"From the look on your faces, I'm assuming the news isn't good on the Hellmouth front?" Buffy quipped as the Scooby Gang gathered in the Summers-Giles house.
"I'm afraid that's an understatement, Buff," Willow said. She glanced at the Watchers, and they nodded for her to go on. "We worked together on a spell to find out just how far the Mayor's Ascension has progressed. And we got this." She pulled a small crystal out of her pocket which was stained a red so dark it was almost black.
"O-o-okay, on the basis of the general ugliness and bloody-ness of that color, I'm assuming that things aren't good," Xander commented, "but for those of us without the mystical mood-ring translator, this means what?"
Miss Peel answered this time. "Actually, the mood ring analogy isn't that far off. The crystal is supposed to change color based on the local magical environment. Sky blue would indicate little or no power in the area, green a powerful untapped reservoir of magic in the area, and various shades of red indicate a power source currently being used for a major working, like an Ascension. The darker the shade, the more power being used.
"Based on the founding date for the town of Sunnydale, we were fairly certain that Mayor Wilkins was relatively close to the end of the hundred-year cycle of rituals that culminates in Ascension. This crystal tells us we may only have a few weeks left. Specifically, it tells us we've already missed the hundred-day deadline."
A worried murmur went around the room. By now, everyone knew the Mayor's ultimate goal: transforming himself into a pure demon, the likes of which had not been seen on Earth since the passing of the Old Ones. And that during the last hundred days before the Ascension, the his body would begin preparing for that transformation by extending itself into other dimensions. A side effect of this extension was that the Mayor would become totally invulnerable -- wounds would instantly heal, poisons and diseases would leave him untouched, and even fire and explosions were supposed to be completely ineffective.
The only consolation was that Buffy and Faith could pull out all the stops. An Ascension could be halted in the first ninety-nine years and two-hundred and sixty-five days with the possibility of starting over, but as part of the ritual that began the hundred days, the sorceror attempting Ascension offered up his human soul as a sacrifice to the Lower Beings, committing himself to either success or total annihilation.
Richard Wilkins was no longer human, and therefore a legitimate target for Slaying.
If they could only figure out how to hurt him, much less kill him.
"Any progress on the Gillette Multi-Blade Sword, G-man?" Xander said, referring to a theory Giles had developed, which involved enchanting a weapon so that it extended onto the same dimensions as the Mayor's body.
"Nothing," sighed Giles. "Since the Council's visit is coming up, I've asked Sanderson to bring us anything they have that might help, including books on enchanted weapons, but I'm at a dead end for the moment." Turning the tables on the boy, he followed up his comment with a question, "Have you come up with anything from your perusal of the Books?"
"Actually, I think we've got something," Xander said. "Remember the bit about the high school being built the last time the Mayor went public? There's nothing special he was supposed to do in 1954, but we all agreed that the high school being built right over the Hellmouth was important, right? So Faith and I looked for any other reasons the school might've been put there, and we found something in the last book." He glanced over at his girlfriend/research partner.
She frowned down at a page of notes. "For the final transformation, he's got to be within a hundred yards of the Hellmouth, right? So, why not just put City Hall right on top of it? He wouldn't need to do anything special that day, just demonize right in his office. This way, he's got to make a special trip down to the high school, and with a hundred years to plan this thing, that doesn't make any sense. Except . . . " she looked down again, "'Even as magic nourishes the growth of the demon's spirit, so too must the demon's body be nourished with life.' Xander and I figure that means the Mayor'll need to chow down on a bunch of people when he changes."
Willow snorted. "Trust you guys to come up with a food angle on all this."
Giles' eyes widened, and he raised a finger and started pacing, deep in thought. "I saw that passage myself, and assumed that it referred to a human sacrifice of some kind, but . . . actually eating a number of people . . . yes, that would make a certain kind of sense. But that would mean that the Mayor would need to consume more than one person, or even the few dozen that work in City Hall . . . "
"There are over fifteen hundred kids at Sunnydale High," Xander concluded. "Brings new meaning to the phrase 'school lunch program,' doesn't it?"
The groans this last comment elicited were interrupted by the phone ringing. Mrs. Summers answered it, then passed the phone to Miss Peel. "It's for you, Catherine -- your father."
"Hello?" the Watcher said into the phone. After a short pause, a smile of relief appeared on her face. "Really? That's wonderful . . . Give Mum my congratulations . . . Mr. President," she finished impishly.
Whatever her father said received a chuckle in response. "You have my condolences, Dad."
Several "Um-hm"s and "I see"s followed, concluded finally with, "Yes, of course I'll tell them. Bye."
As she hung up, Giles glanced at his watch and asked, "The Conclave ran this late? It's past one o'clock in London."
"Most of the delegates probably went home hours ago, but the votes were being counted until about ten minutes ago. Apparently, neither side trusted the other not to interfere with the results, so they were counted out right away, in full view of anyone who wanted to watch. The final vote was almost two-to-one in my mother's favor, and the ink wasn't even dry on the tally sheet when she called a Council vote naming my father as the new President."
She chuckled. "Poor Daddy! He said he wished he had a best friend to go have a drink and grouse with, but all his best friends are on the Council with him and don't want to hear about it."
"Did he say anything about Giles?" Buffy asked eagerly.
She nodded. "Reassigning him as your Field Watcher will take a full Council vote," she paused as she turned to Giles, "but he told me to tell you that his first official act as President was to re-hire you as a full Watcher. And to compensate you for the two months you had to go without a Council paycheck, he's already set your salary at the level for a married Watcher with one child." She glanced at Mrs. Summers. "That's an extra ten thousand pounds a year, by the way."
The blonde woman's eyes widened, and she glanced over at her fiancé. "You get bonuses for having kids?"
He shrugged. "There are enough of us that they don't require all Watchers to get married and have children, but that might have to change in a few years -- unless they start recruiting more outsiders like Emma Peel. As it is, only about half the current Watchers have had children, and since there are a number of two-Watcher couples in that group, we're looking at a severe shortage of fresh trainees in the next generation."
"'Trainees.'" Mrs. Summers frowned. "That's a pretty cold way to talk about your own children."
"It can be a harsh way of life at times, Joyce. But I can assure you it's worthwhile. It could even become more so, if the Council can change a few of the rules and regulations that have been out of date since the Renaissance." Giles' mouth firmed and his expression grew more serious. "But worthwhile or not, someone has to do the job we do, or else the whole world will suffer."
"Meanwhile, we do the same work, and for what?" grumbled Xander.
Willow noticed the look Giles and Miss Peel exchanged, but forgot about it as the latter said, "Dad also said that with the Conclave effectively over already, the Council's visit will be moved up. We should expect them no later than Thursday."
Giles mumbled something that sounded so nasty it must have come out of his "Ripper" days. "I wish the Council would content itself with sending one representative, or even two -- as long as one of them wasn't James Ashton or John Hemphill," he added. "Trevor's an old stick-in-the-mud, but when you get him away from Ashton, he's not all that bad. The other two, though . . . " He shuddered. "They're ten times worse than Quentin, and Ashton's so arrogant I almost think he thinks he's royalty."
Miss Peel shrugged. "With the sudden shift in the balance of power on the Council, I doubt that my father would trust any members of the Opposition out of his sight. And if he sent more than one member of 'our party,' that would still leave a quorum in England, with Ashton's people back in the majority. This was the only solution that satisfied everyone."
"Everyone but us," muttered Giles.
After the meeting, Willow went home, deep in thought. Although Giles' grumbling worried her somewhat, she was actually looking forward to the Council's arrival. She had talked about it with Buffy, and knew the Slayer herself was interested in meeting Peter Peel and Terrance Evans, the two Council members who had once been Field Watchers to Slayers.
But the two Willow was interested in were its "big brains." Emma Peel and Wallace Sanderson had a combined I.Q. approaching four hundred, and with the former's scientific and tactical know-how and the latter's gift for mystical research, they probably could solve the problem of the mayor's invulnerability in two seconds flat.
At least Willow hoped so. Because if they couldn't solve it, the Scooby Gang -- and the world -- was in deep trouble.
RRRRRRIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNGGG!
Buffy sleepily rolled over and slapped the button on top of the alarm clock, wishing she could get up the courage to just break the darn thing one of these mornings. Still half-asleep, she rolled out of bed and shuffled across the hall to the bathroom . . .
And that's when it hit her. The smell.
Specifically, the smell of Giles' aftershave.
Buffy's dad hadn't used aftershave, or shaving cream for that matter; he'd shaved in the shower, and counted on the hot water and steam to make his whiskers stand out and to soothe the scraped flesh of his cheeks.
But for as long as she'd known him, Giles had used a particular aftershave -- it was impossible not to notice it, given her Slayer-heightened sense of smell. It didn't have a nasty, musky odor like the cologne used by some of the guys she'd dated. It was a subtler, spicy scent that she had actually grown to like over the past couple of years.
And now, since Giles was a lot better at the whole early-riser thing than she was, Buffy was treated to that smell nearly every morning as she entered the bathroom. And to her surprise, she found that scent . . . comforting. It meant "Giles" to her, even more so than the smell of musty old books, and it reassured her on some basic level that everything was the way it should be.
She'd asked Giles himself once about it, and he'd said something about the sense of smell being deeply tied to memories . . . and then he'd stopped, a haunted expression on his face, and quickly changed the subject. Since that look meant he was thinking about one of three things -- Eyghon, Jenny, or Angelus -- she'd let him do it.
Completely unaware of the slight smile on her face, Buffy showered, dried and brushed her hair, dressed, and came downstairs . . . only to be greeted by another smell. One that almost made her arteries clog up at the first whiff.
Although he didn't force it on the Summers women, Giles liked big breakfasts. While Buffy usually contented herself with toast and a small glass of orange juice, he would often fill a plate with eggs, Canadian bacon -- which he simply called "bacon," which was silly; bacon was supposed to be thin and crunchy, for God's sake -- and other, even stranger items, like baked beans or a roasted tomato.
And then, of course, there was the tea.
The first day he'd moved in, Giles had tossed out the Lipton teabags they'd kept in the cupboard, grumbling that the tea they produced tasted like dishwater. He'd replaced them with airtight metal containers filled with Darjeeling, Assam, Earl Grey, and a few other varieties, in both bag and loose-leaf form. Then he'd started unpacking his teacups, mugs, tea balls, tea pots, and an electric kettle he used for hot water.
Buffy had never known people could put so much thought into boiling a bunch of brown leaves.
But that wasn't the scary part. The scary part was that Giles had actually gotten her to start drinking the stuff . . . and she liked it.
Mocha was -- and probably always would be -- Buffy's caffeinated beverage of choice. But she had to admit that there were times when a big ol' mug of English Breakfast with milk and sugar was warm and comforting in a way that a coffee drink wasn't.
Not to mention that the smoky flavor of Lapsang Souchong was just so yummy with Mom's Cinnamon-Raisin French Toast.
Oh well. Muttering comments about cholesterol, middle-aged expectant fathers, and heart attacks that left poor widdle babies to be orphans, Buffy got out a glass and poured herself some o.j.
Xander didn't need an alarm clock any more. Going to bed every night with an amorous Slayer meant that he was usually treated to some kind of "wake-up call" at an hour he would've called ungodly just a few weeks ago.
Then again, for Faith's wake-up calls, he'd get up at four a.m. if he had to.
This morning, she chose simply to kiss him awake, like Sleeping Beauty in reverse. "Hey, there," she murmured with a grin as he opened his eyes. "Seven o'clock. Time for all good little boytoys to get their butts in the shower."
Xander grumbled loudly. "I don't suppose a bad little Slayer would be willing to join me, save a little water, you know?"
"Uh-uh, Xan. If I get naked with you now, you'll be late for school." Her expression turned speculative. "Then again, if I get naked with you, maybe you'll give me that nice hard screw I've been waitin' for."
Xander blushed. Over the past couple of weeks, Faith had enthusiastically introduced him to various ways of "blowing off steam" that only missed the definition of "sex" by the thinnest of margins. Even so, she'd made it clear that she wanted the real thing, and was getting really impatient while she waited for him to give the word.
She waited, as if hoping he'd finally give in, then humphed. "Oh, well. If you're not gonna do me, Xan, then get in that shower before I spank you."
"That's supposed to get me moving?" he asked with a grin and an eyebrow waggle. But at Faith's glare, he rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom.
"Hey Xan." Faith's voice stopped him just before he closed the door behind him.
He glanced back. "Yeah?"
"I love you."
She didn't say it often, and never in front of anyone else. That just made it all the more special when she did. Especially when the look on her face told him she meant it with all her heart.
He was back in the room in a flash. He sat down on the bed, took her in his arms, and kissed her. "Love you too, Fay."
They smiled at each other for a while, then she swatted him on the behind. "Enough mushy stuff. Get moving."
"Yes, Mistress," he said with a smirk as he dashed for the shower.
Cordelia Chase's current alarm clock had a harsh-sounding buzz. That -- as opposed to the soothing clock-radio she was used to -- told her where she was.
These days, the Chase family was staying with Cordelia's grandmother, Helen Meade. Her father's parents had passed away years ago, and his inheritance had been taken away in the big IRS haul. But her mother's mother was still around, and her big old house on Rand Street had enough room for all of them.
Unfortunately, she was retired and living on a fixed income, and since Elizabeth Meade Chase had barely talked to her mother in five years, Grandma Meade wasn't feeling much inclined towards generosity.
The fact that Cordelia had gone out and found herself a job had earned her a smidgen of respect in Grandma Meade's eyes. And although she put some money aside each week towards a certain dress that was waiting for her on April Fool's layaway rack, Cordelia brought home enough from the Sunnydale Art Gallery to make a real contribution towards the grocery bills.
Not that her parents ever said "Thank you," or anything remotely like it.
As Cordelia showered and dressed, she found herself wondering why she'd ever cared what her parents thought of her. They -- and the "Cordettes," and their parents, and the other people in that shallow little social circle -- didn't give a damn about who Cordelia Chase was, just what she was.
She still didn't know for sure if Xander had ever really cared about more than her pretty face and her tanned, well-rounded body -- at least he'd never really seemed to care about her money -- but he was one mistake she had no intention of repeating.
If Xander had paid any attention to what she'd said to him during the time they'd dated, he'd've known that cheating was the worst sin in her book.
It had been, ever since she'd figured out that her father had cheated on her mother.
To this day, Cordelia had a cold suspicion that one of her old Cordettes, Kate Davenport, was actually her half-sister. They had the same coloring, and the same pointed chin . . . Ugh.
Cordelia's mother wasn't the nicest person in the world, but at least you could have an intelligent conversation with her. Violet Davenport, on the other hand, was her generation's version of Harmony Kendall: a brainless, ditzy tramp. And yet publicly, she still pretended to be Cordelia's mother's best friend.
That kind of two-faced back-stabbing was exactly why Cordelia had finally turned her back on the Cordettes and opened herself to a real relationship with Xander.
Ha! If I'd only known!
At this point, the only member of the Scooby Gang that Cordelia gave a damn about was Giles. He was the only one who had shown her he could be trusted.
Idly, Cordelia wondered if all British guys were so nice. And if the Watchers' Council would be bringing any junior Watchers along . . . someone, say, twenty-two, twenty-three?
After walking with Xander to school, Faith made a bee-line for the library, where Willow was sitting in front of her computer. "You got anything yet, Red?"
"I think so. I mean, it's not that common a name, and I knew the general area to look in, and . . . well, take a look."
Faith stared at the screen. It showed an address in Targu-Mures, Romania . . . and a name.
Alyosha Kalderash.
"Okay, Giles, anything we should be doing for these last couple days before the Council shows up?" Buffy asked at the next Scooby meeting.
"Hara-kiri comes to mind," the Watcher commented dryly, "but honestly, I believe we've done everything we can to prepare for their arrival. And, since I'm waiting for Sanderson to bring a lot of new research material -- not to mention a fresh perspective -- I think we can spare ourselves two nights of of wracking our brains over the problem of the Mayor's Ascension."
"Yahooooo!" Xander howled. "That mean we can go, G-man?"
"There's still the training session, Xander," Catherine reminded him. As the boy's face fell, she took pity on him and added, "But, considering the stress we've all been dealing with lately, I've been thinking that we should leave out the fighting disciplines for a couple of days, and stick to T'ai Chi instead."
Several of the Scoobies started grinning at her statement, for various reasons. Buffy was probably feeling smug, since she was the one who had suggested introducing T'ai Chi into their workouts in the first place, having been introduced to the art by Angel. Xander was probably grateful for a light workout, and the ever-philosophical Oz was always open to meditation.
Faith and Willow, on the other hand, actively looked forward to their T'ai Chi sessions, since both of them were benefitting enormously from them, for surprisingly similar reasons. Both of them were impatient and hyperactive, so typical forms of meditation, which required them to sit still, were very difficult and often counterproductive. T'ai Chi, on the other hand, was all about motion -- albeit controlled motion -- which gave both of them an outlet for their boundless energy.
Catherine was especially pleased at the way Faith took to the art. Although Xander was clearly a moderating influence on her, the younger Slayer was still filled with a volatile mixture of anger, fear, and guilt, as well as the usual raging teenage hormones. And she often threw herself into fights -- whether they were real or just sparring sessions -- with a ferocity that frightened her Watcher. Slow, controlled motion, while difficult for her to master at first, allowed her to burn off that anger at a more even rate, and she was gradually learning how to use her anger rather than letting it use her.
There was also an unexpected side benefit. Teaching Willow to focus and control her energy was having an enormous impact on her practice of magic. Gone were the days when the redhead would try to lift a pencil with her mind, only to send it hurtling at the nearest bystander. She could now telekinetically balance five pencils on their erasers, then rotate them one by one until they were all standing on their points -- as long as she was going through a T'ai Chi sequence at the time. When she tried the same exercise while sitting still, her nervous energy spilled over into her magic, and things went flying.
T'ai Chi wasn't a complete answer to Willow's problem, since many magical rituals required certain postures or hand movements, and sacred circles were often too small to perform a martial art inside. But progress was progress, after all.
