Buffy paced impatiently. The past two weeks had been the most wonderful and content of her short life, and she wasn't good at waiting for, or being separated from the man who was responsible for her new happiness. Even patrolling had become an exercise to get over with as quickly as possible when he was too busy to go with her…

He was already twenty minutes late.

Giles was never late.

After an hour, irritation turned to consternation, then after a few more minutes, worry, and finally, fear. She went into the lobby of the restaurant and called the store on the payphone. He'd left there almost two hours before. The apartment phone rang out. Neither Xander nor Willow had heard anything.

Her fear grew, taking on a life of its own. Where the hell did she start looking? She decided to go home. If the apartment wasn't ransacked and the car was gone, he was probably okay. It was somewhere to start. She could also follow his most likely route in case he was broken down somewhere…

But he wasn't. Nor was the apartment in a shambles, but there were no notes or messages. The car was not there, which was perhaps the only reassuring thing. A cold shiver went down her spine and she reached for the phone to dial the switchboard number for the hospital from memory.

No one named Rupert Giles had been brought in or admitted.

She sighed and decided she'd better head back to the restaurant in case he was simply running late.

Buffy followed two couples inside and rubbernecked until she'd made certain he wasn't already seated in there somewhere. Anxiety and frustration were almost suffocating her. It was crazy. Giles was never, ever, this tardy. Not for anything. Not without calling someone, somehow.

She sat down on the hard vinyl seat in the lobby and put her head in her hands. Did she start checking cemeteries? Sewers? The police?”

A hand on her back a few minutes later made her jump like a scared cat.

“You are Ms Summers, yes?”

Buffy looked up at the young French waiter and blinked. “Yes,” she agreed dazedly, then focused. “Oh, yes, what…why?”

“There is a telephone call,” he explained, gesturing toward the desk.

Buffy ran.

“Giles?”

“Hello, love. I'm afraid I'm going to be rather late. I'm sorry I couldn't call sooner. I'm going to have to get a bloody cell phone. I had some trouble with the car, and before that one of the errands I was running took far longer than I anticipated. In the meantime I've had to buy a new battery and it will take me a little while to walk back to the car and install it. Taxi drivers are rather fussy about lead acid batteries being carried in their vehicles.”

“Your car?” Buffy exclaimed with a hint of hysteria. “I'm going out of my mind with worry, and your car is broken down?”

“Buffy are you all right?” he asked, startled.

“No,” she said in a small voice. “I was scared. Where are you? I'll come to you.”

“But our dinner…your evening will be completely spoilt,” he objected.

“No it won't. You're okay, which means it's entirely *not* spoiled.”

He chuckled. “All right, but I'm sorry about the meal. The car is parked in front of the furniture store on Delroy. Remember, on the south side of town, not far from where you killed that orange thing with the platform shoes? You can't miss it.”

Buffy reached the vehicle in time to see his back bent over the innards of his car, busy with a spanner. Her whole body relaxed at the site of him, the confirmation that he was indeed, safe.

When she got close enough she realised he wasn't in his usual business clothes from the store. He'd already changed into an open-necked black silk shirt, beautifully cut, black pants and soft leather boots under the pants.

Buffy was still admiring the cut of the pants, particularly the way they clung to a certain portion of his anatomy, when he finally straightened, wiping greasy hands on a cloth and flinging the spanner into the toolbox at his feet.

“Hello love,” he said wearily.

“Is it fixed?” she asked.

He nodded, closed the hood and picked up the toolbox. “Should be. Shall we try it?”

It turned over perfectly and Giles sighed heavily. “Thank God,” he said fervently. “Perhaps my days of all things mechanical being allergic to me are finally over.”

“Are you okay?” Buffy asked quietly, sensing the strange mood he was in. The whole drama had been strange to the max. It still wasn't like Giles to run an errand when he had an appointment. And he still hadn't explained what he was doing. Stubbornly, she refused to ask.

He nodded silently as they pulled away from the kerb. She didn't say anything, either, when they stopped again a short time later and he excused himself to disappear into the mall without inviting her. Buffy acquiesced rather dazedly after everything that had happened, flipping on the radio and sitting back grumpily when she realized she was alone yet again.

Fifteen odd minutes later he returned with one or two sacks and no explanation as to their contents, though one was clearly holding a bottle.

Buffy was glad to see the apartment again. She was feeling thoroughly wigged by Giles' behaviour, and still not over the momentary terror of losing him. Their home, however, soothed her with its familiarity, its intimate sense of being their own private world.

