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

Chapter 12: Fears to Hopes, and Hopes to Fears

“It’s Giles.”

“Your…Watcher?”

“Yeah.”

Silence.

“Did he…say something that upset you?”

“No. He’s just…he’s gone.”

“He left you.” His arms tightened unconsciously around her, drawing her closer to his chest.

Buffy buried her cheek against the steady rhythm of his heart, so that when she spoke again, her voice was muffled. “Worse. He’s missing.” The fingers she had splayed along William’s side curled automatically into a fist, and he felt the rigidity of her shoulders as if she was bound within a jailor’s stocks. Soothingly, his hand began tracing the line of her spine, in an attempt to assuage the internal discord against which she was fighting.

“Was it a vampire?” he asked, deliberately ignoring the correlations of her predicament with his own reality. Anne Freston wasn’t missing; she was merely away visiting friends and the poor weather had prevented whatever message she’d sent explaining her absence from reaching William. At least, that was the excuse he was using for now.

“I don’t know.” Her voice was tiny, like it wanted to crawl into itself and hide forever, and he had to strain to hear what came next. “I’m hoping it’s more tweedy than fangy.”

Grateful he was out of her line of sight, he grimaced. Usually, he could ferret out her meaning based on the context of the conversation, but this particular sentence was baffling him. As much as he hated appearing the fool to her, he had no choice but to ask---.

“Stupid Council,” Buffy muttered.

Ah. She’d long ago referenced her ex-employers as suits, hence the tweed…William’s brow relaxed. Understanding was a good thing.

As she began to open up regarding the disappearance that was tearing her apart, he found himself getting lost in the pictures she painted with her words. Regaling her encounter with the Council of Watchers prompted a sense of familiarity that distracted him from her story momentarily, until he realized he actually knew which building she was describing. He’d seen it often enough in his ventures into the city, though he’d never thought to give it a second look, and he had to fight the chuckle that rose to his lips lest she misunderstand. Curious inclusion of his every day into the ether of his dreams, he thought. Just like the David Howard reference from the other night.

“…don’t know what to do now,” she finished. Only then did she lift her head, resting her pointy little chin on his chest to gaze up at him.

“It seems fairly obvious,” William replied. At her curious frown, he added, “Your Council. Surely, they will have the answers for which you’re looking.”

Buffy shook her head. “If this is their way of playing hardball, they’re not looking to be giving answers. They’re looking to be getting some.”

“But you told them you couldn’t help them.”

“Yes.”

“And they refuse to believe you?”

She sighed. “They’re kind of stubborn that way.”

“Still, I think they’re your prime source for aid currently. And you can’t rest assured one way or another until you confront them.” He smiled, what he hoped was reassuringly, and lifted his hand to push back the hair from her eyes. “It may not be obvious to you, but to me, it seems as if they are the ones in the weaker position here. They need you, Buffy. Wasn’t their inquisition proof enough of that for you?”

“But I couldn’t tell them anything about the hanky.”

Hanky? One of the details she shared while my mind wandered, obviously. I must remain more focused. “Irrelevant,” he said dismissively, and hoped she believed him. “What’s important is that you realize how valuable they must consider you to go to such lengths. How is it everyone else can see this but you?”

She didn’t say a word, just stared up at him with ancient eyes until the corner of her mouth lifted and she settled her cheek back against his chest, following the steady rise and fall with delicious sighs that warmed his flesh. His body still hummed in want for her, but it had settled into a soothing syncopation that was more than a little hypnotic. A man could grow accustomed to this, he thought as he twined her fingers with his.

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

Waking wasn’t nearly as hard as it had been previous mornings.

As she blinked against the dim light, the weight of Giles’ disappearance was measurably lighter than it had been, and Buffy smiled as she remembered the comfort of William’s words. He was right. She was the one with the power here, and if the Council wanted to mess around with faux kidnappings in order to get her attention, then they were just asking to get burned.

Having a plan put a bounce in her step as she bustled to get dressed. When she stepped into the living room, humming under her breath, a sleepy Willow poked her head up from the arm of the sofa.

“Someone took a happy pill today,” she said groggily. She looked past the Slayer as if in search of something. “Is Giles back?”

“Not yet,” Buffy said. “But survey says that’s going to be changing ASAP.” She frowned, her pace faltering. “Did you sleep on the couch?”

Rubbing at her face, Willow nodded. “I was looking through the books to see if there was something I missed.”

“And?”

“And I didn’t.”

“That’s OK,” Buffy said, and resumed heading for the kitchen. “Today, I’m going with the theory that this will all be over in just a couple hours.”

As she pulled open the refrigerator, she heard the soft tread as the redhead joined her. “Are you going to see the Council again?” Willow asked

“Yep. And this time, I’m not leaving until I’ve got our favorite Watcher in tow.” She held up a carton of eggs. “Omelette?”

“Uh…you don’t cook.”

“Then I guess it’s about time I learned.” She felt rather than saw her friend approach when she turned to the stove.

“Are you feeling all right?” came Willow’s tentative query. “You’re just so…good moody.”

“I’m jim and dandy and everything in between,” she said as she cracked an egg into the still-cold frying pan. Buffy flashed a brilliant smile. “Sleep does a body good.”

“If you want an omelette, you’re supposed to whip the eggs up in a bowl.”

“Oh.” The Slayer cocked her head, staring down at the white that was starting to shift from translucence. “Guess I’m having fried then.”

Neither girl said anything as Willow took the spatula from her and set to finishing the eggs. Buffy knew she was waiting for an explanation, that the prospect of an Iron Chef Slayer was more than a little freaky, but with her resolve freshly renewed from her dream conversation with William, she also knew that explanations would have to wait. The important thing now was to get Giles back.

“You’ll be waving your divining stick thingy this morning?” Buffy asked as she buttered their only slightly-burned toast.

“Yep,” Willow said. “If your showdown with the Council doesn’t work, maybe I’ll pick up some magical trail that’ll lead us to Giles. You know, if the two are actually connected.”

“They are.” Their eyes met, one set calm and resolute, the other slightly clouded and unsure. “They have to be.”

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

An insistent rapping jarred him into consciousness. Groggily, William reached for his glasses on the nightstand before pushing himself up into a sitting position. “Come in!” he called out.

The door opened, and Meg’s drawn face peered around its edge, her eyes downcast. “Master William?” she said in a breath.

Grabbing his dressing gown, he had it around his shoulders before his feet touched the floor. “What is it?” he asked as he tied the knot about his waist. His gaze darted to the closed curtains before returning to her nervous form. “I haven’t slept through breakfast again, have I?”

“No, no, sir. It’s…I was sent to fetch you. Your presence is required downstairs.”

William automatically relaxed. “Tell Mother I’ll be right there.”

Her voice stopped him before he could take more than a single step toward his wardrobe. “It’s not your mum, sir,” Meg said, and when he turned back to look at her, he couldn’t help but see the anxious twisting of her fingers in her apron. “It’s a gentleman come calling. He says it’s rather important he speak with you.”

He resumed his pace and finished the cross to his clothing. “Did he leave his name?” he asked. “Or what this might be regarding?”

“Mr. Richard Rhodes-Fanshaw. And no, sir, he didn’t say. Just that it was important.”

Pulling a clean shirt from the wardrobe, William mulled over the unfamiliar name, wondering abstractly why it was he was having so much difficulty recently remembering identities of people who obviously knew him. “Tell Mother I’ll see to Mr. Rhodes-Fanshaw,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand to Meg. “I’ll join her for breakfast when whatever business he has is concluded.”

“Pardon, sir, but…”

He glanced back, his tie dangling from his fingers. “Yes?”

“Your mum. She’s…not back yet. And there hasn’t been word sent or anything.”

A chill settled in his limbs. “Oh,” he said quietly, and turned away so that she couldn’t see the anxiety in his eyes. “Then…thank you. That will be all.”

As he mechanically stripped from his nightwear, the possibilities regarding his mother’s whereabouts returned to plague William with a vengeance, stewing in the pit of his stomach with a riling churn that made the prospect of breakfast suddenly not that appealing. Not of the good, he thought, and then froze before the phrase echoing inside his head made the corner of his mouth lift.

He already knew the answer to that. Just as Buffy was searching for Giles, he had no choice but to begin his own search for Anne Freston. Just as soon as he found out what this Rhodes-Fanshaw wanted.

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

Her smile was bright as she stood in front of the secretary’s desk. “I’d like to see Mr. Travers, please,” Buffy chirped, having already decided that the California Homecoming Queen approach might be a tad more effective than the Psycho Slayer. However, just for the effect, she added, “Now.”

The elderly secretary stared at the young woman over her bifocals. “You don’t have an appointment, Miss Summers. I’ll have to see if he’s available.”

Though her smile never faded, Buffy’s hand was over the secretary’s in an iron grip the moment it came to rest on the phone. “I’m sorry,” she said perkily, “but I think your hearing aid might be broken. I said, I need to see him now.”

To the woman’s credit, she didn’t even wince at the pressure on her fingers, instead staring up at the Slayer with an icy gaze. “We have procedures---.”

“It’s all right, Beryl. I’ll take it from here.” Only Buffy’s head swiveled to see Quentin Travers striding toward the desk, his eyes unreadable as he slowed to a stop before her. “You should’ve called, Miss Summers. I would’ve had Lydia come around to pick you up.”

“And miss the chance to spend an hour on the Underground?” She stepped back and shook her head. “Not on your life.”

The pair faced off, both sets of eyes unwavering, each waiting for the other to speak. A trickle of sweat began dripping between Buffy’s shoulder blades, the question of how so many people could come to work in an un-airconditioned office wearing such heavy suits flitting unexpectedly through her head. And does this man never blink? she wondered. Wasn’t one creepy snake guy enough in my life?

“Perhaps we should move this to my office,” Travers said, pivoting on his heel to begin walking back in the direction from which he’d come.

“And again, just let me say…not on your life.” Her smile vanished when he turned back. “You wanted my attention. Well, now, you’ve got it. Though, gotta tell you, the kind of attention I’m in the mood to give right now is probably just a little more destructive than you were expecting.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then let me make this easy for you. You let Giles go, and I don’t torch the place.” She glanced around. “It’s a little bigger than Hemery’s gym, but I’m sure I can handle it.”

“Idle threats do not become you, Miss Summers.”

“They’re only idle if I don’t act on them,” she shot back. She didn’t mean any of it, of course. But Travers wasn’t a stupid man and as far as the Council was concerned, she was still a wildcard. She was playing the odds that they would be afraid of what she might do and give in before she actually had to act on anything.

He didn’t respond to her, instead directing his attention over her shoulder to the secretary. “Beryl, could you please have tea set up in the library? We’ll be conducting our business in there, it appears.”

“Only if Giles is in there,” Buffy said. “Otherwise, I’m staying right here.”

Her declaration did nothing to stop Beryl from casting a disdainful glance at her before disappearing in the opposite direction, presumably to follow through on Travers’ order. He, in turn, returned his gaze to the Slayer.

“I’m curious,” he said, deep furrows in his brow her only indication to his mood, “as to why you keep inferring Rupert is being held here. Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

His tone was blank, but Buffy caught the confused glint in his eyes as she searched his face for any sign of duplicity. Not that she was convinced she’d be able to recognize it in him if she saw it, but something about his attentiveness, like he really meant it when he’d said he was curious, set her instincts abuzz.

“You don’t honestly expect me to believe you don’t know anything about it?” she asked.

“Anything about what?”

She took a deep breath. In for a penny… “Giles being missing. I know you’ve got him.”

That provoked a reaction when Travers visibly paled. “Rupert is missing?” He cleared his throat when he realized his voice was somewhat scratchy. “For how long? Were you with him? Did you see who took him?”

OK, these weren’t the kinds of questions she’d been expecting. Nor had she expected the---what seemed to be---genuine concern on his normally unflappable countenance. Hesitantly, she said, “Just over a day. And no, and no.”

Her denials managed to divert his thoughts inward. “A day…” he murmured, and brushed past her in the direction Beryl had left just moments earlier, seemingly no longer concerned with the Slayer’s presence.

She only let him get a few steps before rushing to meet his pace at his side. “What’s going on?” she demanded. “You’re not telling me you didn’t know about any of this…are you?”

He stopped abruptly before a closed door. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you, Miss Summers.” He looked past her and caught the attention of a young man about to pass by. “Go get Lydia,” he ordered him. “Tell her to bring me the Rhodes-Fanshaw file and not to delay.”

Buffy followed him into the library when he entered it. “You think this has something to do with those glass figures that were stolen?” she asked.

The look he tossed her was condescending; he was already back in control of his reactions. “Of course,” Travers replied. “What else could it possibly be about?”

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

Willow stood in the middle of the living room, the divining rod held tightly in her right hand as her left finished sprinkling the ash across its tip. Though her lips moved, the words she uttered were barely intelligible in the close space, lost in a sudden thickness that seemed to absorb even the minimal light the candles she’d lit in a circle around her provided. The lack of illumination was inconsequential, however, as the last syllable wafted from her breath, swallowed by the magic that hung heavy in the air, for in her hand, the carefully carved stick began to glow a faint red where the ash had settled.

“Whoa…” she breathed as it started to vibrate within her grip. She couldn’t help the smile that made her face beam. “It worked. Yay me.” She paused, her grin faltering. “Except…”

Willow’s eyes glanced around the small space. The vibrations were supposed to be the precursor to actually finding the magic, so that wasn’t too unexpected. The glowy tip, on the other hand, was only set to occur when the magical residue was near. The brighter it got, the more concentrated the magic. And if it was glowing here…

Slowly, she stepped from the confines of her circle, making a careful sweep of the perimeter with the rod. Its tremors never eased, and as she rounded the curve by the inner hallway of the apartment, the scarlet tip began to lighten, heating to a bloody orange as she hesitated in that direction. One step forward, and then another, and the vibrations grew stronger, forcing Willow to tighten her grip in case it decided to make a jump to freedom.

“What’re you trying to tell me?” she mused as she moved down the corridor. Past her room…past Buffy’s and toward Giles’…and all of a sudden, the glow that had shifted to a pale orange-yellow began to darken back to red, the shaking lessening.