The session went well, although Buffy's smug grin became absolutely insufferable when Angel showed up. As much as she hated to admit it, even Catherine was impressed by the focus and grace the vampire displayed as he went through a difficult routine with the rest of the group. And, yes, she had even noticed the fact that, in a sleeveless T-shirt, Angel made a very fine figure of a man . . .
Blast it all, T'ai Chi was supposed to be relaxing! But it had turned out to be anything but -- for Catherine, at least.
Even worse, there was only one person Catherine felt like she could talk to about all of this, and Rupert Giles had his hands full at the moment. The rest of the Scooby Gang made a habit out of dumping their emotional problems on him, or Mrs. Summers. The last thing he needed was for her to add to his burdens.
If the Council were already here she would have been tempted to run to her parents . . . but then again, they would have to look at the situation not only as her parents, but as her superiors in the Watchers.
Reluctantly, she began considering the Scoobies themselves. Obviously, she couldn't talk to Buffy about this . . . Willow would automatically side with her friend, and probably tell her everything Catherine said . . . Faith hadn't been around the other Slayer long enough to know her that well . . . Oz seemed like a good listener, but she needed more than just an ear for her venting, she needed advice . . .
Really, there was only one choice.
" . . . So that's the situation, Xander. I feel like Buffy's flaunting her relationship with Angel, rubbing it in that she won and I lost. And now, with the Council coming . . . you all know I've been planning to yield my position as Buffy's Field Watcher to Mr. Giles, but to the Council, it will look like I'm giving up because I don't know how to control her."
She sighed. "And the worst of it is . . . I don't. She and Mr. Giles have a connection -- a rapport -- that I can't begin to approach, even with the Slayer I plan to keep under my wing." As Xander began to protest, she held up one hand. "Faith and I have developed a good working relationship, yes, but you are the one who can always tell when she's truly angry about something, and when she's only using anger to cover her fear."
In response, he gave her one of those infamous, annoying Xander Harris shrugs. "It's not something I can explain, Miss Peel." He grimaced. "It's a two-sided kinda thing -- it's not so much that I see things you don't, it's that Faith won't show them to you."
Catherine nodded. "It comes back to trust, then. Faith trusts me a little, but she still won't grant me the kind of full, open trust she gives you. And Buffy doesn't trust me at all."
Another grimace. "It's not just trust, Miss Peel. Faith and I love each other. I think . . . maybe you can't know someone completely unless you're willing to love them." His brow furrowed in confusion. "Or is it the other way around?"
Catherine smiled to herself. Xander was one of those people who saw more clearly and thought more deeply with his heart than with his head . . . even if he sometimes had trouble putting that clear vision and wise thinking into words. And sometimes, like now, he would manage to come up with a statement that definitely put him in the "old soul" category.
"Anyway," he continued, "Buffy and Giles weren't always the way they are now. You should've seen the way they used to argue when Giles tried to tell Buffy she couldn't do something because she was a Slayer. Half the time, she'd go out and do something because Giles told her she couldn't do it."
"How long did it take them to get like they are now?"
Xander's face screwed up in thought. "Hard to say. First time I really saw it was when Angel went bad. Buffy couldn't turn to her mother, since she didn't know about Buff being the Slayer at the time, so she ended up going to Giles a lot."
Catherine rolled her eyes. "So I have to wait a year or more, or until we have a life-altering crisis where you're not available for Faith to turn to, and she somehow decides to turn to me for comfort?"
He shrugged again. "I call 'em like I see 'em."
"Tell me again why we're meeting the Council at the airport," Buffy whined as she shifted from foot to foot.
Giles sighed. "Buffy, I've explained this to you before--"
Cordelia interrupted him. "Allow me, Sir Wordsalot." She turned to Buffy. "Think back to your cheerleading, prom-queen days, Buffy. A new girl shows up -- athletic, pretty, signs of previous popularity. Do you: A) let her settle in for a few days, let herself get comfortable and establish her territory; or B) confront her right away and make it clear to her what the ground rules are?"
Buffy snorted. "B, of course -- that's what you did to me, after all."
Cordelia nodded. "Same deal, Buff. We're establishing our territory here -- making it clear to them who rules the roost."
Giles nodded. "Thank you, Cordelia, that's it exactly. Otherwise, Buffy, they'll be marching through our front door and demanding that we wait on them hand and foot, the way Quentin did to me during his visit."
Buffy frowned, and glanced over at Miss Peel, who was several yards away, glaring at the schedule of arriving flights. During the long wait in the airport, the Scooby Gang had unconsciously divided into the two distinct cliques that had recently formed -- Buffy, Giles, Oz, and Cordelia in one; and Miss Peel, Faith, and Xander in the other. Buffy's mom and Willow were the only ones who seemed to be able to move back and forth between the two groups with ease. "Would the Council, especially Miss Peel's parents, really do that to us?" she whispered.
The Watcher grimaced. "If we were only dealing with Emma Peel, I would say, 'Definitely not.' She's the very soul of good manners -- a lady in every sense of the word. Peter Peel, on the other hand . . . I don't know. Normally I would say the same about him, but he does have something of a temper . . . and his sudden election to the Presidency of the Council must be putting enormous pressure on him. It's entirely possible that James Ashton could goad him into doing something rash, 'for the dignity of the Council,' or some such rot. Peel would probably feel mortified afterwards, but that wouldn't do us much good, would it?"
He chuckled. "If it weren't for the fact that it would be seen as an attempt to curry favor, I might offer Peel the chance to go out and get well and truly plastered together. He--" He broke off as a group of people started coming through the gate. "They're here."
The Council had chartered a private plane, so Buffy presumed the twelve average-looking guys in dark suits who were coming through first were Watcher Security or some such thing. Like most of their breed, they tried to look casual as they spread out and established a loose perimeter, but anyone who was paying any kind of attention could tell there would be some VIPs coming through next.
The first one through was a forty-ish or fifty-ish man in tweed, big surprise. The surprise, though, was the full beard he wore -- surrounding a broad, toothy grin -- and the twinkle in his eye. He looked like a middle-aged Santa Claus.
"Terrance Evans," Giles whispered to her. Buffy remembered his description of Evans: "A good fellow -- but don't get him angry; he's got a temper like a bear with a sore tooth. We used to call him 'The Viking' back in school -- some wag even gave him a horned helmet, which I'll bet he still has." Buffy grinned at the thought, but made a mental note not to tick off the big guy, especially since he was supposed to be one of the 'good guys.'
The next man through was short and stout, with graying hair that still held a hint of red, a double chin, and a sour expression.
Giles whispered his name as well: "Trevor Gaines." That's the borderline one. "An old stuffed shirt, but not as far gone as Quentin, or the other two of the 'Old Guard' on the Council." Hmph. He looks like he's been sucking on a lemon all the way from England.
An elderly man, with a short, neat beard, bright blue eyes, and a flat, empty expression. "John Hemphill." Giles said ignore him; he's strictly a minion, and a stupid one at that.
Another elderly man, clean-shaven, with dark, beady eyes that darted everywhere at once. His suit was pearl-gray instead of tweed, and he wore a matching top hat and carried a matching umbrella, of all things!
As if he'll need that in SoCal! Buffy thought with a giggle, which was cut short as Giles said his name -- "James Ashton."
AKA The Big Bad British Has-Been, AKA The Pillock. Giles won't tell me what that means, but from the way he's described this guy, I think it must be obscene. She gave Ashton a once-over. Looks like it fits.
The next man was almost shabby, by Watcher standards. His suit was a bit worn at the edges, and his hair and beard were bushy and kind of wild. If Einstein had grown a beard, he would have looked like that.
Buffy put her hand on Giles' arm to stop his commentary. "Lemme guess: Sanderson, right?"
He nodded silently.
Some clichés never go out of style.
The next man through the gate apparently liked to accessorize as much as Ashton. Like Ashton, his suit wasn't tweed, but unlike Ashton's pearl-gray, this suit was of a rich, dark material. He wore a matching bowler hat, but had been smart enough to skip the umbrella. He was clean-shaven, with brown hair only slightly tinged with gray, a sharp chin, and a confident smirk, which was slightly off-set by the circles under his eyes.
Peter Peel, I presume. Looks like he's been working lots of extra hours lately.
And right behind him came a well-dressed woman in her fifties or early sixties, and even if Buffy hadn't known there was only one woman on the Council, she would have recognized Catherine Peel's mother instantly. Emma Peel looked a lot like her daughter -- I guess that's supposed to be vice versa, actually, Buffy thought quickly. Her hair was cut short and a bit lighter, her clothes a bit more conservative, but otherwise, Buffy guessed this was what Miss Peel would look like in thirty years or so.
Emma Peel also walked like her daughter, too. Not with the stiff, stick-up-your-back gait of the other Watchers, but with a grace that belied her age. The grace of a dancer . . . or a fighter . . . or a . . .
Buffy's brows shot up as she made an intuitive leap. She glanced over at Faith -- and sure enough, Faith had that look.
Holy --
Buffy's startled thoughts were cut off by a strangled oath from Giles. She glanced up at him, and followed his gaze to an eighth person just coming through the gate behind Emma Peel. "Hey, Giles . . . aren't there only seven people on the Council?"
Giles didn't answer, but stood silent as the Council members gathered to formally meet Miss Peel. Giles had warned her not to take offense on his behalf; as Field Watcher to the Slayers, Miss Peel technically outranked him for the time being -- The new person, on the other hand, a tall, elderly man with green eyes, white hair and a white mustache, came right up to them with an expectant grin.
To Buffy's surprise, Giles abandoned formality and pulled the other man into a brief hug. "Good Lord, why didn't you tell me you were coming?" he said.
The older man chuckled. "And miss the look on your face when I showed up? Besides, you know how tight-fisted the Council can be. I wouldn't have been able to come if Emma hadn't convinced Peter to offer me a lift." He glanced briefly at Buffy and her mother before looking back at Giles. "Well, Rupert, aren't you going to introduce me to your young ladies?"
"Good Lord, I'm forgetting my manners," Giles muttered, visibly flustered, as he turned. "This is Joyce Summers, my fianceé, her daughter Buffy, and her friends Cordelia Chase and Daniel Osborne, who prefers to be called 'Oz.'"
The old man shook their hands in turn. "Pleased to meet you, Joyce. And you, Buffy -- is that your full name, or is it short for Elizabeth?"
"Just Buffy, sir," she said, slightly confused. "And you are?"
Now Giles really blushed. "Ah . . . Buffy, Joyce, Cordelia, Oz, may I introduce Timothy Giles -- my father."
Sometimes, life is good, Xander thought smugly.
After Giles and Miss Peel had officially greeted the Council -- and their surprise guest, Giles' dad, for God's sake! -- most of the Council had left for the hotel, where they had reserved two whole floors for themselves and their security people.
The Peels and the senior Mr. Giles stayed behind. As Miss Peel explained, a "family dinner" would be an excellent way for some of the "good guys" to get to know each other. And there was no way the Opposition on the Council could make a fuss about it without committing what was, to the English, the ultimate sin: rudeness.
The upshot, of coruse, was that on the way back to Revello Drive, Xander finally got to talk to the original source of all of Miss Peel's stories. And to his amazement, she was just as interested in his tales of fighting demons as he was in her stories of fighting espionage and terrorism.
" . . . So Buffy just looks down at the bones and says, 'He's not going anywhere. Loser.' And then we all headed off to the Spring Fling to basically celebrate still being alive."
Mrs. Peel chuckled, and a small smile even appeared on Mr. Peel's face. "At the time, even I questioned the wisdom of bringing, ah, civilians, into this kind of fight," he said. "But, in retrospect, I must admit that Rupert made the right decision."
Xander frowned. "That wasn't Giles' decision, Mr. Peel; it was ours. Once Willow and I found out about what's really out there, we couldn't just sit back and watch while Buffy, Faith, Giles, and your daughter went out there to face it every night."
"An admirable sentiment, young man," he answered. "But from Mr. Giles' reports, your actions have not always been so . . . selfless. I seem to recall a certain incident report, involving a love spell." With that last, he fixed Xander with a steely glare.
"Ah . . . um, yes," Xander muttered, blushing. "All I can say is, I understand what a stupid thing I did, and I will never ever do anything like it again."
Mr. Peel's glare did not waver. "Understand me, Mr. Harris. You are very, very lucky that no one -- especially Miss Summers -- died as a result of your actions. You are also lucky that Rupert was the Field Watcher on the spot at the time. If you had put my Marina in such danger, I would have made sure you never forgot how dangerous magic can be. I believe spending a week as a rat yourself would have been a fitting educational experience."
Xander gulped. "Yessir." The President of the Council never raised his voice, but the tone he used was one Soldier-Guy recognized, as one of a man used to command.
"Dad, stop terrorizing Xander," Miss Peel said from the driver's seat. "From what I understand, from his and Mr. Giles' accounts of that incident, he was threatened by a Slayer, had his best friend come after him with an axe, was nearly turned by an amorous vampire, and was eventually cornered in a basement by an armed mob of crazed admirers." She chuckled mirthlessly. "I believe that should constitute a suitable deterrant."
"Oh, believe me, it does," Xander agreed, nodding fervently.
Xander figured that Mrs. Summers could go into the catering business, with all the practice at mass preparation of food she was getting lately. Luckily for her, though, Cordelia, Willow, and Oz all claimed to have other plans for the night, so the crowd was no bigger than it was for a full Scooby meeting. And despite the pressure of cooking for nine -- and one of them a surprise guest, and her future father-in-law as well -- the dinner Mrs. Summers produced looked delicious as usual.
Giles' father seemed to agree. "My word, Rupert -- you've found yourself a real homemaker," he said half in awe as he stared at the spread she laid out. "If you hadn't proposed to her, I'd've asked you to get your head examined."
Both Giles and Mrs. Summers blushed fiercely.
Xander decided he was gonna like Giles' dad.
"So, Mrs. Peel," Buffy began, seeming to take pity on her mother and stepfather-to-be, "I understand you've known Giles and his family for a long time?"
"Oh, yes," she replied, glancing at the two Giles men. "I've known Rupert for about twenty-five years, and his father for almost fifty."
Buffy's eyebrows drew together for a moment, as if doing some mental calculations. "Oh. Then I guess he was your Watcher, right?"
The table suddenly fell silent as everyone turned to stare at Buffy.
Even Xander couldn't think of anything to say. Her Watcher?
Then Faith let out a bark of laughter. "Damn, B! I knew I was pickin' up somethin' on my Slayer senses, but I couldn't figure out what the hell it was." She turned to Mrs. Peel. "So, what gives? I thought Buffy was the first one to break the whole 'one-girl-in-all-the-world' rule."
Mrs. Peel sighed. "She was, Faith. I was never Called to be the Slayer; I was merely a Potential." She frowned at Buffy. "And yes, the elder Mr. Giles was my Watcher. I was discovered by the Council at age twelve. The Council couldn't take me away from my family, because of the uproar it would cause, so, as with you, they inserted a Watcher into my school, to train me and prepare me in case I became the Slayer.
"After I turned seventeen, and it was apparent I would never be Called, the Council lost interest in me . . . but Timothy Giles did not." She smiled at the older man, then turned to Buffy. "How on Earth did you find me out so quickly? It took Catling a full year to figure out that I'd been a Potential."
Miss Peel blushed, and Xander made a mental note of the nickname, storing it away for future teases.
"Well," Buffy answered, "I already knew your family wasn't a part of the Watchers, so you wouldn't have met him that way. And the fact that you were the one who talked your husband into 'giving him a lift' on the Council's plane? Too much of a coincidence.
"Plus, I've actually met two other Slayers, which not even Faith has done. And Faith's fighting style is very different than Kendra's was--" Buffy paused a moment, obviously saddened at the memory of her fallen 'sister,' "-- and from mine as well. So I've got an idea of what's instinct with us, and what's trained in by your Watcher. If Catherine's style is anything like yours, you don't fight like one of us . . . but you move like one of us."
She grinned. "And I had another unfair advantage: Faith. She's got, like, super-sensitive Slayer senses, and I could tell from her reaction that she was getting something off you."
Miss Peel nodded, smiled, and turned to her parents. "What did I tell you? If Buffy has one great gift, it's her quick-wittedness. She can be surprised, like anyone, but she always rises to the occasion." She chuckled. "And once in a while, she can pull off a surprise of her own."
The rest of dinner was taken up with more stories, albeit the most bloodless ones people could think of. Mrs. Peel told the story of a scientist who accidentally invented a shrinking ray, and almost had his work sold to the Russians by a greedy assistant. Buffy and Giles related how Catherine Madison had tried to steal her daughter's body to relive her glory days.
Xander, after being begged by everyone who hadn't heard it first-hand, repeated the story of his night with the zombie gang -- leaving out certain details, of course. From the expressions on the Peels' faces when he skipped over what happened in Faith's motel room, though, they knew the whole story anyway.
Xander assumed Faith wouldn't have any stories appropriate to the dinner table, but he was wrong; she talked about the people she'd met on her flight from Boston to Sunnydale -- some bad, and some amazingly good. Once, she'd even been taken in by people so nice she'd been tempted to stay with them, but she hadn't dared, because that would've put them in danger from Kakistos.
Timothy Giles told some stories about Emma Peel and his son when they were young that left both of them glaring at him. He even cheerfully ignored "Ripper" glares that would've had Xander begging for mercy.
Xander noticed that Peter Peel kept silent. He'd been warned by Miss Peel that her father could be morose at times, especially when he was thinking about his Slayer. He'd Watched her for three years, witnessed her triumph over the Cruciamentum . . . and then she'd died just as they were rebuilding the trust that had been damaged by his part in her test.
He'd also been warned not to bring up "Council business" at the dinner table. Telling tales was one thing; arguing about the rules and regulations about Watchers' and Slayers' lives was another thing entirely. The time for that would be the Council session after school the next day.
The older Peels left early, explaining that they had eight hours of jet lag to sleep off, and a lot of things to do the next day. Peter Peel made a point of saying, "After having such a pleasant evening tonight, I would hate to have the Council session tomorrow turn nasty because we were all tired and irritable."
