London, February 2009

To Giles' immense relief, the weekly Directors meeting had nearly drawn to a close. Department heads had given reports to be blessed by Quentin Travers, who presided over the meeting with the air of a medieval baron viewing his fiefdom. All that remained was any final words of wisdom before the participants scattered to carry those words back to their teams.

Most of it was the usual: vision statements, pronouncements of upcoming requirements and the minutiae of any organized body. Sometimes it could stretch on for twenty minutes or longer, almost requiring its own meeting to contain it all. Today it was brief and as the meeting adjourned, some attendees rising immediately while others lingered about the room's polished oak table to speak with colleagues. Mindful of things awaiting his attention in his office and not wishing to be in Travers' presence any longer than required, Giles was among those who rose.

To his surprise and annoyance, Travers motioned for him to sit back down. "I received the most interesting news about your Miss Summers," he said.

"Really?" Giles was careful to keep his voice neutral and somewhat uninterested. He'd been certain for some time that Travers was having Buffy watched independently of the reports she made to the Council as part of her stipend arrangement. If Travers was about to say what Giles thought he would say, that suspicion would be confirmed.

Travers paused for a moment, as if considering how best to phrase his words. When he did speak, his voice was loud enough to carry down the table. "How long have you known Miss Summers was engaged?"

A sudden crack sounded through the room, bringing the occupants to silence and all eyes turning to a single man seated a few chairs away from Giles. He opened his hand, staring at it as if he didn't understand how he'd managed to crush his pen, blue ink smeared on his palm.

"Is there something wrong, William?" Travers asked from the head of the table.

Slowly, the man looked up, hurt dancing across his face before the mask came down. "Nothing," he replied, voice steady. "If we're done, I'd best go clean up."

He didn't wait to be excused, but gathered his folio, pushed back from the table and was gone. Giles started out of his chair to follow, but Travers stopped him once more. "We're not quite finished, Rupert."

Rupert Giles had long ago learned to play the game and mind his tongue around his superiors, picking and choosing the battles he fought. This was such a battle. "We bloody well are. You did that on purpose, Quentin. I was trying to find the right moment to tell him. Thank you for your tact and consideration."

With that he stalked away, not caring about the reaction in his wake. Everything seemed against him; the elevator was slow and the corridors crowded. By the time he reached the offices for the Council's Field Services, his quarry was gone. "Where did he go?" he demanded of Linda, the assistant who usually stood as guardian at the gate.

"I'm not sure," Linda replied, looking more than a little worried. "He stormed in, threw his portfolio on the desk, grabbed his coat and said he was going out. I tried to stop him, told him I could call a car, but he wouldn't listen."

Giles cast a glance at the clock. The sun set early in winter, but at four-thirty in the afternoon it was still far too bright for a vampire to endure. Cursing under his breath, Giles raced for his office and his own coat. He couldn't -- he wouldn't. Not after all this time.

Another wait for the elevator before he could head through the main lobby and onto the sidewalk. No piles of dust here, no startled pedestrians gawking along the Strand. And no reason there should be; the sun had sunk low enough that the building across from the Council of Watchers cast a long shadow over the sidewalk, effectively blocking direct light. The realization allowed Giles the opportunity to pause, consider which way his quarry might have gone.

It took a few minutes, but Giles found him on the Embankment, hands gripping the top of the low stone wall as he stared out across the Thames, protected by the shadows. The wind off the river was cold and bitter, but he'd made no effort to draw his coat close, letting it flutter behind him. Giles approached slowly, worried he might start moving again before they could talk.

"How long have you known, Giles?" The voice was tight. Giles had heard it like that before, knew the explosion was being kept barely under control. Later, the violence would emerge, pain eased with a hunt, but at least now he seemed willing to speak.

"A few days. I've been looking for the right opportunity to tell you." Giles moved in closer. "Spike, I had no idea Travers knew. If I had…"

"You would have spared me the pain?" A snort. "Please. Love's bitch, that's what I am. I live for pain."

Giles stood next to him, slipping his hands into the pockets of his overcoat to warm them. "You know that's not true. Once, perhaps, but you've built quite a life here. You have friends, people who care about you and a great deal of respect from your colleagues. Your journey has been an amazing one and I'm proud to be a part of it."

"So why can't I take pride in my accomplishments and let her go, is that it? Wish her well and move on?" The wind picked up, ruffling honey-colored curls. "Wish I could. Wish I could close my eyes and not dream of her."

"It's been seven years…"

"Six years since I left Sunnydale; four years since I last saw her." The barest hint of a smile quirked the corners of his mouth. "I've stopped counting the days. Perhaps there's hope for me yet."

Spike turned away from the river, blue eyes filled with a hurt that made Giles' bones ache. "I was with Drusilla for nearly one hundred and twenty years. For all I've done, there are still moments when I miss her. Compared to that, what is six years?"

Giles had no answer and Spike turned back to his perusal of the river. The Houses of Parliament and the Abbey were visible from where they stood, stone turned rosy in the setting sun. "I suppose Travers is annoyed with me for breaking up the meeting."

"Travers can go bugger himself. That was done as a deliberate act of malice. He knows how you feel about Buffy and it bothers his precious little world. Nor does he like to admit you're an asset to the Council."