She stopped. Her first instinct had been that it was leading her to the Watcher’s room because he’d been snatched by the same powers that had stolen the crystal figurines. But if that was true, the power within the stick should’ve grown instead of faded as she approached.

Her head turned, her gaze settling on Buffy’s closed door. Curious, Willow shifted the aim of the rod toward it and immediately felt the effects return, prompting her to step forward and reach for the knob. It felt weird to be going into her friend’s room without her knowledge, but if this was what it took to get Giles back, Willow was sure she would understand.

The carefully made bed took her by surprise. Buffy must’ve been in a really good mood this morning if she went to these kind of lengths, she thought as she approached it. There was no mistaking the effect her closing proximity with the piece of furniture was having on the divining rod, though. With each step, the intensity of the vibrations grew, causing her whole arm to begin reverberating in a sympathetic rhythm as she fought to keep her hold on it, and its tip was now almost a pure white. It took no time at all to determine it was strongest at the head of the bed, and Willow stared down at it in confusion.

It was almost a second thought when she reached out and lifted the cushion, exposing the worn leather of the book beneath it. The moment it was uncovered, an electric shock leapt from the rod to Willow’s palm.

“Ow!” she cried out, finally releasing her grip.

The stick fell to the floor, still and dark as if the magic it had been channeling had been shorted. As she rubbed the tingling ache in her hand, Willow looked from it, to the rod, and back up to the bed where the book still sat. She recognized it immediately as Buffy’s purchase at the bookstore and, curious, reached forward to look at it closer.

A folded piece of paper fluttered from its pages, landing silently on the mattress before she could catch it. Without thinking, she picked it up, opening it to scan its contents. Green eyes went wide, and her breath was audible as it caught in her throat. “Oh, my…” she whispered as her gaze returned to the top of the page, reading it through a second, much slower, time.

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

Chapter 13: That Which Is Hath Been Before

William hesitated before the closed door to the drawing room, throwing back his shoulders and tugging at his jacket’s hem. It wouldn’t do to appear less than his best, regardless of his ignorance of the visitor’s business. He just would’ve preferred being a tad more informed before walking into the situation blind.

“My sincerest apologies in keeping you waiting,” he said automatically as he entered the room. “I’m afraid I’ve had a bit of a late start this morning.”

The man at the fireplace turned around from his inspection of the figures on the mantle. “There’s certainly no need to apologize, my young man. If anything, apologies should be mine for arriving unannounced. Unfortunately, circumstances prevented me from doing so.” He strode forth, his hand outstretched. “Richard Rhodes-Fanshaw.”

“William Freston.” As they shook hands, William’s gaze swept over his visitor, taking in the expensive cut of his suit, the careful polish to his shoes. He was an older gentleman, most likely nearing sixty, with a shock of brilliant-white hair that appeared to be as ungovernable as William’s own, and skin leathered from long-time exposure to the sun. Though the combination of the spectacles he wore and the plethora of lines around his eyes betrayed a long-time familiarity with reading, his trim form belied an easy existence. This was a man as accustomed to labor as he was to leisure.

“Would you like some tea?” William offered, gesturing toward one of the settees.

“Thank you, but no.” Richard settled himself in the furniture’s corner, long limbs tense as he waited for the younger man to sit as well. “I’m afraid it’s a little early for me to have what I’d prefer to be drinking.”

This last was said with a half-smile, shocking William into sitting straighter as he perched himself on the cushion’s edge. It was one thing to know that such tippling was done behind closed doors; it was another entirely to joke about it in such a cavalier fashion in the presence of a stranger.

“So…” he started, only to hear his voice come out as a harsh squeak. Hastily, he cleared his throat, desperate to maintain some semblance of propriety and control. Though there was nothing overtly threatening about his guest, there was no denying the tightly reined power emanating from both his body and mind, and it instantly returned William to a place of trepidation he hadn’t occupied in several days.

“Let us dispense with the niceties, shall we?” Though his tone remained affable, there was no ignoring the authority in Richard’s voice. “We’re both grown men. And as you’re the head of the house, I see no reason to prevaricate regarding my business here.”

“Oh. Of…course.” Except it wasn’t of course. Rhodes-Fanshaw spoke as if William should understand what he was referencing when in actuality, he didn’t. It was unnerving, at best. Think, he scolded himself, his mind racing to try and fathom what the other man could possibly be alluding to. The similarity to the thought process he’d had regarding his bankside visitor---Esme, she’d said her name was---flitted across his consciousness, but barely a wisp and impossible to hold onto, not when a much more imposing personage was sitting just several feet away from him.

“Your activities haven’t gone unnoticed, William.” He wasn’t bothering to maintain social dictates, addressing William by his first name without even deigning to ask permission, and the cool control of his voice sent an array of shivers down the younger man’s spine.

“My activities?”

Richard’s smile was condescending. “The role of the innocent works well for you, I must say. Is that how you escape detection?”
He was on his feet in a second, his anger flaring from nowhere. “Your comportment is completely uncalled for, sir. I suggest---.”

“Sit. Down.”

Though he never moved, the tension in Richard’s body wound tighter, forcing William to comply without thought or hesitation. It didn’t lessen his irritation, though, and his jaw twitched as he struggled not to embarrass himself further with another outburst.

After a moment, Richard continued. “Do you know who I am, William? Other than my name, of course.”

“No, sir.”

He nodded, as if it was the only response he expected. “I work for an organization that specializes in…unusual matters. It’s my responsibility to ensure that the streets you walk are safe. That the…unacceptable are handled swiftly and with appropriate prejudice.”

His words chilled William’s anger, his face blanching. “You…you didn’t introduce yourself…as an officer of the law, sir,” he said, stammering. “My apologies. If I’d known---.”

“It’s not as you’re thinking,” Richard interrupted. “My organization works outside the parameters of local government. We’re more interested in…global sanctity. Tell me, William. Have you ever heard of Watchers?”

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

If it wasn’t for the fact that it was the only way she would’ve gotten Giles in her life, Buffy was thisclose to wishing she’d never heard of Watchers in the first place. Once she’d told everything she knew about Giles’ disappearance, the Slayer had been relegated to pacing in the background while Travers and the Spike-fixated Lydia spoke in conspiratorial whispers at the front of the library, busying themselves with a jumble of files every time she approached. It was enough to make a girl feel unwelcome.

She stopped when the door opened again, but this time it was only the aged Beryl with a fresh pot of tea. It was her second trip in since Buffy had been unwillingly sequestered, which in the Slayer’s head, meant that even more time was being wasted. Time she should be using to find Giles.

“Enough,” she said as soon as it was just the three of them again. She marched over to where Travers sat, glaring down at him. “Either you give me a really good reason for staying, or I’m on the next train out of here. There’s no way this is more productive than me and Willow doing a footsearch, so unless you can tell me something I don’t already know---.”

“The reason our coven couldn’t trace the magic, Miss Summers, is that it was one of their own who’d cast it.” He ignored Lydia’s surprise as he gazed up at the Slayer with watery eyes. “Now, if you’d please take a seat, I’ll be with you just as soon as I finish going over these instructions.”

He didn’t bother to wait for a response, turning back to the files before him and scribbling some notes in the margins. Buffy gaped at him in shock for a long moment as what he’d said sank in, and then did the only thing she could right then.

She sat down.

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

From her seat on the floor, Willow leaned against the side of the bed, the journal resting open in her lap. Her heart was pounding, the sweat drying in her palms, but there was no way she could move any time soon; all control of her muscles seemed to disappear the moment she started reading through Buffy’s recent purchase.

Finding the poem addressed to “My Darling Miss Buffy” had been freaky enough; finding inescapable references to her friend in the diary of a man who’d lived more than a century earlier was just off the scale of weirdness. If she’d been on the Hellmouth, Willow thought she might’ve found the whole thing a little easier to accept. But they weren’t. They were in jolly old England, a country neither of them had ever visited before, on a vacation that, OK, was turning into their usual crisis-averting mission, but hey, points for intent.

So, the fact that she was now holding what should be impossible? Enormously bizarre with a side order of absurd.

Skimming the entries told Willow the story of a lonely young man, trying to find his place in a world that didn’t seem to accept him for who he wished to be. It had seemed frightfully sad, until halfway through, the tone started to shift to one more positive, his tales ending more often in success than failure. That was when he first mentioned the dreams, but it wasn’t until she caught the word “slayer” that she’d given any more attention to the details.

Somehow, some way, William Freston was conducting some nocturnal relationship with a woman who sounded exactly like Buffy, and writing poetry for her favor.

When the details started to become more intimate, Willow had had to stop reading, her mind trying to process what she’d discovered. Did Buffy know? Is that why she bought the book? It had seemed like an odd purchase at the time, but she’d been so excited for her friend that Willow hadn’t bothered to question it closely. More importantly than those questions, though…

Was Buffy dreaming about William, too?

She didn’t want to, but Willow knew she was going to have to ask Buffy about it. The journal was tied into the magic that surrounded the crystal theft, and if that had something to do with Giles’ disappearance, they needed all the facts they could possibly get to get him back.

Or maybe she’d wait and see if Buffy brought it up first. Hinting at what she could know might be enough to draw the truth out of the Slayer without having her feel attacked, because if there was one thing Willow knew about her best friend, it was that direct confrontation on non-favorite Buffy topics usually ended up badly.

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

The directness of the question took William by surprise, prompting him to splutter out some insensate reply that only earned him a curious quirk of his guest’s brows.

“I must admit,” Richard said slowly, “you are not what I was expecting. In my position, having a sense of person is practically a requirement for survival, but if I didn’t have the facts already, I would assume you are exactly as you appear.”

“Would it be presumptuous for me to inquire what those facts would be?” he managed to ask. The casual bandying of a term he’d only ever heard in his dreams made him desperate for answers, and he plunged forward on the tide of fear before he could think otherwise. “Because, frankly, I’m finding myself at a loss as to why you’re here. I’m not aware of anything untoward happening within the household, and outside of my mother’s current absence, I can’t think of a single event that would warrant such attention from you.”

For the first time since his arrival, Rhodes-Fanshaw seemed unsure, his light eyes narrowing in close scrutiny of William’s demeanor. “Your mother is missing?” he questioned, and though his voice was low, its gravity was more than enough to return the chill to William’s bones. “Would this have occurred the evening before last?”

“Not the evening, but…” He froze. The implication of what the Watcher was saying---and he could hardly refrain from calling him such as the descriptions Buffy had provided of her Council’s attitudes more than matched that of the gentleman before him---was almost too fantastic to consider. And yet, was it any more fantastic than considering the depth of his feelings for an American beauty he met in his sleep? She walked in a world of mysticism and violence; how could he ignore the possibility that it was in actuality his world as well?

“Pardon me for being so forward,” William said, meticulously choosing his words as he fought to preserve a sense of decorum, “but, your business here…your interest in my mother’s whereabouts…does this have anything to do with…your Slayer?”

The last two words to fall from William’s lips shattered Richard’s composure. Sitting forward, his eyes took on an unearthly gleam as he reached to grasp the younger man’s wrist in a bone-crushing grip. “Has she been here?” he hissed. “And don’t even presume to lie to me. I’ve spent too many years---.”

“No, no,” William rushed, and tried to pull himself away to no avail. “But I don’t understand. Buffy’s not…she’s just…” Though he could think the word, verbalizing it was another matter, not when the proof of so much of what she professed was staring at him as if he’d just grown a second head. Claiming her as fantasy had been much easier when the order of his world excluded Watchers and Vampire Slayers. To do so now seemed impossible.

“Who is Buffy?” Richard asked carefully. His fingers loosened, allowing William to slip away and rub at the sore joint.

“She’s not…to whom you’re referring?” He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not.

“No.” A long heavy sigh accompanied Richard’s sinking back into the settee. “Perhaps that tea wouldn’t be out of order, right about now.”

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

She turned down the tea Travers offered her, her arms folded across her chest as she waited for him to begin. At least an hour had passed since his cryptic remark regarding the coven, and Buffy had watched in increasing annoyance as he spoke with Lydia and not to her, ignoring her very presence until the other Watcher had left the library.

“You realize you should prepare yourself for the possibility that Rupert is dead, don’t you?” he commented without preamble, carrying his tea to the head of the table and his scattered files.

“He’s not dead,” she replied grimly. “And what does that have to do with the coven?”

“Are you aware that we sent a team to Wales to investigate the other source of magic?” At her nod, he slid forward a slim folder, and sat back as he waited for her to pick it up.

Her face was impassive as her eyes fell to the file. It wasn’t like she’d never seen vampire attacks before, even one as vicious as this. The surroundings were impossible to tell for certain---someplace outside, with mountains in the background---and the photography left a lot to be desired, with more than half of the pictures either blurry or underexposed. But the gruesome display of the bodies…the callous tearing of their necks that left jagged wounds still obvious even in death…it was enough to raise the Slayer’s internal anger barometer, determination that the same fate would not befall Giles steeling her spine.

“He’s not dead,” she repeated, and pushed the folder away from her.

“I pray not,” Travers said quietly. He steepled his fingers together as he continued to speak. “It’s regretful it’s reached this stage. I’d rather hoped your involvement would be sufficient in getting to the root of the theft.”

“Are you trying to tell me it wasn’t vamps who did this?”

“No, they most certainly were vampires. But they didn’t act alone.” He sighed. “Magic is a very complicated thing, Miss Summers. It’s very difficult to mask its effects from skilled practitioners. To blind an entire coven requires intimate knowledge of its weaknesses, which, I’m afraid, Esme has.”

“And she was---wait.” She frowned. “What did you say her name was again?”

When he repeated it, its familiarity made the memory bells begin pealing inside her head, but where she knew the name from, Buffy couldn’t quite put her finger on. Something from recently, she knew, and for some reason, Bewitched had something to do with it. Any more than that, though, and she was at a loss.

“Why didn’t you spill about any of this before now?” she demanded. “Why keep this kind of important information so secret? Don’t you think it would’ve been easier for us to find her if we knew what was really going on?”

“You weren’t meant to find her,” he said evenly. “Your involvement was meant to draw her out.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “We were bait?”

“You were bait. Esme has always had a fixation on Slayers. We were hoping to capitalize on your presence here.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Big frickin’ surprise there,” she muttered. “She works for the Council.”

