A/N: Thanks to our wonderful beta, Immortal_Beloved :)




“I don’t want to go home just so I can screw up again.”

“What exactly are you afraid of?”

“What if I go all veiny and homicidal again? And what if…?” Willow could not quite finish the question, her penultimate fear.

“…they won’t take you back?”

Giles knew. Giles always knew.

“Uh-huh.”

“Willow, we could spend another two years here training and practicing and learning to hone your powers, and still there’d be no way of knowing for sure that the friends you left behind you are still your friends.”

“Well, sure. I mean, if you put it that way. Duh.”

“I'd love to offer you some guarantee that you'd be welcomed back to Sunnydale with open arms, but I can't. You may not be wanted, but you will be needed.”

It meant more to her than she wanted to admit, as she replied with mild sarcasm, “That all you got?”

That patient, familiar smile was a greater comfort to her than anything Giles could have said. “For the moment, yes,” he admitted honestly.

Willow sighed, standing and turning toward the sidewalk. “Okay. I guess I’d better…”

Giles stood with her, opening his umbrella and picking up her suitcase.

“Trust yourself, and the others might follow.”

************************************

Giles felt sick to his stomach, his vision blurring in and out as he tried to adjust to what felt like a very sudden shift in position. All at once, he found himself with his back pressed against the ceiling, watching as his glasses fell from his face, the lenses cracking ominously against the floor.

He had no idea how long he had been there and struggled to make sense of his muddled, mingling memories of the past few hours. He remembered watching Willow below him in this very room, hearing her demanding accusation; he remembered several employees of the Council coming in, carrying Andrew’s still body; he remembered the boy’s wide open eyes, seeming to stare up at him, while the living people carrying him were completely unaware of Giles’ presence.

His attention was torn from his thoughts as Willow slowly moved to stand directly beneath him, her arms crossed over her chest as she regarded him in a coolly speculative manner, her eyes narrowed in accusation. He glanced around to see that they were once again alone in the boardroom before turning his eyes warily back to her. She watched him for a moment longer, a tight, humorless smile forming on her lips.

“You know, Giles, I always looked up to you.”

His fear and self-consciousness manifested themselves in anger as he rolled his eyes at her unoriginal joke and snapped, “How very droll. Willow, you must control yourself!”

Willow’s smile widened slightly, softening as well with a sort of sadness in her wide green eyes, and Giles realized that she did not appear to be under the influence of her magic as he had seen her several times before. Her eyes were their ordinary shade, as was her hair, and while she was solemn and clearly troubled, she did not seem obviously angry.

Confirming his own observations, Willow stated calmly, patiently, “I’m perfectly in control, Giles. But you really, *really* aren’t.”

Suddenly, with a dizzying, spinning motion, Giles found himself seated in a sturdy armchair in front of the fireplace. With a groan, he let his head fall back against the back of the chair, gasping for breath and struggling against the sense of nausea and unbalance that accompanied the sudden, unnatural motion. He closed his eyes, waiting for the dizziness to pass, vaguely aware of Willow’s soft footsteps on the hardwood floor as she approached him.

He opened his eyes with apprehension to see her crouched in front of him, more than a little afraid of what she was capable of doing in her anger, with her knowledge of what he had done; but when his eyes met hers, he was stunned to see that she appeared every bit the same girl he had known and loved for so many years – the same uncertain, trusting child, looking up at him with confusion and bewilderment in her wide green eyes.

Searching his face earnestly, Willow softly reminded him, “You were my mentor, Giles. You helped me…more than you could ever know, when no one else could get through. You helped me come back to myself, and…and I’ll always be grateful for that. I want to help *you*, too, Giles…but you haven’t even answered my question yet.” A bit of her anger returned to her trembling voice as she demanded, “What was it that was *so important*…that it had to cost Andrew his life?”

Giles held her gaze, but his mind was replaying distant images from the past, images of the vampire he had betrayed into the hands of Ethan Rayne: Spike’s first arrival in Sunnydale when he had promised to kill Buffy “on Saturday”; his sitting idly by and observing while Angelus had tortured him nearly to death; his betraying them to Adam; stalking Buffy during the early days of his doomed sexual obsession with her, even to the point of chaining her up in his crypt, proving the danger he posed to her and requiring Buffy to disinvite him from her home.

And then, Giles saw the vampire, sobbing brokenly on his knees, on the freshly turned earth of Buffy’s grave…saw Buffy, admitting that Spike’s obsession with her had not been so very doomed after all – she had slept with him. Xander had told Giles about Spike’s attempt to rape Buffy, and it had been all Giles could do not to track the vampire down right then and punish him for daring to violate her in such a way.

He remembered his grim satisfaction, his firm belief that he was doing what was best for his Slayer, as he had kept her busy, waiting for Wood to end Spike’s useless existence.

But then, his mind filled with a series of very different images: images of Andrew’s over-eager smile, the excitement the boy had carried into everything he had ever done; the way he had gradually been growing, maturing into something far more than the simple annoyance he had once been.

