"No."

"Why not?"

"Because there are limits. And these are a long way past mine."

"But..."

"*No*."

Buffy reluctantly put the soft, red leather pants back and wandered off to see what other treasures she could find.

Giles looked around the store. Buffy wouldn't allow him to shop anywhere less... upmarket, but he wasn't comfortable amongst the painfully yuppie and fashion junkie lines. When she returned with a designer jacket with a four-figure price tag - admittedly a stunningly well cut and attractive one, just not for him - he knew what he was going to do.

As she held it out for him, expecting him to turn and slip his arms into the sleeves, he shook his head.

"Buffy, this isn't going to work. We simply have divergent tastes."

"Yeah. As in mine belongs in this century. Trust me, I know what I'm doing."

"For you, perhaps. For Xander or, or.. Robin. None of this...is 'me'. "

"Then what?"

He shrugged, then after a moment's reflection decided: "I'll know it when I see it. You go back to the motel. Ring Faith; find out when the hospital thinks they might be willing to release Robin, and when we can expect them to get here. Cleveland calls." The last sentence came out with a mock rhetorical flourish and Buffy obligingly struck an heroic attitude and adopted a 'comic-strip' tone of voice.

"A slayer's work is never done. Guess I won't be making that career move to Personal Shopper to the Acting Head of the Watchers' Council. Darn; just when I'd aced all the psych tests."

Giles laughed, his whole face and body relaxing at the return of the cheeky, quipping young woman who had consistently managed to inject humour into the direst, and the most mundane, situations.

"Whilst I appreciate the vote of confidence, I wouldn't promote me just yet. And I'm sure you would make a wonderfully...well-adjusted shopper. Not, however, for me. I'll see you later."

"Okay." She half turned to go, and then looked back, wagging her finger. "But positively *no* seventies retro flares or platform soles. Don't put stripes with plaid. Don't even think about..."

Giles gave her a mock glare and his firmest tone of voice. "*Buffy*. I'll see you later."

After she'd disappeared from view, he rapidly escaped the section she'd insisted they visit first, and began to explore more of the store. It was on two levels and held a great deal of stock. He could be there all day, picking through shelves and racks. He considered getting a salesperson to help, but that would have been scarcely any different to retaining Buffy's 'services'.

Finally he just let himself wander, giving in to spontaneity and waiting for something to catch his eye. He let his mind woolgather a little too. He found himself owning up to and facing some of the negative thoughts and feelings about himself and his future, which Willow and Buffy had guessed at. They'd done their best to get him to think more positively, but if he were really honest with himself, he knew that the solution lay within himself. He was somewhat ashamed that he'd let the drift towards self-pity go so far. As he passed one of the counters at an oblique angle, he saw a printed card taped to the side facing the salesclerks as they worked. It was dog-eared and ink-stained, but if he got up close he could make out what it said:

'No -one can make you feel inferior without your permission: Eleanor Roosevelt.'

Giles smiled quietly. The same went, no doubt, for feeling old and unwanted. He meditated on that silently for a while longer as he walked, until he was brought up short, almost colliding with a life-size mannequin moulded from shiny white plastic in the modern fashion. Its head was turned to one side and only hinted at facial features; one leg was flexed so that the figure seemed to be resting casually against the wall.

He noticed the shirt first, a deep teal green cut in classic lines, the weave subtly shifting the colour as the light caught it from different angles. He fingered the material and found it to be top quality cotton, finished to a soft sheen. The display staff had teamed it with inky black denims from a nearby stack. Button-fly Levis 501s. Giles grinned as he remembered Willow's joking reference to 'those' ads. Someone had furnished the mannequin with a single hoop earring in stainless steel, and this time Giles was glad he'd kept his options open and not let his piercing go. What he did let go, in that moment, was any preconceived idea of what he "should" dress like, whomever the idea belonged to.

He stood looking at the outfit, eyes narrowed, for a good five minutes.