“Yes, well, her interest was extreme even considering that.”

They regarded each other in silence for several minutes before she finally pushed back her chair and stood up. “Unless the next thing to come out of your mouth is a plan to get Giles back that doesn’t involve someone I care about doing their best worm impersonation, I’m out of here.”

He made no move to stop her, but instead followed her with his gaze when she swept past him. “What do you propose to do next, Miss Summers?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted as she pulled open the library doors. “But I’ll think of something.”

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

He was finding it difficult to keep his thoughts straight. Across from him, Richard finished off his tea, the whisky he’d laced it with from the flask he kept in his pocket obviously making it more palatable than William’s. The details he’d shared were worthy of even the most unbelievable serial, but William still couldn’t let go of the most shocking development of them all---the actualization of so much of Buffy’s world in his own.

“I understand your confusion,” Richard said, replacing his cup onto the tray between them. “To a layman, it must seem quite ridiculous.”

“Not exactly the word I would choose,” William murmured. Lifting his head, his eyes were steady if not clear as he regarded the Watcher. “Why trust me with this information?” he asked. “You arrived believing I was the wrongful party here.”

“I arrived here armed only with sterile facts,” came the reply. His manner was much more relaxed, but whether that was due to a shift in his feelings or the alcohol in his drink, William had no idea. “I knew just what my seer told me. That the temporal ripples she detected all centered on this address, and that there were no traces of magic with any of your staff when they left the house.”

“Yet you believe me when I tell you I know nothing of any of that.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Richard shrugged. “This is a dangerous world we walk in, William, and you don’t live for as long as I have by ignoring your instincts. It’s my responsibility to recognize a good man when I see one. My instincts tell me to believe in you.” He rose to his feet. “That, and I plan on having my seer try a little truth spell on you back at my offices. Just to be safe.”

Following him to a standing position, William lifted his chin in a defiance he didn’t really feel. “You seem confident that I will just go with you. How do I know this isn’t some artifice on your behalf to lure me into captivity?”

“You don’t. You have to trust me. Just as I’m trusting you.” Gathering the coat he’d removed during the tea, Richard strode with a determined step to the doorway. “If it’s an issue of privacy, I’ll allow you to select a pseudonym. There’s no reason for any of your peers to be aware of your connection to my organization, nor for my colleagues to know of your true identity.” He paused at the doorway, finally glancing back at William. “Unless, of course, you’re lying to me and my intuition is faulty. Then…”

He left the threat unsaid, but from Buffy’s descriptions of her own interactions with the Council, William knew instinctively that what followed would not be pleasant. Not that he wished to go with this Rhodes-Fanshaw; frankly, the possibility of what might occur terrified him and he wanted nothing more than to return to his room, lock the door, and bury himself in books for the next decade.

But…the oddities that he claimed to have occurred…Anne Freston’s unexplained disappearance…and the unmistakable correlation with the tales of a woman who should not have logically existed…William was not a stupid man. Nor was he a dishonorable one. If something sinister had truly happened to his mother, then it was his responsibility to seek out every means to go to her aid, even if it meant combating his own fears to do so.

Besides, there was nothing to fear because he had nothing to hide. He knew nothing of the events Richard described. The only unusual occurrence he was aware of was…

Buffy.

Most likely. William had mentioned her specifically by name.

She was a dream; that much was true. But if specifics were asked, how could he avoid the issue that she was why he knew about the Council of Watchers in the first place?

He would have to find a way. She would feel betrayed if the truth was found out, and there was no way William was going to be the one to cause those feelings.

As he followed Richard into the foyer and gathered his jacket for travelling, only the image of Buffy as she had appeared at their last meeting stayed before him…so strong and yet so fragile…radiant with what he hoped was understanding for the depth of his feelings for her. And the sudden shock of comprehension made him hesitate before venturing outside.

She was real.

Which meant…he hadn’t created her, after all. That everything she said to him, everything she said about him, came from her.

That he mattered.

So lost in this newfound revelation, William heard nothing while they climbed into the carriage, and it wasn’t until they’d started moving before Richard was able to regain his attention.

“Well?” the Watcher asked. “What shall I call you?”

His gaze returned to the window, the house he watched so often from his bedroom passing by. Before he could think otherwise, William uttered the first name that came to his head.

“David,” he said softly. “David Howard.”

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

Chapter 14: He That Writes of You

Each clack of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones pounded with growing ferocity in William’s skull, every pace nearing and fearing until the anticipated building appeared outside his window. Exactly as Buffy had professed, just as she’d been correct about so much else. You expected less? a little voice niggled at the back of his mind.

Bowing his head, he clenched his jaw in a desperate attempt to brace his weakening resolve. It was one thing to face down the persecutors of his youth; it was another to endure the potential ire of a man who had the power of one of the most cogent organizations he’d ever heard of behind him. In his lap, his palms were clammy where he clenched them in white-knuckled apprehension, and William suspected his brow must be shiny with sweat beneath the curls that refused to obey his brush’s order. I am the exemplification of guilt, he thought with more than a little disgust. How can I hope to be strong for Buffy if I can’t even be strong for myself?

As the carriage drew to a stop, Richard said, “Relax, William. The spell is completely harmless. You have nothing to fear, unless, of course, you’re lying to me.”

He lifted his head to gaze at his companion, managing a feeble smile at the same time. “Of course,” William replied. The calmness of his voice surprised him. “You must understand, though, that this is all still a bit…overwhelming for me.”
“As it should be.” The elder man disembarked first, waiting until the younger was halfway out before asking, “If I may be so pre-emptive…how is it you know of the Slayer?”

Its effect was exactly as planned, visibly startling William to the point of stumbling over the last step. His left knee cracked against the walk when he fell, his glasses slipping from his nose, and he cried out in pain as he grabbed onto the coach.

“You should really be more careful,” Richard said calmly, extending his hand in assistance.

For a moment, he hesitated at the offer, and then took it with a heavy sigh. “You must be very good in your position,” William said, pulling his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his hands. “I hadn’t anticipated any more inquiries until after we’d gone inside.”

“Unfortunately, sometimes I fear I’m not quite good enough.” He paused, eyes wary. “And you’re avoiding my question.”

He’d spent the entire carriage ride wondering how he could circumvent direct responses regarding Buffy, and though the query itself had taken him by surprise, William was actually prepared with an explanation. “You mentioned Watchers. They go hand in hand with Slayers, do they not?”

“The short answer to that is yes.” With a tilt of his head, he motioned for William to follow him into the building. “But it doesn’t tell me how you know of Watchers.”

“Someone I care about is quite close to one. She spoke vaguely of his duties when I asked her.”

Richard paused at the entrance. “Would this be that…Buffy you mentioned?”

“Yes.” No reason to prevaricate. If he so chose, the Watcher would be more than aware of the truth in just a few minutes. William cleared his throat, ready to attempt to change the subject. “Does my need for an alias mean the spell will be done in the presence of your entire staff?”

He shook his head. “No,” Richard replied. “It’s merely a safety measure. My seer will be doing the spell. She and I will be the only two people you should be in contact with here.”

“You can do that?” he asked as he followed him inside. “In an organization such as yours, how do you keep such business private?”

“This is my Council. They know only what I want them to know.”

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

He ignored her until she spoke up, concentrating instead on the file before him and remembering his encounter with the Slayer. It hadn’t ended as he’d anticipated; of course, her arrival with news of Rupert’s disappearance was yet another anomaly in their quest to discover what Esme knew of the crystal collection. The entire affair had the sticky feeling of moving beyond his control, but Quentin Travers was determined not to loosen his grip. It was his responsibility to stay on top of things; this was just another bend in the road for him.

“Do you have any further instructions, sir?” Lydia queried from where she hovered in the library doors.

“Has Miss Summers left?”

“Yes, sir.”

He nodded. “Have the men been dispatched to follow her?”

“Four, just as you requested.”

There was no need to respond to that, and he turned back to his reading, listening to her heels brush against the floor as she fidgeted in her place. He let her stew for several minutes before saying, “You may say what’s on your mind, Lydia.”

It came out in a rush. “You told the Slayer about the coven, about Esme, didn’t you?” She didn’t wait for an answer as they both knew it already. “Do you really think that’s wise? It will only serve to make her angrier than she already is.”

Travers swiveled clear eyes toward his employee, regarding her with an even stare without speaking. When he didn’t reply, she frowned in frustration, only to have it melt away as slow understanding dawned on her face.

“But…but…aren’t you afraid of what she might do?” she asked, finally comprehending his tactics. “She’s a wild card. She could…she might hurt someone. Aren’t your frightened of the potential repercussions?”

“Neither one of us believe that will happen,” he said smoothly. “Yes, she is dangerous, and yes, she wields her anger as a weapon more effectively than any other Slayer I’ve seen in recent years. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Buffy Summers over the course of her tenure, it’s this. She will fight to protect those she loves to her dying breath. With Rupert in danger, the only one to be threatened by the Slayer at this juncture is Esme. As it should be.”

He caught her frown as he turned away. “What about the men you’ve sent to track her?” she asked. “You know how she feels---.”

“They’ve been apprised of her skills,” Quentin said. “If they get caught, it’s their own fault, now isn’t it?” Her dissatisfaction was clear in the shuffling of her feet, but she remained silent as he listened to her prepare to leave. “Lydia?” he asked, turning once again to look at the blonde.

“Yes, sir?” She hesitated on the library side of the door, a finely manicured hand poised on the knob.

“Your permission to question my authority on this matter is revoked the moment you step foot outside this room. Is that understood?”

A long silence, ending with her perfunctory nod. “Yes, sir.”

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

Under other circumstances, William would’ve been drowning in pleasure at the sight of the library to which he was led. Books, upon books, upon wonderful books, lined the dark walls, with the long table down the center of the room perfect for reading. Plush leather chairs surrounding it only beckoned with more promises of decadent hours spent in the luxury of words. There were no windows, as if sunlight would distract the reader with its beauty, but the shadows only made the room seem even more cozy. It almost set him completely at ease.

Almost.

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, William quickly realized they weren’t alone in the room. At the far end of the table, a white head was bent over a text, but it tilted upward to reveal the kindest face he’d ever envisioned, a hesitant smile broadening at the sight of Richard.

“I was beginning to think you were never going to return,” she said lightly. When she rose to her feet, William saw with a start that the woman easily matched his height, her stride strong and confident in spite of her advancing years. Time had filled out already ample curves, but her size did nothing to detract from the supple grace as she moved, and were it not for his breeding and close attention to such matters, he was certain he would’ve stared with dropped jaw at her appearance as she approached.

Instead of a skirt, she wore trousers, much like a man, much like Buffy had said was done by women in her time. Her white hair, thick and lush, was pulled into a single plait that hung down her back, and her opaque eyes, such a dark brown that they seemed almost black, twinkled as they met his.

“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” she said curiously.

He bowed at the waist. Now was the time to practice his assumed identity, much as he may hate it. “David Howard, ma’am.”

“Are you a new associate of Richard’s?” the woman asked.

The Watcher shook his head, though it seemed to be directed at both of them. “His name is actually William Freston,” he said, and then turned to the young man. “There’ll be no need for your alias with Rose. She is---.”

“Is he in danger? Is that why you’ve brought him here?”

Her questions were rapid, the softness of her voice lost in what appeared to be genuine confusion. As William watched, the pair faced off, the comfortable air wrapped around them electrifying in the sudden tension. “I brought him to you to be questioned,” Richard said, seemingly perplexed at her forceful response to the truth.

“But why? He’s an innocent.”

“Don’t be taken in by his appearance.”

“I’m not referring to his appearance.”

“He knows of the Council.”

She fell silent, black eyes sliding to William in an appraising sweep. It was more probing than any scrutiny he’d ever encountered before, not in uni, not from his mother. Truth be told, the only other person who’d regarded him so intently before was Buffy. And Miss Esme. And it made him want to squirm.

“He’s an innocent,” she finally repeated, and looked back to Richard. “There is no reason for us not to trust his word. Don’t tell me you don’t see it.”

“I did. I just…” The Watcher sighed, suddenly appearing his age as his shoulders sagged.

She responded instantly, stepping up to him and pulling him into a warm embrace, her hands stroking his back with a soothing coo that set both men at ease. “You wanted him to be the answer,” she murmured. “It’s all right. Everything will be all right.”

The intimacy was beginning to make William feel uncomfortable, and he averted his eyes at the obvious display of affection. In many ways, her direct attitude reminded him remarkably of Buffy, but if this was Rhodes-Fanshaw’s seer, it left questions as to the exact nature of their relationship.

“My husband didn’t scare you too badly, did he?” Her voice made his head jerk up to see her gazing at him, her arms still around Richard though he know seemed embarrassed at the spectacle they were presenting.

“Your…husband?” William stammered. “I thought…you said only you and your seer---.”

“That’s me,” Rose said. “It makes him trusting what I have to say much easier, believe me.”

“And you…I don’t understand…not that I’m not grateful to be…” He trailed off, unable to vocalize the clamor of questions her statements brought forth. “Does this mean you’re not doing the truth spell?” he finally managed.

Rose turned to look at Richard in shock. “You wanted me to do a truth spell on the boy?” she demanded. “Why on earth would you want to go to such extremes?”

“He knows of the Council,” the Watcher reiterated, though this time much less emphatically. He finally extracted himself from her arms. “He has information, I’m sure of it. He may be able to tell me something that could help.”

She rested a calming hand on his forearm. “And so you ask, like a civilized person. I promise you, Richard, as sure as I was of the temporal folds around his home, this young man is of no threat to us.” The smile she shot William was warm. “I’m afraid that this April business is my husband’s Holy Grail. Or Sword of Damocles, depending upon your perspective. He tends to be rather single-minded in his pursuit of her.”

William merely nodded, confused by the reference to a woman Rhodes-Fanshaw had never mentioned. His head was a mishmash, relief at his release from the fetters of the truth spell combining with the queries his changing situation kept throwing at him. He didn’t dare ask, though. Answers would be coming soon enough.

“You look as if you could use a drink.” Rose was moving away as she spoke, and with her back to both men, William found it impossible to determine whom she was addressing. “Whisky, I know, for Richard, but for William…?” She paused at the doorway, a searching glance at him over her shoulder ending with the upturn of her mouth.