Xander only wished he hadn't seen a worried look flash across Miss Peel's face when he made that statement.
Rupert Giles had already been notified that the first item on the Council's agenda would be the question of his status as Buffy's Field Watcher. But despite the fact that he had every reason to believe that the Council would vote in his favor, he was dreading the actual meeting with his superiors.
It made him even more nervous that, an hour before the meeting was due to convene, he received a summons, via Catherine Peel, to her parents' hotel suite.
As he entered the room, the hairs on the back stood up. The Peels, Sanderson, and Evans were waiting for him. All his supposed "allies" on the Council.
And from the expressions on their faces, something . . . something was just not right.
What is this? Are they going to ask me to make some kind of deal with them before they restore me to my position? You scratch my back, I scratch yours?
Bloody politicians!
Emma Peel smiled disarmingly at him. "Thank you for coming, Rupert. Won't you sit down?"
The fact that it was Emma who addressed him cooled his rage -- somewhat. Of all the Watchers who frequented Council Headquarters, she was the one everyone could count on not to play petty political games. Oh, she had her secrets -- last night's revelation certainly proved that! -- but she was refreshingly forthright and plain-spoken for a non-Field Watcher.
And everyone knew how seriously she took her job as the Council's martial arts teacher. Her courses meant the difference between life and death, not only for the Watchers she taught, but for the Slayers they trained in turn.
Quite frankly, her election victory over Reginald Wyndham-Pryce could be explained in one simple sentence: Every Watcher trained in the last twenty-seven years trusted her implicitly.
So what is she doing here in this group?
"May I ask what this is about?" he asked as he took a seat.
Terrance Evans grinned at him. "Go ahead. Say it. 'What the hell do you pompous asses from the Council want from me before you give me my job back?'"
Rupert turned red. "Ah, well . . . I wouldn't necessarily . . . put it that way . . . "
"Only because you're more polite than Terrance -- which isn't saying all that much," Peter Peel answered with a faint smile. "Well, I'll answer you all the same. Yes, Rupert, we do want something from you. It's not something you have to do now . . . but I want your word that when the time comes, you'll do it."
Rupert tilted his head to the side, and anyone who knew him well could see a bit of Ripper peering out from behind those green eyes. "Go on."
"How much do you know about the history of the Cruciamentum?"
The question made him sit up suddenly in surprise. Everyone knew that the Cruciamentum was a particularly sore topic with Peter Peel. In fact, he was willing to admit that the President of the Council was probably the one Watcher who hated the test more than Giles himself. "Not much. Only that it was instituted in the early ninth century . . . "
"In 803, to be precise, Mr. Giles," Sanderson corrected him. "In the 1196 years since then, there have been 1179 Slayers, of whom 225 reached their eighteenth birthday and underwent the Cruciamentum.159 of these passed the test."
The Council's research expert paused, and pursed his lips. "You can find all of that in the public archives. What you cannot find is the fact that the last failure was over five hundred years ago. Since then, every Slayer who has faced the Cruciamentum has beaten it."
Giles felt a distinct need to clean his glasses while he thought about that last bit of information. "So . . . if that is the case . . . why is the test still being given?"
Mr. Peel laughed mirthlessly. "I'm surprised you haven't figured it out, Rupert. Go on, Wally -- tell him the rest of it."
Sanderson cleared his throat. "Ah . . . yes, well. The other item which you won't find in the public archives is the number of Watchers who, like yourself, were fired for not performing their part of the Cruciamentum, or for warning their Slayers about the test. Including you, Mr. Giles, there were 645 of them."
Rupert's mouth dropped open. "That's . . . oh my God. They haven't been testing the Slayers at all. They've been testing us."
"Exactly," Mr. Peel said with a firm nod. "And there's more. There are records to which not even the Council as a whole has access. Only the President can see them -- which means I've only had them for the past three days. And those records . . . the things they've done over the years . . . Rupert, how does a Watcher get a seat on the Council?"
Although startled by the non sequitur, Rupert responded automatically. "When a member of the Council leaves voluntarily, they are allowed to name their successor, although that choice can be vetoed if 60% of the Council votes against it. When a Council member is impeached and removed for malfeasance, as Quentin was, any of the other Council members can nominate a possible replacement, but if there is more than one nominee, a Conclave of the Watchers must be called to vote on the matter."
"And?"
Giles' brow furrowed. Then he frowned. "Ah, yes. When a Slayer dies, her Watcher is normally offered two options: another field assignment or retirement. But a Watcher whose Slayer has passed the Cruciamentum is also offered a seat on the Council."
"Correct. There are only five 'permanent' Council seats, but from some of the oldest records, it seems that the assumption was that there would always be a number of Field Watchers sitting on the Council as well. And, until the ninth century, that was very much the case. One President's diary entry says that his Council had 31 members."
Giles immediately caught the relevant piece of information. "Until the ninth century?"
"Exactly. Even the Presidential records don't say everything, but there was some sort of upheaval in the year 802. Nearly the whole Council was killed, including all of the seated Field Watchers, the active Slayer, and all but two of the five 'permanent' members. The exact details of their deaths are not recorded, but I'm sure you can reach the same conclusions we have."
Giles nodded. An attempted coup within the Council, with the Slayer caught in the middle, used as a weapon. Pillocks!
Mr. Peel went on. "Those two survivors made sweeping changes in the way Slayers were trained and handled. Council members were forbidden from any activity in the field, each Slayer was restricted to having only one Field Watcher, romantic relationships between Watcher and Slayer were strictly forbidden -- oh, don't look so shocked, Rupert," he added at Giles' reaction to the last rule. "After all, at the time, marriages between forty-year-old men and fifteen-year-old girls were quite common.
"Anyway, there were dozens of new draconian rules and regulations. And one of them was the institution of the Cruciamentum, and the requirement that a Slayer pass the Cruciamentum before her Watcher was offered a seat on the Council."
"And it's not just the rules, Rupert," Mrs. Peel added. "There's a certain attitude that's become prevalent among Field Watchers . . . that those who stay at Council Headquarters are layabouts, to be looked down upon by the 'real Watchers' who work in the field. Now, while this is largely the case, there are a few exceptions," she said with a rueful smile.
"But I believe that this attitude has actually been engendered and encouraged on purpose, to keep the Field Watchers from wanting to meddle in Council business. Only those Watchers who meet with the Council's approval are encouraged to take a seat on the Council when it is offered to them. Otherwise, they usually encourage the Watcher -- who, of course, would be in an extremely vulnerable state, after the death of his or her Slayer -- to take the retirement option. Most Field Watchers don't even think about it at all -- just a moment ago, Peter had to remind you that it even existed."
"But . . . " Giles protested. "Peter . . . and Terrance. You both took the Council seat."
Peter Peel smiled. It was a vicious smile -- the kind of smile that Ripper had liked to use just before he beat the hell out of someone. "They made a few mistakes with me. You remember the flap over my marriage to Emma, and what the Council did to get back at me?"
Giles nodded. Emma Knight had known about the Watchers and the Council, having been a Potential, but she had not known that Peter Peel was a Watcher when she became involved with him. The Council had tried to stop him from marrying her, but he defied them.
And it had cost him nearly three years of his life with her.
When he was assigned as Field Watcher to the Brazilian Slayer, Marina de Leo, the Council arranged an "accident." Peter Peel was presumed dead in a plane crash, and he was forbidden to contact his wife for as long as his Slayer lived. Although no one knew for sure, rumor had it that Quentin Travers, who was President Ashton's hatchet man even back then, had threatened to sic the Council's hit squads on her if he refused.
So for three years, he served faithfully as Marina's Field Watcher, even performing his part in her Cruciamentum. She was killed soon after that, in a battle with three Krashnark demons, and Peter was finally allowed to come home to his wife -- who, as it turned out, had been doing her own part in saving the world for the past three years, all the while believing her husband was dead.
"I figured since I wanted to go home to England anyway, there was no reason for me not to join the Council. And I hated them so much, after what they did to me, what they made me do to Marina . . . I decided I would be the grit in the Council machine, the gadfly in their ears. I argued and fought every issue that came before the Council for twenty-five years. But they managed to ignore me for all that time, until Terrance's Slayer died, and I managed to convince him to join the Council as well. With Sanderson's backing as well, we at least made them sweat, with all those 4-3 votes.
"Now, we finally have the majority . . . but we can't just make the kind of sweeping changes that were made in the ninth century, and hope to have them stick. I think we can eventually bring most of the Watchers -- even the layabouts around HQ -- over to our point of view, but it will take time, and I don't know if we'll get the time we need."
Rupert's eyebrows lifted in alarm. "You think Ashton will do something, er, drastic, to try to get control of the Council back?"
"He doesn't need to do anything drastic. Oh, he would if he planned to take control again personally. But if all he wants is for the bureaucrats to take over again, all he has to do is wait us out.
"He -- and Hemphill and Gaines as well -- are permanent members, with the right to choose their successors. And with only a 4-3 majority, we can't veto their nominees. But Terrance and I don't get replacements -- when I kick off, the Council will be back to a 3-3 deadlock, and when Terrance goes as well, the Council goes back to them.
"But . . . " Peter raised a finger dramatically. "Even though it's violating the spirit of the law, if you take over as Buffy's Watcher again, you become eligible for that Council seat again. She was your Slayer when she faced the Cruciamentum, and she passed, even though you warned her about the test.
"Rupert, I need your word that . . . when the time comes . . . you'll accept a Council seat."
Rupert inhaled sharply. Peter Peel was asking a lot of him . . . and it wasn't just his life he had to think about now. Right at the time Joyce would be mourning Buffy, he would have to uproot her -- and their as-yet unborn son -- from everyone and everything she knew, and force her to move to England, so that he could take a place on the Council.
If any other man had asked such a thing of him, he would have turned him down cold. But Peter had had to make similar sacrifices in his time, and knew exactly what he was asking Rupert to do.
I told Joyce that being a Watcher was hard, but that someone had to do it, for the sake of the world. Now it's time to stand by those words.
" . . . And so, by a vote of 4-3, the Council hereby appoints Rupert Giles to the position of Field Watcher to the Slayer Buffy Summers. We wish you good luck in the performance of your duties, Mr. Giles," Peter Peel intoned formally.
"Thank you, Mr. President," Rupert responded, although his words were nearly drowned out by the noise from behind him. All of the Scoobies -- even Oz and Cordelia -- were on their feet and cheering him, much to the dismay of most of the Council. The notable exceptions were Emma Peel, who smiled tolerantly, and Terrance Evans, who gave Xander a conspiratorial wink as the boy pumped his fist and yelled, "Way to go, G-man!"
He glanced at Joyce. She only smiled faintly at him. She knew about the bargain he had had to make -- and approved, to an extent. But like him, she hoped that it would be a very, very long time before he would have to keep the promise that he had made today.
"Aw, c'mon, Faith! I was right about Star Wars, wasn't I?"
Faith just rolled her eyes at Xander. "Yeah, it was okay, I guess. But that was a movie. A couple hours outta my life, no big deal. You're talkin' a whole friggin' TV series -- what did you say it was, a hundred and ten episodes? Plus some movies too?"
"Faith, trust me. This is the best sci-fi ever made. It's not one of those shows where, by the time you're into the last season, you wish they'd put it out of its misery a couple years ago. This is, like . . . a five-year mini-series. It all fits together, and it's fantastic!"
"Xander . . . "
At that point, Xander clasped his hands together as if praying, and put on his puppy-dog face. "Plee-e-e-ease?"
Faith swore silently, but she could feel herself caving in. No matter how she tried, she never could resist the puppy-dog face. But, as her mouth was opening to say "All right," she was saved by the bell -- literally -- as the doorbell rang.
Sighing in relief, Faith dashed over to the door and opened it. "Hey, Red!" she said, grinning at the flushed and slightly out-of-breath hacker/witch.
"Faith, oh . . . thank goodness . . . it's you!" Willow panted for a moment, then blurted, "I got an answer!"
"An answer? For -- oh!" She glanced at Xander, who was starting to come over to greet Willow as well. She stopped him with one hand, and said, feeling a bit guilty, "Uh, Xan? Could we have some girl-time for a minute?"
He shrugged, a bewildered look on his face. "Sure."
Faith stepped outside, closing the door behind her. "You mean you already heard back from this Kalderash guy?" she asked, trying to keep her voice under control.
Willow nodded vigorously. "Uh-huh. He's coming here to see us. Tomorrow!"
That earned a double-take from Faith. "Tomorrow? Jeez, what is it with those Gypsy guys?"
"I guess they take this kinda thing seriously."
Faith snorted derisively. "No crap. Where are we supposed to meet him?"
Willow shrugged. "My place, around four-thirty. My parents are out of town again, and I figured, in case this doesn't lead to anything, we still should keep it between the two of us."
Faith frowned, irritated at her friend's casual attitude. "This isn't just for B and Fangface, Red -- it's for me, too, y'know? And I really hope we haven't done all this for nothing."
Willow flushed and looked down at her feet. "Oh . . . sorry. I guess . . . this is kind of important to you, isn't it?"
"Yeah, it is. And in any case I really don't wanna tick these guys off, with this thing they have about revenge and all."
The redhead suddenly looked up again, her eyes wide. "Oh! I never thought of that! But I don't think we'd have to worry about them doing anything to us. I mean, it's not like we're hurting anybody, or --"
"Whatever," Faith said, cutting off the Willowbabble in mid-sentence. "I'll see ya tomorrow, okay? I gotta go, Xander's spent the last half-hour tryin' to convince me to watch his favorite science fiction series with him."
Willow chuckled. "Oh? Which 'favorite' is that? Sometimes it seems like he has a hundred."
"I can't remember the name. Something about a U.N. in space and a five-year plan--"
"Oh -- Babylon 5," Willow said, brightening. "Yeah, that is a good one -- I watched it myself -- and it just might qualify as his favorite favorite. He got really upset when they moved it to TNT -- his parents don't have cable -- and eventually I had to promise him I'd record every episode, and all the made-for-cable movies too."
Then a sly gleam appeared in her eyes. "But don't let him kid you about that five-year plan and how great the writing is. Yeah, he says that now, but back in '93 when it first came on, he was just hoping to see Claudia Christian in some revealing spacebabe-type outfits."
Faith chuckled. "Did he?"
Willow shook her head. "Not really. But there is an episode where she fakes an orgasm with an alien."
Faith hooted. "Now that sounds like my kinda show!"
Willow grinned at her. "I'll leave you two to it, then. See ya tomorrow."
Sure enough, less than fifteen minutes later, Xander and Faith were huddled in front of the TV as the image of a space station appeared on the screen, and a gravelly voiceover began, "I was there at the dawn of the Third Age of Mankind. It began in the Earth year 2257, with the founding of the last of the Babylon stations, located deep in neutral space . . . "
Several hours, two large pizzas, and a big bowl of popcorn later, Faith was well and truly hooked -- and Xander was being annoyingly smug about it. She was tempted to do something about that smirk on his face, but everything she really wanted to do to him would only make that smirk even bigger. So she just put up with it . . . and swore to herself to ask Willow about a good practical joke to play on him.
Sleepy from late-night video-watching, Faith and Xander were late for the Scooby meeting at Buffy's house in the morning. The other Slayer was giving her after-patrol report when they crept in, looking sheepish.
"Things are starting to get really quiet around here, Giles, and you know what that means," the blonde was saying, glancing at her Watcher significantly. "Something's about to happen."
"Not necessarily, Buffy," Miss Peel suggested, giving the two late-comers a momentary glare. "I know that in the past, a sudden decrease in demonic activity in Sunnydale has usually preceded a major crisis, but the Mayor's Ascension may still be weeks away. As we explained before, the Mayor is tapping most of the Hellmouth's energy to prepare for his Ascension, and that energy is what attracts demons and other mystical creatures to this area."
"Like when the leaves of a tree catch all the sunlight falling on an area, and keep any other plants from growing underneath it?" Willow asked.
"Precisely."
"Too bad we can't figure out a way to keep that Hellmouth-y energy blocked off even after we punch the Mayor's ticket," Xander commented.
Giles shook his head. "Impossible. The energy output of the Hellmouth, even in its present bound state, is incalculable." He frowned. "Think of it as a magical volcano. Even if we could seal it completely, that would only cause pressure to build up behind the block, possibly leading to an explosion which could destroy everything for miles around and rip the Hellmouth wide open in the process."
Even Xander couldn't come up with a witty remark to follow up that statement.
After the meeting broke up, Miss Peel took Faith aside, a concerned look on her face.
"Faith, as you are probably aware, your status is the next issue the Council wishes to tackle, but neither I nor my parents are comfortable with the idea of you answering questions before a general meeting of the Council. Ashton's sure to be on the offensive, and believe me, that man can be very offensive when he wants to be."
Faith waved it off. "Shouldn't I just face up to whatever he's gonna say, instead of hiding from him? I mean, sticks and stones, right?"
Miss Peel gave her a pointed look. "If that is so, Faith, then why do you still get upset whenever someone calls you 'Miss Collins?'"
Faith winced.
Her Watcher nodded. "That was a jab at the least of your vulnerable points, Faith, and I was doing my best to be polite. Ashton will be doing his best to provoke you into some kind of outburst -- possibly even trying to get you to attack him. And even if 'our party' in the Council would forgive you if you did, it would be a disaster in terms of your emotional well-being. You are not in complete control of yourself, Faith, and until you are, I do not want you exposed to that kind of abuse."
"So, what do we do instead?"
"Essentially, my parents think they should do for you what they did for Mr. Giles -- hold a private meeting between you and the four members of the Council that we can trust, so they can see how you're progressing." She paused, and looked thoughtful. "Even though my father's the head of the Councill, it would likely be Terrance Evans asking most of the questions. He has more field experience than any other Watcher except Mr. Giles; he raised a Potential from infancy, and she lasted four years as the Slayer -- longer than any other in the past century."
Faith raised her eyebrows at that. "Who was she?"
