Familiarity
Buffy put Dawn to bed. Weird though it was, tucking in her adult sister, Buffy felt relieved that Dawn was at least sleeping
trouble-free outside of Sunnydale. In fact, Dawn had weathered the transition well, considering the sudden restoration of
her sight and the equally abrupt loss of her steadfast guardian, Spike.
Conversely, Buffy could not find sleep. When she lay down on her back, she felt a prickly sort of pressure on her kidneys,
caused, presumably, by the baby’s weight. It wasn’t bothersome, but it kept her awake, and she really, really wanted to
sleep.
After an hour she abandoned all attempts at rest. Buffy left Dawn alone in the room they shared, padding along the hall,
feeling the threadbare carpet under her toes. Thirty seconds out of her door, Buffy understood that sleep was doing a fine
job of evading everyone else in the place. The Hyperion Hotel reminded Buffy of her home in London then with its hive-like
buzz of constant activity.
The strong yearn to return home mingled with her reservations at having Team Angel’s help. It wasn’t that she didn’t
appreciate the offer, it was just so very much to ask.
Buffy found Angel’s and Cordy’s room easily enough. It was the one redolent of baby lotion and overflowing with little boy
giggles. She paused at the open door to watch them. Cordy was busy getting together Connor’s bath towel and pajamas,
chattering non-stop, while Angel knelt at the foot of the bed, puffing Connor’s bare tummy. The baby squealed with
laughter, his balled fists jabbing wildly at the air.
Cordelia asked Angel a question – something Buffy couldn’t hear – and he turned to respond. When he did, Connor swung and
clocked his Dad in the ear, good and proper. Angel’s head rocked back. He had to put a hand on the floor to steady himself.
“You all right?” Buffy heard Cordy ask.
Angel rubbed his temple. On the bed, Connor continued to wriggle, oblivious.
Angel grinned. “Helluva right hook, my man,” he said, marveling.
Buffy stepped into the room. “I’m thinking apples and trees,” she said.
Angel and Cordelia stood quickly. The cheerful family moment broke like a bubble. It saddened Buffy to see it happen on
account of her. She used that to strengthen her resolve.
“Angel, may I have a word?”
He and Cordelia exchanged a knowing look that seemed devoid of smug. He stood (a little shakily, Buffy noticed) and crossed
the room. He met her at the threshold and lingered without crossing into the hallway.
Buffy started to speak, but became mesmerized by the act of Cordelia playing with Angel’s son. Cordy’s son, Buffy
corrected mentally. Cordy was the only mother Connor knew in this version of things. They looked good together. They
looked like a family. Which was why…
“I don’t think you should go,” Buffy said.
Angel folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the door jamb. “It’s already been decided,” he said.
Buffy grimaced. Her intestines tangled. She plowed on. “Much as I appreciate you all swooping in, playing the part of the
cavalry, and I when they say chivalry is dead – you won’t hear me – but truly, really, I’ve got this one.”
Angel considered briefly, but shook his head. “No. No. And no,” he said. “We’ve been waiting for this a long time and my
guys…”
“Your guys?” Buffy asked.
“That’s right.”
Buffy pouted. “I had them first.”
“Buffy.”
She backed away, arms swinging restlessly. “Angel, take a look around, will you? You have a good thing here.”
Angel moved into the hallway, pulling the door almost closed behind him.
“I know that,” he said. He paced the hall a few steps, hands on his hips. “No one – least of all you – needs to tell me how good
it is, because I know. I know. I fight down Angelus on a daily basis, Buffy, because I have never been this close to perfect
happiness…”
Buffy cut her eyes at him.
“Well just that once, but here, it’s…”
“Daily?” Buffy asked.
“Yeah,” Angel said. He stopped pacing. “Point is: I’m winning.”
Buffy folded her arms across her chest. “So don’t do this,” she said. “Stay here. Raise fat, handsome babies and man the
second front in case I don’t make it.”
