... sort of …
thing.” Dear, God, the woman wasn't wearing a push up bra or any extra padding,
those were her actual breasts. You could tell by the shape of them, both of the
breasts and of the woman.
More silence. Focus damn it. “Well, and, you—as you might... this being such a
small town, so far from home, maybe she meant to look me up? I really don't
know.” You know he's not buying it, right.Just shut it. And stop distracting me
with women. I'm trying to think of a way to deal with this before it gets any
worse.You're joking right? Man, things just got a million percent better.Now
that I'm being questioned about a murder and stammering through it like a
guilt-ridden fool you mean?What? They don't have anything. I doubt if you're
even really a suspect.
“Mr. Giles?” the male detective prompted... or possibly repeated, “You still
with us?”
“I... what? No, no of course, erm... detective...? I was just—How do you know
it was—I—Um … How did you identify her, erm Lydia, Miss Chalmers, that is, if
all of her things were missing?” The Detective narrowed his eyes in a very
unpleasant way. Okay, *now* you're a suspect.“Just shu—oh, uh, ah. That is...”
The female detective drummed her fingers on her ample hips impatiently. Giles
stumbled over his tongue for a bit longer, failing to adequately fill the
pauses that followed her partner's terse bits of partial explanation of how the
passport control agents has helped them to learn the identity of the real Lydia
Chalmers. “Seen her, well no, I don't know that I'd ev—I certainly hadn't seen
her in fifteen years—well ten years at least.” Oh for the love of Lucifer,the
demon hissed in exasperation, I take back everything I ever said about you
being such a good liar. Just follow my lead.
The Demon was right of course. Giles could lie well enough if he had to, but he
needed a firmer understanding of what he was lying about, why, and who
benefited. His growing realization that his firmest and most immediate reason
for effectively harboring another Watcher's killer was the fear that she might
report him to The Council for spite if he were to turn her in certainly wasn't
helping. Nor the fact that his second best reason was the odd feeling of guilt
that always went along with being less than a friend to someone you'd recently
had sex with, regardless of the circumstances.
So, Giles followed the demon's lead. Told the lies he was urged to tell. Kept
silent where bidden to keep silent. And it worked. Sort of. Within half an
hour, the detectives went away. They seemed... not exactly satisfied, but
satisfied for now. When they were gone, Giles allowed himself a brief sigh of
relief (and a double shot of scotch) before saying aloud, “Alright, now what?”
Now you show her your hand and offer to fold for the right price.“Could we be a
bit less cryptic please? I've had a very long day.”You're no fun.Really?Rupert
though dryly. That's not what you said about an hour ago.Stop it, the incubus
replied, even more dryly still. You're making me blush.The laugh that escaped
Rupert's lips was small and tinged with irony, but genuine for all that. Just
tell me, he prompted. What is this wonderful card I've drawn that suddenly
changes none of a kind into a royal flush.You really need me to spell it
out?The sense of this last seemed sincerely surprised, but then, Giles
supposed, that may just have been a deliberate attempt to make him feel
foolish.
Rupert, you wound me. I keep telling you, I'm the best friend you'll ever have.
Oh sorry, I've been having a bit of trouble remembering that since you half
castrated and nearly killed me(!) Not to mention making me have sex with
children and murderers. You never have answered me how your able to do that all
the way out here, by the way, and don't think I haven't noticed.
Oh...kaaaay. I'm going to take all of that as a yes and explain thing so your
mortal mind can understand.“Thanks ever so.”You and your little girlfriend have
two problems, right? The Council and Dr. Frankindad.By my count that makes
three.He did not mean the baby, and they both knew it. Fine, alright, I am what
I am. But my point is that Mrs. Murderer just solved both problems for you. To
a point anyway. She can't afford to turn you in to the Council unless she wants
to wake up dead or in some form of prison, so Ira has no reason to kill her
which gives you no reason to cross him, and even if he does kill her, hey, she
killed Lydia so what's the big deal?
Giles drained the dregs of his scotch chased it with a long, deep sigh. Except
for the part about it being perfectly fine if this woman were killed, the demon
was right again. He was so far to the wrong side of every law imaginable at
this point that he could sooner trust a fugitive killer with his secrets than
an innocent fellow Watcher with nothing to hide. Speaking of...
