Fortunately, Giles still had one spare white t-shirt in his motel room, and once he had scraped the worst of the green mess off his jeans and his glasses, he felt presentable enough to venture back into town. More than a few female - and male - heads turned, as folk passed him. Some of them were wondering what new fashion in decorated denim he was sporting; some of them began to invent odd painting jobs around the house that they could sure use some help with; one or two simply contented themselves with blatantly checking him out, mostly from behind.
He stepped back inside the mall and made straight for the nearest store selling any item of men's clothing whatever. It was a sporting goods chain; as a sideline, they stocked a few tracksuits and leisure jackets. Giles picked a plain grey pair of track pants in roughly the right size and some comfortable trainers, paid for them and then hurried out, intent on his plan for the afternoon. The atmosphere had quietened considerably since the day before, so he dropped into the coffee shop part of the food court for a quick caffeine infusion before going back to the motel.
A thin, harassed looking, middle-aged woman who moved as if fuelled largely by the product she sold, efficiently made him a cappuccino and tossed his money into the till. A small queue had formed behind him meanwhile, and she muttered furiously under her breath that if that damn Brit didn't quit sloping off God-knows-where at a second's notice she'd fire his slippery ass, she didn't care if the customers thought he was a charmer. Giles' interest was piqued - he'd met surprisingly few Englishmen during his years in California, and most of those had been Watchers. But it was scarcely any of his business, and the lady next in the queue had begun shuffling her feet with impatience nearly the second she'd got there.
After lunch, the convocation of slayers and hangers-on, minus one Wicca, gathered in the lobby as he'd requested. Giles indicated the large carryall he'd rescued from Sunnydale High, and which now rested by his feet.
"Weapons," he offered. "I know some of you have done some training with your Watchers, and of course, over the past few months, but from what I've seen, it's not been nearly as systematic as you're going to need, to be prepared for all eventualities. I thought that, if anyone is interested, you might care to practise some moves, get the opinion of an impartial observer. Entirely voluntary, of course."
"I'm in," announced Kennedy enthusiastically. "Happy to be a demo model like I was this morning, if you like. Whatever they all need to get up to speed."
The irritated expression on a few of the girls' faces was not lost on Giles. In any case, the lesson plan was already well formed in his mind.
"We'll see," he replied amiably. "First of all, how many combatants have we, and where can we find to practice without someone calling the police?"
Everyone laughed and raised their hands, then a few girls named an uptown gym they had checked out which could be hired by the hour for sports clubs and societies. A phone call, some reassurances about safety and qualifications - the Watchers' Council had been very thorough in putting its operatives through all the recognised courses - and the space was theirs for the rest of the afternoon.
Giles changed into his new track pants and trainers before they all left. The pants were a little close fitting, but he judged he should still be able to manoeuvre well enough in them. He wasn't quite sure what to make of the covert stares and whispered comments as he emerged and bent to retrieve the weapons bag. He turned a questioning glance at Buffy but she appeared to be suppressing some comment of her own very hard indeed, and he wasn't sure he was ready for er rapier wit just yet. The girls formed a file behind him with suspicious alacrity; the exceptions being Kennedy and Buffy, who seemed to have elected themselves his bodyguards and strode along either side of him, exchanging a torrent of non-verbal communication as they did so.
Giles decided he was probably better off not knowing.
*************
"These are all sharps as you know, therefore I need not remind you to exercise particular caution in using them as sparring weapons. Get the weight and balance of each weapon sorted out long before you think to take a pass with it, let alone strike or parry. We have plenty of space, use it to manoeuvre: 'void' a blow in preference to parrying. Let me see footwork."
He'd carefully preselected and kept back the most suitable of the 'broadswords' for his own height and reach, reasoning that there had to be some teacher's perks, and let the others all pick what they wanted. Of the girls, only Dawn stood to one side, hanging back uncertainly near the bench on which sat Xander and Andrew, who had definitively taken on the role of spectators, complete with jumbo bag of chilli tortilla chips.
Giles had a private theory that Xander's occasional travel sickness was largely a matter of his stomach's intense need to exact revenge.
Most of the girls' swordplay was still rather static, he noticed, as his gaze swept the spacious, but shabby hall. Fine for fighting at close quarters in a group; but alone, against a more mobile opponent...
"EVERYONE *CEASE*!"
A dozen struggling forms broke apart, panting. A dozen pairs of expectant eyes turned to him. Andrew busied himself picking his suddenly spilled chips up off the floor.
"That was an impressive display, ladies."
Satisfied murmurs greeted his remark, but Giles could see Buffy grinning as she watched him encompass the group with a glance over the top of his glasses.
"However...
Buffy's grin became a small chuckle.