Her head swam as she heard the words ringing so familiar in her ears. Not much with the damseling, she’d said. I need a
second front, and I need you to run it.
Angel had responded by leaving.
Buffy stalked away from him, to the end of the hallway. The window, with its floor-length crème colored damask curtains,
looked out over an empty alley. She stood in the lacy light of the streetlamp, trying to soothe herself, to regain her
composure, to remember why she was telling Angel that he needed to stay and let her return to Sunnydale on her own.
Angel joined her. “You won’t make it, Buffy,” he said quietly.
“Think I can’t take on a bunch of little witches, Angel?” she asked, not feeling the bravura she heard projected in her tone.
“I’m a Slayer. It’s what I do.”
Angel pressed his lips into a thin line. “Okay. What’s your plan?”
“I go in,” she said. “And I kill them.”
“It’s not that simple. They have something…”
“Like a weapon?”
“Or worse.”
“You mean you don’t know?” she asked.
“We only know that The Coven has something of great power at their disposal, to make this sort of dimensional squishing,”
he said.
“Squishing?” Buffy asked, doubtfully.
“Fred’s term,” he said. “Besides, we do have some semblance of a plan, and it’s more than, ‘go in and kill’. We even have
maps and schematics of The Coven’s lair.”
“Schematics?” Buffy snorted. “Step back! You’ve got a crack team of cartographers.”
“Lay off it, will ya?” Angel said gruffly. “The set up here: it’s good. I know it. We all do. Which is all the more reason we are
going in.”
“But…”
Angel steamrollered over her. “We have been waiting, Buffy. Biding time. Building strength. You may have forced our hand,
but we’re ready. We’ve just been looking for a sign to fight.”
Buffy wheeled away from him, her face burning. She could hit him, and thought that was probably not the best action to
take. When she turned back, Angel was right behind her, staring hard into her upturned face.
He traced a finger down the twisted white scar that ran the length of her face. “What did this?” he asked.
Buffy dropped her eyes.
What kind of evil has us fighting its war with the blood of our children? She had asked.
Don’t be naïve, Buffy. That’s how all wars are fought…
She closed her eyes. “You did,” she said.
She felt him step away. After a moment, he asked, “And the baby?”
Buffy opened her eyes. Outside, a dust-colored cat streaked noiselessly across the alley. Down the hall, Connor was trilling a
high-pitched, warbly noise. She heard muffled conversations behind closed doors nearby, and in the lobby, Lorne was singing
a kicky rendition of “It’s Not Unusual.”
She smiled. Once again, the skewed sense of familiarity assailed her. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she said.
“Try me,” Angel said.
The door to Angel’s suite opened, halting their conversation. The volume of Connor’s gleeful shrieks increased momentarily
as Cordy stepped into the hall. She came toward them, looking slightly harried.
“Connor’s had his bath. He’s ready for Daddy to rock him,” Cordelia explained quickly. “And I’m not pulling another all-
nighter, mister. I already look like I can store the contents of a Fendi handbag under each eye.”
“My shift,” Angel said, turning to go.
“Here,” Cordy said. She thrust a pillow-like package at Buffy. It was wrapped up in jewel-toned tissue paper tied with a
strip of gold ribbon.
“I… but,” Buffy sputtered. Angel seemed equally surprised.
Cordelia heaved a belabored sigh. “I was pregnant once,” she said. “It didn’t last, but I had this and thought it would be of
more use to you.” Cordelia looped her arm with Angel’s and pulled him in the direction of their room. They disappeared
behind the door, leaving Buffy alone in the hall.
Curiosity compelled her to open the package on the spot. As she pulled the paper wrapping apart, the velvety material
poured out like a silken waterfall. Buffy drew it between her fingers, letting the tissue float to the ground. It was a robe of
deep sapphire, its sleek surface embossed with a leafy pattern.
