She didn't laugh. Not even a giggle. “I'm going to light a fire. I know it's probably going to be kinda hot later, anyway, but I want to finish drying our clothes now. At least I wasn't stupid enough to leave our shoes on. I guess that's something.”

Giles made himself meet her eyes. “You're not stupid, Buffy. The fever: it's broken, is it not?”

Buffy shrugged and reached out to lay a palm on his forehead. “You're still sick.” Her brows drew together as the heat of him seeped into her skin. “Y-you…you're much cooler, though. Still too warm, but way better than last night.”

He spoke very slowly, trying hard to maintain his concentration. “Exactly. And would I be sitting here talking to you now if you hadn't done what you did?” When the silence stretched he spoke again. “Buffy…what you did…thank you.”

She froze then dropped her hand, trying to guess exactly how much he remembered, what he knew…and how he really felt about it. “Don't thank me yet,” she said nervously, failing in her intent to sound cool and calm. “Not until you don't get pneumonia or something.”

“I promise not to get pneumonia.” His chuckle turned into a rasping noise. “However I can't promise to stay sitting up terribly much longer…”

That brought Buffy to life. She disappeared for several minutes, returning with an armful of firewood, not a very big one, given that they'd pretty much used up most of the fallen timber close to the camp now, and built the fire up to a blaze. Once it was going well and the still-damp clothes were rearranged in front of it, she went and selected an unused sapling, swung it around and slammed it into one of the trees, snapping a hunk off one end. She repeated the process, giving her three decent sized chunks of fuel to keep the heat up.

Next she cleared his old bed away and made a fresh one in their shelter, covering the heaped leaves with soft palm fronds once again. When it was ready, she helped him over to it, easing him into the enclosure then following. There wasn't a lot of room. It was long enough to accommodate his full length with something to spare at either end when she laid him down, but not much.

When his breathing slowed down and he was able to focus again, Giles looked around him. She'd done a fine job, very nearly as good his own work, except for her rather unique-looking knots…

“R-remind me to teach you about tying knots,” he said gruffly

Buffy's face fell. “You don't like it?”

He stretched out a hand and took one hers in it. “Silly girl. Of course I like it. You've done a s-splendid job.”

The disappointment faded and she smiled a little, pointing to the triangular space above the door panel. “I'm going to do something about the ventilation today.”

“Might be better to leave it until it turns cool again.”

“Check. You should try and get some sleep. Do you want me to bring you some fresh leaves to throw up on?”

He made a 'very funny, ha, ha,' face at her. “I suspect I've passed that phase, although I think it wise to pass on breakfast, or any solid food for the time being.” Something moved in the corner farthest from him. He tensed. “Buffy, don't move. There's something in here.”

Buffy also tensed for just a moment, then rolled her eyes and moved the palm leaves aside. A rather put out looking crab was waving around a single claw it had managed to free from its bonds.

“Oops. I'll just take those with me,” she said sheepishly, gathered up the little group of crustaceans by their strings and carried them, dangling, from the enclosure.

Relieved, but exasperated, Giles laid back and covered his eyes with his hand.

He slept for most of the day. Buffy didn't have the heart to wake him just to put his pants back on, even though she was glad to be wearing her own again, but she had checked regularly to make sure he wasn't getting too bitten by stuff, and even covered his shoulders with his dry shirt. He was also right about not closing in the roof. Despite the heat outside, what little sea breeze there was circulated under the roof, through the gaps, and kept the shaded space to a tolerable temperature.

When he woke again, they finally ate. “Guess what?” She announced, handing him a loaded 'banana' leaf. “Crab. Again. Carbohydrate withdrawal here, Giles. Why can't demon dimensions have Dunkin' Donuts, too?”

They ate together in relative silence, both trying to be grateful to the crabs that had given their all to keep them from being hungry, but not…quite…succeeding.

“So…what do you think of our little hacienda now you're awake enough to see what it's really like?”