"...There are a number of ways you could all improve on your technique." Giles walked amongst the slayers, focusing on individuals. "Rona. That's a war hammer, not a mallet. You're not driving in tent pegs."
"Warhammer?" Andrew, scattering crumbs of tortilla chips, leaned forward excitedly.
"Not the game, Andy," Xander reminded him. "We can only dream of scantily clad Wood Elf Sorceresses riding unicorns into battle..." A slow, lecherous smile spread over his face, but Andrew made a tiny distressed noise and wrinkled his nose. Xander sighed.
"Fated to dream alone."
Giles, meanwhile, had begun to demonstrate a fluid, continuous back and forth sweep with the hammer, before returning it to Rona. For her partner, armed with a stabbing spear, he modelled blocking, thrusting and avoidance tactics as Rona tried to pin him down to get in a pulled smash. By the time she managed to stop a swing a few inches short of his head, making the onlookers gasp, he needed a breather.
"Not...as young...nor as fit...as I once was," he complained, as much to the unforgiving passage of time as to the assembled company, as he bent to catch his breath, hands on his thighs. "Much better, Rona."
"Well, it's all about the power; guess you can't expect to beat a slayer," Kennedy put in cheerfully from somewhere behind him.
He straightened slowly. Folding his arms, he turned on his heel and fixed her with a calm, considering stare. She stared confidently back, sword in hand, and smirked when he appeared to concede.
"Yes, perhaps I should choose a better matched partner. Someone at least who is used to pacing herself with me."
Buffy brightened and began to step forward, but Giles' attention bypassed her and transferred to the far corner of the hall. Dawn was sitting with her back against the wall, wearing a faintly disgruntled expression. She didn't seem to have been following the action or the conversation; when Giles called her name, she looked round as if to see what might be wrong, or to get her things if she needed to leave.
"What's up?" She put on her best helpful expression, longing even for an errand to break up the monotony of mere spectating.
"Pick yourself a sword, Dawn. Any one you like, I'm sure whoever has it now won't mind."
Giles waited patiently for the puzzled girls to shake themselves out of their momentary surprise. Dawn shot him an 'are you really serious?' look. On getting a confirming nod, she grinned gleefully, bounced on her toes and took her time inspecting the available blades before plucking one out of the hands of Vi, who shrugged as if she would just take what came and see what happened. They were all a lot less easily disconcerted these days, Giles noted. One plus point at least, in favour of the End of The World (Averted).
He fetched his own sword from the carryall and asked for plenty of space. The slayers ranged themselves round the edge of the hall whilst Dawn and Giles took up a fighting stance in the centre.
"Dawn and I did some work together here and there, while you were all busy training en masse over the past months. She may not have the sheer power and strength of a slayer, but she does have a distinct natural talent for swordsmanship. In addition, she's just a bit nearer my height than most of you."
Dawn favoured her sister with a sidelong shrug and was rewarded with a narrowing of the eyes and a mouthed 'Get you later'.
They began to fight, ranging over the available space, slicing and swinging with elegance but without superfluous flourish. Giles had more physical strength and a longer reach, but Dawn was able to get in under his guard if he over-extended himself. He was proud and pleased to see how thoroughly she had absorbed her lessons. As he had taught her, and her sister before her, she parried with the flat of the blade, not the cutting edge, protecting it from too much damage and minimising danger to her unarmoured sparring partner, deflecting blows without halting the flow of her own attack. She had the balance of a dancer as she tossed the lightweight sword from one hand to the other and disarmed Giles with a neat move from the unexpected side.
A round of enthusiastic applause and whistles from the 'crowd' encouraged her to play it out a little more. She put the point of her sword to Giles' heaving chest.
"Did he fight well? Shall I spare him to enter the arena another day?"
Laughter and a small forest of upraised thumbs was her answer, and as Giles picked up his sword, he was beaming his approval of her performance in more senses than one.
"So you see," he addressed the slayers," physical power isn't everything. You may come across opponents who must be defeated by quite other means."
Kennedy remained sceptical.
"Doesn't it bother you, getting your hand stung by a sixteen-year-old with a sword?" She asked, in a tone which made it clear that it would bother *her*.
"I'd be far more bothered if I thought she wasn't really trying," replied Giles aloud. As he passed by Buffy on his way to put his sword away, she distinctly heard him say, sotto voce:
"Beats being knocked on my arse by a sixteen-year-old with a quarterstaff, anyway."
He had them take turns practising in a large space, encouraging each of them singly and in pairs to take advantage of their enhanced speed, reactions and agility as well as strength, and to explore the possibilities of different weapons. He was in the middle of a very technical explanation of the relative properties of tempered steel as against armour or the scales of certain demons, when Kennedy heaved an audible sigh.