// Would I look like a sad old git? Or can I possibly get away with it? Yes I can. And I bloody well will. //

The mood of slightly belligerent adventurousness stayed with him all the way through picking out shirt and jeans in his size, and going in search of a changing room. The nearest one was in fact not very near; he had to take a short cut through the underwear and socks section. More white plastic facsimiles of the male figure adorned the tops of the displays, this time cut-off torsos sporting Calvin Klein and YSL boxers, close fitting jersey numbers which moulded to every contour. Giles cast a glance and smirked naughtily.

// Poor chaps. Still, size isn't everything. I'd imagine. //

He stopped, momentarily surprised at himself. Then he shrugged and let the thought stay just where it was, right alongside the smug self-congratulation. He snagged a pack of the boxers in a mix of dark jewel colours, noting with anticipation that the jersey knit was in heavy gauge silk. A brace of pairs of socks to match soon joined the pile.

Once in the cubicle, he hesitated a moment, then exited again and caught the eye of the nearest salesclerk, a chirpy but rather twitchy young man in an immaculate suit.

"Excuse me, I think I'll actually buy these first." He held up the pack of boxers and the clerk's eager face positively beamed.

"Excellent, excellent choice, if I do say so, sir. *Very* comfortable and stylish."

The price was steep, but Giles didn't balk. He'd set his mind on a course of action and was committed to it. In any case, he could probably have bought the entire contents of the shop, the building and the land it stood on, with as little impact on the wealth now at his disposal, as emptying the petty cash from the Watchers' Council HQ Tea Club .

Safely in the privacy of the cubicle, he stripped to the skin and slipped on a pair of the boxers in black to match the jeans. They felt wonderful as the fabric glided over his skin; sensual and yes...sexy. God, it had been such a long time since he'd let himself formulate *that* particular concept. Before he could dwell too much on the reasons for that, he pulled on the jeans, leaving the fly unbuttoned for the moment, and did up the shirt most of the way. Despite its classic cut, it really wasn't a shirt to be worn with a tie so, leaving the top two buttons undone, he tucked in it and fastened the jeans. They were snug but not tight, and as he turned in the mirror he was more than satisfied with what he saw. He took off his glasses, hooking them in the vee of his shirt, and his satisfaction increased. The trainers weren't right, but he could deal with the footwear issue next.

Suddenly he couldn't bear to change back into the discarded, rejected image that presently lay crumpled on the cubicle floor. He scooped up his old clothes and went to the counter as he was, picking up an extra shirt in rich maroon from the same line as the one he had on. At the counter, the clerk was bending to find something in a bottom drawer, and Giles had to cough politely to get his attention.

When the clerk straightened, it was clear from his face that his attention had definitely been got. In fact, as he rang up the purchases he kept making intermittent, hopeful eye contact. Giles had the uncomfortable feeling that more than his credit rating was being checked out. He did his best to maintain a carefully neutral expression throughout.

"Is there anything more I can do for you, sir?" Amazing how much innuendo could be packed into such a workaday phrase.

"Yes, could you just get rid of these for me? Thank you."

The clerk bundled the old outfit away in a trash bin with a disappointed air.

"No problem, sir. Have a nice day."

Giles was moving perilously close to 'trendy' territory, he knew, browsing in a franchise that boasted the name "Xtremities" and consisting entirely of shoes and jewellery for both women and men. On the other hand, the pair of plain, hand-stitched, black loafers, the leather so supple that he could flex the shoe in his hand, were worth the danger. Soon they were on his feet, and the trainers in the store bag at his side.

One last addition had yet to be made, he thought, remembering the mannequin that had shown him a glimpse of the still possible.

Five minutes later he signed another credit slip, and took another peek in the small mirror by the pay desk. He turned his head to one side, letting the beaten silver hoop hanging from his left ear catch the intense interior strip lighting. He tucked the box containing an alternative in eighteen carat gold, into his breast pocket. The young sales clerk had gone to help another customer, and he was left alone with his reflection. Glancing swiftly from side to side, Giles ran a hand through his hair, mussing it away from its too-neat, conservative style and teasing out some of the curl. When he'd finished, he nodded at the doppelganger, who nodded back.