Giles looked up from poking at the last of his meal. “You did a fine job, and I think it will serve us very well. We'll reinforce as we go, and make ourselves that platform to sleep on, and we'll move the fire closer to the door to help keep the wildlife and the insects at bay. I've been thinking perhaps a pit would serve us better. Especially if we can catch some of those fish you saw…”

“And if they don't taste like crap…”

He smiled tolerantly. “Well, there is always that.”

Buffy smiled at him with real pleasure. “You're feeling better, aren't you?”

“Much,” he admitted. “I still feel like someone ran over me with a steam-roller, but I can now move without looking for somewhere to deposit my lunch, and my head has retired the hammer that had taken up residence in it for the duration. I don't know what caused my illness, or if it's likely to recur, but it has been extremely unpleasant and I think, had you not managed to reduce the fever as quickly and effectively as you did, potentially fatal.”

Buffy's expression had shifted from being overjoyed by the realization that he really was going to be okay, to sombre again at the contemplation of what might have happened.

“What are we going to do?” She asked flatly. “We've done the basic survival stuff: water, food supply, shelter. Now what? Do we up and leave all this to follow the coast forever, or until we find some demon metropolis?” Her tone grew sarcastic. “Or better yet: ten thousand Uruk-Hai on their way to kick somebody's ass?”

“It's all right for you,” he grumbled. “You've seen the film.”

Her eyes lit with amusement. “You like that stuff?”

“Grew up on it,” he admitted. “Well, perhaps it was more like 'torch under the bedclothes' stuff. It was one of my great escapes from the 'destiny' I'd had thrust upon me at the tender age of eleven.”

“I thought it was ten.”

“I was told when I was ten. I was packed off at eleven.”

“Packed off?”

Giles fell silent for a long moment. “To boarding school.”

For a long while Buffy didn't say anything. “I'm sorry,” she said finally.

He looked at her in surprise. “Why sorry?”

“Because you didn't want to go…because it hurt you.”

After several long moments of silence, Giles reached out and touched her face.

“Sometimes people really do surprise you,” he said very softly.

“Sometimes,” she agreed, trying not to lean in to his touch, or to show how much it was disturbing her.

For the first time that Buffy could remember, they talked about before: before there was ever a destiny, before there was ever a 'them'. Somehow, it seemed to just happen. She had asked a question: a simple question about whether he had any brothers or sisters. He'd hesitated for a long moment then sighed…and then he'd started to talk.

Buffy learned more about Rupert Giles in a few hours than she'd learned in the entire seven years they'd known each other. And then it had been her turn. Giles' question about her interest in skating, and why she'd stopped, took her back to a childhood that hadn't known monsters or vampires, or pain or parents who fought or shouted, or whose silences were sometimes even louder than the loudest row.

Buffy had smiled, her eyes sparkling, as she'd recounted her first skates, first lessons...her first competition…the costume her mother had sewn for her…the first time her father had surprised her with tickets to the Ice Show for her birthday.

Only when she looked up, eyes sparkling with good memories, face glowing, did she fall silent again. He was watching her and his expression took her breath. There was no way to know what it meant, only that she'd never seen him look at her like that before.

The silence grew long, until she realized how tired he was. Without thinking, she touched his rough cheek. “You should rest again. I think it's gonna be a while before you're back to normal.”

He stared at her for a moment, as though there was something he wanted to say, then smiled and nodded.

Buffy helped him to lie down before withdrawing.

The next time Giles woke it was with a driving need to go to the bathroom. All that water had to go somewhere, he supposed…

It was dark, but he was alone. Instant concern impelled him to try to stand. His legs were like cooked spaghetti, but he managed to at least stay up long enough to duck out of the enclosure and scan the encampment.

A fire was still burning, flames reflected by the water in the turtle shell. Little else had been disturbed. There was no sign of Buffy. Giles shuffled a small way into the undergrowth and did what he had to do. He still felt weak and occasionally light-headed, but he was relieved that the nausea appeared to really be gone as he shuffled back to where he could see the whole clearing, or at least the part visible in the glow of the fire.