“Tea will be fine, ma’am,” he offered.

“Pish.” She dismissed his suggestion with a wrinkling of her nose. “Not nearly hearty enough. Something with more substance, I think.” She brightened as if suddenly surprised with the most brilliant idea. “I know the weather may predicate otherwise, but I believe hot cocoa is in order. For both of us.” And with that, she was gone.

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

She had all the best friend accoutrements ready when she heard Buffy at the door. Fresh pastries from the bakery, ice cream in the freezer, diet sodas chilling in the fridge. Now all Willow needed to find was the nerve to actually confront the Slayer about the journal. For some reason, that was proving hardest to locate.

Her hopes plummeted when she saw Buffy appear at the entrance of the living room. Gone was the unadulterated good mood from breakfast. Now, she wore the all-too familiar grim reaper face the Slayer wore every time she had to deal with the Council.

“Not so good, huh?” she said as Buffy flopped onto the couch.

“Would it surprise you to hear they were holding back on us?” She waggled her fingers in greeting. “Say hello to Buffy, the Witch Baiter.”

The mention of magic made Willow pale. “What did you find out?” she asked, her voice thin. “Does the Council know who’s behind everything?”

“Kind of. In a way.” Briefly, she relayed what she’d learned about Esme’s involvement in the Council’s coven, and how they’d only been interested in having Buffy search for her because they felt the witch’s obsession with the Slayer line would prove her downfall. “And to top it all off,” she finished, “they have absolutely no ideas on how we can get Giles back.”

“But they think she took him.”

“Either her or the vamps she’s working with.” Her nose scrunched up in thought. “He told me her name, and for some reason, it’s tiptoeing right on that line in my brain where I wanna remember where I heard it before, but I just can’t, you know? It’s bugging the heck out of me.”

“What was it?”

“Esme.”

Willow was positive her heart literally stopped for a beat. Esme. That was the name of the clerk at the book store. The store where Buffy bought the journal. The woman who told Willow about the sleeping spell to help her friend. The woman Giles had never heard of when the redhead brought her up later.

Oops.

Treading on the safer side of caution about the topic of William was no longer an option, she realized. “I think we might have a problem,” she said, and waited for Buffy’s weary gaze to turn away from the pastry she was flaking pieces off of. “I used the rod this morning.”

It was as if a light was turned on inside her friend. “Did it work? Tell me it worked.” Buffy sat forward on the edge of her seat. “I so need good news right now.”

Willow nodded. “I’m going to say yes,” she replied. Reaching under the coffee table, she extracted the stick and handed it over, watching as the Slayer tested its weight, waving it around like a small child playing witch. “It’s probably not going to work again, though. I think it got burned out or something.”

“But that means you’ve got enough of the magic to break through whatever barrier spell Esme put up, right? We can use it to find Giles?”

She hated that Buffy sounded so hopeful all of a sudden. She hated even more that she was going to have to be the one to burst her bubble. “Not really,” Willow admitted, and ducked out of the way when one of the Slayer’s swipes of the stick moved a little too close to her face. “I never actually left the apartment.”

Buffy froze. “The magic was here? But that proves she took Giles, doesn’t it?”

“I didn’t find it near any of Giles’ things.” She swallowed, her mouth too dry to work properly. “I found it near yours. Well, kind of yours.” At Buffy’s confusion, she added, “The rod shorted out on William’s journal.”

She didn’t move. She didn’t even blink. “Huh?”

It was Willow’s turn to play storyteller, though she wished that sometimes Buffy wouldn’t blank so completely when confronted with such a blatant statement of fact. When she was done, she bit her lip, dreading her next question. “Have you been…dreaming about this guy?” she asked, green eyes searching her best friend’s for any sign of cover-up. “Because there’s all this talk about his dreamgirl having the same type of dreams he was.”

“Not every night,” Buffy said, but under Willow’s direct gaze, she faltered. “Well, most of the nights, yeah, but...” She collapsed back into the cushions, all adrenaline sapped from her limbs with this new information. “He’s real,” she murmured to herself. “I can’t believe he’s actually real.”

“I’m not so sure he is,” Willow rushed to say. “I’ve been thinking about it all day, and now that you tell me this about Esme and the Council, I’m thinking there’s another explanation for this.”

“Like what? There’s a book in there as old as Methusaleh talking about me. That sounds about as real as you can get.”

“Not if the book’s not real.” She was getting excited now, some of the fear about the situation dissipating as she began to put the pieces together. “You said the Council used you for bait, right? Because Esme has a Slayer fixation?”

“Right.”

“So, what if she decided when she found out you were in town, instead of trying to take you on directly, she’d just distract you until she was done with whatever she’s planning on doing with the crystals?”

Pause. “Go on.”

“So she makes a book, a journal, about a guy who you’d respond to, who you’d feel all…sympathetic with, because it sounds like he’s going through some of the same things you are. Not that I know what that is,” she hastened to add at Buffy’s sudden alarm. “But the way some of his entries were worded…” How do I say this without getting into some of the more private issues? “…it sounded like you two…bonded over certain things. Like he understood you and you understood him. Simpatico.”

“…OK.”

She wasn’t completely buying the theory, but Willow could see that the idea of William being real freaked Buffy out even more than the possibility of being the target of a carefully crafted spell. She went on. “So, Esme plants the book where you’ll find it, and then sits back and hopes that’s enough to keep you from digging into the crystal sitch.”

“But…I don’t get how it’s distracting me. I’m still on the clock in trying to figure out what’s going on.”

OK, back on thin ice again. Willow took a deep breath. “You’re a little distracted,” she said carefully. “Like…last night? With the wanting me to make you tea? Don’t you think that shows---just a little!---that maybe you’re thinking more about this William and less about Giles? I mean, look at what a good mood you were in this morning, and you didn’t dream about him last night, right? So…see? Her plan is working…kind of.”

A shadow passed over Buffy’s face. “But I did dream about William,” she said softly. “And it was because of things he said to me in the dream that I woke up so good moody.”

“But…you couldn’t. You didn’t have any…”

Both girls reached the conclusion at the same time, but it was Buffy who spoke first. “It’s the tea, isn’t it?” she said. Her tone was even and deceptively calm, but it still managed to send shivers down Willow’s spine. “You did something to the tea.”

“I didn’t know,” she whispered. “I thought it was just to help you sleep. And you were getting so rested! I honestly thought I was…helping.” She paused. “You had some left over, didn’t you? And the reason you’re not dreaming of him every night is because I haven’t made the tea for you every night. Oh my god. What have I done?”

They both sat in silence, mulling over the ramifications of what each had learned. She wouldn’t every say it out loud, but a place deep inside Willow was hurt from the understanding that Buffy was getting comfort, being helped through this difficult period in her life, by someone who wasn’t her. By a stranger. That someone constructed completely of magic and the Slayer’s imagination was capable of soothing her in a way that Willow wasn’t. It was kind of a blow to the best friend ego. Wasn’t that her primary purpose? And why was it that Buffy felt she couldn’t share it with her?

Buffy broke the quiet first. “It’s almost a relief, in a way,” she said softly. “That he’s definitely not…real. Not that I thought he was, except…the way I always felt when I woke up…like everything was OK. That was real. He just makes it so easy to lo---like him.”

Willow caught the almost slip, and frowned, hearing the words come from her friend’s mouth, but not really believing them. There was an ache that echoed in every syllable, more than a shadow of the pain that had been so prevalent before they’d left Sunnydale lurking in and around each letter as she spoke. “How is it a relief?” she asked, just as softly. Because it didn’t sound like it was.

“Because if he’s real, then I have to start considering why he looks like he does, and that’s just a bad, bad place for Buffy.”

“Why? What does he look like?”

Now, she looked uncomfortable. “Spike.”

“Spike?” A split second later the name sank in, and Willow’s eyes went wide. “Spike?!?” she repeated, shaken out of her mood by the shock.

“Yeah. Talk about being weird when I realized. Not with the bleach job and leather, of course,” Buffy added at the obvious confusion I her friend’s face. “Much, much, much more Victorian, with this…curly hair, and glasses. And his accent is different, too. More…smooth.”

“I guess that’s just more proof then that Esme made him up,” Willow said.

“Why’s that?”

“Because all the Council records said that Spike was some kind of psycho or criminal or something when he was alive,” she explained. “Remember? We found that out in the research we did when he showed up in town. And this…William is a gentleman, by the sounds of it. Very non-Spike-like.”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Willow saw the thoughts ticking in Buffy’s eyes, so when the next came, she wasn’t really all that surprised.

“So…since he’s not really real, and I think it’s pretty obvious the Big Plan of Distraction isn’t working,” Buffy said, though she wasn’t meeting her friend’s gaze as she played with the nap of the couch, “William’s not actually a threat…is he?”

She didn’t know what to say, and it broke her heart to see the Slayer seem so small. “Don’t,” Willow finally managed. “You shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. Haven’t I screwed things up enough already?”

“But it’s not, not really. I know what’s going on now, and aren’t you and Giles the ones always saying that knowledge is power?” The tiny smile she’d been forcing faded. “He makes me feel good about things again, Willow. Being with him is so…easy. Because he doesn’t expect anything. I don’t have to be strong if I don’t want to, but he doesn’t treat me like I’m going to break every second, either. He just…he makes me remember why it’s all worth it in the first place.”

“But he’s not real.”

“But the way he makes me feel is. Please, Willow. It’s not doing any harm, and I’m getting more and more capable of dealing with everything on my own every day. What’s it going to hurt?”

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

The world seemed washed in honey, the sun lower on the horizon than usual. In the treetops, the faint rustling of leaves was broken by the sporadic call of birdsong, cleaving the blue skies with its delicate music before settling back into serenity again, while the almost indistinguishable whistle of the wind spoke of secrets long forgotten.

On the bench, the paper lay forgotten, the edges curling to wave into the breeze, as if they were attempting to escape the prison created by the inks resting on their centers. The footsteps when they came seemed to excite them further, when the young man sitting at their side rose to his feet.

“Hello, Buffy,” he said softly.

She smiled. “Hello, William.”

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

Chapter 15: The Fairest and Most Precious Jewel

He would’ve sworn it couldn’t be possible. In light of every other whimsy opting to declare its authenticity during the course of his day, William would’ve laid his hand on his mother’s Bible and vowed that he’d reached the extent of what he could envisage. There were only so many surprises the world could produce in such a short timespan.

Apparently, the world wasn’t done with him yet.

He’d never denied he thought her beautiful. In fact, more often than not, William had allowed himself to be swept along the tide of verse watching and imagining Buffy created inside his head, all thoughts as to its excellence ignored in preference for simply enjoying the swell. The words never did her justice, of course; he could hardly presume to imagine himself Botticelli to her Venus. But he savored them anyway, and drowned in the reality of her when she came to him, and never once believed it could get any better.

He was wrong.

“You look…radiant,” he finished, striding forward to take her hands in his. Hardly sufficient to explain the sense of peace that had settled around Buffy in a diffuse glow, but in his breathless state, thunderstruck at how she could appear so vibrant and so serene at the same time, it would have to suffice. He cocked his head in confusion as his eyes searched hers. “Did you find Giles? Is that the explanation for…?” William couldn’t find the right words to explain it, and instead waved his hand abstractly around her in hopes she would understand.

Buffy smiled, and shook her head. “I wish,” she said. “But no. Did get some answers, though. That could be it. Or the new moisturizer I got.”

He chuckled. “Could be,” he murmured. Before she could step away, his head was bent, his lips on hers in the kiss he could no longer restrain. Just a taste, he’d decided, one drop of Buffy to temporarily sate the crescendo seeing her had conceived inside him.

It took her by surprise, not in the force of it, but in his certainty that he could take what she was more than willing to give, and he felt her smile against his lips as her arms came up around his neck. All too quickly, it ended, and she pulled away, eyes shining but curious.

“What was that for?”

“Must I have purpose for wishing to kiss my lady?” he said lightly.

She softened at that, and turned her head to rest her cheek against his chest. “You say that like you don’t think it can be any other way. Like…it’s just you for me.”

Where had the melancholy come from? he wondered as he stroked her hair. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she was testing him in some fashion. But what she could wish to discover in such roundabout means, he had no idea.

“And you for me, don’t forget,” he said. “Isn’t that what we decided it would be here? Not once has someone joined us. If that doesn’t make this all about us, I’m afraid I won’t ever understand what it is all about.”

His reply seemed to satisfy her, and she sighed in satisfaction. “You were right, by the way,” she said after the longest moment. Pulling away from his embrace, she began wandering along the grass, with William directly beside her. “Mr. Travers could’ve been Pinocchio for as many lies as he told me.”

“Did you find out what you need to return Giles to safety?”

She shrugged. “It’s too early to tell. The information we got…it made some things a lot clearer, so…we’ll see.”

“I’m sure it will work itself out in the end. After all, information is power.” He frowned at her giggle. “Something strikes you as amusing?”

“It’s just…you sound like Giles. And Willow. They’re all big with the brain trust.” She stopped in her tracks and cocked her head to look at him. “I guess it’s no wonder I found you. I have this weird knack for surrounding myself with smartypants.”

He wondered if this was his opening. All day at the Watcher’s offices, William had debated how he would broach the subject of their shared dreams to Buffy. He didn’t understand how, and he had no clue as to why, but he didn’t doubt for a moment that she wasn’t from an actual future. After speaking more with Rose and Richard, the pair had accompanied him back to his home, during which time the seer had offered insights into his life that no one else could know. She’d even hinted at some knowledge of Buffy, but her references had been vague, and she’d graciously allowed him to change the subject whenever it seemed to veer too closely to the topic of Slayers.

It was their presence in his home that had confirmed for him their belief in the temporal folds. With only a moment’s hesitation on the threshold, Rose had gone directly to his mother’s room, not speaking to anyone, and had correctly pointed out several details from the night she’d disappeared. She’d then proceeded to William’s room, but rather than venture inside, she stopped on the threshold.

“You write of her,” she’d murmured.

She had left it at that, but as they’d moved downstairs, Rose had waited until Richard was beyond earshot to add, “I shan’t tell my husband because the issue of Slayers is a delicate one for him, but please…be careful in the words you choose with your young lady. The load she bears is a heavy one. Don’t burden her further with unnecessary details.”