"Assistant Director of Field Operations. When you first suggested it, I thought you were mad. The Watchers are supposed to kill vampires, not put them on the payroll. Hiring William the Bloody seriously upset the apple cart."

"I didn't hire William the Bloody. I hired Dr. William Ashbury-Smythe, who's proved to be a fine researcher and superb tactician. If I can outlast Travers, I swear I'm going to recommend you as my replacement."

"Glory, death and sod all else."

The words were half-whispered, and Giles wondered if he was supposed to hear them. "What was that?"

Spike shook his head. "Just something I said to Buffy once. It's nothing. Are you going? I assume she's asked you."

Another thing Giles had been trying to decide how to tell his friend. Perhaps forthright was the best answer. "She has asked me. In fact, she's asked me to give her away."

"Because the day's about her real family, right?"

For a moment, he wondered how Spike was able to guess so exactly what Buffy had said in her phone call. Then he remembered another occasion when Buffy had asked him the same question. "I'd almost forgotten about Willow's spell."

"I hadn't. Just after, I didn't think of it at all; couldn't deal with it. Now, though…"

He stopped, hands tightening on the stone. "You said yes, of course."

"Of course." There were no recriminations there. Both knew Giles wouldn't abandon Buffy on her special day. He'd smile and play the proud father-figure, watch her fulfill her dreams of a normal life, even if only for a moment. "It's in July, about a month after Dawn's graduation."

"Niblet graduating from college. Strange to consider. Amazing how quickly time passes." He glanced up at the sky. "Sun's low enough. I'm going to head off home. We'll talk in the morning. I want to go over those Romanian reports with you."

He started away, back straight. "Spike," Giles called, and he stopped. "You never did tell me why after everything you still love her."

Spike half turned back, a strange, sad smile on his face. "Hard not to love my soul."

***

The house was warm and welcoming when Giles let himself in the front door. A glance into the living room showed a fire crackling away in the fireplace, an open book on the coffee table sign of recent occupation.

As he hung up his coat and muffler, Anya came hurrying from the kitchen. "You're early! You usually call when you're early."

"Just decided I had enough and wanted to come home." Giles gathered her into his arms and held her tight. "Did I upset dinner plans?"

"No, since dinner plans consist of ordering that curry you like and curling up on the couch together. I was just putting some wine the refrigerator to chill." She was playing with his tie, frowning slightly. "You usually call…unless you have something you need to think over."

Anya looked up at him, brown eyes reflecting worry rather than her usual warmth. "You told him about it, didn't you? That's why you're home early and all pensive. Don't try to tell me you're not pensive, Rupert. After seven years, I know your pensive look."

Giles couldn't help but smile. "You are the most observant woman I know." He planted a kiss on her forehead. "It's one of the things I love about you."

She snuggled in closer. "That and the wonderful orgasms."

"I could never forget the orgasms. To answer your question, yes, Spike knows, but no, I didn't tell him."

Her head came off its resting place on his chest. "You settle on the couch; I'll get the scotch."

With that, she was gone, back into the kitchen to fetch glasses. Somehow Giles had a feeling her evening of curry and snuggling was going to be delayed.

Tie loosened, scotch in one hand, Giles leaned back against the cushions while Anya curled at the opposite end, feet tucked up under her. "So Travers simply announced it during a staff meeting?" she asked as he finished his tale.

"I wouldn't say 'announce,' but he made certain Spike could hear him."

"Man needs a good vengeance," she grumbled. "I've said it for years."

"I'm thinking of taking you up on it, my dear."

Anya traced the rim of her glass, silent for a long moment. "But how is Spike taking it?" she asked at last. "You told me what he said, but not how he looked."

Giles closed his eyes, summoning the scene to mind. "In pain," he said at last. "He tried to hide it under his usual bravado, but he's hurting. I suppose a part of him always hoped that he and Buffy would somehow…"

He trailed off, not really wanting to dwell on the subject. There were times it seemed quite unfair that he should be so happy while others he cared about seemed to wander in the desert.

The touch of his beloved's hand on his arm brought him back to the present. "You can't fix their lives, Rupert. You've tried before and it's never worked. This is something he has to do for himself."

She was concerned as well; he could see it in her eyes. She was right, though, as much as he'd prefer her to be wrong in this instance. Some time ago, Giles had learned that Anya had a way of seeing the world that often stripped away much of the excuses and pretenses, leaving only the essentials behind. "There's nothing we can do?"

"Invite him to dinner," she said cheerfully. "We'll go out, have some drinks and good food. Not too much alcohol, though. It took you long enough to get him to stop drinking; don't want him to start again. Not tonight. He's going to want to sulk and brood -- even though Spike swears he never broods -- and he'd only resent our attempts to rob him of that. Tomorrow night he's going to want to kill something, so you should find him a nasty demon or vampire to slay. This is Tuesday…we'll ask him to join us Thursday. You can assure him we will not follow the age-old tradition of attempting to ease someone's broken heart by fixing them up with a blind date as quickly as possible. That never works out well and I don't feel like dealing with the awkwardness and discomfort."

As she spoke, Anya snuggled up against him, wrapping his arm about her shoulders. He was content to let her chatter on; her plan was a good one and he didn't actually need to hear all the details of her stream of consciousness. The sound of her voice was comforting for its own sake and he let the words wash over him for some time before he stopped their flow in her favorite way.

They could order the curry later.

On to Chapter Two