Giles was in the kitchenette with his back to her, once again not explaining, just excusing himself the moment they walked in the door, and taking his sacks with him.

She decided the best scenario involved him surprising her with something really good to eat…like blackberry jelly donuts or chocolate mud cake. Other explanations for his sudden eccentricities and secrecy didn't bear contemplation.

“I'm going to change,” she announced, receiving little more than a grunt in reply. She wanted out of the short black dress, silk stockings and very high heels. Somehow they'd lost their novelty.

Then again, when she'd removed the dress and hung it in the tallboy, she caught a look at herself in the mirror on the inside of the cupboard door.

She smiled mischievously. It hadn't occurred to her how she might look in just the black lace half cup, black g-string, the garter belt that had been annoying her, silk stockings and the sling-back evening shoes with the two and a half inch heels she'd bought especially to go with the dress.

When she went back downstairs again, he was wiping his now clean hands on a cloth and lost in thought.

“I hope that brain strain is something to do with me,” she said, standing on the last step.

Giles looked up absently, his eyes coming to rest on the vision before him. His mouth opened slightly and his head tilted a little.

Buffy liked it when his eyes lit up like that and his so-sexy mouth curled up ever so slowly, as though he was both amused and pleased about something. A little tremor went through her. It took so little for him to turn her on so badly…

“Very nice,” he murmured.

She smiled. “And it would have been even nicer for you to find out by yourself after dinner and wine. I figured it to be right about the time you couldn't keep you hands off me any longer, maybe while we were parking somewhere,” she teased.

His eyes widened a little, as they were wont to do when he was surprised or amused.

“This was under that modest little black evening dress?”

Her own eyes flashed and she nodded. “I thought you'd like to see what you missed.”

“Oh,” he said softly. “Like that, is it?”

She nodded again.

“Then you won't want any dinner, or any of this…” He produced a bottle of expensive champagne and two crystal tulip glasses from behind his back.

Buffy's body tingled again and she moved towards him. “We could negotiate,” she purred when she reached him and his arms spread enough for her to walk into them.

Giles chuckled, appreciating the lovely form pressing against him, and slightly frustrated by his full hands.

“I think we just did,” he observed as she undid the top buttons of the black shirt and kissed his chest, then grunted as her right hand slid down and discovered just how much he appreciated the view.

“Depends. I may not complete the transaction if I'm not happy with the merchandise,” she teased.

“Oh really?” he growled, then laughed when she squealed and leaped out of his arms, icy condensation still trickling down her back where he'd quite deliberately laid the champagne bottle against it.

“Oh, that's it, Mister,” she half-laughed, half warned. “You are in big trouble now.”

Giles started to back away as the Slayer began to stalk him. “No, Buffy, seriously,” he laughed. “I…we…I've got dinner…Buffy!”

She reached him and started to tickle so that his laughter turned into involuntary giggles and gasps, until the glasses clinked together with a ringing chime. Buffy relented.

“You still haven't told me why you were over on Delroy instead of meeting me for dinner,” she growled, nipping his chin playfully before releasing him completely.

“Rendezvous with an old flame,” he offered, eyes dancing.

She knew he was kidding, but a part of her reacted violently to the thought of anyone else touching him, kissing him, being with him…

“Not if you want them to live,” she growled.

Giles heard the seriousness behind her jest, and smiled his satisfaction. After the years of jealousy of her various beaus, it felt good to have the shoe on the other foot for once, even just for a moment.

“In that case, I shall have to tell Mrs DiMarco that we'll have to call it off.”

Buffy frowned for a moment, trying to place the name, then collapsed into giggles. “Mama DiMarco from Il Pescatore? The hussy!” she managed.

Giles chuckled. The 'hussy' was sixty if she was a day and about two hundred and fifty pounds of larger than life, big-hearted Italian grandmother.

Something clicked and Buffy managed to stop giggling. “Italian. We're having Italian…here?”

He nodded. “Rosa promised it would be delivered in about an hour from now.”

“I didn't know they did home delivery.”

“They don't,” he deadpanned. “I helped Rosa's son when he was planning a holiday in England, some time ago. Now she's helping me.” At Buffy's surprised look he tilted his head once again, this time in mild exasperation. “I have been here for almost five years now. With your schedule I don't normally find time to cook very often, therefore I've frequently had to pick up meals on the way home, or simply eat out. Rosa and her family have been friends of mine for a very long time. Il Pescatore is about the only decent restaurant in this town willing to stay open after eleven at night.”