As he looked at her now, William wondered if this meant he shouldn’t tell Buffy the truth of it at all. She seemed so satisfied, more at peace than she’d been since they’d first started meeting; what would learning that everything they’d imagined as fancy was in actuality truth do to her? Would she even believe him?

Part of him doubted it. If there was one thing William had learned of the Slayer, it was that she despised what she didn’t understand. It frustrated her, and he didn’t wish to be on the receiving end of that frustration should she not be amenable to what he’d learned.

But he so wanted her to know. How many times had she expressed the desire for it all to be real? He could give that to her. He could tell her that…

But what could he tell her? “You’re real, and I’m real, but we can only be real together while we’re sleeping.” That was no way to treat the woman he loved. Offer her only a fraction of his time because the years conspired to keep them apart? He didn’t have the strength to do that.

So he kept silent, only smiling as he took her hand and began leading her away from the familiar vista of their park bench. She seemed to sense his mood, and joined him in their mute exploration, forbearing after a few minutes from the handhold he’d initiated for a more intimate press into his side.

Quickly, William lost any sight for the flora around them, overwhelmed by the sensations of her curves molded to his hip, the heat in his forearm from where it was curled around her waist. He had no idea where they were heading; he’d merely wished to be moving for some reason. And yet, his body still throbbed in accordance with his desire for this woman, her easy fit into his body only boosting it with every step.

“I read your poem.”

Her voice was subdued, her eyes on the grass before them, and he knew without having to ask to which poem she was referring. Allowing himself a quick glance, William hurriedly averted his eyes back to the lawn, aware of the heat suffusing his cheeks. The fact that she merely mentioned it without offering any form of gratitude or praise could only mean she didn’t like it, and was attempting to be as delicate with him as possible. In light of how he was certain she felt for him, it surprisingly hurt.

“Did you mean what you said?”

Her question was unexpected, and William frowned as he struggled to remember the poem’s exact words. “I wouldn’t have written it if I didn’t believe it,” he said. That was true, even if he wasn’t entirely sure to what specifically she was alluding.

He almost squeaked out loud when she stopped and threw her arms around him in an exuberant hug. Though an ache was quickly beginning to form in his shoulders from the force she exerted, he couldn’t hold back the smile at the words she whispered in his ear.

“I think that’s what I love most about you, William,” Buffy said. “Your heart.”

Said organ was pounding inside his ribcage as her declaration accelerated the ferment of his emotions. She loves me. She said it. She loves me.

Like the bird he’d characterized Buffy as in his poem, in that moment, William was convinced he could fly, lack of wings be damned. Burying his face in her neck, he swept her up and around, listening to her squeal in delight at the surprise spin and wondering if there was ever a more joyous sound than the happy laugh of a woman in love.

She was still laughing when he stopped, but didn’t let go, hanging from his neck as he held her firmly about the waist. “My own tilt-a-whirl,” she teased.

“Yours,” he affirmed. “Only yours. For always.”

Before she could escape, he was kissing her again, inhibitions freed by his certitude that she wished it as much as he did. Clumsy, passionate, hungry kisses, punctuated by his own breathlessness and Buffy’s occasional chuckle as they slid to the ground. He was panting when he finally pulled back, and looked down at the glow of her cheeks.

“Do I make you happy?” William asked, the sudden desire to hear it from her lips more important than anything else in that moment.

Tenderly, she cupped his cheek, a small smile curving her mouth. “How could you not?” she replied.

“But only here.” He ducked his gaze at her tiny frown. “All the troubles you have when you leave my company…I know those vex you beyond my means of aid. You have no concept of how strongly I wish I could extend my support beyond the walls of our dreams, Buffy.” Back to the clear green of her aspect, this spate of words taking him just as much in surprise as she. “If there were a way…if it was possible for me to help you, to…assist you, should you need it---.”

“But you already do, don’t you get it?” Rolling on to her side, Buffy propped her head up in her hand as her other fingers hovered above the vibrations in his throat where his pulse pounded. “I know you don’t see it, and maybe I haven’t been super clear, but every time we’re together, I wake up just a little bit stronger. I don’t know how my subconscious does it, and you know, not really in the mood to be questioning the magic that gets us here in the first place, but that doesn’t mean it’s not working.”

He stopped breathing at her mention of the word “magic.” Could she know? Was he cheating himself of even greater satisfaction by not sharing his own knowledge with her?

Her lips on his forced his lungs to start working again, startling him with the tenderest of caresses. “Besides,” she teased, “you don’t know how good you’ve got it. Dream Buffy is a lot happier than Real Buffy, mainly because of the lack of slayage and manipulative tweedy bastards. You should be over the moon and around the sun you got the good one.”

William’s hand came up to catch hers, pulling it against his chest where both of them could feel his heart beating. “There is no good one,” he said quietly. “There is the strong one, and the frightened one, and the happy one, and the angry one, but in the end, they’re all one and the same, because they’re all you, Buffy. I would not presume to trade any of them because that might mean I lose something of…” He hesitated then, the fact that he was going to say it verbally this time, in such a way, drying his mouth. He swallowed. “…the woman I love,” he finished.

She sighed at that, and pulled her hand from his grasp to rest it flat against his exposed skin. All thoughts of questioning her regarding what she may or may not know fled as she leaned toward him, her warm breath fanning across his neck just before she pressed her lips to his throat. As the shudder pulsed through him, William’s eyes fluttered shut, his last image of Buffy burned onto his retinas as he inhaled her scent.

Gently, she pressed into him, using her weight and gravity rather than force to push him back onto the grass. When the cool blades were tickling his ears, he felt her fingers alight on his face, removing his glasses in a delicate sweep. The extra brilliance on his closed lids made his eyes burn, and it was only when the shadow passed behind them that he dared to open them again.

She was hovering above him, their torsos melding together, and her hair whispered across his cheek where it fell over her shoulder. “Do you trust me?” Buffy asked.

He couldn’t help but smile. “What a foolish question.”

“So was asking me if you make me happy,” she teased.

Pressing his lips together in lieu of a response, William just watched her as she bent her head again, dipping in to nip at his chin. An electric shock shot through his body, the unexpected pleasure from the tiny bite startling him into distraction. His eyes drifted closed again. “Buff---,” he started, only to have it cut off in a gurgle when he felt her tiny hand slip down the front of his trousers.

“Sshhh,” she said before silencing his surprise with a kiss.

The explosion of physical sensation inside his head was nothing compared to the sudden rise of fear in William’s throat. It had been one thing to consider making love to Buffy when he’d merely believed her to be a figment of his imagination. Now, knowing that she was real, knowing that these were actual memories she would be taking back with her when she awoke, he couldn’t help but hesitate. What would she think of him? Would she find him wanting? And was it entirely fair of him to play his role in this mutual seduction when a true gentleman wouldn’t use a lady such as she in this way?

“Buffy…love…please…” His attempts to gain her attention were misinterpreted, he realized, when her grip tightened around his shaft, squeezing and stroking in an eruption of pleasure that drove the air from his lungs. Though he’d pleasured himself in the past, each time with a sense of guilt even as he spent, those were shadows compared to the exquisite bliss her touch created in him. Several more seconds of this, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to contain himself.

And then it was gone, and Buffy had pulled back from kissing him, and as much as he was relieved that it wouldn’t be over yet quite so quickly, William felt a strange sense of dissatisfaction and emptiness at the absence of her touch. His eyes flew open to see her staring at him, a small line between her fine brows.

“Are you OK?” she asked, her voice slightly tremulous. “Is it…I’m not hurting you, am I?”

“Oh, love, no.” Suddenly self-conscious of his erection’s exposure where she’d undone his trousers, he fumbled to cover himself as he pushed himself up. “It’s just…overwhelming. No one has ever…I mean, you’re the first…” The heat in his face betrayed his embarrassment in his confession, and he ducked his gaze before seeing the understanding dawn in hers.

“Oh,” Buffy said softly. Her hand came out to cup his cheek, forcing him to lift his head again. “It’s OK if you want us to stop. I just thought…you know I wanted to do that, right?”

“I do. But, perhaps, if you would allow me to…touch you instead, just for a bit…”

“You expect me to say no?” she teased. “Do you think I’m crazy or something?”

He smiled as he bent in for a kiss. “I do love you, Buffy Summers.”

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

She could still feel his trembling as she laid back on the grass. Making love to him had been her intention ever since convincing Willow to let her have the dreams, at least for now, but each time he had said something obviously constructed by the magic to fill the need in her, or repeated something that had just been said to her that day only to reinforce the theory of his existence, her certainty had faded. But she’d acted anyway, and had been rewarded with the quivering response of his body, hard and ready and needy all for her. So losing herself now to his touch was simple. This was about William and Buffy. This was what the dreams had always been about.

Their eyes were locked as his fingers stroked her cheek, pushing back her hair to let it splay across the grass before skating down to the soft rise of her breasts over the sundress’ bodice. There, they hesitated, and his eyebrow cocked in silent query for permission to proceed.

Wordlessly, Buffy lifted her hands to join his, guiding him into undoing the tiny white buttons. As each fell free, neither was able to tear their gazes away from the other, not even when her dress parted completely to fall into soft folds at her sides. She had had to sit up slightly for the last few buttons, but with the last undone, Buffy sank back into the lawn. And waited.

William looked away then, and she saw his breathing quicken as he drank in the sight of her, golden flesh exposed to the hot sun. The hand he’d used on the fastenings lifted to the rosy peak of her breast, floating about the curve with reverence. When he spoke, his voice was a whisper on the breeze, so soft she had to strain to hear him.

“I am lost in a place ‘tween the sun and moon,
Where firm and figment merge this June,
And in that place ‘tween moon and sun,
My love that burns for her is legion.”

“I don’t remember hearing you tell me that one before,” she said quietly, desperate not to shatter the mood he’d created. “When did you write it?”

“Just now.” He blushed and swallowed, his hand sculpting the air in her shape as it descended down over her stomach. “It’s not very good, I’m sure.”

“Don’t be silly.” Reaching up, she fisted the front of his shirt to pull on top of her length. “It was wonderful.”

The direct contact of their bodies made William gasp, and he quickly dropped his hands to the grass to prop his torso up over hers. His mouth opened to protest, but when he saw the tease in her eyes, his own relaxed. “Someone is failing to uphold her end of this arrangement,” he pretend-scolded.

“I thought you didn’t want me to hold it,” Buffy replied in wide-eyed innocence.

He chuckled. “My saucy, little minx.”

Then, his mouth was back on her, sucking at her neck before following its delicate line to the hollow of her throat. Her eyes rolled back as she felt him nip there with his teeth, just as she had done to him, and reached up to tangle her fingers in his hair. “Yes…” she murmured, only to lose in it a hiss when his tongue began circling the hard bud of her nipple.

“Tell me,” he whispered into her skin.

“Tell you…” She gasped when his lips closed around the tip of her breast, sucking the nipple against the roof of his mouth. “…what?” she managed to finish.

“How to please you.” His fingers were tentative where they danced down her sides, and he shifted his weight in order to lavish attention on the other breast.

“But you are,” Buffy said. She shuddered when he inadvertently brushed his arm over the tops of her thighs, in spite of the underwear that still separated her from his touch. “Just…follow your instincts. You’ll do…” Another shudder. “…more than fine.”

It seemed forever as his tongue and teeth teased her breasts, leaving her squirming against the grass as the desire slowly swelled inside her. When the heat of his body suddenly abandoned hers, Buffy’s eyes flew open to see him kneeling at her side, hands working determinedly at his shirt as he peeled it from his shoulders. He was pale, touched by too little sun, his shoulders broad but lean where he towered over her, and her eyes dropped to the slim line of his hips when he hesitated at his trousers.

“Are you certain?” William asked, and her gaze flew back to his face.

“Never been more,” she replied.

His fingers flew at the fastenings and he quickly stripped from the rest of his clothing, his bashfulness tinting his cheeks in pink as he avoided meeting her eyes again. Too soon, he was stretched at her side, and Buffy could feel the long length of his arousal pressing into her hip. She wanted him inside her, but his earlier statement about her being his first explained more than his constant questions. Enough listening to Xander talk about male hormones and performance anxiety, even if it was all jokes and insincere banter, told her that he probably feared it ending too quickly. He was just trying to see to her needs before expending his own.

“Touch me,” she encouraged, and took his hand in hers, guiding it down her stomach to the waistband of her panties. Gently, she pushed his fingers beneath the elastic, noting the wonder in his eyes as he brushed over the wiry curls.

“So warm,” William murmured. “I never imagined…” The thought remained unfinished as he took the initiative and broke from her grasp, his entire hand disappearing inside the cotton to cup her mound.

Her legs parted, the invitation for him to explore further passing silently between them. When he slipped the first finger between her folds, sliding along the wetness it found there, Buffy’s hands flew to her sides, digging into the earth as if to root herself from flying away. One gentle stroke…another tracing the lower curve of her opening…another glide up the other side…and then he lightly brushed over her clit, sending an electrical shock up her pelvis.

Her sharp intake of breath at the contact made him jerk away, but Buffy’s hand shot up to grab his wrist. “No,” she said huskily, opening her eyes to look into his startled face. “That wasn’t bad.”

“But…you…that’s pleasurable?”

“Very much so.” Releasing her grip on him, Buffy hooked her fingers through the waistband of her underwear and pushed them down her legs, kicking them away to bare herself to him again. Though it felt weird being the more knowledgeable of the pair, she shoved the awkwardness aside. “You can…do it again,” she said at his hesitation. “Please?”

The entreaty was all it took to ease William’s discomfort, and he returned to his careful exploration with an intent that was almost frightening in its earnestness. With each caress, he grew bolder, and when she felt his breath blow warm and ragged across her outer lips, her flesh broke out in goosebumps.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured. He’d parted the curls and exposed her to the hot sun, and she heard the soft hitch in his throat as he swallowed. When she felt his cheek settle on her lower tummy, she glanced down to see him gazing up at her.

“What?” she asked, suddenly self-conscious.

“It’s nothing,” he murmured. His hand in her heat never stopped moving, each stroke a frisson of fire through her thighs.