“Buffy?” No answer. He raised his voice to a shout. “BUFFY?”

A voice carried back on the night breeze.

“Yo…?”

Giles' heart stopped trying to hammer out of his chest.

Several moments later she emerged from the darkness of the forest, once again pants-less, and carrying two large fish.

“You weren't here,” he said gruffly.

“I guddled,” she announced happily, obliviously, holding up the fish, “Slayer style. They're easier to see at night…at least when there's a moon. That blue streak is kinda like a neon 'here I am' sign.”

Giles breathed a shaky sigh of relief. “Well done,” he managed.

Buffy smiled. “I'll go wrap them in leaves and put them somewhere cool.”

He nodded, swaying a little.

Her voice immediately became concerned and she drew to within just a couple of feet of him.

“Are you okay?”

Giles, feeling self-conscious, had to make himself meet her eyes. “I am now.”

The silent exchange lasted for a long moment, understanding softening Buffy's expression. Finally, she nodded awkwardly. “I-I'll just go get rid of the fish and wash up.”

By the time she'd managed to get rid of most of the fish smell, he'd disappeared back into the shelter. Undecided about what to do next, her gaze eventually lighted on his pants and shoes.

Giles was resting on his back, staring up at the stars through the gap above the door of the shelter when Buffy poked her head in.

“I brought your clothes. I thought you'd like to get dressed. I'm…I'm going to wash out my underwear tomorrow, so if you wanna leave the shorts…I can do them with mine,” she offered awkwardly.

He shifted uncomfortably to pull himself to a sitting position before taking the jeans. “Thank you.”

Buffy looked a little lost, but nodded and withdrew again.

Giles felt like a fool. How swiftly the embryonic new intimacy between them had seemingly hardened into a barrier…

When he finally emerged from the shelter, blissfully clothed again but still wobbly on his feet, Buffy was sitting by the fire. She didn't appear to have heard him yet, and was staring into the flames.

Despite the fact that her hair, like his, was pining for some civilized care, she looked somehow small and vulnerable and lovely in the firelight…everything, in fact, that the Slayer was not. It was one of the things that he'd always loved about her…that everything about her was a contradiction: tiny, vulnerable, rebellious and prone to howling errors of judgment in her personal life…and yet, ultimately, the greatest woman warrior ever born, with all the weight of the world screwing her down and sapping her humanity…in spite of which, she endured…even prevailed beyond even his wildest expectations.

Slowly, he made his way over to the fire and sat alongside her.

She spoke first. “You feeling better?”

“How long have you known I was there?”

“I heard you get up, inside the shelter…the leaves. Slayer hearing has its uses.”

Giles studied her profile since she hadn't turned her head from the fire. “It suits you…the sun.”

Buffy did turn then, looking at him quizzically.

He half smiled at her bemusement and touched her nose with a forefinger. “You've spent so long consigned to the darkness that I'd never thought to see you in the sun. You were meant for the sunlight, Buffy. I will never be able to tell you how sorry I am that I was the one sent to keep you from it.”

Her eyes smiled back, though her mouth remained sombre, his words bringing unhappy memories.

“He said I belonged there: Spike...in the dark, with him…with them…with all the evil things. Am I evil, Giles? I mean, really. What is a Slayer, exactly? I didn't get from the First Slayer that being the 'Slayer' had very much to do with truth, justice or shiny white hats. I kinda got that maybe we're even more scary than evil is.”

“You are not evil,” he said quietly, watching the fire. “You are an instrument of great power. The question of the source of that power has been around since time immemorial. In truth, the moral righteousness of any great power is ambiguous at best…all I know…all the Council has ever known, is that you were placed on earth on the side of light…even if it meant that every Slayer would be consigned to a life of darkness and pain.”

“Wow, Giles…think about this stuff much?”

He turned to look at her again, surprised by the amusement in her voice. He was not surprised to see that it hadn't reached her face.

