The choice then, seemed to be capitulation, or abdication and irrelevance. He quietly slipped out of the restaurant, walked to the window of the travel agent he'd noticed on the way into town, and started to calculate when would be the first available opportunity to catch a flight back to England. That was the worst thing about deja vu. Every time it came back, one recognised it as an old thought, an old feeling, but it still stung as if new.

The prickle of a nearby magickal aura assaulted him again suddenly; his spiritual guard was down, as it tended to be when he was at all upset. He looked about him sharply, but missed the figure drawing back into the shadows across the street, waiting there, watching.

A hand tapped him smartly on the shoulder and he turned to see Buffy, who demanded to know:

"And what do you think you're doing, mister? Aside from worrying us all with the vanishing act just now?"

Giles was reluctant to have this kind of conversation in public, or indeed at all. He began to stutter his way through a species of explanation, trying to pitch it rationally, sensibly. Trying to give her a gracious way to agree with him.

"I...I was getting a bit uncomfortable in there. 'Fast food' doesn't agree with me: it has a tendency to lead to slow heartburn." He rubbed his stomach, which was genuinely unhappy, even without the added nervous tension. "I...thought I'd take a short stroll, and, and was considering how best to help...fight the good fight; thinking that perhaps I might be of more use...elsewhere, since you have everything you feel you need here, it seems. So, er..."

Buffy shook her head slowly as she looked up into his face, trying to meet his eyes as he shifted on the spot, giving darting glances at all the other slayers as they looked on with varying degrees of curiosity. Then she sighed, not unkindly.

"We'll talk," she said decisively. "Just you and me. Later, okay?"

"Er, okay. Yes, if you'd like." //Get it settled, one way or another. Yes. //

Back at the motel, Giles excused himself to go and shower and shave again. It was important to face the future clean, whatever it turned out to be. He made the decision to seek Buffy out, rather than wait for her to come to him. Dawn looked a little surprised as she opened the door of their room, but Buffy only smiled and stayed calmly sitting on the end of her bed.

"Dawn, go make yourself elsewhere for an hour. If it takes magick, ask Willow for some help," she told her sister with another smile. Once the door had shut behind Dawn, she said to Giles:

"I'm glad I have her."

He nodded and waited for her to go on.

"Sit down, Giles. You look all 'fight or flighty', standing there by the door,shuffling."

Giles took a seat on the other bed and half-turned to face her.

"Buffy, I..."

"You were gonna leave again." Her tone was neutral; it was hard to tell how she felt about the possibility. Giles reflected again on how strong and resolute she had become.

"It crossed my mind. You obviously have everything under control here, Buffy. But I don't know what the future holds for all the other young women and girls with whom Willow reports you shared your power. If I can be of use to them, I'd like to be. Perhaps some of them...still need a teacher. Contacting the coven would be a first step, and only so much can be accomplished over a transatlantic line, whether telephone or mystical. I should visit in person."

"And then what?"

"I don't know. As I said, there is a lot of work to be done: that's abundantly clear. What's a good deal less clear is *how* it's to be done. How it's to be organised. *If* it's to be organised. You, er...favour the alternative, I take it?"

"Alternative? I need a 'native' first, if I'm gonna choose an ALTER-native. What are you talking about?"

"The Guardian of the Scythe told you that the Watchers originated with those who originally...forced the First Slayer to take up the burden of defending humanity. You made it quite clear when you told me...us, and again just now, that you utterly rejected and abhorred all that they stood for. All that I..." He stopped, frowning, trying to collect himself.

Buffy's face was full of concern.

"Giles, when I said I didn't want any more Watchers, I didn't mean...it wasn't aimed at you. It's not like you're one of them."

Giles swept off his glasses, folded them in his hand and leaned forward urgently towards her.

"But I *am*, Buffy. Waking and sleeping, for forty years, I've been nothing else. My life, my destiny: when I ran away, when the Council sacked me, even when I left you. I'm a Watcher. And now, I find that it appears it was all a sham: that I was a jailer, not a guide. An abuser, not a protector." He chewed on his lower lip and pulled at the irritating shirt collar, "Buffy, I'm so very sorry. If I'd known, I'd have... I'd have cut off my hand before I touched the sacred stone and took my oath." He pleaded with his eyes, trying to find a way to make her understand that he wasn't exaggerating.