//Better. Now, all that remains is to sort out Mr Rayne, don't you think, Giles? //

// Couldn't agree more, Rupert. //

The motel lobby was quiet; most of their party must be out again. The few other guests Giles had seen during his stay were fleeting and unsociable, mostly en route to Vegas and a rendezvous with false hopes of easy wealth.

He was just crossing to the stairs, intending to while away the time before supper reading something light and untaxing, when a surprised voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Oh. Oh *my*. Mr Giles, is that you?"

Camellia Pottschalk, resplendent in salmon pink chiffon and a rope of fat, artificial, pearls, stood in the doorway of her office with her mouth agape, newly manicured hand splayed on her ample bosom.

"Well, now," she continued once Giles turned cautiously to face her. " Don't *you* look fine this afternoon?"

Giles wasn't quite sure how best to respond. He didn't much care for the way she was raking every inch of him with her eyes, rather different to the sweet fluster with which she'd reacted until now. Finally she sighed shortly, shook her head and went back into the office. As he retreated thankfully, he was sure he could hear her say:

"But if I was twenty years younger...well, now. Aren't you just lucky I'm such a loyal wife, Mister P?"

He was just about to turn the final page of his thriller, to confirm his suspicions that the urbane Master of an Oxford College was indeed an Islamist double agent, when a knock on the door made him start. He opened the door to find that Dawn had once again been assigned round-up duty. She greeted him with her normal cheerful smile, then stopped in mid dinner-invitation and stared.

"I thought Buffy was going to take you clothes shopping? That isn't Buffy," she told him with certainty, gesturing at his outfit. She took a closer look at his left ear and blinked. "Neither is that. No, *sir*. Buffy is not in the building."

"What makes you say that?" He was prepared for some criticism; but damned if he'd change a thing.

"Because it's *way* better than anything she'd have dared make you get. Who'd a' thought?" Dawn winked conspiratorially and walked off down the corridor.

Giles followed her. He was starting to feel that could get used to this, which was just as well, because it was only the first of many double takes and slightly surprised but sincere compliments. The only holdout was Rona, who thought blue denim would suit him better. Xander asked him where he'd got the gear; Andrew was giving him the same discomforting scrutiny as Mrs Pottschalk had done. He might need to have a tactfully phrased private conversation with that boy sometime.

Over dinner, he and Willow finalised their plan of campaign. They would summon a guiding light over a broadly sketched map of the town, done in sacred sand to mask the enquiry, memorise the route as quickly as possible, and dispel the magicks right away, hoping that a sleeping Ethan would be unaware he'd been pinpointed.

It meant staying up all night, or getting up at the crack of dawn. They decided for the sake of their respective roommates that the former was preferable, so they camped out in the motel lobby with the bag of ingredients and a book each. The night clerk - a lanky youth, one of Mrs Pottschalk's nephews - looked at them curiously once or twice but said nothing. At one in the morning he locked the front door, bade them good night and disappeared out the back.

For a while, no sound except the occasional turn of a page disturbed the peace of the deserted lobby. Then Willow shut her book with a snap.

"Giles?"

He looked over at her, brow creased a little. He knew it couldn't be time for the spell yet.

She seemed to make her mind up about something. "Can I ask you a personal question?"

"If you, too, are going to ask me when I had my ear pierced, the answer is the same one I gave everyone else: 'before you were born'."

Willow grinned fleetingly. "I wasn't actually; but nice earring all the same. It's about the magicks."

Her hesitant, embarrassed air suggested that this was more than a simple enquiry about a simple locator spell. She pressed on, and asked her question:

"Do you... *enjoy* working magicks?"

"I haven't played with the Forces for 'fun' in a very long time, Willow. I know better. But if a spell leads to the right outcome, and no-one is harmed, then there's a certain satisfaction, yes."

"There's nothing in the actual *process*, then? Then maybe it's just me. Because I'm..."

"...So powerful," Giles finished for her. "I'm sure it makes a difference to the... intensity of the experience." They exchanged glances, fairly certain that each now knew what they were *really* discussing. Giles picked his next words carefully.