"Her name was Kareema Hazani. She travelled more than most Slayers, hunting vampires and demons throughout Southeast Asia and the Middle East. She was fearless, skillful -- and utterly devoted to Evans. She didn't even bat an eye at her Cruciamentum; as far as she was concerned, if Evans put her through the test, then it must have been for a good reason." She frowned. "The only problem the Council ever had with him was that he's never told anyone how Kareema died. There's something going around boasting that it killed a Slayer, and we can't hunt it down and kill it because we don't know what it is or where we can find it."
Faith frowned herself. "This Kareema girl -- I guess she was Buffy's predecessor?"
The Watcher sighed, looking sad. "Actually, no. There were two very short-lived Slayers between her and Buffy. Between the two of them, they lasted less than two months."
Thinking about those two girls gave Faith a sick feeling. Sure, she'd been told that most Slayers didn't last long, but Peter Peel's Slayer Marina, this Kareema girl, and Buffy all had lasted through their eighteenth birthdays. The least successful Slayer Faith had really heard of before now had been Kendra, and she'd lasted a year.
But two Slayers, dead in less than two months . . . Now she began to understand. Most Slayers probably didn't last long enough for anyone but their Watchers to ever learn their names.
Miss Peel spoke, interrupting her morbid thoughts. "Faith . . . I'm not going to sugar-coat things for you. A Slayer's life is never going to be safe or easy, and any night you go out on patrol could be your last. But you have advantages that no other Slayer has ever had before, and I fully intend you -- and Buffy," the Watcher added as an afterthought, "to be the first Slayers to reach thirty."
Faith had her own doubts about that. Miss Peel was damn good, but it wasn't just Slayer strength and speed that made Faith and Buffy faster than her. Thirty wasn't exactly over the hill, but it wasn't exactly the peak of speed and agility either. If she and Buffy made it to thirty . . .
The spark of an idea formed in her head. Now she knew she had to get to Willow's!
"Think it could work, Red?"
Willow just gaped silently at Faith.
"Well, c'mon! Whaddya say?"
"I . . . I say . . . I think it's the craziest thing I've ever heard of . . . but yeah, I guess it might work. But I wonder why the Council never thought of it before?"
"Probably 'cause until B came along, no one ever knew it was possible."
Willow grimaced in thought. "Well, maybe . . . "
A knock came at the door, interrupting her.
Willow's head whipped around. "That must be him!" She got up and ran for the door.
Sure enough, there was a man at the door -- tall, olive-skinned, dark-haired, with an eagle's beak for a nose and large, dark eyes. "Miss Rosenberg?" he asked, rolling his R's slightly.
"Um, yeah, I mean, Miss Rosenberg, that's me, only I'm Willow, I mean, please call me Willow, um . . . " The redhead blushed as she tripped over her own tongue.
Faith came up behind her. "Yeah, she's Willow, I'm Faith. You're Al Kalderash?"
"My name is Alyosha," he snapped, glancing at Faith. "And you . . . " He broke off, peering at her curiously. "The pictures Miss Rosenberg sent did not do you justice . . . " he murmured, tilting his head to one side.
He glanced at Willow. "Will you allow me to enter your home?"
Willow blinked and stared at him for a moment.
Faith elbowed her lightly. "Red, it's bright 'n sunny out. He's not a vamp."
Willow turned even redder, mumbled, "Oh! Um, yes, come in," and stepped aside for the Gypsy.
He stepped inside, and approached Faith, peering at her face. "I see what Miss Rosenberg was saying, yes, the eyes and the mouth." He reached for one of her hands. "May I?"
Faith nodded, both curious and nervous.
He examined her hand, tracing the shapes of her fingers carefully as he murmured, "From your nose, and the shape of your face, I might think you were of the Lowara clan, but several of them have married into the Kalderash over the past few centuries. Your mouth, though, and this curve in the index finger. These are Kalderash features. And . . . you say you were born in Boston, in November of 1983?"
"Yeah," she answered, her throat suddenly very dry.
He nodded firmly. "Janfri Kalderash -- poor Jana's second cousin -- might have been living there at the time." A sour look came over his face, as he went on, "Janfri is . . . outcast from the clan. I do not know where he is living right now."
Faith's heart, which had briefly been thumping wildly, quickly sank into her shoes.
"Even if we could verify that he was your father, it would take a decree from the Elders to declare a half-blood a full member of our clan," the Gypsy went on, oblivious to her dismay. "I am curious, though. Most people would be . . . uncomfortable . . . to find they have Romany blood in their veins." At Willow and Faith's blank look, he added, "Gypsy blood, you would say. Tell me. Why did you seek me out?"
Faith straightened her shoulders, trying to focus on everything except her missing possible-father. "I want to ask you for a favor, for B --er, Buffy Summers."
The Gypsy's eyes flared with anger. "You mean for the vampire, for Angelus! Only a half-blood daughter of an outcast could have any sympathy for the creature who murdered Gitana and Jana Kalderash!"
He turned to Willow. "And you! You, who re-cast the curse on him, who lost family to that monster, how could you support such a thing!"
Willow blinked in surprise. "Angel never hurt my family. Um, unless you count my goldfish?"
The man blinked in surprise. "You must have. You cast a blood curse. It can only be cast to avenge your own blood." He pursed his lips, and then suddenly his eyes opened wide. "Did anything . . . unusual happen, while you were casting the spell?"
Willow's brow furrowed. "Well, it didn't seem to be working at first. I was reciting it in English--"
"Bah!" he interrupted. "It would never work in English."
"--the way Miss Calendar translated it, and then suddenly, something came over me. It was like, something entered me, and I started speaking in some other language--"
"You were speaking Romany," the Gypsy said, sighing heavily. "It seems that I've found two lost daughters of the Rom, instead of one."
Willow and Faith both blinked. "Huh?"
"A Clan Spirit took hold of you -- most likely the witch who first placed the curse on Angelus, a hundred years ago. They would only do such a thing if you were Kalderash yourself, seeking to avenge Kalderash blood."
The two girls stared at him, totally stunned.
His lip curled. "Do you still seek a favor for the vampire, half-bloods?"
Faith felt her own lip curling, and she was about to lay into the guy something fierce. But to her shock, Willow beat her to it.
"Now just a minute there, buster!" she shouted, poking her finger into his chest. "I don't know how much you know about Angel, but I've met both him and the demon inside him. And let me tell you, that demon is totally evil, without any remorse or guilt -- you can't change that with a curse. All you did was burden an innocent soul, which had nothing to do with anything the demon did, with the demon's memories.
"You know what really gets to the demon inside Angel?" she went on, giving him another poke. "Not the guilt the soul feels about everything it did -- it probably enjoys the way he suffers! No, what really makes it crazy is that Angel loves Buffy. When he's with her -- when he's with all of us, her friends, and when he's helping us keep people safe, he begins to feel human again, and the demon can't stand that! That's why it tortured Buffy, and played with all of us for so long. Because just killing us wouldn't make those memories of feeling decent and human go away! It wanted to wipe out all the good memories it had of us because of Angel.
"So if I wanted to get revenge on that demon, I wouldn't be putting a stupid old curse with a happy clause on him. I'd make sure Angel went on doing good, and feeling happy and in love, and I'll bet that demon would be just burning up over that!"
A small grin had appeared on the Gypsy's face in the middle of Willow's rant, and as she went on, it grew bigger and broader, until finally, when she had finished, he burst out laughing.
"Willow Rosenberg!" he exclaimed. "Your blood may be more outsider than Romany . . . but I see now that you have the spirit of a true daughter of the Rom!"
It took him a while to stop laughing, and both girls glared at him the whole time. When he finally settled down, he said, "I do not have the power to do what you ask . . . but for what it is worth, I will take your words to the Elders of my clan. Perhaps -- perhaps, I say -- they will answer you.
"Is there anything else I can do for you ladies?"
Bewildered, the two girls just shook their heads.
"Then, with your permission, I will be on my way. You will understand, I do not wish to be out of doors after dark."
And without another word, he turned and left.
The girls were silent for a long time, trying to absorb everything that had just happened.
Willow finally murmured, "I'm sorry he couldn't tell you where to find your dad, Faith."
Faith looked up. Then, without warning, she threw her arms around the other girl, who squeaked in surprise.
"Red . . . Willow. All I wanted was to find one goddamn relative I didn't have to be ashamed of. And you know what? I did."
Faith had never gone for mushy sentimental-type stuff. But nothing -- not the Slayer bond she had with B, not even the love she felt for Xander -- could compare to what she felt as Willow hugged her back, and murmured, "Hiya, cuz."
The Council session on Faith's status was rather intense. Her questioning not only covered the death of Alan Finch, but her and Willow's contact with Alyosha Kalderash, and the implication that since she had asked the Gypsies to alter Angel's curse, she approved of the relationship between him and Buffy.
But the highlight of the afternoon began with an outburst from James Ashton in the middle of one of Faith's answers: "This is intolerable! I will not put up with this . . . perversion of what this Council stands for any longer!"
This startled the Sunnydalers attending the Council meeting, but it only drew an annoyed glare from Peter Peel. "Ashton, that's enough. You will have your chance to give your opinion on Faith's testimony later; but you have no right to interrupt these proceedings like this."
"I have every right, Peel! That girl -- both of those girls," he said, waving a bony finger toward the gathered Scoobies, "are a disgrace to the line of Slayers, and danger to humanity itself. They have revealed themselves to civilians, endangering them and the Council itself, one of them fraternizes with a vampire, and the other one has killed a human being! They should both be put down, so that a proper Slayer may be Called in their place!"
This last comment was nearly drowned out by angry shouts from everyone in the room, except for Ashton's two cronies on the Council. But to nearly everyone's surprise, the most violent reaction came not from one of the Slayers, or the Scoobies, or even Giles, but from Miss Peel. The Watcher vaulted out of her chair and was across the room in a flash, her hands briefly reaching out towards Ashton, as if ready to strangle him, before she planted them on the table in front of him with a loud bang.
She leaned forward, putting her face right in his, and growled, "You will never refer to my Slayer, or to Miss Summers, in that way again, Ashton."
"Nobody talks to me like that, Catherine Peel. I'll have your job for this," he snarled back at her.
"Actually, you won't, old man," Peter Peel interrupted him with an evil smile. "Only the President of the Council can summarily dismiss a Watcher, and then only for gross misconduct. And despite your frequent self-delusions, Ashton, you are neither the President of the Council, nor has Catherine committed gross misconduct -- although throttling a Council member in front of several eyewitnesses might have qualified, no matter the provocation," he commented, with a glance toward his daughter. "And even if you were to call for a vote on the matter, I think you would find this Council more willing to sack you, for your obnoxious behavior this afternoon, than my daughter."
Ashton stood up stiffly. "I will not participate in this . . . charade of a Council any longer. Trevor, John -- we're leaving." And with that, he stalked away from the table and out of the suite the Council was using for a meeting chamber.
John Hemphill followed on his heels. Trevor Gaines, however, stayed behind.
"Gaines?" Evans said quietly.
The stout Watcher frowned, looking more than ever like the classic "English bulldog" caricature. He looked at Mr. Peel, and said slowly, "Don't think for a moment that I agree with you about this young lady, Peel." He gave Faith a once-over, then looked back at the Council President. "I may not believe that she deserves to die for what she has done, but I do think you are letting your daughter coddle her far too much. And the only reason I am staying here is because someone needs to be the voice of Doubt on this Council; if I left the four of you to yourselves, who knows what sort of foolishness you would come up with next?"
Mr. Peel gave him a sour smile. "Believe it or not, Gaines, I agree with you completely. That's one of the reasons why I asked Faith to appear before the full Council, even though I knew Ashton would become abusive sooner or later." His smile grew genuine then. "I just never expected him to make such a colossal blunder."
"What blunder is that?" Gaines asked, one eyebrow lifted.
Peel sat up slightly straighter in his chair. "I, Peter Peel, President of the Council of Watchers, hereby accept the verbal resignations of James Ashton and John Hemphill from this Council."
The Council collectively gaped. Miss Peel giggled, and Giles let out a snort of laughter, to both Watchers' intense embarrassment.
Mr. Peel went on, "As they have not nominated their successors before resigning their positions, I move that their seats be declared vacant, and their replacements to be chosen by the Conclave of the Watchers, on a date to be set in the near future. As this would be tantamount to overriding any nominations by Mr. Ashton and Mr. Hemphill regarding their successors, this motion must pass with a supermajority of sixty-percent. All in favor?"
"Aye," said Evans, Mrs. Peel, and Sanderson, looking pleased but also somewhat stunned.
"All opposed?"
Gaines glared at Mr. Peel, and growled, "Nay."
"With four votes for and one against, the motion is carried. So noted." He then turned a very cheerful smile upon Faith. "Now then, Faith, before you were so rudely interrupted . . . "
The Scooby Gang was jubilant as it headed out of the ersatz Council meeting-room. As expected, the Council had officially exonerated Faith, calling Finch's death a "tragic accident," and merely stating that Miss Peel should continue her special meditation and self-control training sessions with her Slayer.
"This calls for a celebration!" Miss Peel announced to the group. "Xander, what's the name of that Italian place you like so much?"
"Sorge's," Xander answered with a grin. He'd only had one other chance to take Faith there since their first date, and he thought he knew what was coming next.
He was right. "Dinner there, in two hours, my treat?" Miss Peel asked everyone.
"Yeah!" most of the Scoobies yelled.
"Mum, Dad?" the Watcher asked, glancing back into the room.
They nodded at her. "We'd be glad to come." They glanced at the other Council members. Gaines stalked out of the room without a word, and Sanderson mumbled something about research that he needed to do, but Evans nodded, showing his usual toothy smile.
At that, Miss Peel groaned. "Oh, dear Lord, as if Xander and Faith didn't eat enough on their own."
At dinner, a good time was had by all. Mrs. Summers in particular seemed relieved to be present at a huge dinner get-together where she hadn't had to cook the dinner.
Giles and the Peels clumped together, intent on discussing the implications of the day's events. But Xander found himself sitting next to Evans -- by design, as it turned out. "I've been wanting to talk with you for some time, Mr. Harris," the beefy Watcher explained. "Mostly to congratulate you."
"Congratulate me? For what?"
"For finally proving that the old rule about keeping Slayers walled off from the world, from other people, is not only unnecessary but wrong," Evans said, looking serious for once. "Miss Summers has been an unusually successful Slayer, but it would be extremely difficult to quantify the effect that you and Miss Rosenberg have had upon that success. She is very talented, and would have been a remarkable Slayer even on her own. But with Faith, it is obvious that it was her relationship with you that saved her life."
"But I've saved Buffy a couple times too," Xander protested.
"Yes, but it was your actions, not your friendship that saved her on those occasions. A team of Watchers supporting Miss Summers could have done the same things. But what you did for Faith -- to get so close to her, devote yourself to her so completely to her -- is something that no Watcher would or could ever do."
"You think Giles isn't that devoted to Buffy?" Xander asked.
"Rupert's relationship to Miss Summers may be closer than the traditional Watcher-Slayer tie, but it is still more of a parental relationship than the bond between equals that you have with Faith."
The only bonds in our relationship have been the ones Faith occasionally put on me. The sudden thought caused Xander to blush fiercely, and he struggled to come up with a new topic of conversation. "Um . . . ah . . . so, Giles told us about this helmet they gave you in Watcher's school . . . still got it?"
Evans guffawed. "Yes, I still have it, and I'm rather proud of it, too." He grinned wickedly. "So, Rupert's been telling old school tales again, eh? Maybe I ought to tell you the story about how he picked up the nickname 'Ripper.' It involves a terribly important history exam, a bad case of nerves on Rupert's part . . . and the unfortunate consequences of eating too many beans at breakfast . . ."
Patrolling with Faith and Miss Peel was really different from what Willow was used to with Buffy and Angel. The Vampire/Slayer duo tended to fight back-to-back, and they barely said a word to each other; it was as if they instinctively knew what the other one was doing at any given time. Willow remembered that when the two Slayers had patrolled together, they had been the same way -- like two bodies controlled by one mind.
Miss Peel and Faith, on the other hand, did exactly the opposite. They would come at the bad guys from opposite sides, as if trying to surround them. This forced their opponents to fight in close quarters, and often get in each other's way. It also made it much easier for Willow to pick off vamps with crossbow shots from the sidelines; with the oogly-booglies contained, she didn't have to worry as much about staying hidden behind a headstone, or about accidentally hitting one of her friends with a stray shot.
On the other hand, it also puts more of a burden on me to watch their backs, Willow thought, as she fired at a vamp that was trying to sneak up on Miss Peel. It didn't even have time to scream before it burst into dust, and Miss Peel gave Willow a little wave as if to say, "Thanks," without ever taking her attention away from the two vamps she was holding off with her sword.
That little wave dumbfounded Willow. It said that not only had Miss Peel known that that vamp was behind her, but that she'd trusted Willow to take care of it for her. She didn't think she knew anyone else who could stay so calm under those circumstances -- certainly not Buffy, who usually freaked out when something tried to sneak up on her.
Finally, the last vamp was dusted, and they all breathed a sigh of relief. Faith, brushing vamp dust off her pants, came over to Willow and gave her a one-armed hug. "Nice goin', Red -- I think you got almost as many of those chumps as I did."
Willow gave Faith a small smile. "All I wanted was to find one goddamn relative I didn't have to be ashamed of." Willow knew there was more to Faith's search for her father than that. She'd wanted to have a family member who would approve of her, who would give her the kind of love and support her mother never had. Willow could certainly understand that -- she and Xander had become like family because they both had parents that didn't provide much love or support either.
She couldn't really say she loved the Slayer . . . but as a friend, and as a girlfriend for Xander, Willow still rated her way ahead of Cordelia.
As a relative . . . well, the jury was still out on that one. But as the old saying went, you can pick your friends but you can't pick your family.
Faith leaned closer and whispered in Willow's ear. "So, you think it's time to ask her?"
Willow blinked. Whatever else you could say about Faith, you couldn't fault her courage. "It's your idea, Faith. If you're ready, go for it."
The Slayer squared her shoulders, and turned to her Watcher. "Miss Peel?"