And then…Andrew’s terror-filled gaze as he had swayed on the edge of the roof, locking onto Giles’ eyes in a combination of pleading and accusation before toppling over completely and falling to his death.

Giles’ voice was soft, shocked and haunted as he shook his head, at a bewildered loss.

“For the life of me, Willow…I can’t remember anymore.”

************************************

As the evening hours passed slowly into night, Buffy and Spike lay together on the bed in the room that had been provided for them, still and quiet, simply enjoying the tender nearness and the precious moments they had been allowed to share it. Buffy leaned against the headboard of the bed, half-sitting, half-lying down, while Spike rested his head against her stomach, his hands gently clutching her sides and holding her close to him.

Every now and then, he raised his head, placing a tender kiss against her barely exposed midriff as her hand smoothed slowly up and down over the cool, bare skin of his back. She couldn’t take her eyes from him, watching him in wonder as he silently worshipped her, caressing her skin with kisses before laying his head down again and closing his eyes in contentment.

Neither of their hands seemed content to stay put, constantly moving, sliding over the surface of the other’s body as if in a subconscious attempt to prove the reality of the reunion they were experiencing.

Quietly, her voice trembling with emotion, Buffy confessed, “I never thought you’d be with me again.”

Spike looked up at her for a long moment, the intensity in his blue eyes nearly taking her breath away before he finally whispered, “I didn’t either.” He stared into her eyes, drinking in the very sight of her for which he had longed for years now, scarcely able to believe that she was actually here with him.

Buffy’s eyes lit up, her expression softening with affection as she promised softly, “We’re gonna make it right this time, Spike. I promise. I’m not gonna let anything come between us this time, and we’re gonna be together. For…for as long as you want me.”

“Well, then, that’d be forever.”

Spike replied with a tender smile, a vulnerability in his eyes that touched her heart, bringing to mind the memory of a quiet, close night they had spent together in a dark, abandoned house a few nights before Sunnydale had, quite literally, fallen into hell.

As if his own words had brought an uncomfortable conflict to his mind, Spike abruptly looked away, swallowing hard, all at once strangely awkward. Buffy frowned, reaching down a tender hand to tip his head back up toward her, her frown deepening when he passively submitted to the gesture, almost as if by habit.

A sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach as she realized that it probably *was* habit. Spike had been trained to submit to any manipulations that happened to be forced upon him.

Buffy pushed those troubling thoughts from her mind, waiting until he reluctantly met her eyes to give him a reassuring smile. “What?” she gently pressed him. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

Spike shook his head, his eyes averted for a moment before he met her gaze again with a sigh of resignation. “Can this last?” he asked softly. “I mean…something always seems to happen, love. Doesn’t seem we can ever be really happy, does it? Not for long. Makes this seem…not quite real, yeah?”

“But it *is* real,” Buffy insisted softly. “We’re gonna make it. We’re gonna take this place down and get out of here, and afterwards…afterwards…” She hesitated, her expression growing serious as she emphasized the words again, “We’re gonna make it.”

Spike studied her expression for a long moment before allowing his tension to fade into a soft smile, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. “All right,” he agreed at last with a nod. “I trust you, love. I love you, and…and I believe you.”

His open, trusting words warmed Buffy’s heart, and she leaned forward, pulling him up slightly to kiss him as she did, slowly and tenderly, taking her time and enjoying the simple sweetness of intimate contact. When they separated, she met his eyes again, her own glistening with tears.

“I love you,” she whispered. “You know I love you…right?”

Spike nodded, smiling through his own tears. “I know.”

They lay there together in peaceful silence for a while longer until they began to hear distant noises around the compound, what seemed to be the sounds of combat. Spike raised his head, his brow creased with worry, but Buffy gently smoothed her fingertips across the worry lines on his forehead, drawing his uncertain gaze up to her calm smile.

“It’s all right,” she reassured him, nodding. “It’s a good thing. Trust me, it’s progress.”

“You sure?” he asked quietly, still frowning.

“It’s the girls,” Buffy insisted.

Spike hesitated, glancing between her face and the door for a few moments before reluctantly sitting up.

“Spike…”

“All right, I believe you. It’s the girls. But…all the same…think I’ll lock the door. Wouldn’t want the wrong person walking in on us, would you? Seeing me here with you, looking like…well, you?” Spike pointed out, one brow raised as he waited for her response.

Buffy relented with a sigh and a shrug. “Sure. Go ahead.”

Spike rose from the bed and approached the door, already feeling better in the knowledge that they would at least have some warning before anyone walked in on them, if it was nothing more than the sound of Rayne’s key in the door.

He was only a few feet from the door when a blinding explosion of light and thunderous sound demolished it, reducing it to so many splinters of shattered wood and metal. The force of the explosion sent Spike flying backward and into the cabinet against the wall, where he fell to the floor dazed and disoriented by the power of the impact…and the magic he felt in the blow.

Buffy rose from the bed with a small cry of alarm, but before she could make a move toward Spike, Ethan Rayne was standing in the suddenly very empty doorway. A smug smile formed on his lips over eyes full of anger and malice as he demanded, “Did you really think I wouldn’t sense the presence of a foreign spell in my own home?”