She didn’t believe him, but it was obvious he wasn’t going to say anything further, content in watching her react to his touch. When he slid a finger inside, it startled Buffy, causing her to clench around him, and the groan that escaped her parted lips was unavoidable.

“Does my lady enjoy that?” William whispered. No more diffidence in his voice. The trembling in her body was the only confirmation he needed.

She responded by squeaking when he added a second finger, eyes dark with desire as they bored into hers. In and out he pumped, never breaking his gaze, and as the flames inside her escalated, he boldly brushed the pad of his thumb across her clit.

“William!” she cried out, bucking beneath his weight. For a moment, he disappeared, but his hand remained, and she twisted as he quickened the pace of his fingers. It was quickly becoming too much, and she groped to reach him through the haze he was creating in her head.

“Stop…please…” Buffy gasped. “Want you…” As he began to climb up her length, she grew impatient, yanking him the rest of the way to slam her mouth to his. Hunger replaced caution, and almost immediately, his ardor matched hers, kissing her as if the world were about to end. Her legs spread, wrapping around his waist, and she felt the tip of his erection nudging at her slick opening.

“Now…” she breathed when they parted for necessary air.

For the first time since she’d finished stripping, William looked wary. “I can’t…I’m not certain how long…” he stumbled.

“You were fine when I was touching you,” she said.

He blushed. “I was…distracting myself,” he admitted with a stammer.

“So do whatever you did again.” She didn’t give him time to reply, just pulled him back to her lips before tightening her legs around his hips. “And if that’s not enough, then…do it backwards.”

There was resistance at first, his girth stretching her almost painfully as William pressed into her. His eyes were squeezed shut, most likely concentrating on whatever it was that had helped him endure her earlier teasing, but the pleasure on his face was unmistakable as he sank into her heat. Buffy eased her guidance, allowing his instincts to take over, and let herself fall into the whirlwind his penetration created, drowning and swirling and floating as each agonizing inch filled the desire inside that had been screaming for him for days now.

It seemed forever before he was completely sheathed, and when he was, his forehead fell to hers, his breathless panting fanning across her cheeks. “Legion,” William murmured. Re-capturing her lips, he began to move before coherent thought could manifest itself in Buffy’s brain, groaning when she started to move with him. “Love you,” he managed to articulate before burying his face in the crook of her neck.

“I love you, too,” she whispered. Already so close to an orgasm before he’d entered her, each thrust only added to the crescendo, cascading in a riot of shivers and shocks before tossing her screaming over the precipice. Her back arched away from the ground as her inner muscles squeezed his shaft, her guttural cry being simultaneously torn from her throat.

Through the tremors wracking her body, Buffy felt William speed his thrusts, his control gone in the wake of her pleasure. Once…twice…and it was on the third stroke that he stiffened, the muscles in his back straining with the force of his orgasm, each release deep inside her causing him to jerk in unison. Her hands pulled him down, her mouth sought his, and before the quivering had stopped, they were kissing, promising without words the steadfastness each was afraid to fully voice.

When he murmured the “I love you” again into her ear, Buffy smiled unseen as she stroked his sweat-slick curls. It didn’t matter what Willow said. And it didn’t matter that none of this was real.

What he did for her was.

And she could let herself love that. Because he couldn’t hurt her.

Wouldn’t hurt her.

He promised.

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

Esme watched them at the other end of the cave, her gnarled fingers manipulating the stones laid out on the table before her in a mindless pattern. Nathan’s voice was beginning to grate on her final nerve, the coaxing he’d been giving the prostate form on the moth-eaten bed escalating into a petulant wheedling that made her want to just stake him and be done with the whole mess.

“C’mon, babe,” he whined. “Don’t do this to me.”

Esme’s scoff was audible, and she rolled her eyes when he scowled back in her direction. “Maybe she just wants to sleep,” the witch commented with more than a taste of sarcasm. “Maybe being contained in a magical crystal collection takes a little more getting over than some sheep’s blood and a touchy-feely boyfriend.”

“Shut up,” Nathan barked. He turned back to April, pushing back the dark hair from her ridged brow. Releasing her from the spell that had contained her for over a century had seemed like the penultimate moment of his existence; they should’ve fallen into each other’s arms and then set off to ravage their way back to London before the sun had risen to confine them to darker quarters.

Instead, April had woken at the sound of her name on his lips, only to collapse moments later. So close to morning, he’d only been able to kill a few sheep to feed her, but that hadn’t been enough. What she needed was human, something with stronger healing properties than the local ovine population. Esme had tried more than once to tell the stupid vamp that, but Nathan was refusing to leave his lover’s side.

“Can you do something for her?”

He surprised her with the question, more from the fact that she’d been expecting it earlier that day than the fact that he’d uttered it at all. “You mean other than breaking the enchantment that held her?” she replied.

“You have just as much interest in seeing April strong as I do.”

“I also understand that these things require patience.”

Snarling, Nathan glared at her with yellow eyes as his hands clenched and unclenched in his lap. She knew he desperately wanted to tear her head off, but her power frightened him. She would be safe from any of his attacks until he had April fully recovered at his side. “Don’t piss me off,” he warned instead, turning away. “You might not get your precious payment if you do.”

Esme’s lips thinned. If she didn’t need the female vampire so badly, she would just walk away from the entire debacle, consequences be damned. But she’d walked too far along the road to stop now, playing with time against all the rules she’d ever learned, dancing around the current Slayer in an attempt to deter her from meddling with the outcome. She didn’t care if Buffy Summers killed April or not; all she cared about was when. As long as Esme got what she wanted from the vamp, the California girl could do whatever took her fancy.

For a moment, her thoughts drifted to the liaisons she’d instigated between the Slayer and the Victorian poet. As much as she was fascinated by the young woman, it was William that occupied most of her conscious thoughts of the pair. He had not been what she’d been expecting. There was no doubt as to his involvement in April’s downfall---or potential involvement at this point---yet the diffident poet was as far from a warrior as anyone could expect. What could he possibly contribute to the battle?

Driving him to distraction and Buffy’s arms had been simple---a few choice words, an addictive tea---but the faintest niggle in the back of Esme’s mind worried her. He had seemed stronger in her last encounter with him---well, stronger after she’d spoken to him. She knew he’d fled the party, but once he’d decided to return, with thoughts of his love first and foremost in his mind, the witch had been taken aback by the determination she’d sensed in him. A…power, almost. It hadn’t been there before, and she was beginning to fear that maybe she’d done the wrong thing in putting the two together.

She couldn’t even travel back to his time again to discover more of the answers for herself. Over the course of the past two weeks, especially with her latest foray to the Freston home, she’d depleted her strength, making anything as powerful as time manipulation impossible. She didn’t dare let Nathan know that, though. With his temper as short as it was, Esme needed him to fear her until her strength returned sufficiently so that she could defend herself.

Right now, she knew that if an attack came, she would end up dead. And she couldn’t let that happen. Not when she was so close to getting what she’d been working toward.

“You should go down to the village and bring her back a human,” she said, rising to her feet. “A live feed is what she needs. If you go now, you’ll be back before sunrise.”

“I can’t leave her. What if she wakes up and I’m not here?”

“And what if you don’t go and she never wakes up?” Esme countered. Against her better judgment, she rested a hand on the vampire’s shoulder in a conciliatory attempt to get him to understand. “You’re right when you say I need her strong, too. Why would I lie to you at this point in our little arrangement?”

The frustration was pouring off him in waves, and it took all her control not to flinch when he jumped to his feet. With one last look at the sleeping April, he lifted a warning finger to the witch. “I’ll be less than an hour,” Nathan said. “If anything’s wrong when I get back, I’ll kill you.”

As she watched him stomp from the cave, Esme sighed. Demons were such a nightmare to deal with. It almost made her glad that it was the Slayer and William on the other side. At least they would be reasonable if the time came for her to play her wildcards.

After all, there wasn’t anything as strong as a child’s love for a parent…now was there?

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

Chapter 16: So Far from Home

He knew he ought not to be so light of heart. Circumstances were no different than prior to his night’s slumber---his mother remained missing, the conundrum of just what Richard and his Council intended to do with the information William had still to provide nagged beneath his every movement---and yet, William went about his morning ablutions with a seemingly blithe disregard for the issues at hand. Not that he didn’t care; oh, no, nothing could be farther from the truth. But the respite he’d been granted from the night spent with Buffy fortified him against dwelling, a development in his character of which he was more than aware.

It had been magical. He had no other words to describe it. More, and more, and infinitely more than he’d ever imagined, like he’d been entombed in some dark sepulcher and then liberated at the hour of noon in the height of brilliant summer. Blinding at first, but as his confidence grew, and as Buffy encouraged him to continue and explore at his leisure---just as she did the same, his playful siren---the radiance had abated to more tolerable levels, still fiery and explosive beneath his skin but manageable, so that he could endure more than the fifteen or thirty seconds of pleasure loving her gave him at a time.

He smiled as he fastened his shirt cuffs. So perhaps he did have the words after all.

His only surprise from the experience came upon waking. It was William’s experience that such dreams---and though these were not the first to occur for him, they were certainly the most intense---should’ve been accompanied by his unconscious spending while he slept. Yet, both his sheets and his nightwear were clean and dry when he awoke. He was aroused, yes, but any physical evidence of his nocturnal adventures was missing. A curious observation, but one for which he was surprisingly grateful. It was always dreadfully uncomfortable for him to try and cover the effects of such doings when they’d happened before, and to be saved the responsibility of hiding such a frenzy from the staff or his mother was a welcome boon.

Of course, it wouldn’t have been difficult to hide such a thing from his mother considering she was still missing. His mood dropped ever so slightly.

He was fully dressed and prepared when the announcement came that he had company. Head held high, William pushed open the door to the front lounge and smiled as Richard rose from his seat. “Good morning,” he said, extending his hand. “Have you been offered tea yet?”

Richard shook his head. “I don’t imagine we’ll be staying that long today,” he replied. He stepped back to allow William to bow over Rose’s proffered fingers. “Once we’ve finished what we need to here, it’s most likely best for all of us to return to the Council to analyze our results.”

Rose was dressed differently today. The trousers and plait were gone, replaced with the subdued dark dress more befitting the era and her age. She was smiling as William brushed his lips over her knuckles, but when their eyes met, he saw her hesitate, a small line forming between her brows as she gazed at him closer.

“You seem…rested,” she said, and cast a surreptitious glance at her husband to see if he was paying her any mind. Unseen by Richard, the backs of her fingers tilted upwards to brush against William’s palm, and he felt a sharp tingle at the brief contact. It was gone just as quickly as it had appeared, though, and she pulled her hand away from his with a thoughtful tilt of her head.

Mildly shaken, William turned from Rose to face the Watcher. “What is the plan for today then? Do you need for me to do anything, or should I remain out of your way?”

“I will need some time in your mother’s room,” Rose interjected. She rose to her feet, a small leather bag dangling from her left wrist. “Most of that will be spent trying to determine the source of the magic that was used on her, which will require my utmost concentration.”

“Oh.” For some reason, he was relieved that she was going to need to be separate from them while she worked. Perhaps it was the knowing look in her eye when she gazed at him. William turned to Richard again. “And you, sir? Will you---?”

“I’ll need you for a few moments while I get acquainted with her room,” Rose cut in. “You don’t mind if I steal William away from your questions, do you, Richard? I promise to return him in one piece.”

More of his exhilaration faded at the Watcher’s agreement, but William maintained his smile for as long as it took to lead Rose to his mother’s bedroom. Only when she closed the door behind them and he turned to see her solemn countenance did it disappear completely.

“I like you, William,” she said, ignoring any more of the pleasantries. “As does Richard. Now. And I still believe that my assertions about your innocence are true. But neither of us are fools, and I refuse to let you play us as such.”

Her direct tone and level gaze immediately reverted him to his early school days, and the disappointed lectures he received from teachers who felt his predisposition for woolgathering was detrimental to his studies. Not that he’d been a bad student, quite the contrary, especially on those topics he adored. They merely felt that he could be truly excellent if he only applied himself. He would cower in shame at not meeting their expectations, curls falling against his brow, his glasses slipping down his nose as he stared at the floor, and it was that same sense of reproach that reared its ugly head now.

“I…don’t understand,” he managed to say.

“I don’t know how it’s possible, and I’m not entirely certain who she could be,” she said, “but your interactions with your Slayer friend will need to be brought to light very soon here. Richard may not have noticed it immediately, but that’s only due to his attention elsewhere. When you return for his inquiries, I’m sure he’ll sense the difference in you fairly quickly. And what will you tell him?”

She knew. She knew more than could be merely guessed at, and though he’d known of this yesterday during her first inspection, William found her candid queries now more than a little disconcerting.

“How?” he asked, his voice hoarse. He could feel the beads of sweat beginning to trickle beneath his collar, and fought not to wipe them away.

Rose softened at his obvious discomfort. “I’m a seer, remember? I see things others don’t, or choose not to.”

“But she’s…not of this world. A figment of my imagination only.”

The lie made her shake her head. “We both know that’s not true, William. You wear her essence as closely as if she was on your arm at this very moment. That wouldn’t be possible if she weren’t real.” She became contemplative. “I’d thought yesterday that she was merely a Potential that you had crossed paths with, but now…there’s no mistaking her calling. How is it you’ve managed to interact so intimately with her?”

Pointless to continue with the pretense. “I don’t know,” he admitted, and while he hated being forced to divulge his secrets, part of him bounded from the freedom he would gain from its tether. If anyone could understand, surely it would be Miss Rose… “I’ve never understood why she came to me, though until yesterday, I was certain she was merely a dream---.”

“She comes to you in dreams?” This sparked her renewed attention, and her eyes became even more inquisitive, sweeping up and over him as she rounded his form. “But there’s nothing mystical about you. You don’t have the power to do more than the most rudimentary of magics.” Rose came to a halt before him again. “Are they prophetic dreams you’re having? Are you seeing future events?”

“Not…exactly.”

“But you know things.”

“Only what she tells me.”

“She? The Slayer? She talks to you?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me what she looks like.”

The request bewildered him, and for the first time since her approach, William looked into those black eyes, wondering why she would ask such a thing. “Petite,” he said. “Blonde hair, almost honeyed in the sun. With green---.”