"This is all great stuff, Mister Giles: interesting, sure, but I don't see we really need it. We've proved we can take on pretty much anything and survive. I can see how *your* slayer needed to keep up with all this, to give her an edge, but we've got each other's backs. Besides, put enough muscle behind it, and I still say you're most of the way there."
Those slayers in Giles' line of sight noticed how his jaw worked silently before he pushed his glasses firmly and precisely onto the bridge of his nose with one finger. Those who caught the irritated glint in his eyes exchanged glances, unsure whether to bail Kennedy out or stand back and enjoy the show.
"Perhaps you'd care to illustrate your theory, Kennedy," offered Giles.
"Happy to." She either hadn't picked up on his annoyance, or was choosing to ignore it.
"Do you have a preference for a particular weapon and partner?"
"Rapier...and you, Mister Giles. I won't let up, on account of you being a mere man, either, I promise. I'll really be trying."
Giles suppressed a smile. "I don't doubt it."
Kennedy had all the moves down, fencing as if she was trying out for the Olympic squad, pressing the advantage of enhanced strength and driving Giles back relentlessly. His expression of calm concentration never wavered, however. He let her think it was a completely unequal contest for just long enough before kicking out with one long leg at a precise spot on the side of her knee. The joint gave way and she fell hard, striking her elbow so that she dropped the sword and it skittered away across the floor.
"Hey! No fair!" She scrambled to a sitting position, nursing her arm as well as she could with the end of a rapier poised under her chin.
"No," agreed Giles pleasantly. "Rather like life. And death." He withdrew his sword, brought it up in a formal salute, and bowed slightly. " Muscle, speed, even technique isn't enough sometimes. Know your enemy."
//Know your enemy...// Something tugged at the corners of his consciousness as he heard his own words.
It continued to tug all through the rest of the afternoon, and all the way back to the motel where Willow sat in the lobby with a carrier bag by her feet, reading the latest issue of "The Modern Wicca".
"Just one of those magick-y cliches we're kinda stuck with," she teased, her tone resigned but her eyes full of amusement.
Giles snorted as he manually forced his legs into a cross-legged position. "All very well when you're not my age and you haven't spent the day sparring with extremely energetic young people with mystically enhanced strength."
"Pfft," Willow chuckled. "You and I both know you're in better shape than pretty much anybody your age, and a bunch that aren't. I've seen you stick a yoga position longer than Buffy just to annoy her."
"And I paid for it for the next two days," he grumbled. "It felt as if I'd dislocated both hips. Anya was highly amused until she realised that since I couldn't bend down, she was going to have to restock most of the shelves by herself."
They both grew silent for a long moment.
"Everything's so different now." Willow's voice was both sad and uncertain.
"Whatever lies ahead, we will prevail," Giles said quietly. "It will take some time, but you all have each other...and perhaps every other slayer created that day."
Willow frowned. "We, Giles. *We* all have each other. Are you planning on going somewhere you haven't told us about yet?"
He shook his head slowly. "Not at all. I have simply come to accept that you've all grown up now...and that I no longer..." He trailed off. "It's not important. I'm not going anywhere."
"Something's wrong," she prodded. "I can feel your energy is all over the >place...all mixed up...angry, depressed...sad. What's wrong, Giles?"
He turned his head enough to look at her sideways. "Do you really want to know?"
Willow grew very serious. "No, I'm only asking you because I like the sound of your voice," she growled. "I care about you, Giles."
His look was far more sceptical than he would have liked.
She looked suitably contrite. "I do," she reiterated. "Back in high school I kinda worshipped you. I think that's part of the reason why...why a part of me...the bitter part...got so mad at you. You were supposed to be my mentor...my-my Yoda...my Dumbledore...and all you ever did was say no...my magick was...*I* was never good enough for you." She winced at his look. "Stop with the look. I don't back away from the horrible things that evil me said. I know at some point I did feel all those things...no matter how wrong they were, but she wasn't me...this me, I mean. It was the me without this me there..."
Giles finally looked at her squarely, finding it hard to keep his mouth to its flat line of disapproval. She'd gotten herself in such a muddle, her cheeks were red and the combination of guilt and petulance made her look like a small child who'd just been caught out. He wanted to laugh, to let her off the hook she'd made for herself, but a part of him...a part very near his heart...still wasn't ready for that yet.
"I'm fine," he told her, taking control of his errant lips. "These aren't exactly the most settled of times and I'm as unsettled as everyone else."
Willow's eyes narrowed and she suddenly looked every inch the adult she was.
"You're not fine, and I'm not a school kid anymore. If we're going to do this spell you have to be focused...or don't you remember who taught me that?" She added sarcastically.