The Englishwoman already had a suspicious look on her face. She knew Faith's "asking for a favor" face. "Yes, Faith?"
"I've been thinkin' . . . about that test they did on B . . ."
"The Cruciamentum?" Miss Peel shook her head. "Even if you didn't already know about it, Faith, you'd never have to face it. My father's going to abolish it."
"Yeah, but he hasn't -- not yet, anyway. Even though you keep telling us how much he hates it. So there's some reason why he won't . . . or can't."
Miss Peel shrugged. "Yes, well, even the most liberal Watchers are rather conservative by modern standards, and abolishing a thousand-year-old tradition is bound to raise a few eyebrows. He's just waiting for the right time."
Faith crossed her arms. "See, that's the thing. There wouldn't be so much fuss if he were gonna change it instead of get rid of it. Giles said the Council used to think of it as . . . what were the words he used, Red?"
"A rite of passage," Willow supplied.
"Yeah, that's it. Anyway, if your dad put something else in its place, the rest of the Watchers wouldn't be so quick to get on his case, right?"
Miss Peel's expression became even more wary. "What did you have in mind, Faith?"
The Slayer took a deep breath. Willow did too -- this was it. "Do to me -- in a hospital or somethin' -- what happened to B in that cave, with the Master. Stop my heart for a minute, and Call my successor. And then let B retire."
The Watcher looked like someone had smacked her across the back of the head with a shovel. "What!?"
Faith went on, ignoring her question. "You were the one who said you wanted me and B to be the first Slayers to see thirty. But that's never gonna happen as long as we're spendin' every night on the front lines. And as long as we're the only ones, that's where we have to stay. But if there was another, you could take B off the nightly patrols . . . "
Miss Peel frowned. "And once your successor reached eighteen -- assuming she ever did -- we would do the same thing to her, and you would get to retire as well, is that it?"
"Well, that was kinda the idea . . . "
Willow decided it was time to put her two cents in. "One Slayer's been enough to keep the world safe for thousands if years. Faith and I figure that with two, working with each other and relieving each other when necessary, it would be a lot easier for Slayers to survive longer. I mean, if Buffy wasn't around, you wouldn't have been able to give Faith all that time to . . . " she glanced furtively at the other girl, who had that old guilty expression on her face again, "well, to deal with her issues last month. But Buffy was here, so Faith could get the help she needed before having to go out again.
"And the older Slayer could teach the younger one some of the 'tricks of the trade' -- things Watchers just can't teach, since even if they go out Slaying like you do, Miss Peel, they just aren't Slayers. And . . . " Willow paused, finally taking a breath, and went on. "And with the possibility of a life after Slaying . . . they'd finally have something to stay alive for."
Miss Peel's expression softened a bit as she looked back towards Faith. "Is that what you think, Faith? That there's nothing to stay alive for?"
Faith shook her head. "Not exactly. That's what I would've said before . . . " She flushed, and looked down. "Before I met Xander. Up until then, I was all, 'Live fast, die young, and leave a good-looking corpse.'" She looked up, and gave Willow a wicked little wink. "Not to mention a lotta dust piles, and a whole buncha worn-out guys to remember you."
Then her expression turned serious again. "Now it's different. I'm different. Now . . . not only do I not wanna die . . . I don't wanna leave Xander alone again. I don't . . . " She swallowed heavily. "I don't want him to have to watch me die."
Miss Peel tilted her head thoughtfully. "There are flaws in this . . . plan of yours," she said flatly. "A lot of them." She shook her head. "Out of curiousity, Faith . . . if we went through with this, and by some miracle it all worked . . . what would you want to do in five or six years, when you were no longer an active Slayer?"
Faith shrugged. "The other night, your mom basically said, 'Who better to train those who would train a Slayer than a Potential Slayer?'" A huge grin appeared on her face. "With five or six years of your training, plus kickin' some demon ass every night, maybe the answer is . . . me."
Miss Peel froze in surprise, and Willow took advantage of the situation. "I think that's enough Slayage for tonight, Faith. Xander and Oz are supposed to meet us at Buffy's for videos, remember?" She grabbed Faith's arm and started walking out of the cemetary.
"Wait!" Miss Peel called.
Willow and Faith stopped, and turned around.
"I will tell the Council about this. We have two-and-a-half years before your eighteenth birthday, Faith. Maybe by then, they can work out the details."
Faith flashed her another grin, and then both girls took off for Buffy's.
If that was a "friendly" session with the Council, Joyce thought, I'd hate to see what they consider "hostile."
Now that the Council had settled their issues with Rupert and Faith, they had spent the last few days interviewing -- no, interrogating her daughter and Angel, with a thoroughness and ruthlessness that would have done the FBI and the KGB proud. What was worse, Joyce suspected that the process was not aimed at getting information from them; rather, it was an attempt to intimidate and manipulate the couple into giving in to the Council's wishes: namely, a permanent separation.
Joyce's feelings on the matter were conflicted, to say the least. She had always been uncomfortable with Angel, even when she'd just thought he was Buffy's college-age history tutor. And now . . .
It was hard to deal with the notion that her daughter's boyfriend was older than the Declaration of Independence. It was even harder to deal with the notion that that same handsome, deceptively young-looking creature had killed enough people to depopulate a good-sized city during his century-and-a-half of soullessness. Or that, in the previous year, he'd tried to end the world -- twice.
The only thing that stood between the world-saver and the world-destroyer was her little girl, and "a moment of true happiness."
But this was her daughter, damn it, and the Council was pushing her around, interfering with her personal life. It was bad enough they had set themselves up as her "guides" and "teachers," telling her where to go and who to fight and who to Slay. Telling her how to live her life -- a little voice inside Joyce added, especially considering how long most Slayers last, but she shied away from it instantly -- was going too far!
It was painful, watching Buffy and Angel together. Seeing them look at each other, their eyes like raw and open wounds . . . how they constantly had to hold themselves back. The worst part was when her daughter would clench her fists, or wrap her arms around herself, as if chilled, because it was the only way to keep herself from putting her arms around the man . . . vampire . . . whatever, that she loved.
She kept wanting to tell her daughter to stop it, that it wasn't worth the pain she was putting herself through. She also wanted to tell Angel to go someplace far away, to stop tormenting her daughter -- and himself -- this way. But she knew that was unfair. It wasn't Angel that was tormenting her daughter, it was the curse that kept them apart.
She also knew that if she ever did such a thing, and Buffy found out about it, her daughter would never forgive her.
Joyce also had to admit that she wasn't quite as jaded about romance as she had been just a few months ago. Her relationship with Rupert had repaired much of the damage her heart had suffered since the last months of her marriage to Hank. Between him, and the disaster that was Ted, she had begun giving up hope that she would ever meet a "nice guy" worth dating, much less fall in love again. And she certainly hadn't imagined that the man she would fall for would be Rupert Giles, who in public was the very image of the stuffy, reserved English gentleman.
Of course, he's very different in private, she thought with a blush. She was only glad that her fiancé had apparantly gotten over his exhibitionism since his teenage years; she was far too old to keep having sex in public!
When you're twenty, she thought, they tell you to get a room because they're jealous. When you're forty, they tell you to get a room because they don't want to catch a glimpse of wrinkled, sagging flesh!
That embarrassing thought was interrupted by the doorbell. Joyce got up and went to the door, wondering if Faith and Xander had arranged to wait here for Buffy to finish patrolling -- and also how on Earth she was going to keep those two bottomless pits fed until her daughter got back.
To her surprise, though, it was Mrs. Peel -- and only Mrs. Peel; the rest of the Council was nowhere in sight. "Good evening, Mrs. Summers," the Englishwoman began. "I'm sorry to intrude on you like this, but I knew that Rupert and your daughter were due to patrol tonight, and I had to speak with you -- privately."
Operating automatically, Joyce stepped aside and gestured for her to enter -- being careful, as Buffy had taught her, not to give a verbal invitation. Although she doubted that Mrs. Peel could have been suddenly turned into a vampire, good habits had to be maintained, or she could put her daughter and her lover in danger -- not to mention herself, of course.
Meanwhile, her brain was spinning, wondering what on Earth was going on, and why Mrs. Peel would be coming to see her.
Mrs. Peel only smiled and entered, taking no notice of the seeming discourtesy, or of Joyce's internal turmoil.
She's British, so, start with the basics, Joyce thought. "Would you like something, Mrs. Peel? Tea, perhaps?"
"Yes, thank you."
Joyce showed her visitor into the living room, then briefly excused herself to fill the electric teakettle.
"It'll only be a moment," she explained as she re-entered the living room and seated herself. "Now . . . what did you need to see me about?"
Mrs. Peel frowned, looking uncomfortable. "Mrs. Summers . . . I'm afraid I'm on the horns of a rather cruel dilemma, and I believe you are the only one that can help me out of it."
"Me?"
The other woman nodded. "It's something of an ethical problem; I'm caught between the Council -- including my husband -- and your daughter. To be brief, the Council has come into certain information, which is being kept from Buffy -- unfairly, in my opinion."
"Information . . . about Angel?" Joyce guessed.
"Exactly. Has Rupert mentioned to you about a month ago that Wally -- Sanderson, I mean -- had found references to Angel in certain texts?"
"Vaguely -- Buffy told me more about it. Something about your sources being only second- or third-hand, and you were going to try to get hold of the original source material?"
She nodded again. "As it turns out, we were unable to acquire the scroll we wanted, but our agents were able to photograph it two weeks ago, and ever since then Sanderson has been splitting his time between researching ways to hurt Richard Wilkins and making sense out of those photographs.
"The translation has been especially difficult, since this scroll -- the Prophecies of Aberjian -- is written in several different languages, some of them demonic. And the passage that directly mentions 'the vampire with a soul' has been particularly troublesome."
She fell silent at that point, and Joyce asked, "Well? What does it say?"
"I can't tell you -- not yet, at any rate."
"Why not? Isn't that why you came here?"
"No, Mrs. Summers, I came here to ask you whether or not I should tell your daughter and Angel what Wally has found. This information would likely change their relationship forever."
Joyce blanched slightly. "Then . . . this scroll mentions Buffy as well?"
"No, but what it says about Angel . . . " She stopped, and shook her head. "No -- I promised myself I would not reveal anything about it to you or to Rupert before I told the two of them -- if I tell them. All you need to know is that if I tell Buffy and Angel what I know, any chance you or the Council has of getting them to break off their relationship will be gone forever."
"But . . . why ask me to decide?" Joyce asked, confused.
"Why not you? This is your daughter we are talking about, after all."
The older woman sighed, and leaned back in her chair. "You must understand, Mrs. Summers -- my husband has been submerged in the murky politics of the Council and Watcher HQ for nearly thirty years. He's been fighting Ashton, Travers and the others for so long, he's lost sight of what he was fighting for in the first place. All he can see right now is that Buffy is defying the Council by continuing her relationship with Angel, and that standing by and allowing her to do so will undermine his authority with the other Watchers.
"Meanwhile, everyone is being distracted from the real danger, the Ascension of Richard Wilkins, and . . . and they have no right to interfere with your daughter's personal life -- any more than they had the right to interfere in my relationship with Peter!" The older woman's voice became harsh with emotion. "I spent three years thinking he was dead, thanks to them! And now he's headed down the same path . . . unless I stop him."
She paused a moment, cleared her throat, and pulled herself together. "My apologies for my outburst, Joyce -- I shouldn't burden you with my problems."
Joyce chuckled. "Why not? Everyone else in Sunnydale does. I've lent a sympathetic ear to every one of my daughter's friends, except for Oz. Not to mention the time I found myself consoling a vampire named Spike with a cup of hot cocoa!"
The Watcher's head snapped up. "Spike? You mean William the Bloody?"
Joyce nodded. "I suppose -- I think I heard Rupert refer to him that way once."
The older woman shook her head in bewilderment. "A vampire -- and not just any vampire, but William the Bloody! -- drinking hot cocoa?"
"With little marshmallows. And crying into it, over his unfaithful girlfriend."
"Mrs. Summers . . . you are either the bravest woman I have ever met, or the most foolish."
Joyce shrugged. "Sometimes I think you have to be both to live in Sunnydale."
"You know, Joyce, I envy you your relationship with your daughter."
Sometime during their talk -- maybe over the second or third cup of Rupert's fine Assam tea -- they had become "Joyce" and "Emma" instead of "Mrs. Peel" and "Mrs. Summers." Joyce wasn't quite sure how that had happened, only that it seemed natural. "Why on earth would you do that?"
"Because while Catherine and I love each other, we don't have the kind of closeness that you and Buffy seem to share." She made a moue. "I'm afraid that I spent too much time being Catherine's teacher, and not enough time just being her mother."
She suddenly let out a wry laugh. "You know, I was furious when I first heard you were involved with Rupert."
Struck by the non sequitur, Joyce could only blink and ask, "Why?
"I'm afraid Catherine learned all the wrong lessons from the stories Peter and I used to tell her. I'm convinced she thinks there's some heroic combination of her father and her 'Uncle John' -- my old partner, John Steed -- waiting for her out there somewhere. But because she's afraid of what the Council could do if it objects to whomever she picks, she's been trying to find this paragon among the Watchers of her age group -- which is a lot like looking for a lion in a pasture full of sheep."
Joyce couldn't quite suppress a guffaw. "Are they really that bad?" she asked, when she'd regained control of herself.
"Most of them. I suppose there are some decent young men in the Watchers," Emma allowed, "but most of them are . . . well, rather wimpy, I'm afraid. Polite, intelligent, and sophisticated, but also narrow-minded, arrogant, and reserved. And far too bookish for Catherine. Not that I think she's looking for a Neanderthal; I just think she needs someone who can measure up with her physically as well as mentally. Which is why I thought Rupert would be just the man to crack that shell of hers."
"Oh!" Joyce gasped, finally understanding. "I'm . . . well, no, I'm not sorry, because I'm very much in love with Rupert . . . but I hope things work out well for her."
"So do I," the other woman said with a sigh. "Frankly, I'm getting a little desperate. Only two men have managed to impress that girl in the past several years, and while both of them are here in Sunnydale, they're also both taken!"
Joyce blinked as she ran through the possibilities. Even though she knew Angel had saved Miss Peel's life, she knew the young woman didn't really seem "impressed" with him, and it was highly unlikely that this woman would want her daughter involved with a cursed vampire. Which only left . . . "You mean Xander?"
"Mm-hm," Emma confirmed. "The boy's academic achievements leave something to be desired, but he's got a good heart, and more courage than any ten Watchers I know. If it weren't for his involvement with Faith, I'd tell Catherine to hang the age difference and go after him."
Joyce chuckled. "Again, I'm not exactly sorry things didn't go your way, because I like Faith, and she needs Xander far more than your daughter does . . . but I'll have to admit, if Rupert and Xander are examples of the kind of man your daughter likes, she's going to be looking a very long time before she finds another one like them."
The other woman grimaced and sipped at her tea. "Don't I know it."
The two continued to talk for a long time, well past midnight, and only stopped when Buffy and Rupert came in from patrol.
Before either of them could say anything, Emma asked Buffy if Angel was still nearby.
"Yeah, he's probably just a few houses down by now."
"Could you run and catch him, please?" The older woman looked at Joyce, who bit her lip, then nodded slightly. The Watcher looked back at Buffy then, and added, "There's something I need to tell you both."
Her conversation with the couple only took about fifteen minutes. All through it, Joyce kept wondering if she had really made the right choice -- if this was really worth all the grief her daughter was going to put herself through.
She stopped wondering when Emma finished her recitation and interpretation of the prophecy concerning Angel.
"Human?" Buffy whispered, her eyes shining. Angel's expression was less readable, but his eyes were wide, and he looked even paler than usual.
The Watcher nodded. "Wally is sure of it." She looked up to address Angel. "You must understand, Angel; I do not believe you are being asked to atone for the sins of the demon you carry inside you. I think the tasks you have to complete are simply the price for the great favor you are to be given -- the restoration of your mortal life."
Angel asked Emma something else, but Joyce didn't hear it. All her attention was on her daughter. The expression on her face . . . For the first time, Joyce really understood the meaning of the phrase, "a moment of true happiness."
And Joyce knew that she had made the right decision.
Buffy had wanted to try to protect Mrs. Peel from the rest of the Council, but the older woman pooh-poohed that idea. "It does no good for me to have told you about the prophecy, unless the Council knows you know about it. And who else would have told you? No, better to have this out in the open."
Naturally, the first reactions were an expression of stunned betrayal on the face of Peter Peel, and a shout of "Treason!" from Trevor Gaines. Even Catherine Peel appeared shocked by her mother's actions.
Surprisingly, though, the rest of the Watchers in attendance seemed to approve. Giles had warned his father about her forthcoming announcement, and she could see him beaming approval at his former protégée.
Meanwhile, on the Council, the bookish Sanderson seemed to be of the opinion that no one should be kept in the dark about a prophecy regarding themselves, even vampires. Evans came right out and agreed with Mrs. Peel's basic argument: that keeping the prophecy a secret from the couple constituted unwarranted interference in their private lives.
Gaines' response to that was predictable. "Slayers don't have private lives, Evans! Not from us!"
Peel glared him down. "Be quiet, Gaines, before your prove their point for them." He looked at Buffy. "I had my reasons for keeping this prophecy a secret from you. For one thing, there is no reference date, no way of knowing when it will come to pass. Angel could become human tomorrow, or a thousand years from now. I thought it would be unwise, and unfair, to give you any false hopes."
Buffy gave her best "If-looks-were-stakes-you'd-be-dust" glare. "It's still my life, and my decision. If I want to stay with Angel, and hope that this shoe-shine thingie--"
"Shanshu," Mrs. Peel quietly corrected her.
"Whatever, takes place when I'm still alive, and young enough to marry him and have his children and everything," and oh, how she loved the shocked looks on the Council members' faces when she said that, "then you don't have the right to tell me not to.
"Besides," she added, "if this thing were going to happen a thousand years from now, why was Angel brought back from Hell now? Why was the First in such a hurry to get Angel to lose his soul again -- and kill me in the process? Why was it just as happy to see Angel dead as turned evil? And why was something else just as determined to keep him alive? The way I see it, this thing is gonna happen soon . . . and it involves both of us."