"Magick is a powerful elemental force. It seeks out what you are, and uses you, quite as much as it is used: good and bad, mind and heart, soul and...body. There's an inevitable, er, knock-on effect in all those areas. It's, um, not at all unusual for there to be a degree of..."

"Sexiness?" She smiled to see him shift in his chair and fail to meet her eye. "Don't worry, I'm not going to make you talk details if you don't want to. I just wondered if it was only me, being weird. T-Tara and I never straight out talked about it. 'Cause we never needed to."

They were silent together for a long moment.

"It seems like so long ago. And like yesterday, at the same time," Willow said at last.

Giles nodded. "The most important memories always do."

Willow concentrated her powers on the one flame and begged the light to aid them. A small flicker, and a piece of the flame detached itself, floated through the air and lit the other two candles briefly before each snuffed themselves out. For a second they both feared that he'd left altogether, but the roaming fire wasn't finished. It swooped to a spot on the far side of town, near the road out to Vegas, and caught on the sand lines, burning steadily. Swiftly, Giles poured water on it, and with a faint hiss, it died. The pungent smoke of its passing curled around his fingertips, stroking his palms, and he shuddered.

He jumped to his feet, the tiny visceral charge of the magicks in his belly and loins becoming an adrenaline and testosterone-fuelled push to action. He was going to confront Ethan, and do it now. Willow instinctively knew that he didn't want her presence; that he neither needed protection, nor wanted a witness. She hoped he wouldn't end up doing anything he'd regret. Giles at his most positive and determined, and when his temper was tried, could be pretty formidable.

But he'd be okay. Ethan, on the other hand...

Ethan Rayne was sleeping the sleep of the until-recently-interned, when the door to his weekly rented apartment was kicked in. He was just about to curl up into a foetal position to protect his head, when the light came on and the figure looming in the doorway got a good look at him. The figure took a swift intake of breath and paused in its forward momentum towards the bed.

"Ethan?"

Giles had the grace to sound shocked and more than a little humbled. Ethan uncurled himself and sat up, letting the shabby bed linen fall away from his pale, naked chest and pool in his lap. The carefully cultivated tan and well-toned body that he'd taken such pride in were gone. His formerly impeccable grooming - expensive haircut, manicured hands, perfect teeth - had been replaced by an unkempt, depressed, desperate appearance, bluish rings under his eyes and more lines than time alone could write on his brow.

Before Giles could say another word Ethan raised both hands, whispered a word and struck him dumb.

"Don't be afraid, Ripper old chum. I'm in no fit state to fight. It's not to silence your groans and pleas for mercy; in fact, in other circumstances I'd quite like everyone to hear them. But if I don't shut you up straight away, I know what I'll get: Remorseful Rupert flagellating himself, and not in the recreational sense. Spare me."

He reached over to the nightstand and extracted a cigarette from its pack. After he'd lit it and taken a deep drag, coughing chestily for several breaths afterward, he sat up straight, with his back against the headboard, and took the measure of the man he'd shadowed and bewitched for the past few days. The man he'd never get entirely out of his system.

"I'm not going to give you the Amnesty International report: what they did in gruesome detail; how it felt; where the scars are. I'm not even going to tell you that it's all your fault. I'd be willing to bet you've already calculated the precise degree of guilt and remorse you owe me, Rupert, and how it weighs against what a menace to decent, orderly society I posed." He smiled faintly. "Pose."

Giles struggled against the spell, summoning his own latent powers, but without words he wasn't strong enough. He shook his head, tying to tell Ethan with his eyes that it wasn't like that; that he was genuinely shocked and horrified by the changes in his enemy-friend; that he realised his fault in merely abandoning him to his fate, in casting him from his memory ever since. He knelt at the side of the bed and tentatively laid a hand on Ethan's arm. Ethan's dark, secretive eyes flitted over the point of contact. They glittered as he deliberately sent a dense puff of cigarette smoke into Giles' face, making him draw back and let go.