"God, will you *stop that*?"

Giles stared. She seemed annoyed rather than moved by his admission. Not for the first time, she baffled him utterly.

"I...I don't understand."

"I swear, if you don't quit beating yourself up, I'm gonna do it for you. I don't care what the job description says, what the 'history' is. When did I ever? I know what you *did*. I was there, remember? You cared. You helped me. You stayed up late and got up early and found me what I needed to do my job. If the Shadow Men and Quentin Travers followed the program instead, that's their lookout. Didn't do 'em any good: they're dead 'n' buried." She paused, considered, then shrugged. "Well, kinda atomised in Quentin's case. Of the past, anyhow. You can be part of 'Watchers XP'. New and improved version."

"And do what? Build another network? Another organisation? Is that what you need?"

"I don't know yet. I know a lot about what I *don't* need. Musty books and dire prophecies and people doing things behind my back for my own good, for a start." She aimed a deliberately challenging expression his way, but although he lowered his eyes and sighed, he didn't cave in.

"I did what I thought was right, with the information I had at the time. Perhaps fate was on your side, with all the coincidences coming together. I don't believe in relying on fate, or taking needless risks. You should know that by now. You're a free agent, an adult. We don't have to agree with everything the other says or does."

"We could trust each other, though."

"Which works both ways, Buffy." It was probably petty of him, but he was pleased to see she blushed just a trifle. "You don't need a teacher; I won't be a lapdog. You don't need a Watcher; I can't stand idly by."

"You only know how to be a Watcher; I don't need one. What's wrong with this picture?"

He didn't meet her eyes, only made as if to stand up and leave. She had to catch his sleeve to keep him seated and to get him to pay attention.

"Don't be dumb, smart guy. I've got all these wonderful new slayer sisters all over the world, and barely a clue how to find them, whether I even *need* to find them, and no idea what comes next for any of us. Advice is at a premium, experience is out of stock, and an instant solution is not included in the sale.I'm looking for someone who's been around, speaks more than a few languages, and knows one end of a slayer from another. I could go generic, but they say no one ever got fired for sticking to a reliable Brand, and I want the best Brand there is. I want a Giles. I'd say you're uniquely qualified. Care to apply for the position?"

He smiled a little tremulously, reached over with his free hand and gently pressed hers where she grasped the edge of the comforter.

"I think it's already been filled."

Buffy sent him a tender and happy glance. "I was hoping you could moonlight as well."

"Hmm?"

"As my friend."

"I believe I could squeeze it in."

The opt-outs were led by Rona, her arm out of its cast now, but not yet fully fit for combat. All of her group were still recovering from battle wounds.

"Mister Giles?" she asked. "We thought maybe you could...tell us some stories. The kind of things slayers have to do, have to face. You know, like on an everyday basis. We've done Armageddon, but not a lot else. If we're going to do this, I for one want to know what I've signed up for."

"Are you sure their experiences are still relevant to you? This is a whole new concept: this, how shall I put it, 'fellowship of slayers'?"

"Like the Fellowship of the Ring," put in Andrew. "Only not so many hairy toes."

Xander sat up a little straighter and closed his good eye for a second. Then he shook himself and managed a ghost of a smile. Rona nodded even as she was rolling her eyes at Andrew.

"Sure. There are more of us, is all. Same bad guys to fight. Same 'pick and poke' fighting them," she pointed out.

Giles put both hands flat on the table and pushed himself to his feet.

"All right, then, I'll see what I can remember." He turned to his breakfast companions more out of politeness than enthusiasm. "You're both welcome to join us of course."

"I lost my video camera," moaned Andrew. "I can't record the ancient tales, and your telling of them."

"Good. Lead the way, Rona. If you please."

They all ended up sitting in a semicircle in the shade of the largest tree in town, presiding majestically over a small park founded by some long-dead local worthy. Sloan was in a very dry area and the park was carefully maintained with an artificial water supply of its own, bubbling up pleasantly in a miniature fountain. It was a congenial environment for a quiet morning's meeting, and soon the Slayers and the two young men were sitting spellbound as Giles chose the most dramatic and illustrative stories he could think of, from Buffy's experiences and those of other Slayers about whom he'd read, to try to show the new slayers the variety and challenge of the life ahead of them.