Peel stared at her for several seconds, then glanced over at Giles. "Rupert, can't you make her see reason? That creature tortured you!"
Giles swallowed heavily. "Actually, it was the demon Angelus who tortured me. The soul of the man once called Liam Aidan Clery had nothing to do with it." Buffy blinked; she'd never heard Angel's full human name before. She didn't even know how Giles knew it.
"Furthermore," Giles went on, "the fact that Angelus tortured me only gives me more reason to want to see that prophecy fulfilled as soon as possible. If Angel becomes human again, then one can only presume that the demon will be destroyed -- or at least, exorcised -- forever."
"Give it up, Peter," Evans said. "You were wrong and Emma's right, and that's all there is to it."
"If you thought I was wrong, then why didn't you say something -- or tell Miss Summers about the prophecy yourself?" the President of the Council countered archly.
"Because I'm just your friend and political ally, Peter, not your wife," the burly man countered with a smirk. "Besides, if I know Emma, she had at least one more reason for doing what she did -- am I right, my dear?" he asked, with a wink towards the subject of his conversation.
She rolled her eyes a bit as she answered, "Of course." Then, to everyone's surprise, she turned to Buffy and asked, "Buffy, you're aware of what Faith has suggested as an alternative to the Cruciamentum?"
"Yeah -- um, yes, Mrs. Peel. I also know you're still thinking about it, but Giles said he's confident you'll have 'a workable long-term plan' ready by the time Faith turns eighteen."
"That's correct. Now, let's assume for a moment that Faith's idea works perfectly, and we call a third Slayer in two-and-a-half years -- and the universe doesn't strike us down for violating some kind of cosmic plan -- and we decide we only need two Slayers in the field. What would you do then, Buffy?"
Buffy blinked. She'd never faced that question quite so directly. "I . . . I guess I haven't decided that yet."
Mrs. Peel nodded. "Probably best that you don't try just yet. A lot can change between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one. But let me ask you this much: Would you turn your back on the fight against Evil?"
"No." The answer was out so quickly that Buffy almost didn't realize she'd said it. She looked around, at her family and her friends, and the rest of the words she knew she needed to say came to her. "I could never do that. Xander's said it better than anyone: Once you know what's out there, you can't just ignore it anymore. Not and live with yourself."
"I see," Mrs. Peel commented. Then she turned to her husband. "Peter, one of the problems we've all been facing for the past few years is the gradual reduction in the number of new Watchers each year. We're getting old and retiring -- or dying -- faster than we're reproducing. Also, quite frankly, there has been a noticeable decrease in the quality of the new recruits. There are a few exceptions; Quentin Travers' nephew Jason is one of the best students I've had in years -- and he's not nearly as stubborn or hidebound as his uncle," she added with a slight smirk.
"But the fact remains that we need to get some new blood from somewhere . . . and I think we have the answer right in front of us."
Trevor Gaines was out of his seat in a flash. "Preposterous!" he shouted. "This girl could never do a Watcher's job in a thousand years! She has the intellectual capacity of . . . of an oyster!"
Buffy didn't know exactly what happened for the next few seconds. All she knew was, one moment she was listening to Gaines insult her, the next moment she was about two feet away from the table, and Faith was holding her back, whispering to her, "It ain't worth it, B -- he's just a fat old geezer with a big mouth."
Meanwhile, Gaines was pointing at her and saying, "You see? Her first response to a verbal attack is a physical assault! She has no business being a Watcher!"
"If you had said such a thing to me, Gaines, my first response would have been a fist in your jaw," Mrs. Peel countered.
"And mine as well," Evans added. "And my fist is rather larger than Emma's."
Buffy finally let Faith lead her back to her seat. She settled herself back into it, as calmly and gracefully as she could . . . while giving Gaines a glare that should have frightened him into a heart attack.
"As I was about to say," Mrs. Peel went on, "I don't know if Buffy will be up to the demands of being a Watcher. I do know that if we alienate her now, she will never give us the opportunity to find out.
"I also know that we cannot judge her intellectual capacity--" this was said with a fearsome glare of her own towards Gaines "--by her current academic achievements. My own grades suffered to a certain extent while I was training, and I was only a Potential. I cannot imagine how Buffy manages to balance her schoolwork with her duties as the Slayer. I understand, though, that her standardized test scores were quite good?" The last was addressed towards Giles and Buffy's mom.
"Actually, they were excellent," Giles responded. "Especially considering she had to take the test the morning after the, um . . . " he faltered briefly, and blushed, "cursed candy incident, and the confrontation with Lurconis. Her mother and I . . . well, we've been hoping that things could be arranged so that Buffy could go to college."
Mrs. Peel frowned, then turned to address her daughter. "Catherine, would Faith be ready to take up sole guardianship of the Hellmouth if Buffy left Sunnydale this fall?"
Blinking in surprise at suddenly being brought into the conversation, Miss Peel glanced apologetically at her charge, and shook her head. "I don't think so, Mum. She's come a long way, and I believe she would be up to handling the duties that most other Slayers in the past have faced -- but no, I don't think she could handle this town all by herself. Although for that matter, I don't believe Buffy should be left alone here either," she added. "This town is a preternatural war zone, and both Slayers have benefitted enormously from being able to rest every now and then."
"But there's more to the world than Sunnydale," Gaines pointed out. "It's all well and good that having our two Slayers work together will help them live longer, but that won't help us if we learn, for example, that the Great Seal of Solomon is weakening, and we need a Slayer in Jerusalem to hold back the demons he bound three thousand years ago."
Evans let out a loud snort. "There are more than nine thousand demons bound behind the Great Seal of Solomon. If that ever gives way -- and that could only happen if someone were stupid enough to break it -- we would need a whole army of Slayers to stop them."
"Which we may have one day, if we follow through with Faith's idea," Mrs. Peel commented. She frowned, and drummed her fingers on the table. "Rupert, I'm afraid that if Buffy is going to attend university, it will have to be the one here in Sunnydale. We simply cannot risk having her leave the area at this time."
Giles nodded, and Buffy slumped a little in her seat. UC Sunnydale wasn't a bad school . . . but she had hoped she could do better. She knew she could do better.
"But," Mrs. Peel went on, "since Faith will be turning eighteen in two years, we can always re-examine the issue at that time. If Faith -- and her successor, of course -- can cover Sunnydale by themselves at that time, then Buffy could always transfer to another school. And just so you know, Buffy, there are Watchers in influential positions at several major American universities, as well as Oxford and Cambridge in England. If your grades are decent, you will be able to transfer to a top-notch institution."
A long silence fell over the room, as everyone seemed to digest everything that had been said. Then suddenly, Peter Peel rose to his feet. "Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm afraid I cannot allow this situation to go on any longer."
"Peter--" she began to protest.
"Not another word, Em. You're the one who's forced me into this." He took a deep breath. "I hereby nominate Emma Peel to the position of President of this Council."
The only noise in the room was a faint gasp, and then a chuckle from Evans. Mrs. Peel only gaped at her husband.
He smirked at her. "Ah! At last I've managed to render you speechless!" Then he shook his head, chuckling slightly. "Em, I haven't been this angry with you in almost thirty years. And, as I recall, you were right that time as well!"
She shook her head. "Peter, you don't have to step down as President--"
"Yes I do, Em. If I can be this wrong about something this important, then I'm not the right person for the job. Besides, in case you hadn't noticed, you took over this Council several minutes ago. You're already planning for possibilities no one else on this Council has even thought of yet. I don't know if I agree with everything you have in mind," he added, shaking one finger at her slightly, "but it all sounds a hell of a lot better than the things I was afraid I'd have to do over the next few years."
He looked around the table. "Will someone second the nomination?"
"Seconded," Evans said with a grin.
"All in favor?"
Peel's own hand, along with Evans' and Sanderson's went up.
"All opposed?"
Gaines, a sour expression on his face, raised his hand.
Peter Peel glanced at his wife, then shrugged. "With three votes for, one against, and one abstention, the motion is passed." He stepped to one side, and gestured to his chair. "I believe this is your place now, Emma. Congratulations, Madame President. And good luck."
Rupert opened the door and shuffled tiredly into the house he'd recently learned to call "home." It had been a long, disheartening day, and he felt like his brain had been run through a wringer.
Joyce met him in the vestibule with a hug and a worried look. "Oh honey, you look awful. Can I get you anything?"
He sighed in relief as he hugged her back. "Some tea -- very strong . . . with a generous dollop of scotch."
Her eyebrows lifted as he finished his request, then furrowed as her expression became more concerned. "More bad news?"
He sighed. "You might say that." He was too tired and too discouraged to say any more at the moment.
When Joyce saw he wasn't going to elaborate, she nodded. "All right . . . but when you've had a chance to sit down and rest for a while, I'd like to know what's going on," she added with a look that reminded him of Buffy at her most stubborn.
"You will, Joyce . . . but I'll only have to repeat myself when Buffy gets home, so can it wait until then?"
She nodded. "Of course, dear. I'll go make the tea -- dollop and all," she added.
"Bless you," he murmured before sinking into a chair.
He managed to rest for all of three minutes before the doorbell rang.
He muttered several foul words under his breath as he started to get up, his back and joints making nearly audible creaking noises. Now I know I'm getting old, he thought ruefully. Time was, I'd only feel this way if I spent the day wrestling a giant Khlonar demon, not just a few medium-sized books.
Even though she'd been in the kitchen, Joyce beat him to the door. He muttered a few more choice words as the visitor, Peter Peel, stepped in. Whatever it was he wanted, it probably involved more bad news, which he was really not in the mood to hear at the moment. Unfortunately, even though the other man had stepped down as President of the Council, he was still a member of the Council, and therefore Rupert's superior. If Peter said jump, he could only ask "How high?"
Meanwhile, Joyce was being dutifully polite. "I was just making some tea for Rupert; would you like some?" she offered.
Peel gave her a surprisingly warm smile. "That would be lovely. Although, given what Emma has told me about their findings today, I'll bet Rupert asked for something a lot stronger than tea."
Rupert flushed slightly as Joyce glanced at him with a smirk, then turned back to the older Watcher. "Can I assume then that you'd like your tea without any . . . special additives?"
Peter chuckled. "Please. And you might want to tone down any 'additives' in your fiancé's tea as well -- despite the rather dyspeptic look he's giving me right now, I'm not here to deliver bad news or ask for some outlandish favor."
Joyce headed back into the kitchen with a rather girlish giggle, and Peel came into the living room. "I am sorry to barge in on your private time like this, Rupert, but the last time I interrupted one of Emma's research sessions, she threw a copy of Greerson's Observations at me, and you know how heavy that tiresome old book is."
Rupert chuckled as he settled back into his chair. "Oh, I do indeed; I spent several years carrying a copy around the Watchers' Academy. So, if you're not here to deliver bad news or ask for a favor, why are you here?"
Peel grinned impishly. "I said I wouldn't ask for any outlandish favors. I do have a favor to ask of you, but I don't think you'll consider it a great hardship."
Joyce came in with their tea, and both men took a moment to sip from their cups. "Is this a private conversation, Mr. Peel?" she asked.
He shook his head. "I don't know if you'll find it particularly interesting, Mrs. Summers, but you're welcome to listen in, if you like." He turned back to Rupert, whose ears were beginning to prick up with interest despite himself. "Believe it or not, we've had a useful suggestion from Trevor Gaines."
Rupert's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Gaines actually had an original thought? I'd've thought that pigs would not only fly, but land on the moon before that happened."
"It was hardly an original thought, Rupert. He's simply come up with an . . . interesting alternative, you might say, to the scenario that Emma laid out a week ago."
"Oh?"
"Mm-hm. A very interesting one, in fact. You remember your Watcher history -- the late Middle Ages?"
"Ye-es . . . oh. You mean the apprentice system?"
Peel nodded, then glanced at Joyce. "In the mid 1300s, when the population of Europe was being devastated by the Black Death, the plague took a fearful toll among the Watchers -- all that travelling to strange and exotic places, you know. And so, for more than a century, the Council set aside the tradition of only accepting the children of Watchers as new members. They adopted a system much like the guilds of the time, in which Watchers with a certain amount of experience could take on an apprentice. They would be responsible for the apprentice's entire education, with a qualifying exam to be taken when the teacher felt he or she was ready."
"He or she?" Joyce asked in surprise. "Even back then, there were female Watchers?"
Peel chuckled. "Don't assume that because we're a bunch of old stuffed shirts that we're male chauvanists as well, Mrs. Summers. Anyone who has any illusions about male superiority will have them well-punctured after just a few minutes with a Slayer. And there have been times when female Watchers were preferred, for reasons that should be obvious."
Joyce blushed deeply. "Oh . . . I, uh, thought . . . that wasn't . . . allowed."
Peel shook his head, looking disgusted. "It isn't. But every now and then, someone comes along who thinks he's above the rules. And they -- and their Slayers -- almost always come to bad ends because of it."
He turned back to Rupert. "Gaines has suggested that the apprentice system -- with a few minor modifications -- would be the best answer to our need for more recruits. He claims he doesn't object to the idea of Slayers eventually becoming Watchers, but he makes no bones about having grave doubts about Buffy and Faith. And -- for completely different reasons than Gaines' -- I'm inclined to agree."
Giles winced; he knew what would be coming next.
And sure enough, Joyce gave Peel a good impression of Buffy's furious glare, and practically growled, "Are you implying that our girls aren't good enough for your exclusive little club, Mr. Peel?"
"Don't be absurd, Mrs. Summers!" Peel answered firmly. He frowned, and looked thoughtful for a moment before going on. "In your opinion, Rupert, what makes Buffy such an extraordinary Slayer?"
That was a question Rupert Giles had looked at from a hundred different angles, ever since the moment when he realized that Buffy was not just a good Slayer, but a great one. As her Watcher, it was his duty to analyze her methods, to make her as effective as possible . . . and to see to it that anything he learned from her could be passed on to future Slayers.
"That's a difficult question, Peter. Your daughter has referred to Buffy's quick-wittedness, and that's certainly an asset, but there's a lot more to her than that. She has willpower, dedication--"
"And her 'Scooby Gang," Peel added archly.
Rupert smiled. "Yes. And they help her in many different ways. They give Buffy strategic, tactical, and emotional support, and I'm not sure which of the three is the most important. Not to mention that fighting to protect the people that she cares about can be far more inspirational than any abstract notion of saving the world."
Peel nodded. "I agree. But there's one quality that she and her friends possess that you haven't mentioned."
Rupert raised his eyebrows. "Oh?"
"I'm not sure you can give it a proper name. You might say it's a combination of youthful näivete with good old-fashioned stubbornness. Or, simply not knowing when to give up. But in short, it seems to me that because they refuse to admit that there are things they cannot do -- including not letting anyone tell them they can't do it -- they often end up achieving what everyone else assumes is impossible.
"The time that Buffy 'died' is a prime example. Terry told me he had a talk with Xander Harris a while back -- told him that what he did for Buffy that night was nothing that a number of Watchers couldn't have done in his place. But I told him that's nonsense, and I'm sure you'll agree; most Watchers wouldn't have tried to defy a supposedly iron-clad prophecy."
"I did . . . and I nearly had my jaw broken for my troubles," Rupert commented, rubbing the spot where Buffy had punched him that night.
"I'm afraid you're the exception that proves the rule, Rupert. It took Xander Harris -- and his stubborn refusal to give in to 'the inevitable' -- to save the world that night."
Peel turned to face Joyce. "Which is why I believe your daughter -- and Mr. Harris, as well -- would be ill-served by a Watcher's training. We are taught to question everything -- especially ourselves -- and to always keep an eye on the big picture. It is part of our job to be a restraining influence upon the Slayer at times: to stop her from rushing into situations without knowing all the facts. Trying to force them into the same mindset -- to constantly question themselves, to always consider the consequences, and so forth -- would either burn out of them the very qualities which have made them so successful . . . or it would drive them and their instructors completely insane."
Even Joyce had to smile a little bit at that, and acknowledge Peel's point.
"Faith is another matter, I will admit," he added. "She has already had a very harsh lesson in self-doubt. The old Faith, the one Rebecca Mannheim described in her diaries, would never have fit in at the Watcher Academy. But that Faith has been destroyed, to all intents and purposes, and the Faith that my daughter describes, the one that has been slowly putting herself back together with Catherine's and Mr. Harris' help . . . in a few years, we will examine her case, and maybe she can become Catherine's apprentice as well as her Slayer."
Peel frowned down at his teacup, which was long since empty. "But that is a question for another time. Tonight, we need to talk about your apprentice, Rupert . . . and the lesson in self-doubt that she still seems to need."
"My apprentice? But who-?" Rupert broke off. The answer should have been obvious from the start. "Willow."
Peel snorted. "Of course I mean Miss Rosenberg. She might even be better suited to a Watcher's role than Emma was: she's tremendously talented, mentally and magically speaking, and she has a gift for research. Her main problem, frankly, is the attitude which has served her friends so well. It would be troublesome in a Watcher . . . and it's unacceptable in such a powerful witch."
"Is Willow really that powerful?" Joyce interjected.
Peter frowned. "As far as Catherine can tell, Willow has only begun to tap her magical potential. There's no way of knowing how powerful she will eventually become, but our best guess is that she has more raw power at her disposal than any other witch the Council has dealt with in the past five hundred years."
That bland statement shook Rupert, and he struggled to put his thoughts together. "I have . . . tried, many times, to restrain Willow's experimentation with magic, but I've had little success. In fact, your daughter has made great progress in Willow's magical training, through the use of T'ai Chi as a focusing exercise. I'd have assumed you'd assign Willow to her instead."
"Catherine has been able to train Willow to channel and control her magic, but it is Willow's attitude towards magic that needs to be addressed. And frankly, I believe that you have more to teach Willow in that regard, given your own past history."
Rupert flushed slightly.
"Besides," Peter went on, "Catherine needs to start spending more of her time with Faith. The Watcher/Slayer bond between them is still rather tenuous, and they need to start working together more."