“Too much,” he admitted. “From the first day you came to me in the school library, that question has, to all intents and purposes, been my whole life. *Why are you…Why am I*? Why did I have to send you out to almost certain death, day in, day out? What right did I have? What right did anyone have…?” He dragged a hand over his face. “I still don't know the answers. All I know is that we have to do this…because there is no one else.”

Buffy shrugged. “There's always the next one…”

His voice was bitter. “One who cannot be called while Faith is alive. It is the great irony of our lives that you should in fact be the first retired Slayer. You are no longer the 'Chosen One,' Buffy. You are simply stuck with the job by default.”

“Why haven't we ever talked like this before?”

Giles turned to find himself looking deep into eyes as dark and as green as a stormy ocean. His voice was very quiet.

“I don't really have to answer that, do I?”

Buffy stared at him for a moment. *No, he really didn't*.

“I wish we had,” she said sadly, reaching out to touch his face again, because somehow, she just needed to. “I really wish we had.”

He stared back.

The silence closed in…and the overwhelming need. Buffy felt it take her and carry her…to his lips, her own brushing them softly, asking…and being left wanting.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, to push the ever-wilder strands of hair from her face, and to lay the backs of his fingers against a now fiercely flushed cheek.

“So do I,” he told her gently, then, ignoring her bewildered stare, rose with difficulty and retreated on rubber legs to the shelter, where he went down into a hunker, his whole body trembling, not just from the exertion in his weakened state. He lifted his hands and watched them shake.

“So it wasn't just me?”

He looked up, startled.

She slipped into the shelter, dropped to her knees and answered the question in his eyes. “You almost didn't make it, Giles. I had to make sure you were okay. In case you might possibly care, I'm not.”

“I…” He looked down again. “I shouldn't have let that happen.”

When she didn't answer he made himself look up again, and was jolted to see the hurt in her eyes.

“I'm sorry I embarrassed you.”

Giles' eyes widened. “Is that what you think?”

She shrugged almost in slow motion, the hurt still raw on her face.

He reached out instinctively and took her face in his hands, then leaned forward and deliberately brushed the sweet, tender lips with his before searching her face again.

Her eyes were rolled up to look at him, as big as saucers now, and as blazing with emotion as he felt.

“Then…then what?”

He rested his brow against hers. “Now is not…this is not the time for—”

“Oh.” She sat back, confused. “You'd think after seven years of not being the right time, that maybe…”

Giles watched her get up and dust herself off. “I only wish it was,” he said quietly.

“So when will it be…?”

His eyes travelled her lithe form, remembering every tiny detail of it and feeling his body react accordingly.

“Perhaps…when we get back…and things are not quite so…extraordinary.”

Buffy's eyes narrowed. “This isn't Stockholm, Giles. I took psych in my short college career…remember?”

“Perhaps, not,” he conceded. “But it's not Sunnydale, either. Things that seem right…that seem easy and uncomplicated here…back in Sunnydale they'll be more complicated than you can ever imagine.”

“Complicated? Unlike the elegant simplicity of my life up to now?”

He shook his head. “I'm sorry…”

Her chest hurt, as though an unseen hand was squeezing her heart into the space of a walnut. She wheeled and ducked through the entrance before running blindly out of the camp.

Giles opened his mouth to call after her then closed it again, lips pressing tightly together, strain dragging at every muscle in his face. He lifted his hands then closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to watch them trembling again, nor be tempted to look down at the evidence of what it had cost him to send her away. Not that it wasn't fading swiftly now that she was gone and in such pain, and fast being replaced by a combination of illness and misery.

Buffy finally slowed down about a mile from the camp. She was on one of their several newly-beaten tracks leading upstream, lucky that she hadn't tripped or stumbled in her flight amid all the creepers and bushes and other organic debris always in their path, little or none of which was visible at high speed even on this moonlight night.

She looked up at the pale orb, then, still breathing hard, bent, hands on knees, and wept.