It was exquisite and elegant and much better than the clothing so generously donated by Dr. Kriegel, for which Buffy had
been extremely grateful.
She clutched the robe to her chest, breathing in its softness. She understood, then, that she was in no position to refuse
what they offered. Not when she needed so much.
Buffy returned to her room, where Dawn still slept in one of the room’s two full-sized beds. Buffy peeled off her shabby
drawstring pants, her ill-fitting underpants, and her t-shirt. She drew on the slippery sleeves, savoring the cool texture of
the fabric against her skin. She cocooned the robe around her body and lay flat on her bed. Her belly curved, round as a
melon, beneath her fingers.
Buffy realized that for the first time in a long while, she felt safe. She was calm. And she felt comforted. She found herself
daring to hope. She had no answers or guarantees; just assurances, and the assurances of familiar friends had proved
worthy in the past.
She was not alone. Even here, not alone.
And that felt really good.
Mr. Giles built a small fire behind the shell of a military Jeep and sat waiting on a bare wheel well, stirring the embers with the
end of a long, charred stick. Rachel joined him, puffy-eyed and weary, and for a long while, the pair sat watching the erratic
flames.
Finally, Mr. Giles raised his spectacled eyes to hers. “How long did you know Ethan Rayne?” he asked.
Rachel tucked her frizzled hair behind her ears. “I never met him before yesterday,” she answered, her voice hoarse.
Mr. Giles felt around the inside of his mouth with his tongue. “Never?” he asked.
She gave a dispassionate nod, and returned her attention to the fire. Their world had shrunken to the circle of flickering
yellow light, bordered by fathomless dark beyond.
“Yet you reacted so strongly to his death,” he said.
Rachel blinked as if waking. “What?”
“Miss Greenspan, you have been quite out of sorts. And your reluctance to leave his body in Rosal del Virrey. You expect me
to believe you did not know him?”
“Out of sorts,” she repeated. “Yes.”
“In the Tombs of Satu, you played your part so completely,” he said, coolly. “The information in that contraption of yours
must have come from him. He passed it along, hoping that with my assistance, you could find what he did not. And here we
are, two children in the wilderness, lost…”
Rachel gaped at him, as if she’d not heard him until now. “What are you talking about?”
“Her life is not her own?” Mr. Giles said. “You have played me from the start. Neither of you knew where to find those
parchments and so led us on this less than merry chase.”
Rachel stood abruptly. “I’m afraid you are mistaken,” she said. Her racing pulse made her voice tremble, her tone reedy.
“Am I?” Mr. Giles said. He was maddeningly composed.
“Entirely,” Rachel said through clenched teeth.
“Care to explain this, Miss Greenspan?” Giles asked. He passed the picture to her. She passed it back.
“Really, Rupert. I’m surprised at you. Did you even bother looking at that picture?”
Giles stared at the young woman before him, trying to settle out what it was about her that he found so troubling. Stripped
of her lacquered Boston veneer, Rachel Greenspan seemed little more than a slim girl in impractical shoes. When she had
borne up to the challenge of their jungle trek, he felt that he had underestimated her training in the Watcher’s ways.
However, upon seeing her in the photograph he’d plucked from Ethan’s pocket, Giles had begun to doubt that Rachel
Greenspan had such connections at all. He had recalled Gwendolyn Post – a rogue Watcher intent on securing dark power for
her own ends – and placed Miss Greenspan alongside Ethan as a woman of alternate ambitions.
Giles took a moment more to study the lone image in the photograph. The picture was grainy, taken in poor light, but the
resemblance was unmistakable: the same pointed chin, same trim build, and the disapproving glint to her eyes – identical.
But they were not the same. All at once, Giles understood. Icy comprehension flooded his veins. He gripped the picture
between his tremulous hands, as Rachel began to speak.