Unbeknownst to the storyteller, he also sat spellbound, but it was not the magick of the tales that gripped him.

It was just coming up to lunchtime and, despite the fact that he was well in the shade, Giles was sweating from the noonday heat. The polyester pants kept sticking to his backside and thighs and he had to adjust them as unobtrusively as he could whilst the focus of attention by so many pairs of eyes. Sweat stung his neck where a patch of skin had been rubbed raw, prompting him to slip off his shirt self-consciously and lay it on the ground. At least the t-shirt was fairly comfortable.

"What's with the tattoo, Mister Giles? Is that a Watcher thing?"

He looked down at the Mark of Eyghon and winced.

"No, not in the slightest," was all he said, and frowned at Xander's prompt offer to all and sundry to fill them in with the details whenever they liked.

"I'd like to keep control of my own life story, thank you. I don't want the 'over-fully illustrated' version being circulated in breach of copyright, if you don't mind."

He got to his feet and stamped a few times to restore the circulation back to his legs. Unfortunately the vibrations only added to the attraction of the body-warmed spot, and he was just about to suggest they all go and find somewhere *other than the burger bar* to eat, when he became aware of a tickling, then a biting sensation, on his calf, rapidly advancing to his thigh. Tiny sewing-machine bites assailed him in lines as he twisted his head and tried to shake them out of his pant leg. More and more, attracted by his movements, moved in to attack, at which point Giles realised they were more than regular ants. Ultra-aggressive, they had decided in the depths of their primitive collective unconscious hive 'mind', that he was a threat to their colony and must be eliminated.

Even if they didn't have a chance at securing their aim, they could and did make life extremely unpleasant for their quarry. The sheer quantity of bites began to raise painful weals on Giles' legs and the creased cloth only gave them more places to run and hide. A number of them had already made their way upwards, and the thought of them biting anywhere more... intimate... was a most alarming idea. Hopping around and swearing colourfully, unable to take much notice of the giggling girls as he tried in vain to brush or shake the insects out, he was finally forced to unzip the pants and take them off, swiping at his body with the cloth until he discovered that he was only decanting more ants. He tossed the garment aside, only to find that some 'visitors' had climbed onto his forearm and were swarming under his sleeve to bite his chest and shoulders.

With an emphatic obscenity that raised more than a few eyebrows, he stripped off the t-shirt as well.

"Andrew, Xander! For God's sake come here and give me a bit of cover. And help get these damned things off me!"

Andrew obeyed with slightly suspicious alacrity. Xander was a little slower, but his larger frame provided more shielding from public view. Fortunately the only 'public' currently present were all ex-Sunnydale, or he might very well have been arrested. When they finally managed to separate Giles from his enemies, Andrew was despatched along with the Slayers to get a blanket or blankets from the motel, and Xander was left to join in inspecting the damage. Giles tried hard not to scratch the bites, but they were intensely itchy, and after slapping his fingers a few times, Xander gave up and let him.

"I'll get calamine from Mrs Pottschalk when we get back," he promised. For a while they stood in awkward silence, then Xander picked up the discarded overshirt and offered it to his older friend.

"I don't think there're any ants on this, if you want to preserve the furthest corner of your dignity."

"Rather late for that, I fear. Thank you, but no thank you, anyway. The shirt is...well it's damned uncomfortable, to tell you the truth. I don't mean to dismiss your kindness in getting it for me."

"Sorry. You shoulda said. Spent my childhood shopping at low-rent closets like that one. Force of habit, I guess. Pick the first halfway decent thing, then skedaddle and go somewhere that doesn't remind you how little money you got. There's one or two better stores further in; you might wanna try them next time. Not that I'd know. My eye for fashion must be the left one. Only ever got it fifty-fifty. Now I'm doomed to sartorial lack of splendour for the duration."

His familiar lopsided grin plucked at Giles' heart for a moment. He couldn't begin to imagine how one adjusted to a radical maiming at such a young age. Tentatively, he put out a hand and laid it on Xander's shoulder, saying nothing, but lending unspoken support, and Xander nodded slowly, his grin becoming wider, more genuinely happy.

"Those girls are *so* gonna get the wrong idea about you, G-man," he joked, more easily than he might have done even a year ago.