“Enough.” Rose cut him off with a wave of her hand, his response returning her to her earlier contemplation. “Does your young lady have a name?”

“Miss Buffy Summers.”

“Buffy. That’s the name you mentioned to Richard. But that’s not the name of any Slayer we’ve had on record. How is it you come to meet with her? Has someone given you a spell in order to initiate contact?”

William’s mind automatically drifted to the tea he consumed before going to sleep every night. He’d long ago accepted the correlation between drinking it and dreaming of Buffy, but in light of the reality of her, was it time to re-evaluate just how some sort of thing could come to pass? The plan to circumvent the issue of his love was completely moot now, anyway. He very well could’ve fooled Richard in a one-on-one interrogation, but Rose saw far too much, was far too direct in her questioning to continue such a charade.

“Come with me,” he said and exited his mother’s chambers.

The tray from the previous evening still sat at his bedside, and William led the seer straight to it. “It’s most likely nothing,” he said as he gestured to the dregs within the cup. “But it’s the only link I can find with my encounters with Buffy.”

Carefully, Rose lifted the cup to her nose, sniffing delicately at the remains of its contents before taking a much longer draught. “Who gave you this?” she asked.

“It’s a remedy of our cook’s aunt,” he explained. “I was having difficulty sleeping and---.”

“It’s akin to the temporal displacements that occurred here.” She gave it another inhale. “Not exactly the same, but the similarities are too strong to ignore.”

William’s blood ran cold. “So it is magic,” he stated, though he knew somewhere in the back of his mind that that had to be the case. “And I was deliberately meant to see Buffy. But why? And what could it possibly have to do with my mother?”

She set the cup back down onto the tray. “You say it was your cook’s aunt’s recipe? I don’t suppose you know her name, do you? It’s likely she’s a known practitioner and we can find her with the Council’s resources.”

He shook his head, his brain spinning as he attempted to recall the brief conversation he’d had with Cook regarding the tea in the first place. He could almost envision how they’d been standing, but the words…auntie, she’d called her. But auntie what?

“Esmerelda!” William announced triumphantly as it came to him in a flash. “She said her name was Esme---.”

He cut himself off.

There was no reason to think it was.

And yet…the similar names…the concurrence of such odd events…and she knew. Miss Esme knew. She could see. She saw Buffy, she saw it all. Just like…

When he felt her slim hand come to rest on his forearm, he jumped back as if scalded, eyes wide behind his glasses as he swallowed convulsively. “What is it, William?” Rose asked quietly. Her voice was so gentle, coaxing him as if he was a wild foal, but though he wished desperately that he could believe her, it was just too much.

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

Richard emerged from the lounge to see the back of William’s head as he dashed out the front door, the heavy wood reverberating in its frame as it slammed closed. Automatically, he rushed forward but was stopped before exiting when he heard Rose’s voice on the stair behind him.

“Don’t,” she said. “He needs some time to himself, I believe. But he’ll be back.”

He turned to see her descend, her hand skimming along the rail. “Did it work?” he asked. “Did he tell you?”

Rose nodded. “I confronted him, just as you requested. It took him a few minutes to realize he couldn’t lie to me about it, but once he did, he was quite open with his answers.”

“And?”

“The Buffy he mentioned is a Slayer. Though he didn’t say outright, I’m assuming she’s the one who told him of the Council’s existence.”

“You mean she’s a Potential.”

“No, I don’t.”

“But that’s not possible. The Slayer’s not even in this country, and if another had been called, I would know about it…” He froze, stiffening. “Unless…you don’t think it’s---?”

“It’s not.” Her voice was firm, and she finished coming down the stairs to stand before him. “He described Buffy, and, trust me, he wasn’t lying about her. But there’s no mistaking that he’s encountering some Slayer. His entire aura weeps with it.”

Richard’s knuckles were bone-white around the end post of the balustrade. “And you just let him walk away?” he demanded. “I asked you to question him because I wanted to ensure his cooperation without the use of magic, because you said it wasn’t necessary, and yet when it appears that he is privy to information that threatens us, you allow him to slip through our fingers.”

“He isn’t ours to hold. He’s a man in love---.”

“With a Slayer! That shouldn’t even be possible!”

“But it is. It’s all part of the temporal folds we detected. I suspect there’s a greater picture here we’re not seeing. He mentioned the first name of the woman he believes might be behind his contact with this Buffy. An Esmerelda. I will lay odds that we’re able to find something on her at the Council archives. The magic she used is too powerful to have gone unnoticed.”

He shook his head. “Sometimes, woman, I do believe you’re completely mad,” he said affectionately, his earlier ire deflating with her calm presentation. Richard sighed, resigned. “Now tell me…why is it you think he’ll come back?”

Rose’s eyes drifted to the closed door. “Because he has nowhere else to go for answers,” she replied softly. “And he’s a young man desperately in search of them.”

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

It was the first morning he’d felt strong enough to rise from the bed.

Groggy, Giles’ fingers clawed into the mortar of the brick wall, desperate for purchase to help him stand. His head was awhirl, the room still pitching about him as it had for the days he’d spent coming in and out of consciousness on the too-short cot. But as he remained still, focusing his eyes on a fixed point in the floor, it gradually began to lessen, the rocking and swaying he associated with being awake easing to a more manageable state.

He had no idea where he was. The room itself could’ve been anywhere---rough brick walls, unpainted and barely finished, measuring eight by eight…the cot with the itchy gray blankets that had made him sweat through his clothes until the desire to wash had driven him to his feet…a sink and toilet in the far corner…a single light bulb dangling from the ceiling. A prison cell, really, he realized, now that his head was clearer. But what kind of jail it was, and who exactly was incarcerating him, Giles had no idea.

He had been blindsided on the way to the market. One minute he was stepping from the curb to cross the street. The next, he was waking up to lean over and vomit in the pan next to his cot because his stomach was refusing to behave. A quick glance down at the floor confirmed for him that the pan had long since been removed, which in the tiny, windowless room, was a welcome relief. And he did remember eating at some point in his bedrest. He just couldn’t remember any of the specific details.

No matter. Now that he was up, Giles was determined to learn as much as he could about his surroundings. Starting with the status of the door.

Encouraging his feet to move took more effort than he’d imagined, so by the time Giles had crossed the room, nearly half an hour had passed. Yet again, sweat soaked his shirt, though this time from exertion, and he had to stop and lean against the jamb to catch his breath before testing the doorknob. Whatever had been done to him had been powerful, he decided. Poison perhaps, or maybe magic. Though his body was tired and difficult to control, he didn’t seem to be physically hurt enough to merit a more tangible attack.

With shaking fingers, he reached for the door, resting his weight at its side as he attempted to turn the handle. Much to his surprise, it moved on the first attempt, silent even when the door swung out into a blackened hall, and Giles peered into the darkness in an attempt to discern more of his surroundings. No illumination marked the narrow passage, but the light from his room revealed a matching door across the way. No sounds emanated from it. Am I alone here?

There was only one way to find out. Gritting his teeth against the exhaustion, Giles took the last few steps to the opposite door, dropping his hand when he reached it to see if it opened as easily as his. It did. Carefully, he pulled it ajar, and peered through the breach.

As far as he could tell, it was a literal copy of his room, though instead of a toilet, a large pot sat next to the bed. It wasn’t unoccupied, either. Asleep beneath the gray blanket was a woman only a few years older than himself, ashy blonde hair in a long plait over her shoulder, with a sculptured profile softened by age. There was something vaguely familiar about her features, though Giles was certain he’d never seen her before. Still, her presence meant that he wasn’t alone here. Add that to the fact that both their doors were unlocked and he was beginning to wonder if in fact they were being held hostage after all.

Or whoever brought me here doesn’t expect us to just get up out of bed and walk around, he suddenly thought.

It was impossible to tell if these were the only two doors, but in his increasingly weakened state, Giles knew that further exploration would be impossible at the moment. Easing the door closed, he almost fell across the distance of the hall to his own room, wincing when the heavy wood echoed hollowly as it shut behind him. Just a bit more rest, he decided. Then I can search more extensively. Or speak to the woman across the way. Perhaps she knows more of what is going on here than I do.

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

She watched its entrance from her vantage point across the road, careful to stay hidden behind the heavy curtains she’d commissioned prior to her arrival in London. The distant clacking of hooves down the street was ignored as she focused her attention on the young boy she’d hired to deliver her message dart between the wheels of rolling coaches, hesitating only once when he reached the Council’s door. Hungry eyes swiveled to look up at her, and though she knew he couldn’t actually see her behind the drape, she nodded anyway, sending him silent confirmation that that was the correct destination.

Cool arms slid around her naked waist, and equally cool lips pressed into the bend of her shoulder. “Come back to bed,” Nathan singsonged. “We’ve only just arrived, and if the boy fails to get what you need, you can just have him for supper and find another one to try.”

She leaned back into his chest, letting the curtains fall closed to leave them in gloom. “I hate this place,” she complained. “Why did he have to come back to the Council? Why couldn’t he have stayed in St. Petersburg?”

“Because you had already left,” he said, chuckling. “Why should he stay when you’re his entire reason for existing?”

Her eyes fluttered shut when his expert fingers began kneading the lower swell of her full breast. “Richard always has to make everything so difficult,” she murmured.

A series of kisses, growing in intensity, left a trail around the back of her shoulders until he met the delicate line of the opposite side of her neck. “You could just let him go,” Nathan whispered into her ear as he caught the lobe between his teeth. “Forget this silly vendetta once and for---.”

She whirled in his arms, fangs already to the fore as her nails came up and raked across his cheek. “I told you to stop doing that!” she hissed. “I will see Richard drawn and bleeding, and your petty jealousies are doing nothing but making me wonder if I shouldn’t be including you in the bonfire I have planned for him.”

Nathan took a step backward, a thumb reaching up to his gaunt cheek to swipe at the blood she drew. His eyes were glittering as he said, “I am not jealous. Of a human? When I know that in the end, I’ll be the one who’s there for you, I’ll be the one who helps you clear away the debris when he crumbles before you? Don’t presume to know what I’m feeling. The only thing I’ve ever wanted since you turned me was to see you happy, and you’re obviously not happy here. It was merely a suggestion. One that I won’t make the mistake of making again, apparently.”

She caught his arm before he could turn away, yellow eyes gone and replaced with the dark amber of her human gaze. “I’m just tired,” she said in lieu of an apology. “Perhaps you’re right and bed is where I need to be.” A coy smile curled her too-full lips, and she pressed her curves into his lean frame. “Maybe I’ll let you punish me for not believing in you, lover.”

His mouth was back on her in an instant, biting with blunt teeth at her neck with a savagery that made her gasp. “I’ll always believe in you, April,” he rasped. “Until the day I dust.”

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

Chapter 17: Some Say Thy Fault Is Youth

It wasn’t giddy, take-on-the-world Buffy from only twenty-four hours earlier that sat next to Willow on the swaying Underground, but it was pretty darn close. Ever since the Slayer had emerged from the shower so freshly scrubbed she seemed to glow, she had been Little Miss Chatterbox, bantering lightly over breakfast and then shifting into problem-solving mode with a verbal ease Willow hadn’t witnessed in months. She even spoke of William, briefly and with obvious affection, as if nothing was amiss in her doing so. Though she revealed no details of her most recent encounter, there was no mistaking the positive effects it had had on Buffy, and Willow couldn’t help but wonder just what had happened within the dream.

“Are you sure I can’t use your magic rod doohickey on the bookstore guy?” Buffy pleaded, not for the first time since they’d left the flat. They were on the way to the bookstore where Willow had encountered Esme. Since that was the only place she’d been seen, and since Buffy wasn’t willing to try the Council again just yet, she had hit upon the plan to go pay Charles, Giles’ friend who owned the bookshop, a little visit to see what he knew about the elderly witch. The way Buffy figured it, he had to have something on Esme in order to leave his business in her hands, and it was logic with which Willow just couldn’t argue.

She could, however, argue the point of beating any information out of him. “You wanna leave me with itty bitty magic matchsticks?” Willow said, slapping at the hand Buffy kept stealing in the direction of the bag that sat between them. “I told you, I’m not sure what’ll happen to the magic it soaked up if it gets broken.”

“What if I promise not to break it? I’ll give you my extra-special Slayer warranty of carefulness that I always give Giles. My personal guarantee to return weapons in A-one condition. It even comes with an optional post-slay polish if you want, free of charge.”

She couldn’t help but grin at the joke. “You forget, I’ve seen the state of the weapons locker after just one of your training sessions. You can’t fool me with your pretty promises, missy. I’m not as gullible as Giles.” At Buffy’s arched eyebrows, she protested, “I’m not!”

“I just hope Charles gives us something we can use,” the Slayer said. “The longer Giles is missing, the more unhappy it makes me.”

“Well, we can’t have that. I’m just getting used to having Happy Buffy around again.” As soon as it came out of her mouth, Willow realized her mistake, and saw the shutters come down behind Buffy’s eyes. She silently chastised herself, but held her tongue as she waited for whatever response her friend would have.

“You’re probably right about the stick,” Buffy said, changing the subject. Her tone was quieter, more introspective, and Willow knew her window for normalcy had just officially been closed. It was back to business now, and she would just have to wait it out until the next mood swing came around in her direction again. “You should talk to him first since you were the one who dealt with Esme the first time. Maybe he’ll tell us what we want without having to resort to force.”

“Maybe.” The train began to ease to a squeaky stop, and Willow glanced through the window behind them to see the station sign. “This is us,” she said, rising.

Waiting for the doors to open, she almost didn’t hear Buffy when the Slayer spoke up behind her. “I’m sorry,” Buffy said quietly. “About the mood thing. But it’s getting better. Honest.”

“I didn’t mean---,” she started as they exited the train.

“I know. And I know you want only the best for me.” A single slide of the Slayer’s eyes to catch her friend’s was all she allowed herself. “Just…don’t try so hard, OK? It’s easier if…it’s just easier if you don’t.”

Willow nodded in accordance as they pressed their way through the crowds towards the stairs. She hated being left out of what was going on inside Buffy’s head. She just hoped that the dream-friend William could get into the corners where Willow couldn’t reach.