"You know, they say that suffering reveals the true nature of a man, Rupert. Not that I was ever in any doubt about what I am, and I've no intention of changing; I regard myself as perfect for my own purposes. You've been shaped by it too, I could see every time I came to Sunnydale. But the big difference between you and me is that you provide ninety percent of the suffering for yourself." Giles' face expressed his outrage, but Ethan continued smoothly: "Oh, come now. I *know* you, so very much better than anyone else. You know what your trouble is? A hard head allied to a soft heart. Deadly combination, mate. You see the right way ahead and feel compelled to go there, even if it tears you to bits. You want to be needed and loved, but you won't sacrifice any of that pig-headed nobility to get it. So you end up never satisfied, never integrated. Always pretending you don't mind. That it can't be helped; that it's your 'duty'. Pretending there's no anger, no passion; that you don't wish you could throw all of the rules out of the window sometimes. Poor sod. Don't waste your pity on me. Save it for yourself."

He took a few more drags of nicotine, smiling his charming crocodile smile every time he took the fag away from his lips.

"You know, I've enjoyed this... conversation, Rupert. So much so, that I'm inclined to give you a reward, in the shape of you getting the last word. Laxare!"

He waved his hand again and Giles' vocal chords were freed.

"You may be right." It was worth it for the expression on Ethan's face alone.

"My hearing must have gone, what with all the probes. Did you just admit I was right?"

"I did say 'may'." Giles sighed and got up from his crouch beside the bed. Pulling up a chair, he ran his hand reflexively through his hair as he sat down. "You may not want to hear it, but for what it's worth, I *am* sorry. You deserved a good kicking, I'm not budging on that. You should probably be kept away from civilised society. But *no-one* deserves what you've obviously been through. Have you seen a doctor since your release?"

"Give me a bit more time and I won't need one, you know that. Your little redhead isn't the only one with power. In any case, men in white coats make me...nervous these days." Ethan's face clouded and he looked away before Giles could fathom what briefly passed behind his eyes. "Back to my favourite subject - next to the topic of me, that is - why you keep pretending to be someone you're not; though on that score, you do seem to have been doing some good work at last."

He encompassed Giles' appearance with a sweeping glance, and the Watcher remembered why he had come in the first place. He had a sudden suspicion.

"Yes, I surmised I had you to 'thank' for my continual involuntary disrobing. Are you trying to say there's been more to it than merely harassing and humiliating me?"

"As if I'd do that, dear one."

"For God's sake drop the vaudeville camp act, Ethan. It's bloody annoying," Giles grunted.

Ethan smirked. " But *I* rather like it. Fact is, old man, all I did was invoke Lady Chaos as per usual. A quick invocation, a reminder of all I've done in her service, and presto! Boon granted."

"What sort of 'boon'?"

"The desire to make you, well to help you at any rate, see for yourself what could be. What *should* be. The clothes were merely the outward and visible sign of your inward and spiritual malaise. Just like that tweed straightjacket the Council insisted you wear, or the middle-aged dropout look you had last time we...tussled." Ethan, as ever, managed to make the image suggestive, and Giles scowled at him. The sorcerer jabbed a triumphant finger at him.

"Yes. Hold that pose. *That's* the Ripper who's been missing in action: the clothes, the man; the attitude. I'm satisfied, and so the spell should dissipate. Allowing for a few after effects, of course."

Giles leaned forward, alarmed. "What after effects?" he demanded. Ethan shrugged.

"If they were predictable, how would Chaos be satisfied? I only wish I could be there to enjoy the fun."

"You have plans to leave?"

"I'd imagined that 'get out of town' was going to be in your next breath after 'I'm so terribly sorry, it's all my fault except for the fact that you brought all on yourself'. But if you can't bear to let me go..."

Giles scowled again. "Is there any point in my saying I'll be glad to see the back of you?"

"Only insofar as I can make a terribly amusing play on words with the concept of you being glad to see my...back." Ethan enjoyed Giles' irritation once more, and stubbed out his cigarette in a cracked saucer, which sat on the nightstand. "Once I'm up to full strength, I might see if I can work my wicked conjuring tricks on Her Majesty's Consul and get back to Blighty. I'm surprised you've stuck it out in this godforsaken country as long as you have."