A thought suddenly occurred to Rupert. "Is this the decision of the Council?"
Peter chuckled. "My wife and I have spoken about this, if that's what you're worried about. I'm not trying to undermine Emma's authority as President, or go around making decisions behind her back. But she freely admits that I know a lot more about magic than she does, so she's yielded to my judgement on this."
Peel's tone became more formal as he asked, "Will you accept this charge, Rupert Giles, to train Willow both in magic and as a future Watcher?"
Rupert nodded. "Gladly. Although I could use some assistance from the Council in that regard -- mostly in the way of books I will need for her education, on both counts."
"You'll have whatever you need, Rupert. My word on that."
"Jeez, you'd think they'd stop pullin' the old 'damsel in distress' bit," Faith grumbled as the end credits rolled on another episode of Babylon 5.
"I don't know if I'd call Delenn a damsel in distress, Fay," Xander countered. "I mean, she's not Slayer-tough, but she's not a pushover, either -- and even *you'd* have to put the brakes on in a big big hurry, if you had a gun shoved in your face."
Faith made a face as she thought about that one. "Well, maybe. I guess it just offends the Slayer in me to always see the big, strong menfolk rushing in to rescue the helpless little women, y'know? I mean, I'm surprised they only had Sheridan take off his jacket in this one; I was expecting to see him rip off that oh-so-white shirt and beat his chest like King-friggin'-Kong before he knocked the bad guy's head in."
Xander chuckled. "Well, at least they had Delenn save Sheridan in the episode before this one."
"Yeah, I'll admit that was a good one. And at least they're writing her some good lines. Too bad I'm the Slayer -- I'm *supposed* to kill the things I fight. I can't go around saying, 'If you value your lives, be somewhere else.'" Her imitation of actress Mira Furlan's accent made Xander laugh even more.
"And while I'm not complaining about the guy I landed, she's got good taste in men," Faith added, with a sly grin. "But what I really wanna know is, is she gonna get laid before I do?"
Xander's laughter quickly turned into a coughing fit. "Faith . . . " he protested weakly, "You know what I said before . . . "
The Slayer's expression softened. "Yeah, I know. You wanna do the romantic thing, chocolates and flowers and all that. And . . . that's big, Xan. Huge. No one's ever treated me like I was worth all that, y'know? But . . . Xander, this waiting crap has been drivin' me *nuts*! Every time we're fooling around a little and I start to push things, you pull away. You actually *pull away* from me, Xan, like you're scared of me or something!
"Know what seein' that all the time reminds me of? B and Fangface. You know how it is: B's always holdin' herself back, 'cause she's afraid of what'll happen if she lets herself go. Is that your problem, Xan? Are you afraid of what I'll do afterwards if we actually do the deed?"
"No!" Xander protested quickly. "I . . . I . . . "
"You're trying to 'protect' me, aren't you, Xander?" she accused.
Xander couldn't help but nod, already feeling his cheeks turning red and hot.
"Well, what the *hell* do you think you're protecting me from? Corruption? Immorality?" She gave a rueful little chuckle. "Xander, considering you're the only guy who ever wanted to make love to me . . . who ever thought I was worth anything more than a quick roll in the sack . . . if you finally made love to me it'd be just the opposite. It'd be the first good thing I ever did with a guy."
Xander almost shook his head in amazement. <<Only Faith would try to make me feel guilty for *not* having sex with her.>>
He was about to say something when she added, "Hell, even Miss Peel and Mrs. S agree with me."
Xander thought for a moment that his heart had stopped beating, right then and there. He choked for several seconds on what he had been about to say, before gasping, "You . . . you *talked* to them? About . . . *that*?!"
Faith chuckled. "Well, who the hell was I supposed to talk to? Giles?"
Despite his near-panic, the thought of Faith going to Giles for *that* kind of advice sent him into another coughing fit.
When he managed to get control of himself again, he found that Faith had taken advantage of his distraction to lean over close to him. From the angle he was at, he could either gaze into her deep brown eyes or stare down her shirt at her cleavage. He wasn't sure which one unnerved him more at this point.
"I talked about it with Mrs. S first," she was saying. "She's approved of you from day one, Xan -- hell, she even told me once that if she'd been in B's place, she'd've picked you over Angel any day of the week."
He stared at her in disbelief.
"I kid you not. Of course, she likes the cheerleader too, so you lost some points with her over the kissin' Willow thing. But she said that the fact that you cheated just kinda proved you two weren't right for each other."
Xander's mouth silently opened and closed a few times. Then he managed to gasp out, "And she . . . she said--"
"She said that while she didn't like the idea of teenagers having sex, she thought the whole argument seemed pretty useless in my case, and that at least you would be willing to treat me with a little love and respect."
"More than a little," Xander responded automatically. That earned him a big kiss from the suddenly-grinning Slayer.
"Keep sayin' things like that, Xan. You're just provin' my point," she murmured against his lips as the kiss ended.
"But . . . but . . . Miss Peel?" he gasped out.
"She said pretty much the same things. Of course, she asked me if I knew about using protection -- as if I could've made it to fourteen without gettin' knocked up if I didn't know all that stuff," she added with a snort. "But she still told me to tell you that if you get me pregnant, she'll have us in front of a minister so fast it'll make your head spin."
Xander's head *was* spinning. He guessed that Miss Peel knew all about what was going on in his and Faith's room. In fact, he wouldn't have put it past her to have slippled one of her famous bugs in here early on, to make sure he didn't take advantage of Faith when she was vulnerable. But the idea that she -- and Buffy's mother, too! -- would approve of--
<<In front of a minister so fast it'll make your head spin.>> Xander couldn't help gulping.
Faith grinned at him. "Hey, relax. I told her I knew what I was doin'. And no offense Xander, but the *only* way we're gettin' hitched anytime soon is if you knock me up."
Even though he should've felt relieved, Xander couldn't help the "Hey!" that left his mouth.
Faith chuckled. "Oh, come on. After what you've done for me, putting a stupid ring on my finger wouldn't make a difference, would it? 'Sides, marriage is for people who have a home, and kids, maybe a dog, and all that crap." A funny look came over her face for a moment. "Although the dog would be kinda nice.
"Anyway, *if* I live long enough to do this retirement gig that the Watcher-gals are cooking up, then I can think about all that other stuff. For right now, I just want you -- in every way."
He stared at her for several seconds, barely moving. The words, when they came out, were a surprise to both of them. "Would you go with me to the Prom next Saturday night?"
She blinked at him. "The Prom? You're kidding, right? Me, in some girly dress, dancing to tunes that were written before my mother was born?"
He pressed on. "You can ask Miss Peel to help you get a dress. We'll go out to Sorge's and have a great dinner. Then we'll go to the dance and hang out with some of our favorite people -- you know the rest of the Scoobies are gonna be there, and I think Snyder's drafted Giles into being one of the chaperones." He swallowed heavily. "And then when we've had enough dancing . . . we'll come home . . . "
"And we'll make love, right? No more holding back?" she asked.
He shook his head. "No more holding back."
She gave him a sly look. "Okay, Xan . . . you've got your one-week reprieve. But all I can say is, you'd better not make any plans for Sunday."
Thursday night was the one night Oz almost never saw Willow; she usually spent it doing as much weekend homework in advance as possible, to leave the weekend free for dates and Scooby meetings. So he was surprised when the doorbell interrupted an intense practice session, involving trying to play along with the latest Carlos Santana album. (He wasn't quite managing to keep up with the legendary guitarist, but that wasn't really the point. For him, following along with a master like Santana was almost as good a meditation technique as T'ai Chi.)
He put down his guitar, paused the CD player, and went to the door, glancing cautiously through the peephole before opening it. "Buff," he said, compressing a friendly greeting as well as genuine surprise at seeing the blonde Slayer into a single word.
"Hey, Oz," she answered with a smile. "How are ya?"
"I'm good," he answered with a shrug.
"That's good," she answered. "Listen, I've got this little problem, and I think you'd be the perfect guy to help me with it."
Sunnydale being what it was -- and him being who he was -- he didn't actually say anything to invite her in, but waved in the direction of the sofa, all the while wondering what kind of problem would bring the Slayer to his home at -- he glanced at the clock -- eleven-thirty at night.
"What's up?" he asked, as they settled in.
"Well, as you know, the Senior Prom's coming up next week--"
He couldn't help it. He arched an eyebrow, and interrupted, "In case you hadn't noticed, Buff, I'm the werewolf. The guy you're supposed to be going with is a mile or so down the road, in the big stone house."
She blushed a little and chuckled at his dry tone. "I *know* that. That's not what I had in mind -- although the big guy is being really dense about the whole thing. I mean, I've dropped about a million hints, and he *still* hasn't gotten the idea that he's supposed to ask me. Kinda like what he did with the ring here," she said, gesturing at the claddagh on her right hand. "He gave it to me a year ago, and never told me it was an engagement-slash-wedding ring."
Oz nodded sympathetically. If not for certain bad memories, he could've told Buffy to pretend it was the Sadie Hawkins Dance, and ask Angel, but as it was . . . "I guess there weren't many proms back in his day. Unless there were, and they called them 'promenades,'" he added thoughtfully.
"And even then, there probably weren't any slow dances, and you probably couldn't touch more than the tips of your date's fingers or something stupid like that," Buffy added with a pout.
Oz' lips twitched. There weren't many people who could get an actual grin or laugh out of him, but Buffy was one of them.
"Anyway, it's the other man in my life that I'm here about. Giles, I mean," Buffy added. "I kinda wanted to do something nice for him, and I thought embarrassing him in front of the whole school by making him dance with me at the Prom would be just the perfect thing."
Oz couldn't help it. He chuckled. "That would be something to see." <<Understatement of the year.>> The look on Giles' face as Buffy dragged him out onto the dance floor would be worth anything, even facing the Watcher's wrath if he found out Oz was somehow involved. And at the same time, it *was* a really nice gesture on Buffy's part.
"The thing is, I wanted it to be the perfect song. Something that really says 'Giles,' you know? And since you know so much about music, and you know the guys who'll be dj'ing that night . . . " she trailed off, looking hopeful.
Oz pursed his lips. "Tough call," he mused, scratching his chin. It *was* a tough question; most of the music that you could dance to at a Prom -- and that *Giles* could dance to, of course -- was much too romantic and intimate for a dance between Buffy and her Watcher/future stepfather. Like Eric Clapton's "Wonderful Tonight" -- that would be fabulous for a dance between, say, Giles and Joyce, since he was such a Clapton fan--
"Wait. I think I've got something," he suddenly said, turning and flipping through his CD collection. He pulled one out and popped it into the CD player. As it happened, the song he wanted was the very first one on the album, and the room was suddenly filled with the bell-like tones of Clapton's guitar work.
Buffy listened to the music for a while, and slowly began grinning as the lyrics came into focus. By the end of the song, she was wearing a thousand-watt smile. "Wow. That's . . . that's wonderful."
"It's not too much?" he asked. That particular song was *deep*, almost as much as the song he'd written about his son's death a few years ago.
"It's perfect. Thanks, Oz, I knew you'd come through for me."
Outwardly, he only nodded and said, "You're welcome." But inside his head, he was rubbing his hands together and grinning maniacally. This was going to be *some* Prom.
Tucker Wells was tired of being made fun of. He was tired of being beaten up by the jocks, and ignored by the popular kids. He was tired of having girls laugh at him and reject him.
"They're not gonna laugh at me anymore," he mumbled to himself as he opened the book entitled Demon Summoning in Ten Easy Lessons. "Not after they're all turned into Kibbles n' Bits . . . "
<<The universe has some friggin' sense of humor,>> Faith thought to herself as she sat in Summers home with the rest of the Scoobies. <<Not only do Mrs. S and the Cheerleader happen to be at the same damn store we stopped at to look at dresses, but some big ugly doggie chooses *that* moment to crash the party, and I end up saving Superbitch's life *again*!>>
<<Just glad Watcher-gal and Mrs. S are okay . . .>>
Giles had been smart enough to get a copy of the store's security camera tape, and they were now gathered around the TV, watching over and over as the 'dog' burst in through the front window and headed right for Cordelia, only to be headed off by Faith.
<<Would've been a helluva lot better if I'd just killed it then, but there were too damn many bystanders,>> she fumed. <<All it would've taken was one mistake . . . and there'd've been more people dead, because of me. And that's not happening again!>>
<<But it's still my fault the bastard got away . . .>>
Faith was so caught up in self-recrimination that she barely noticed the conversation going on around her, until she heard Buffy saying, "No! You guys are going to have a prom. The kind of prom that everyone should have. I'm going to give you all a nice, fun, normal evening if I have to kill every single person on the face of the earth to do it."
Buffy had that *look* in her eye -- the one that said she was in full Slayer mode, and ready to kill something. But there was also a slump to her shoulders . . . a kind of resigned anger in her posture . . . and before she knew it, Faith found herself saying, "Not on your life, B. You've carried me long enough; it's my turn. 'Sides, I've had to listen to you talk about that damn pink dress of yours all friggin' week, and I don't wanna put up with all the pouting you'll do if you miss this dance."
Buffy paused a moment before responding, and Faith could see that she *really* wanted to give in on this, and just let Faith take over, but she still protested, "No, Faith. Xander's been looking forward to going to the Prom with you, and you got a dress too--"
Faith interrupted her. "Which I'm still gonna get to use."
She turned to Miss Peel. "Could you take my dress to the school, and wait there for me?"
Miss Peel paused for a moment, then nodded. "Of course. And I'll make sure the locker rooms are open, in case you need to, ah, freshen up?"
Faith grinned. "Right. Hard to look all pretty and girly when I'm covered in demon goo."
She turned to Xander. "Sorry, Xan, I guess I'll have to miss that dinner we planned . . . but I'll be along in plenty of time for some dancin', 'kay?"
Xander looked worried. "You sure you don't want any backup, Faith? That thing looked pretty mean."
Faith shook her head. "Nah. Only reason I couldn't nail it before was 'cause I had too many people to protect. I get this thing alone, and it's gonna be one dead doggie. How hard can it be?"
Later, she would remember those words, and curse her stupid arrogance.
<<Stupid idiot! Why the *hell'd* you assume there was only *one* of them?>>
There were four of them. That loser -- Tucker, that was his name, though Faith mentally changed the first letter to something more appropriate -- had *four* Hellhounds under his command. She'd easily dispatched the one still in its cage, but she hadn't had time to do more to Tucker than knock him out before taking off after the other three, who were already on their way.
She had no idea how far ahead of her the Hellhounds were, and as she ran across town towards the high school, her mind was filled with horrifying images:
Giles, with his throat torn out.
Mrs. Summers, her hair matted with blood, eyes wide and staring.
Miss Peel, screaming as a Hellhound tore her apart.
Buffy, fighting bravely before going down under two of the demon-beasts.
Xander . . .
She couldn't even let herself think it.
Every single person she cared about was at that dance.
They weren't expecting any trouble. They were all counting on *her* to take care of it.
And they could all die if she failed them now.
Her mind racing back and forth between ice-cold fear and white-hot fury, her muscles charged with supernatural Slayer strength and purely human adrenaline, she dashed through the streets of Sunnydale, making the same silent vow with every stride:
<<No one's *ever* gonna die because of me again! Never again! *Never again!*>>
The Prom was everything Buffy had ever dreamed it could be. Angel looked positively yummy in his tux -- and half the girls in her class had gone absolutely *green* when she came in on his arm. That alone had been worth the whole Homecoming Queen fiasco.
She smiled as she saw Willow dancing with Oz. The redhead who had been so painfully shy in their sophomore year had fully blossomed, and there were probably a lot of guys in the room who were kicking themselves now for not swooping her up when she was available.
She glanced over at Xander. He was the lone standout at the moment, still watching for Faith's entrance. Early on, she and Willow had each claimed a dance with him, for old time's sake. Even her mom had danced with him once, making him blush so fiercely that Buffy couldn't quite suppress a grin.
But all the time, he kept looking over towards the door, waiting for Faith to show up.
Buffy was getting a little concerned herself. It was getting late, and surely it couldn't take Faith *this* long to whack the bad puppy with a rolled-up newspaper. But hey, she was a big girl. She could take care of herself.
Couldn't she?
Faith nearly cried out with triumph as her Slayer senses finally picked up the demons' trail. They were still ahead of her, and it would be too damn close for comfort . . . but she was in time.
They were *not* going to get into that school.
Not while she lived.
She caught sight of them barely a block short of the high school, and her mind raced, tactics quickly being considered and discarded, until she settled on a plan of attack. She quickly pulled out a stake and hurled it at the lead hound, smiling grimly as the point buried itself in the demon's skull. And then, just as she had hoped, the second one paused for a moment to feast on the brains of its fallen brother.
<<He probably cut down on their food for the past day or so, so they'd be fiercer. But that also means they're more interested in eating than killing.>>
The third one might have stopped to do the same, or it might have tried to go on to the school; she would never know. Because just before it reached the other two, Faith caught up with it, and she leaped, bulldogging the demon so viciously that its neck snapped as her momentum drove it into the ground.
She rolled away from the corpse, and ended up nearly eye-to-eye with the last Hellhound. It snarled at her, bloody jaws open wide, and she rolled again, springing to her feet and pulling out a second stake. The hound's muscles bunched, and Faith braced herself for the leap that would come next . . . only to pause in surprise as a crossbow arrow <<thunked>> into the beast's haunch. It snarled, and turned towards the injury, and Faith quickly seized the unexpected opening. She lunged, burying her stake in the demon's suddenly vulnerable throat, and it emitted only a short, gurgling scream before it died.
The fight done, Faith fell to her knees, panting, as the excitement and adrenaline drained out of her.
<<Jesus. Either there really is a God up there, or I just used up a whole friggin' lifetime's worth of luck in one night.>>
She never noticed the approaching footsteps until she heard her Watcher's voice say, "Three Hellhounds. We are going to have a talk sometime tomorrow, Faith, about the wisdom of tearing off on your own to face an unknown enemy. But for tonight . . . well done. Well done. That was a good night's work."