“Mr. Giles,” said Not-Lydia crisply, almost crossly, from the head of the
stairs, “I can see they've gone. Who are you still talking to down there?”
“Come down,” he replied firmly, denying her a direct answer. “Whoever you are,
we need to talk.” And down she came, wearing his bathrobe with nothing
underneath. Nothing but her warm, intoxicating body. Oh, would you knock it off
already? Hey man, it's all you at this point. It just has to wear off on it's
own.
Giles didn't have time to ask the demon exactly what it meant by that because
at that moment, his door crashed inward. There she stood in all her radiant
beauty and affronted dignity. The Slayer, Buffy Summers, hands on her hot
little hips, head cocked dangerously to one side, Slayerettes behind her,
almost in a proper wedge formation. “Alright,” she demanded, “Someone want to
tell me what I'm doing here?”
***** Love the Ones You're With *****
Chapter Summary
     Willow: Okay, I don't feel better now, and we've gotta help Buffy.
     ~BtVS 2.5 "Reptile Boy"
'Oh my God, what's happening here?' Willow thought, or at least tried to think,
clutching desperately at her own, honest confusion, trying to grope her way
back towards sense from there. But there were so much nicer kinds of groping
going on. Her skin sang at the caress of lips and tongues and fingers, not all
of them his, but each of them just as wonderful, impossible as that had seemed
mere moments ago.
Soon all thought became impossible. Touch. Taste. Smell. The vague lessor
senses of sight and sound and motion. These made up the universe. A universe no
bigger than the crisp cotton sheeted mattress on which five naked bodies moved
and shifted, every female seeking to press herself against the male, who
struggled to keep contact with them all, groaning with desire, longing for all
of them equally.
At the moment Giles was on his side, thrusting inside Sheila who had one leg
slung over him at the waist. The Watcher who wasn't one but might be a murderer
was on her knees, cocked at an odd angle, clinging to the headboard with both
hands, crying out in ecstasy as his mouth worked enthusiastically at the soft,
wet, womanly flesh between her splayed thighs. Buffy was wrapped around him
from behind, rubbing her naked pubis against his firm, bare ass, waiting
impatiently for her turn to be fucked. Willow was at the top of the heap,
humping against his hip in a way that caused her breasts to rub continually
against Sheila's leg.
If Sheila minded that at all, she hadn't said so. She was too busy taking him
hard and deep and fast, working up to what was probably her second orgasm from
the sound of things, though things like sound and time and the separateness of
people were getting a bit confusing, too much like thinking thoughts.
Willow found her hand traveling up Sheila's leg, caressing her thigh, grabbing
for her butt. Finally, Sheila slapped it away with an emphatic grunt. That was
all that was said and all that had to be. Willow's hand went limp for a moment
for lack of anything on that side that was in-bounds to explore, until she
found a place for it on Giles's shoulder, caressing taunt muscles that were
wrapped firmly around Sheila's body, without touching the girl herself.
You might think she would be shocked at herself for even trying to touch Sheila
that way, Willow supposed. But she wasn't. Or, well, not very much. She guessed
it made sense, sort of. One man just wasn't enough to go round, that was all.
On the other side of Giles and of Willow, Buffy was whining with such pitiable
desire that Willow longed to lend a helping hand to quiet her. She reached in
that direction, but chickened out at the last moment.
Willow didn't know Buffy as well as she knew Sheila. But she knew what Buffy
had thought of Giles for having sex with her that was no more under his control
than any of this was, which meant that if she could keep from touching Buffy,
she had to.
Her hand lighted instead on the lower, forward part of Rupert's ass, almost but
not quite between his thighs. She rubbed her thumb against the back of his
scrotum and her first two fingers against the pink, puckery ridges of his
asshole. It might have been a coincidence that his garbled groans and
mutterings of pleasure and disbelief intensified just at that very moment. And
then again it might not.
Either way, it gave Willow a hint at something she could do. An intimate sex
act evolving one part of his body that was not already in use. But to get a
good angle for penetration, her arm would have to be pretty much exactly
between Buffy's legs, making at least some degree of contact unavoidable.
Willow meant to tap Buffy on the shoulder. She really did. But the butterflies
in her stomach were starting to feel like bats, beating their big, huge wings.
Instead of tapping, she ghosted her fingers lightly along the other girl's arm.