Giles shifted in his seat. "As a matter of fact, I've been home for quite long periods over the past couple of years. I...Buffy doesn't need a Watcher. Not an old-style one, anyway. Besides, the Council itself is gone now. Destroyed. Only a handful of us are left, with no organisation, no backup. It's a whole new world out there. All the potential slayers who exist, known and unknown, have been activated. We averted an Apocalypse, but we don't know yet what we've created."

"Wonderful potential for chaos, if you ask me. Well done, Ripper!"

"There's no need to take the piss," Giles told him wearily. "It wasn't my idea; it was Buffy's."

"Thought up, I'm sure, on her usual spur of the moment with nary a nod to the problem of long term consequences."

Giles laughed shortly. "What do *you* know about long term consequences?"

"I said I wasn't going to show you the scars."

"I'm..."

"Sorry. Yes, yes. Can we just take it as read and move on? I told you, I'm not angling for pity. You know, it occurs to me that I might actually be of some use in your new, less ordered existence."

"Your hearing disorder seems to be catching. You, Ethan Rayne: why should you want to be 'of use'?"

"Oh ye of little faith."

"Oh me of long experience. It would be...uncharacteristic, you must admit. The notion of you as part of the vanguard in the struggle against evil..." he suppressed a chuckle.

"Who said anything about the struggle against evil? The struggle against penury is more to my taste. You must still have access to the Council's millions, and next to nothing to spend them on. In return for... adequate remuneration, I could handle those vital underworld deals you wouldn't sully your lilywhite hands with. Although from the look of you now, you might be up for some of the rough stuff now and again."

Giles allowed the tinest of complicit smiles to pass between them. "What, and ruin my new clothes?"

Faith was at the wheel of a shiny new air-conditioned coach, not exactly Sunnydale School Board standard issue. Principal Wood climbed stiffly down the steps, supporting his side with one hand and smiling his relief at surviving both Armageddon, and Faith's enthusiastic but unlicensed driving.

As Giles came out at the head of the gang to greet him, Robin cocked his head to one side and raised an eyebrow, amused and impressed both with the image and with the renewed confidence in the older man's face and bearing.

"Did I miss another Apocalypse? Bernard Crowley used to tell me there was more to being a Watcher than books and demon languages, but it seemed to me he mostly just talked the talk. The way you fought back there; the way you are now: seems you're gonna be about walking the walk."

Giles smiled calmly. " Not much point otherwise, is there?"

Robin turned to watch Faith sashay her way around the front of the bus. She linked arms with him briefly in relaxed intimacy. Then she caught sight of Giles, whose approval of the pairing was obvious. She accepted it with a nod, then came up to him and stopped, one hand on hip, other one curled in a fist under her chin in a parody of careful consideration. A full minute of careful inspection, then she nodded gravely and walked round to the back of him. She repeated the performance for the benefit, and to the great amusement, of the others. Giles merely stood there, waiting, standing tall.

"Mm-*Hmn*."

With that, she proceeded regally into the motel without another word, but with a grin that lit up her whole face, and told of her thoughts.

//That's more like it, G. //

"I need something rigid!" he wailed, causing Xander and Giles to stop momentarily and glance at each other with identical expressions of rigorously suppressed mirth. Buffy rolled her eyes.

"I knew it was risky leaving you in each others' company so much. C'mon, Faith's got the motor running, and if you think she wouldn't dare leave without ya..."

They grabbed their possessions hurriedly and followed Buffy out.

As the bus crossed the city boundary, Giles felt a sudden, unnatural prickling sensation at the back of his neck. He had a instant of panic at what Chaos might be up to, but after sitting holding his breath for several seconds, nothing seemed amiss. He shrugged and put it down to apprehension at what he might have done, setting Ethan free, and with promises, into an unsuspecting world.

It wasn't until unpacking in Vegas hotel room that evening that he found the last legacy of the spell. Each piece of clothing he'd bought now sported a neatly sewn, woven tag inside, bearing the legend:

'Return to Ripper If Lost.'

THE END