Giles heaved a heavy sigh. "I've been around well and truly long enough not to let my personal feelings interfere with a spell," he said quietly. "When you need me, I will be focused."
Willow rolled her eyes. She knew that tone and she knew she wasn't going to get any more out of him about what she'd sensed.
It took them less than fifteen minutes to pinpoint the source of the spell on Giles. Both of them sat back, bemused. The Mall wasn't exactly where they expected the spell-caster to be.
Willow looked up, her face a picture of concentration. "Giles, I can feel it...the magick. I-I've felt it before...I know I have...but I have no idea who...or where."
Giles frowned. "Then the source is one which either originates in Sunnydale, or which has visited there..."
She sighed. "Well, yeah, seeing as I haven't actually been anywhere else...duh." She straightened. "You don't think it's anyone here...?"
Giles shook his head. "Not even Xander is up to practical jokes yet. Everyone here is having a difficult enough time simply coming to terms with the fact that their lives are permanently and irreparably changed, and their future utterly uncertain."
The reminder didn't help Willow's morale either, but it made sense. "Gloom and doom guy. But I guess not even Andrew would do something this dumb...not now, anyway."
"No," he said thoughtfully. "No, he wouldn't. What I can't fathom at the moment is motivation. What possible purpose could be served in continually ruining my clothes?"
"Somebody wants to see you nekkid?" Willow offered cheekily before she could stop herself.
"Ah yes...somebody wants to see the ancient Watcher unclothed...right...and unicorns are dancing in the hotel courtyard," Giles retorted with a little more feeling than Willow would have expected.
On a whim, she mentally said a simple inter-dimensional shift incantation then cleared her throat.
Giles followed her gaze to the feature window, his eyes almost literally bugging out at the site of a small white unicorn cavorting on the lawn outside.
"Willow!" He managed in a strangled whisper.
There was a giggle and then the beautiful creature was gone.
"Sorry, but back in high school I spent entirely too much time trying to imagine what you'd look like, well, not naked, exactly, but out of the tweed. I mean, there were arguments, lots of them, with Buffy and Xander: Speedos or trunks, boxers or briefs...does Giles even own a pair of jeans or a cool shirt...? Will he ever wear an earring again...?"
Giles looked flabbergasted. "Good Lord. You lot actually expended energy arguing about what I would or would not wear?"
Willow giggled again. "Uh-huh...there was even mention of tweed diapers. Burning questions, Giles...most of which still don't have answers, y'know... Well, except we know now that it's boxers..." She giggled again, at least until he scowled. "Well, yeah, um...so who do you know who might want to bug you this much?"
A strange expression crossed Giles' features and the niggle that had been at the back of his consciousness suddenly came into focus.
"No," he said softly. "Impossible."
"Giles?"
"It's Ethan. God alone knows how, or why...but it's bloody Ethan...it has to be."
After a beat she turned outward again and nodded confirmation. "I've only really felt him once...I-I wasn't strong enough before that time he turned you into a demon. But why...?"
Giles shook his head. "Ethan is a law unto himself. I'm sure we'll find out in due course. In the meantime at least we know who to look for in the Mall..." His expression suddenly grew irritated. "And where."
"Giles?"
"Get your purse or whatever. I'm going to buy you a cup of coffee."
"Ooh, mocha," she said brightly then sobered. "You know where he is, don't you?"
"Excuse me," Giles said pleasantly over the top of the high counter. "We were looking for...um...Ethan."
"Yeah, well, if you find him, tell him he's fired," an unexpectedly Texan drawl retorted. "Are all you good-looking Brits as charmin' and as unreliable as that weasel?"
Giles cleared his throat. "Indeed not, Madam. I'm afraid Ethan isn't a very good ambassador for the human race, much less his country."
The dryness in Giles' voiced coaxed a smile from the harassed woman as she put the finishing touches to two cappuccinos, a latte, two flat whites and an espresso, black, adding spoons and packages of sugar to the tray.
"You could try his hotel room. Twin Palms...corner of Mesa and LeGrande. Lord knows where he slopes off to when he's missin', though. Not that he doesn't bring in the customers when he's around...he just ain't around enough lately."
Giles smiled kindly at her. "Thank you. If we see him, we'll pass on your message."
She was entranced enough to smile back, but not enough to stop her from raising a clenched fist.
"Oh yeah? Well, pass on one of these while you're at it, just from me, okay, hon?"
Both Giles and Willow found it difficult not to smile.
"My pleasure," Giles managed, before they both turned and Willow actually did giggle.
"I'll just bet," she cackled.
The answering anticipatory gleam in Giles' eye only made her giggle even more.