Buffy tossed back her long blonde hair and met Willow's steady gaze with eyes
blazing like a hungry forest fire. Attention gotten.
Longing. Mutual longing that had everything and nothing to do with the smell
and the taste of the man whose body they were tangled around. It only lasted a
moment. A moment was all they could stand. They had to act.
And that was it. Buffy and Willow were kissing. Open mouths drinking each other
in. Tongues dancing against each other, tasting, exploring.
Their arms were briefly entwined, each holding on to the bicep of the other, a
curiously intimate bond, making them feel suddenly closer to one another than
to any of the others. Even Giles. For a moment.
But really, this was all about him. And in another moment Willow was back on
task. She brushed a finger against Buffy's lips and without a word, as if the
scene had been scripted in advance, the Slayer opened her mouth and closed it
around Willow's finger. As Willow slowly pulled her long, slender digit from
her mouth, Buffy sucked at it teasingly, providing just enough resistance so
that there was a delicious smacking sound as it popped free at last.
Willow carefully probed her lover's ass with her spit-slicked finger and found
that it slid fairly easily inside. Again, it might have been a coincidence.
There was an awful lot of sex going on with or without her finger sliding
inside his ass. But that was the moment that Giles jerked and twitched and
pulled his mouth free of the already coming woman at his head to cry out in the
intensity of orgasm as his semen poured out into Sheila's body.
Buffy was crying out too, frenetically rubbing herself to orgasm against the
arm that Willow had positioned between her legs in order to finger Giles.
Willow was nearly ready to come herself. Her cunt was slick and dripping as it
rubbed against the hot flesh of his calf, building to maddening tension, like a
mousetrap dying to be sprung.
Then, suddenly, startlingly, Willow was flung onto her back. Her warm, fuzzy
confusion sharpened to fear for half a beat before she felt Rupert's face
between her thighs and not Not-Lydia's knife at her throat. He kissed her and
mouthed her, lips to lips, rolling her clit against his tongue until she came
and came again, spurting an amazing amount of a thin clear fluid for which she
knew no name, only that it didn't smell like urine.
Somewhere in the dim distance, at the other end of the bed, Buffy and the older
blond woman were taking uneven turns sucking Rupert's cock, pushing and shoving
for the privilege of hardening him enough to penetrate her so soon after coming
inside Sheila. Meanwhile, Sheila sprawled on the floor, happy and satisfied.
Willow got her chance to be fucked. After Buffy as it turned out. Who could
push and shove harder than any mere mortal woman. So hard, in fact, that she
mostly didn't have to at all. But before Gwendolyn. Who really was a murderer,
and hardly even ashamed to say so, once everyone had caught their breath enough
to say anything.
Unlike Sheila, Willow got to ride on top of Giles, looking down at him face to
face. Dipping her head once in a great while to steal his kisses, grinning.
Weird as the whole situation was, torn up as she had originally felt at the
thought of Giles making love or even lust to Sheila, in those few brief minutes
(okay, a lot of minutes) of sexual union with him; she felt every single kind
of right. Exited. Stimulated. Euphoric. Comforted. Sheltered. Loved. Supported.
Vindicated. Appreciated. Calm. At peace. If the entire universe could be made
up of those minutes, it would have been a perfect world.
Which it wasn't. As Willow could easily tell by the shouting, foot stamping,
crying, accusing, demanding, sneering, sniping minutes she was living through
right now.
“I need another drink!” Rupert declared dramatically.
“Oh sure,” Buffy rejoined, “that's your answer to everything!” This from all of
her seconds of experience with him. As he made sure to point out. To no one's
advantage. Somehow or other, they both managed to offend Sheila, at least from
what Willow could gather above Gwendolyn's snarky yet not at all witty
commentary. The Watcher-Killer seemed like she'd had more than one drink
herself.
Willow had had enough. She picked up a heavy book from one of the night stands
and banged it hard against a brass bedpost, making it ring like a gong.
“Alright, People!” She declared in a loud, firm, authoritative voice. “Nobody
wants this to be happening. We've established that. Some of us don't like
others of us and some of us like each other more than we want to. We've
established that too. Well guess what; we're suck with each other. All five of
us. With interest. Now it's getting late, and some of us have school in the
morning. So unless anyone as any new business to discuss, this might be a good
time for a motion to adjourn."
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