Buffy coloured. He'd gone to so much trouble after all that hassle with the car. She would have ended up a useless, irritable frazzle, and got nothing done. Still, something still didn't fit, and it worried her, even while she tried to ignore it.

When the knock eventually came at the door, Buffy took her unclothed self back up to the loft until Giles called her down again. She decided, in the meantime, that she wanted to look as nice for him as she did when they were going to eat out, and carefully dressed again.

“You can come down, now, love,” his voice called some time later.

The room was darkened and delicious smells were emanating from it. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she realized that he'd arranged more than just some food.

Her eyes filled in the half-light of the candles on the small table Giles was standing alongside.

His writing desk had been moved to where the old mahogany table used to stand with all its bits of Giles' favourite junk. It took her a moment to realise she hadn't even noticed it was missing when they came in, but it was.

When she reached the new table, he seated her and took the chair opposite, in silence. Buffy had to bite her lip to restrain her sudden emotion at the true extent of the trouble he'd gone to.

There were not only candles, but also linen and the real silverware that she'd seen only once, when he told her she couldn't use it for Thanksgiving…not with their record for disastrous celebrations. Not even pouting had changed his mind. This was an antique, and, she suspected now, probably his mother's.

There were her favourite dishes, and continental bread and of course, the champagne.

“It's beautiful,” she said softly, for fear that her voice would wobble if she let it get any louder.

Giles smiled as he poured the champagne and handed her a glass. “Not quite the surprise I originally envisioned,” he said ruefully, “but I'm glad you like it.”

By the time Buffy had pushed back her plate and drained her third glass of champagne, she was feeling at peace with the world, her face was glowing, and Giles was starting to look relaxed, finally. There was definitely still some tension, however. She could feel it, see it in the way he was sitting, the way he was hardly talking.

She watched him set his glass down and push his own plate back. “So, spill Giles. What's wrong?”

“Pardon?” he said after a beat, as though coming back from a long way away.

“Something's bugging you,” she said softly.

“Oh,” he grinned sheepishly. “Not at all. Not 'bugging' me, that is.”

He didn't say any more for the longest time, only refilled the glasses with the last mouthful of the champagne.

“What?” she demanded when she couldn't stand it any longer.

The green eyes, sparkling in the candlelight, flicked up and regarded her for long moment. Then he reached across and set a small box in front of her.

“A present? I get presents too?”

Giles smiled placidly, but the tension was still there. “Open it.”

Inside the small gold gift box was a very old looking, heavy ring box. Buffy lifted it out almost reverently and set it on the table in front of her.

Giles watched as she carefully opened it, watched her eyes glitter with moisture in the candlelight, then shine brilliantly as she picked up her gift, turning it in the soft glow.

“Rupert, it's so beautiful,” she whispered.

The antique band was small and beautiful, like its new owner. It was crafted from heavy silver, engraved with an intricate design not seen in the relentlessly plain modern pieces of today, and inlaid with what Buffy knew instinctively were real, precious emeralds at intervals across the top curve.

She looked up slowly.

“They were the colour of her eyes,” he said softly.

“And yours,” Buffy added. “I love it.” Doubt flitted across her fine features then. “It's a wedding band. A-are you…are you sure? She was a real lady…and I'm just…I'm…”

“You are the woman I love more than life itself,” he finished. “And you are every bit the lady she was, and more. For all your flaws…” He smiled when her eyes flashed irritably, in spite of her doubts. “For all your flaws,” he repeated deliberately, mischief suddenly in his own, “and we know they are myriad… Owww!”

“Myriad,” she agreed sweetly, drawing her foot back from where it had connected with his shin.

“Myriad,” he repeated, rubbing his leg. “You always were and always will be…Buffy. You give and you give, even when things…people…try to tear you down. Even when you were entitled to walk away…when we've all let you down…you have continued to give.”

Obviously moved, Buffy handed him the ring. “And you could just be a little biased. I think we'll just leave that debate open for now,” she added tremulously and smiled lopsidedly. “Your mother was the same size as me?”

He took the band and held it up in the candle light, shaking his head.

“This is the real reason I was late. I was going to give this to you at the restaurant tonight, but the bloody car had to break down. I was picking it up from being polished and resized. It was easy to, um…borrow…one of your dress rings, for a size,” he added when her brows drew together. “Rosa simply came to my rescue when I trundled in there, looking for a phone and exuding temper and according to her, not a little pathos.”