"Just tell them that your aged, confused parent needs guiding back to the care home," Giles suggested, not without a hint of resignation in his voice.

Xander snorted, looking him up and down without balking or snickering, without a sarcastic or derogatory quip in sight.

"Look, you might not be able to bench press three hundred pounds, like someone not a million miles from here..." He allowed himself a smug quirk of the lips."...But for a guy your age, you're in plenty good enough shape that no-one's gonna say 'aged'. As for 'confused', we'll put that down to the Britishness. Nobody's perfect."

Giles swiped at his head playfully.

"And what's the Americans' excuse?"

Xander swiped him back.

"Seriously, you're okay, Giles. Sorry about all the "old guy" crap I used to pull on you. It was my stupid mouth in league with my no-smarts brain. We're all grown-ups now."

"You in particular, it seems, Mister Harris," Giles assured him with affection.

"Been happening slowly; but I got a boost just lately; a reminder not to assume stuff. Lost my depth perception but gained a better perspective, I guess."

Now she was dabbing on calamine lotion with local-anaesthetic, found and brought back triumphantly by Willow, on all of the bites.

Everyone knew how miserable they were making him, and several patches were raw from his scratching. What was even more raw was his pride, having to sit in just the boxers once again, while Buffy tended to him. It had been taken out of his hands from the moment the jokes started in the motel courtyard about who was going to put the lotion on the bites that no one could see. It had all been harmless teasing, but of all of them only Buffy had realised that he was not only going insane from the itching, but was mortified by his exposure, both physical and metaphorical, and just wanted to escape.

She'd snatched the bottle from Xander just as he was suggesting that maybe they should get Mrs Pottschalk, who would probably have loved to come and apply the lotion, and hustled him into his hotel room. She'd given Xander and Andrew the job of de-anting Giles' clothes and waited patiently while he showered and changed into clean underwear, before re-emerging with a white hotel towel around his hips.

His hair was damp, and the bites were standing out lividly against his pale skin now, as were the reddened scratch marks.

"I-I'm sorry about this."

Buffy grinned. "Actually it's kinda nice...taking care of you for a change. All these years...you always patching me up...and the ER always patching you up. Now it's my turn. They look real nasty."

"Bloody things...what kind of ants do you have here, anyway?"

"Those were pretty much the regular kind...well, the regular kind for around here. You were lucky they weren't fire ants...calamine really not going to help much with anything they could do to you."

Giles rubbed the back of his head with an agitated hand. "You know, I can probably manage most of this by myself..."

She smiled again. "Look, how about I do your back, anywhere you can't reach, and let you handle the rest? Much as I'm tempted to make you squirm right now, I'm not going to. I think we've all had enough of being made to squirm by everything that's happened in the last few weeks...months...actually."

Giles nodded gratefully and sat down on the bed with his back turned to her.

Buffy dampened a ball of cotton wool with the lotion and began dabbing the bites. There were a lot of them, and weals, spread in patterns over particularly his lower back and under his arms. By the time she'd worked her way around the front, the air was charged, the level of intimacy they were sharing a direct contrast to the painfully estranged nature of their relationship since his return to Sunnydale. When there was no objection, Buffy quietly continued putting lotion on the clusters of bites on his chest and stomach.

"You're wearing boxers, right?" She asked when she smeared lotion accidentally on the towel.

"Um...yes," he admitted.

"Then put the towel on the bed and lie on it."

Somehow, it seemed the most sensible thing to do, so he did. Once he was lying with his head on his arms he realised what he was doing and how vulnerable it made him, but Buffy simply continued silently, putting lotion on the very nasty weals and rawness on his legs and the backs and insides of his thighs.

"You okay so far?"

"Mmffhuh," he managed.

Buffy smiled to herself. "Well, looks like we're about done. You think you can reach anything under the cute shorts by yourself?"

There was a short silence. "The Tasmanian Devil was Xander's idea," he growled. "I'll be fine. You've done wonders already. The anaesthetic is starting to work. I might even manage some sleep tonight, after all."

"In that case, I'm going to wash my hands because this stuff is starting to dry and it smells...and it's pink," she complained. "You want me to get someone to lend you a t-shirt, or I can take Dawn to the mall...we could..."