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

He punched the number into his mobile phone as he watched the two girls disappear into the bookstore, no longer bothering to hide behind the newspaper he’d held on the train. “They just went into the Little Dickens bookstore on Charing Cross,” he said as soon as the other end was picked up.

“Hang on,” came Lydia’s voice. As he listened to her tap away at her computer, his eyes darted over the crowds milling around the Underground exit, noting the other members of his team situated strategically along the street. Each was dressed as innocuously as possible, per Mr. Travers’ instructions, and Stuart was more than a little chuffed that they’d managed to elude the Slayer’s detection so far. He’d been warned about her disregard for the Council and her disdain for anything resembling authority, so avoiding direct contact with her this long already was a worthwhile achievement, he believed.

“Oh,” he heard Lydia say.

“What is it?”

“You said…the Little Dickens bookstore?”

“Yes. Something significant about that?”

“It’s owned and operated by Charles Armistead. He and Rupert Giles have quite an extensive history.”

“That’s the Slayer’s Watcher, right? The one that’s missing?”

“Yes.” There was a pause, and the distinct sound of a door opening and closing. “Hold on for a moment, Stuart, will you, please?”

There was no mistaking the fact that she was talking to someone who had just entered the room, though both voices were muffled as if Lydia had her hand over the receiver. After a long moment, there was an electronic click and Stuart realized she’d placed him on speakerphone.

“I have new instructions for you, Stuart.”

“Are we giving up on the Slayer?”

“Not exactly. Mr. Travers is of the opinion that if Miss Summers considers Mr. Armistead worthy of a visit, perhaps we should question him before she can. You and your team are to prevent her from speaking to Mr. Armistead and instead bring him into Headquarters for interrogation.”

Stuart’s stomach fell. “She’s already inside,” he said in a fervent attempt to get out of the new plan. “I go in, and she’s going to know she’s being followed. I thought Mr. Travers wanted this to be a covert operation.” She’ll probably boot me into the New Year at the same time, he added silently. Just wonderful.

“I’ve changed my mind.” Stuart silently winced at the Council Head’s voice. “It’s more important we learn what is so valuable about Mr. Armistead. My suggestion is that you distract the Slayer and her friend while the rest of your team apprehends him.”

“No offense, sir, but how exactly do you think I should do that?”

He could almost see Quentin Travers smiling. “They’re eighteen-year-old girls, and you’re a reasonably attractive young fellow, Stuart. I imagine you can figure out the rest.” And with that, the line went dead.

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

It felt weird being back, knowing what she did about the book she’d bought there on her first visit. As she and Willow lingered near a display at the front of the store, watching the burly back of the clerk on duty as he helped out with a customer, Buffy had to fight the urge to descend into the bowels of the shop once again, to return to the dusty home of William’s journal. It was hard to think of it as all make-believe, that someone who didn’t know her from Adam could create a man who seemed to understand instinctively the way her mind worked, but of course, it was the make-believe that made her bravado during their last encounter completely possible.

He’d been so delightful, insecure and stumbling when they’d first started, and then growing in confidence and pluck as the dream progressed. Every time he touched her, something else seemed to open up inside, passion she’d long thought dead reawakening from its enforced hibernation, and the thought that maybe she wasn’t a curse after all, that maybe she had something to offer to the right man that was more than some ill-fated romantic interlude destined to drive him from her, had given Buffy the courage to persuade William’s attentions even further.

The traditional lovemaking had progressed into more adventurous territory when she’d forced him to lie back on the grass without touching her. His eyes had grown ever wider as she set out to taste every inch of his skin, and the moment her tongue had darted over the tip of his straining erection, he’d exploded with a wrenching shout. Afterwards, he hadn’t even been able to meet her eyes as he started to mumble an apology.

She’d silenced him with her mouth, kissing him deeply as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Stop saying you’re sorry,” Buffy had breathed when she broke away.

“But…you must find me quite ignoble in succumbing to such a base instinct,” William had stammered.

“I was the one using you as my own personal lollipop,” she’d countered. “Shouldn’t your logic make me the whatchamacallit one here?”

“But you’re not. You’re the most lovely---.”

She’d laughed and stopped his poetic speech with another kiss. “Did you at least like it?” she asked, suddenly shy.

His hand came up to stroke the soft curve of her cheek. “Every time you touch me, I wonder how it is possible that I have gone so long without knowing such pleasure,” William said. “And then I realize, it must be because I was waiting for you to be the one with whom I could share it.”

She’d wanted to tease him about such a romantic notion, but quelled the instinct, knowing that any slight of his nature would only bruise his still-fragile ego. Instead, Buffy nestled onto his chest, pressing her ear against the smooth skin to listen to his heartbeat, and said, “If there was anything you wanted to do, all you’d have to do is ask, you know that, right?”

The slight hesitation before he spoke made her smile. “We have all the time in the world for that, my love. For now, I think I’d just like to hold you for a bit.”

When she’d woken, sticky and sweaty from having orgasmed in her sleep, the initial embarrassment Buffy had felt had dissipated in the soothing balm of the shower, her head clear for what felt like the first time in weeks. It was then that the plan of going back to the bookstore had hit her; after all, that was where they had encountered Esme in the first place.

She was jolted from her reverie by an awkward knock against her elbow, and turned in the small space to see a dark-haired young man smiling at her in apology.

“Excuse me,” he said, in a clipped English accent. He wore jeans and a t-shirt, with a light jacket that seemed to belie the heat outside. “I don’t suppose I could get either of you to fetch that book for me?”

Both Buffy and Willow swiveled to see the text to which he pointed, perched precariously on a shelf high over their heads. Willow turned an amused gaze back to him.

“Not unless you expect one of us to sprout wings to get up there,” she said.

His eyes darted up and then back to the two young women who were so much shorter than his six-plus feet. “Right,” he said, with an abashed grin. “I guess in the way of brilliant ways to approach pretty girls, that rather failed to take the prize, didn’t it?” He held out his hand. “I’m Stuart, by the way.”

“Willow.” Tilting her head, she added, “This is Buffy.”

“You two seem to be a long way from home. Are you here for school or for pleasure?”

“Both,” Buffy said before Willow could reply. She ignored her friend’s raised eyebrows. As normal as this guy seemed, something about him was pinging on her Slayer radar and with everything so wonky on her at the moment, the last thing she needed was to be ignoring her intuition. “We’re on break,” she went on to clarify.

It dawned on her as he started chatting with Willow about what there was to do in London that Stuart effectively blocked her view of Charles and the back of the store, and Buffy inched herself sideways to try and see past him. The moment she did so, though, his attention shifted to her, and he turned his torso enough to obstruct her line of sight again.

“So what is it you’re studying, Buffy?” he asked.

“Just stuff. Nothing earth-shattering.”

Willow frowned at her almost rude response but he wasn’t thrown off by her noncommittal answer. “Too busy having fun, is that it?” he teased.

“Not exactly---.” She froze when she caught the flash of metal inside the gap of his jacket, quickly covering it with a fake, bright smile when she turned to Willow. “We should be going now, don’t you think?” she asked her friend.

“What? I thought---.”

“Don’t rush off on my account,” Stuart cut in. When he took a small step backwards, his jacket swung far enough to the side for Buffy to see the unmistakable hilt of a gun strapped beneath his arm. Time stopped as he caught her eyes locked on the weapon, and the smile he’d been sporting faded.

“I think you need to back off,” Buffy said, her voice low, her eyes flashing. “Very slowly.”

“I’m not here to hurt you, Miss Summers.”

“Wait. How does he know your name?”

Her eyes never left his, not even to reassure Willow that she knew what she was doing. “My guess is that he’s one of the Council’s lackeys,” Buffy said. “Sent to either keep an eye on me, or take me in for another round of Twenty Questions. Word of advice, Stu. I’m a lot less punch-happy with people who tell me the truth from the get-go.”

Though he visibly paled, Stuart held his ground in the face of her warning. “Might I suggest we take this outside?”

“Why? You got a thing against books?” The Slayer laughed. “I thought that was the biggest requirement for a job with the Council.”

“I’m merely interested in assuring you I’m not a threat to you.”

“Giving me your gun might be a good start.”

“Buffy?” Willow’s voice was anxious, her face pinched. She had backed away from the confrontation, pressing herself into the shelves behind them, and now was staring past Stuart at the back of the store. “Where did Charles go?”

She didn’t wait for him to react. Grabbing Stuart by the lapels of his jacket, Buffy hurled him sideways into a dusty display of Victorian classics before bolting for the door to the store’s back office. Willow was right on her heels, and the two girls skidded through the exit, noting with increasing alarm the still-ajar door that led into the side alley.

“Damn it,” Buffy muttered, and dashed outside. She was met only with the distant honks from the street as the empty alley stared back at her. “Go back inside,” she ordered Willow. “I’m going to go around the front and see what’s the sitch up there.”

Her feet pounded against the uneven concrete, but when she emerged from the alley, Buffy saw only the brightly colored tourists strolling up and down the walks. The front door of the store was wide open and she raced for it, only to greet a disconsolate Willow.

“It’s empty,” the redhead said. “No Charles, no Stuart, no nothing.”

Buffy sighed. There was no chance of finding them now, she knew. The crowds and their familiarity with the city prevented her from being able to track them effectively. Not that she didn’t already know that they were headed back to the Council, but there was little hope of stopping them from getting there at this point.

“I guess that means we go ahead with Plan B,” she said.

“Yay for Plan B.” Willow paused. “What is it again?”

She began heading back to the Underground entrance. “I’ll let you know when I think of it.”

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

He felt like a fool.

As William walked along the path, his hands thrust deep inside his pockets, the fears and thoughts that had been battling for concourse inside his skull made his eyes ache. He’d always envisioned love as one of the simplest things in the world, a delicate bird eager to take roost, to be cosseted and cherished with every promise of his soul. That was the way it was with his mother, and certainly that was how it had been for every other important figure in his life, even those who did not necessarily know of his affections. It was not their fault that his own fears often restrained him from acting on his emotions publicly.

But falling in love with Buffy, while glorious and strengthening beyond anything he had ever imagined, was more problematical than simply uttering the words. This world of hers to which she’d introduced him---fantastic, and magical, and inspiring, and terrifying, all at the same time---created dangers at every bend in his path, forced him to stand up and fight, or coerced him into fleeing like a frightened child, and he was beginning to wonder if he held the fortitude to embrace it as openly as she. He wanted to, or at least, part of him wanted to, and yet at the first sign of conflict, William had abandoned the fight, running from his own home simply because he feared the similarities between a woman who had only been kind and supportive to him---in spite of her morning interrogation---and the woman, or witch, who was responsible for putting him into this state of affairs in the first place. He didn’t even know for certain that Miss Esme was his enemy; how could someone who had given him the most prized gift in all the world be entirely bad?

So, he was returning home, and he would brave Richard and his wife again, and he would help them in any way they asked. There was so much at stake here, and William could not endanger those he loved any further by allowing himself to buckle under the weight of his own uncertainties. He had faced the derision of his peers at his mother’s dinner party; surely, he could contend with some uncomfortable queries from the people he knew held vows to protect the world.

His musings distracted him from his path, and as he rounded the corner onto his street, William collided with a broad chest. “So sorry,” he mumbled as he lifted his eyes. His heart fell at the condescending gaze of David Howard staring back at him.

“Head in the clouds again, William?” David asked lightly.

“I was just…I mean, Mother is…I’m late,” he managed to finish. When he attempted to step around his neighbor, however, he found his path blocked when David did the same.

“I’ve been meaning to speak to you since the night of your mother’s dinner party,” he said. “I was just going to step out for a drink, but perhaps we should take one here at home instead.”

It was the last thing in the world he wanted, but William was frozen in his tracks, his heart pounding inside the prison of his chest as the symbol of everything he hated stood before him waiting for an answer. Quickly, his eyes darted around to the neighbors’, noting the gardener at the hedge in one, Mrs. Stratton playing with her new baby in another. Any scene he made would be noticed and commented upon, of that he was certain, and though it hardly mattered to him what more they could possibly say, it would most definitely hurt his mother when she heard.

William swallowed down the lump in his throat. “I have guests waiting,” he said, tossing out his final attempt to abstain from accepting the invitation.

“They’ve already left,” David replied, and waved toward the empty street in front of the Freston home. “Tell you what,” he said, clapping a heavy hand onto William’s shoulder. “We’ll make a meal of it. I’ll have one of our girls send over word to your mother that you’ll be dining with me tonight. Mother and Father are away to the country for a fortnight, so I could use a little company.” His smile was smug. “I’m sure your own mother would more than approve.”

As he found himself being led up the path to the Howard house, William stiffened his shoulders in anticipation of the long night that would soon to follow. Think of Buffy, he silently instructed. If she considers you worthy of her affections, then nothing David can say should influence that. Just listen, and nod, and hold your tongue, and get out as soon as you possibly can.

He sighed as he crossed the threshold. It was much easier said than done.

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

Though she was ravenous and her stomach growled in its demand for sustenance, April forced the smile to her lips as the young boy she’d hired for the errand hung back in the doorway. “It’s all right,” she said when she saw his eyes dart to Nathan looming behind her. “He won’t hurt you.”

The boy was still unsure, but when April reached into her purse to extract the payment she’d promised him, his eyes lit up. “I got wha’ you wanted, miss,” he rushed and held out his hand. “Jus’ like I swore to you.”

“Did you see Mr. Rhodes-Fanshaw?” she asked. Delicately, she played with the coin, letting it roll between her fingers while she watched the child’s reaction.

“No, miss. ‘E was out. They say ‘e was visitin’ with some man who’d come in the other day. Someone ‘e’s all excited ‘bout workin’ with ‘parently.”

“And who is this man? Did you find out his name?”

“Better than that, miss.” He puffed himself up with pride. “I know where ‘e lives. ‘Is family’s one of the better-known in the city. I can take you straight to ‘im if you want.”

With a sigh, April pressed the coin into the boy’s greedy palm. She hadn’t planned on paying him; the original intention had been to find out what Richard was up to and then have the boy for dinner. She’d just have to make him a late-night snack instead and retrieve her money from his pockets then.

“Get our things,” she instructed Nathan over her shoulder. To the child, she said, “So tell me then. Who is my darling Richard visiting with this evening?”

“’Is name’s David, miss. Mr. David ‘Oward.”

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