He looked down at the spread. “Fortunately I'd already seen this table and placed deposit on it during my lunch break earlier in the day, to surprise you, not realising how soon we'd actually need it. Young Dominic collected it for me and brought it in the delivery van with the food. Good thing it's so small.”

Buffy sat in silence, watching his handsome face in the candlelight, trying not to cry, because, well, it was soppy and she knew it made him uncomfortable. When he picked up her hand, however, raising her ring finger gently with his one of his own, she was lost.

“Will you…will you do me the honour of becoming my wife, Buffy?” he asked, a mixture of anticipation, fear and passion in the eyes that held hers, eyes that matched the stones flashing in the candlelight, dancing on the silver ring.

She struggled for a moment then smiled. “I think y-you've got that backwards,” she managed, and meant it. “I'm already yours. I always will be…” she grinned through the now free flowing moisture. “But yes, si, oui, da, hai! Yes of course I'll marry you!!!”

“And multilingual too,” he teased, his own voice thick with emotion as he slid the band onto her slender finger.

Buffy giggled. “Too much TV,” she confessed then grew serious when she looked down at her hand and reality overwhelmed her again. “Giles, I'm not good enough for you. Ask anyone. They'll tell you…even Xander and Will. You deserve better. I'm not smart and funny like Jenny…and I'm lousy at the empathy stuff. I—”

“Buffy, look at me,” he said quietly, but firmly.

She closed her mouth and did as she was told.

“I loved Jenny for who she was, as a person, just I as I love you for who you are. Anything else is irrelevant. You speak as though I were some kind of Saint, whereas the reality is that none of us are. There were times in the past when I was far less aware of or interested in the welfare and feelings of those around me than you could ever be. Despite the fact that we are painfully alike in our inability to share our real feelings with others, you are able to articulate yours with a glance.” He paused ruefully. “I still have trouble just saying hello. I know you better than I know myself, and I don't need others to tell me who or what you are. I'm asking you to love me, Buffy, not save my soul.”

Buffy found herself unable to continue to look at him. Her eyes dropped to the table.

His softened, crinkled tenderly at the corners. “It was saved the day the Council gave you to me…”

It was some time before she looked up, slowly, serenity finally in her chameleon eyes.

“I love you, Giles,” she confirmed in voice that took hold of his heart. “Not…not just… making love, not just the sweetness of…” She smiled a little as she looked at the table then grew serious again, her tone growing increasingly more intense. “I love you…I-I want you…more than I every thought it was possible to want anyone.” She touched her chest. “I live with you inside me, all the time. Wherever I am, whatever I'm doing, you're there. I never knew it could be like that…”

They stared at each other for a long moment.

“Just promise me forever, Rupert,” she whispered, “whether it's five minutes or fifty years…as long as it's with you.”

Giles rose from his seat in a kind of pregnant silence and moved to her chair, extended his hand, managing a reassuring smile when she took it and he drew her to her feet.

When they broke from the kiss Buffy had her answer. She fitted herself against his body as though she'd always belonged there and they walked slowly to the loft together in silence.

Their lovemaking was slow and sensuous and completely unhurried. Even their climax seemed to go on forever, the two of them locked in joyous silence, without any of the explosive animal passion of their previous couplings, and yet this time was more intense, more heady and more loving than any of them.

And afterward they bathed together, still communicating primarily with a smile or a touch, washing each other with slow, tender care and finishing with her slender body resting between his legs, leaning back against his chest and playing with the fingers he was resting on her stomach.

“You have great hands,” she said softly, idly tracing each digit with her eyes closed. “But…fingers…a tad rough…bumpy, even…not exactly your usual Librar—”

She stopped dead, the pinkness in her face from the hot water draining away. She'd been going to tease him about having labourer's hands…but of course that wasn't what it was. He'd always had beautiful, well looked after hands. Even she'd noticed them…

She opened her eyes and very slowly gathered up the one she'd been playing with, and brought it to her mouth, kissing each finger in turn before holding them against her breasts and closing her eyes again, not one sound uttered that might tell him that she was weeping.

Above her head, Giles watched her touch her lips to each pathetic digit, felt their tender warmth, and knew…

He closed his eyes as she pressed his scarred and often arthritic fingers to her soft breasts and held them there, no sound passing his lips to give any indication of the droplets seeping through the long lashes that rested on his bath-reddened cheeks.

Forever…

Her heart said, beating so hard beneath his palm.

Yes…

His pounding heart replied, its reassuring rhythm drumming its tattoo through her back and into her soul.