"I'm sure you could," he said dryly, looking over his shoulder, "however I think I'll be able to manage. My trousers are at least serviceable, if a little ridiculous, and the sweatshirt isn't a complete disaster."

"Like the rest of your wardrobe lately has been anything to call a...well...wardrobe. I mean: you know me...'what me, notice anything?' girl, and even I noticed how not-Giles you've been looking lately. I mean it's not like you were ever on speaking terms with the Fashion Fairy, but jeez..."

Giles rolled his eyes at her and his mouth became a thin line of annoyance.

Buffy recognized that something of a tactical retreat was in order, at least momentarily. "Not...that...tweed was exactly a bad thing...or-or the suspenders...but the baggy sweaters definitely...and you need to stake whoever picked out that corduroy coat...which thankfully is somewhere near the bottom of a hell dimension now...where it belongs."

He snorted. "Well thank you for the fashion advice. It was my impression that you lot wouldn't notice if I was wearing a tuxedo or a tutu, so it's gratifying to know that I wasn't completely invisible over the years. For your information, I chose the coat. Selfridges were having a sale...and it was both warm, and practical," he retorted, his expression growing sheepish, "...and quite a bargain."

Buffy slid off the bed and started for the bathroom. "You so need to get a life where the word 'practical' is not a daily mantra," she teased, but there was affection in her voice. He was sounding like the annoyed librarian Giles of old, which was kinda nice. "What happened to all those suits you used to wear when you were working at the Magic Box? At least the lady customers used to notice you..."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Anya used to report on your daily hittage. She thought it was cute, y'know, all those women wanting to take home the overdressed British guy instead of the merchandise..." she called back from the bathroom as the water started running.

Giles muttered something and started to dress, not really caring how much of the semi-dry lotion got on the inside of the horrible blue trousers or the sweatshirt, whose neck was already out of shape...without even being washed.

When Buffy re-emerged he was peering into a sock for any sign of tiny marauders.

"So, will you be having dinner at the mall? The rest of us were thinking pizza, and by now Dawn and the slayers will be getting restive and...well: Xander and Andrew... God, this is a nightmare, money-wise. Can I get enough cash off you to pay for dinner for everyone? I can't believe none of these people, except Xander, even have bank accounts. Actually, weirdly enough, I think Andrew said he had some money in an account if we wanted it and he made it sound like it was a lot...but the rest of them..." She shook her head. "Dawn has a college fund, but I didn't have to work through high school, even part time, and I definitely don't want her in places like the Doublemeat Palace or Hotdog-on-a-Stick after school, even if the money would help..."

"Don't forget, many of the girls aren't very much older than Dawn," Giles said gently. "It's not their fault they've been torn from the lives they knew. And you can't blame the families; many of them poor, or those who quite rightly objected, only to have the girl choose to come with me anyway, nor can you blame the girls with non-existent family or means. We'll be fine. The Council funds will easily cover our costs for the time being...even Xander's vast appetite...at least until he can sort out some paperwork to access his own assets again. I don't suppose we can blame any of them for leaving everything at your house in the belief that we would either win or perish. There was no way to know that the Hellmouth would take back its own so...er...comprehensively."

"I don't mind it taking back it's own," Buffy grumbled, "it's taking back *mine* and everybody else's that I'm just a 'leetle' ticked about."

He chuckled, glad she could make light of what were in essence, extremely traumatic times for all of them. For once, though, he'd lost the least of any of them.

Buffy was still alive...and Dawn, Xander and Willow...his home was in England and untouched, even all his worldly goods were there now. But he knew how much they would all feel it over the next few weeks...the displacement, the loss of their whole world...their identities, in a sense. Like flood or fire victims they would need time to grieve, to adjust their psyches to the concept of being from nowhere, with nothing to link them to their past, or even to the lives they once knew...except each other.

"I think I will be kind to my digestion and pass on the pizza," he told her. "Enjoy yourselves, and I'll see you all in the morning, if not before."

"Cool," she said easily, swatting his hand away from scratching his calf before turning to go. "If it gets bad tonight, Xander already promised he'd help out. You don't have to suffer in silence, Giles, okay?"

"Meddlesome girl," he muttered with more than a little affection, as she closed the door behind her. Then he smiled to himself, absently scratching at the point of his shoulder as he contemplated tea in the mall.