"Four hounds," she corrected the woman, as she caught her breath. "There was . . . another one . . . back at the house." She absently dug into her pocket, finding the paper on which she'd scribbled the address she'd gotten from the butcher. "Here. The guy's still there . . . knocked out . . . couldn't let him get away . . . after summoning these things."
Miss Peel stared flatly at the address, then her eyes flicked back to Faith. "Right. I'll take care of this. The Council has ways of dealing with such people. Now, you get into the shower, and change into your dress. There's a young man in there who's been anxiously awaiting your arrival." A small smile appeared on her face. "He never even touched his supper."
Faith's eyebrows flew up. "Xander? Didn't *eat*? Hell, I'd better get in there!" And with a smirk, she stood up, grabbed the garment bag Miss Peel was holding out to her, and headed off towards the school.
Xander would have breathed a sigh of relief as Faith entered the room, but the sight of her completely took his breath away.
Faith wasn't much known for the color of her wardrobe. She wore white, black, and blue or gray denim -- and that one pink turtleneck he'd seen her in maybe two or three times, and never since she'd loaned it to Willow. Even her dress at the Homecoming Dance had been your basic "little black dress."
But Faith's Prom Dress was, of all things, a silken sky blue. It was a balance between Faith's daring sexuality and Miss Peel's exquisite good taste -- clinging in some places, flowing freely in others, leaving still others completely bare, and generally playing havoc with Xander's ability to think clearly.
But Faith didn't seem to notice his regression to semi-cavemanhood at the sight of her. She also didn't seem to notice that half the males in the room -- and a few of the females as well -- were openly gaping at her as she crossed the room. She simply dashed right up to Xander and threw herself into his arms, planting her lips on his with a fierceness that left Xander with no doubts that she had an itch for him to scratch.
The kiss went on for some time, and Xander was embarrassed -- and maybe a little bit smug, as well -- as he realized that the people standing around them were applauding their performance. Someone -- Buffy or Willow, he suspected -- even gave a little wolf-whistle.
Faith finally let the kiss go, but continued holding onto him, as she leaned over to murmur in his ear, "Next time you offer me backup, remind me to take you up on it."
He tensed, suddenly worried. "You okay?"
She pulled back, smiling slightly. "I'm fine. Everything's taken care of. But I nearly learned the hard way that even a kick-ass Slayer can't do everything by herself."
Her smile grew bigger then. "Talk later. Dance now."
As she dragged him out onto the dance floor, she leaned close once more and murmured to him, "Oh, by the way, I think I saw some munchies over there, on one of the tables? We're gonna have a dance or two first, but you *are* going to eat something, Xan."
Then she pulled him close and winked at him as they started swaying in time to the music, and his heart sped up. "You need to keep your strength up for later."
<<And so God's in his Heaven, and all is right with the world,>> Rupert thought as he watched the couples dance. It had been a relief to see Faith come in -- and yet another to see the way Buffy, Angel, Willow, and Oz all publicly cheered her reunion with Xander. The grownups who surrounded and supported the Scooby Gang had noted the tension between the two branches, and it bothered them all, especially Joyce, who was often caught in the middle.
Naturally, Cordelia was still pointedly ignoring the couple of the moment, but at least she was doing it in the company of a young man -- Percy West, the basketball player that Willow had been asked to "tutor," if Rupert recognized him correctly -- and not off fuming by herself.
Even so, from what he'd seen so far that evening -- and from what he both knew and suspected -- Cordelia would not be spending much time with Percy in the future. She had managed to steal him away from his present girlfriend for this one evening, but she seemed more bored with his company than anything else. He was an attempt to maintain her social status, no more.
<<Xander may have completely botched their relationship,>> he thought, <<but if nothing else he taught Cordelia to expect more.>>
Then Jonathan Levinson got up to announce the various class awards. Giles applauded politely as each one was announced, and grinned slightly at Xander's barely-heard grumblings about not winning Class Clown.
And then Jonathan called out for Buffy.
As he read a prepared speech about the strange things that happened in Sunnydale, and how Buffy always seemed to be the one to stop them, Giles couldn't help smiling at the glow that appeared on Buffy's face. He'd always told her that being a Slayer was a thankless task, that no one would ever publicly acknowledge how much she'd done for the world.
He had never been so happy to be proved wrong in his life.
But as Buffy went up on stage to accept the silly gold parasol they'd inscribed for her, he couldn't help thinking, <<How ironic that they acknowledge her, on this of all nights.>> He glanced over at Faith, and saw the conflicting emotions on her face: the pride and the jealousy, the loneliness--
"Wait a minute, everyone."
Rupert's eyes snapped back to the stage as Buffy's voice cut through his reverie.
She had taken the microphone as well as the parasol, and was now facing the crowd, as Jonathan and the other members of the prom committee looked down at her in surprise. "I know this isn't some awards show where I'm supposed to thank all the little people without whom I wouldn't be here today," she said sheepishly into the microphone. "But they aren't little people at all. And without them, I definitely wouldn't be here today -- and, if you know what goes on here in Sunnydale, then you probably know that many of you wouldn't be here either. So I'd like to ask them to join me in accepting this."
Her voice became quieter and she smiled slightly as she finished, "So c'mon, Scoobies. Come up and take a bow."
For a moment, Giles simply stood there, completely flabbergasted, as Faith, Xander, Willow, Oz, Angel . . . and yes, even Cordelia began moving through the crowd. Then he felt Joyce give him a gentle shove in the back, saying, "Go on, Rupert. You belong up there as much as anyone."
He couldn't help blushing and coughing nervously as he made his way across the room, but he knew better than to argue with his fiancée. Sometimes Joyce could be just as stubborn as her daughter.
To his amazement, the applause when he joined the group up front was just as loud as it had been for Xander and Faith. But being the center of attention profoundly unnerved and embarrassed him; despite the fact that he fought demons for a living, he was used to (relative) quiet and solitude in situations other than actual combat. And as soon as the obligatory fifteen seconds of fame were over, he did his best to duck out of the limelight -- only to find that his Slayer had surreptitiously seized the back of his jacket.
"One last thing," she said, turning back to the stage while keeping a firm hold on him. "This would be a very appropriate time for the d.j. to play a certain special request I made . . . ?" She glanced at the young man in question, who nodded, and made a point of inserting a new CD into his player.
Rupert's eyes widened as the music began. He *knew* this song . . . surely she didn't meant to . . . ?
He looked down at her, and she gave him a smile both sweet as honey and hard as steel.
She most definitely *did* mean to. In front of *everyone*.
Stunned -- and not a little fearful -- he let Buffy lead him out onto the dance floor, and she smiled up at him as Eric Clapton's voice began:
<<Sailing down behind the sun,
Waiting for my prince to come.
Praying for the healing rain
To restore my soul again.
Just a toerag on the run.
How did I get here?
What have I done?
When will all my hopes arise?
How will I know him
When I look in my father's eyes?
(Look into my father's eyes)
My father's eyes.>>
He kept waiting for her to say something, but she never did; she just held onto him, and danced with him. And Rupert Giles -- Watcher, scholar, and sometime sorceror, fluent in over fifteen languages, many of them extinct or non-human -- realized that, for once in his life, absolutely no words were necessary.
<<Where do I find the words to say?
How do I teach him?
What do we play?
Bit by bit, I've realized
That's when I need them,
That's when I need my father's eyes.>>
This wasn't about telling him how she felt about him. They'd been through so much together that words were completely inadequate to describe their relationship, what they meant to each other.
This was Buffy's way of telling the rest of the world how she felt about Rupert Giles, in one of the few ways in which people who didn't know about Slayers and Watchers could understand.
<<Bit by bit, I've realized
That he was here with me;
I looked into my father's eyes.>>
She didn't let him go or break the silence until the song had finished. "I hope that wasn't too traumatic an experience for you, Giles?" she asked over the applause of the entire senior class.
He did his best to glare at her. "Buffy, that was, without a doubt, the most embarrassing experience of my entire life. And . . . " His glare broke as he chuckled and shook his head, "It was also, without a doubt, the greatest compliment that anyone has ever paid me. Thank you."
She grinned impudently up at him. "All part of our friendly service. Now, go dance with my Mom or I'll do it again."
"Yes, Ma'am," he said, and hurried to rejoin a broadly-grinning Joyce.
"Catherine?!?"
Catherine blinked sleepily from the couch she was sleeping on. "Mmmmwha? Oh, good morning, Mum."
"I'm sorry for waking you, dear, I just didn't know you were here."
She sat up, trying to shake the cobwebs from her mind. "Dad let me in around two a.m. I had to take care of the human end of last night's little dust-up."
"I heard." Emma Peel shook her head. "Hellhounds -- nasty business."
"And over such a *petty* matter," Catherine added. "Some girl won't go to a dance with young Mr. Wells, and he responds by summoning demons."
Her mother frowned. "Just when I think we humans are finally beginning to get somewhere . . . " She shook her head again. "You know why I believe in God, Cat? Only a being of *infinite* wisdom and patience could put up with a sorry lot like us."
Then her expression changed, and she looked at Catherine sharply. "Catherine . . . just what *are* you doing here? Don't you have two young charges that need looking after?"
Catherine flushed slightly. "I . . . ah . . . decided it would be best if I spent last night . . . somewhere other than our shared flat."
Her mother gave her a knowing smirk. "How . . . discreet of you, my dear. And tell me, just why were your father and I blessed with your company? Not that I mind seeing you, my dear, especially since we'll be leaving today--"
"Leaving?"
The older woman chuckled. "Last night's nastiness reminded the Council -- myself included -- that there is a reason why we are supposed to stay away from the front lines . . . and just what Sunnydale being on a Hellmouth means. Just one of those demons could have wiped out the whole Council at one shot. So we've decided it would be best if we headed back to Headquarters and concentrated on strategy and research, and left you lot free to handle the combat tactics."
Catherine *was* sorry to hear that her parents would be leaving . . . but she also felt a certain surge of relief as well. She hadn't understood Giles' grumbles about the Council's visit before their arrival, but now, it was another story. They hadn't gotten much real *work* done in the past couple of weeks, what with all the meetings and -- what was the American term? 'Micro-management,' that was it -- that came with the Council's immediate presence.
But her mother wasn't through. "You distracted me, Cat. As I was saying before, while your father and I don't mind putting you up for the night, there are probably any number of young men in this town who would have been willing to do so as well."
<<Oh, no, not *this* old discussion again!>> "Mum, I don't *know* any young men in Sunnydale."
"Well, why not? You've been living here for nearly two months, and you've spent most of that time hip-deep in blooming teenage romance -- and the rest of it hip-deep in blooming middle-age romance!" she added with a wink. "Can you honestly tell me that in all that time, you haven't *once* had the urge to engage in a little blooming yourself?"
Catherine glared at her mother, but stayed silent; she knew better than to try to lie to her.
"Oh, Catherine," her mother finally sighed. "If you were one of those Watchers like Sanderson, who preferred the company of musty old books to your fellow human beings, your father and I wouldn't give you such a hard time. But you aren't, and we do."
Catherine's shoulders slumped in surrender. "Mother . . . all right, yes, I *would* like to find someone. But you *know* why I haven't . . . dated . . . much."
"I know why you *didn't*, Cat. But in case you've forgotten, Ashton is not the President of the Council anymore, *I* am. And as President, and as your mother, I can assure you that if you can find someone who can deal with who and what you are, and can make you happy as well, I don't care if he's a scholar, a soldier, or a circus clown!"
Catherine gaped for a moment, then her mouth shut with an audible click. "That's . . . still rather a tall order, Mum. What do I do? Go up to some fellow in a bar and say, 'Hello, my name's Catherine, and I work for a secret society of scholars which has shepherded young Vampire Slayers for the last two millenia!'?"
That at least earned a dry chuckle out of her mother. "You don't have to be quite so blunt as *that*, Catherine. But I think you'd be pleasantly surprised at how amazing even 'ordinary' people can be."
"On the Hellmouth?"
"I think Buffy's friends are proof positive that you can find worthwhile people anywhere -- even on the Hellmouth. Perhaps I should say, '*especially* on the Hellmouth,'" Emma Peel added archly. "The worst circumstances have a way of bringing out the best in people, you know."
Catherine was never quite sure how she got out of her parents' hotel suite after that. Her mind was still reeling from her conversation with her mother -- so much so, that she simply unlocked the door to her flat and walked right in without thinking.
Luckily, all she walked in on was a pajama-and-robe-clad Xander putting a couple of plates on a tray. "Morning, Miss Peel. Sorry, I just used up the last of the eggs -- but I've still got some pancake batter left if you're interested?"
She blinked at him, then recovered and answered lightly, "Thank you, Xander. I think I am." She smiled. "I'll help myself -- why don't you take Faith that breakfast you've put together. I'm sure she's eagerly awaiting your return."
Then she surprised even herself by giving Xander a sly wink.
The young man blushed fiercely, nodded, and took off so quickly she wondered how he managed not to drop anything.
<<All right, Mother, I can admit it,>> she thought. <<I'm a little jealous of my Slayer. Not that I'd be interested in Xander *himself,* mind you, she added firmly. He's *far* too young for me -- in more ways than one. But I could get used to a man who would bring me breakfast in bed on a Sunday morning . . .>>
Catherine chuckled, laughing at herself as much as anything else, and got to work on her breakfast.
When the Council of Watchers makes a decision, it doesn't always implement said decision with all due haste. Some decisions, in fact, have taken decades to become more than simply words on a piece of paper.
This did not seem to apply to the Council's decision to clear out of Sunnydale. Even though it was Sunday, the Council's travel arrangements were made and everyone assembled at the airport by two o'clock.
To the surprise of the Scoobies and the Summers-Giles family, though, it was *only* the Council that was leaving.
"Are you sure about this, Dad?" Rupert Giles asked worriedly. "You've heard Miss Peel describe this town as 'a supernatural war zone.' It's not the kind of place in which I would recommend you spend your golden years."
"'Golden years,' Rupert?" the older man asked, looking both amused and annoyed. "I may be eighty-one years old, but I was an active Field Watcher for more than forty years. Spending what time I have left wandering around that drafty old house in Devon with nothing to do is not my idea of 'golden.' Besides, *you're* here, and so is your family. I intend to get to know my son again, and to see my first grandchild born -- and to spoil him rotten, in the tradition of all good grandfathers."
Rupert had to force himself not to gape in surprise. Granted, his relationship with his father had improved a great deal since its low point, just after the Eyghon disaster, and had even become warm in the ten years previous to Rupert's posting in America. Still, Timothy Giles had always had a very strong sense of his own dignity. Spoiling his grandchild was to be expected. Announcing that he was looking forward to spoiling a grandchild was something else entirely.
"Ah . . . Have . . . have you given any thought to where you might stay?" Rupert asked, almost dreading the answer.
The old man chuckled. "Relax, son. I might drop in every now and then and take advantage of my soon-to-be daughter-in-law's excellent cooking, but the last thing you need in your house is me lying around, especially with a baby on the way." He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I wish your old flat was still available -- your description of it sounded lovely, and the complex is close enough to your home for visits, but far away enough for proper privacy."
Rupert shook his head. "You wouldn't have liked it, Dad. It was a duplex, with a long flight of stairs up to the bedroom. I'm sure we can find you a respectable ground-floor apartment -- or even a small ranch house." He allowed himself a small smile. "For some reason that escapes me, real estate is quite cheap in Sunnydale."
"I can't imagine why," his father responded dryly.
"Do take care of Giles for me, won't you, Buffy? *My* Giles, I mean, although I'm sure you'll keep an eye on Rupert as well," Emma Peel added with a smile.
"Of course I'll take care of him -- he's about to be my step-grandad, after all," Buffy answered with a grin. Then she tilted her head to one side. "Does that make us kinda like family? I mean, us both being Watched by Gileses, and my Giles marrying my mom, and all that?"
"I suppose it does," the older woman answered. "Family enough, at least, for you to feel free to drop in on us in London when things calm down around here."
Buffy's eyes lit up with a predatory twinkle. "They have shops in London, don't they?"
"They have *excellent* shops in London," Mrs. Peel said with an answering twinkle.
"*Please* don't encourage her, Emma," Giles chided her with comical dismay. "You've never seen this girl shop; she's even more dangerous with a credit card than she is with a stake!"
"Hey, wow, score one for the English guy," Xander laughed along with the other Scoobies as Buffy pouted up at her Watcher.
After chuckling for a moment herself, Mrs. Peel added, "Don't worry, Rupert. If Buffy and I take a tour of the more fashionable stores in London, it will be my treat -- *within reason*, of course," she added as the Slayer's eyes started twinkling again. "Family is all well and good, but there *are* limits."
"Oh, I suppose," Buffy answered with another pout and an exaggerated sigh.
"Say, when do *I* get to go on a shopping spree in London?" Faith asked with a smirk.
The three Peels looked at each other and groaned in unison.
Faith crossed her arms and started to look annoyed. "Well?"
Miss Peel finally answered, "I suppose I can take you sometime this summer -- just not at the same time as Buffy. *Someone* has to keep an eye on the Hellmouth, after all."
Faith grinned and winked over at Buffy. "Ain't it fun knowin' rich people?"
Buffy winked back. "I'll bet it's even more fun *being* rich people, but this is good."
Mrs. Peel gave them both a tolerant smile. "As I said, there are limits, but some of the fun of *having* money is being able to do nice things for your friends and family." She grinned over at her husband. "After all, what's the fun of having it all, if you don't have anyone to share it with?"
"I'll take your word for it, dear," Peter Peel answered wryly. "After all, I'm just the middle-class gentleman Watcher who married an elegant, brilliant, and beautiful heiress."
"Flatterer," she murmured, as she leaned in for a kiss -- much to the dismay of the teenagers, who all made various faces and noises at the sight of the sixtyish couple kissing.
"Eww...whatever happened to that famous British reserve?" Buffy muttered.
"The same thing, I imagine," Giles commented, "that happened to, 'Children should be seen and not heard.'"
Buffy crossed her arms but refused to say anything more -- being scored on twice by her Watcher in one afternoon was more than enough.