“Of course, I know all about you, Mr. Giles,” she explained, in a practiced, scholarly tone. “I studied the family’s chronicles
with rapt eagerness for every small mention of the celebrated Rupert Giles. I traveled twice as an adolescent to London with
my uncle Piers, where with guileless enthusiasm I pored over countless volumes in the Watcher’s archives with the sole
purpose of gleaning the every last morsel of information about you…”
“Miss Greenspan,” Giles whispered. She continued as if she had not heard him.
“Imagine my disconsolation at reading that the regard you held for your Slayer was more like that of a daughter,” she said,
her voice fracturing on the final word. “The woman in the photograph is not me,” Rachel went on. “It’s my…”
“Mother,” Giles finished. “Dear lord. Muriel Snow was your mother.”
Rachel narrowed her eyes. “Yes.”
Giles folded the photograph into his hands. “No wonder you hate me so,” he whispered.
Rachel uttered a short laugh. “Hate you? No,” she said. “How could I? Surely I could not regard with such strong emotion the
man whose inattention left my mother a ruined, loveless husk…”
“Miss Greenspan,” Giles uttered. “Rachel. I can explain.”
“You destroyed her. She died because of you.”
Giles lowered his head. “I’m wrong. I can’t explain it.”
Rachel stared down at him. “So that’s it, then?” she challenged. “That is all you have to say?”
He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again, knowing that nothing he offered could make anything any better.
“You!” Rachel shouted. She rounded the fire and snatched the picture from his hands. “You were supposed to be this
legendary thing: A man of extraordinary character and cleverness. But you are none of those things.” Her face crumpled
with beneath the burden of her disappointment. “You’re just… a man.”
Rupert Giles rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands loosely, as though he didn’t know what to do with them.
“I never knew what happened to her,” he muttered, his words almost lost to the crackling of the fire.
Giles peered into her scornful face. In a flash, he saw that it was his features in Rachel that had leavened her mother’s dark
looks – his high forehead, his sandy hair, his green eyes. These were the features in her which he had found so irksomely
familiar.
“I never knew about you, either,” he said. “Though I can’t say that I had known things would have been different…”
Rachel knelt opposite him. She picked up a stick and stabbed at the embers, sending sparks into the murky canopy. “Well,
then,” she said. “Let’s just leave it at that. Shall we?”
Giles nodded. It was not over. They both had questions; neither had the strength to ask them.
After a while, Rachel curled up on the ground to sleep, but Giles could not. The ghosts of his past had pursued him, as
relentless as the demons that plagued the Hellmouth at Rosal del Virrey, but this time had taken on a most unexpected form.
It was more than regret that bore into him, that in his pursuit to find Buffy, Rachel found him.
Rachel Greenspan. His daughter.
Three days passed. Three days of mind-numbingly pointless research, of waiting on lab results, of failed and rather stinky
waking potions that rendered the kitchen inaccessible for hours at a stretch. Three days of resisting – and succeeding
against – the urge to draw. Three days of reading Frost and Blake and Yeats to Spike, in hopes that poetry would be the
miracle cure to rouse him.
In three days, they had received neither word nor warning from Lorne about the Sulskquelawtna-majigs. As Dawn saw it,
this was a good thing. The only event worth mention was that the school in Tokyo had been burned to its base by some sort
of destroyer demon, and that their Watcher had been killed. Robson dispatched a new Watcher and a fresh group of Slayers
to re-establish control there.
Three days passed since she and Andrew had begun to share a bed. So far, they slept side by side, innocent as sister and
brother, and that, for its part, was a comfort. So far, too, Maya and Xander had been too wrapped up in life, work and each
other to notice the sleeping arrangements. Not that Dawn was complaining.
But she was mighty frustrated. For three days, she and Andrew would wake and sneak about all morning, behaving like shy,
sweet children. It was time to put a stop to that. Three days, Dawn figured, was long enough.
On the evening of the third night, Dawn entered the bedroom to find Andrew already there, busy with hanging up his
clothes. He was near-religious with his laundry. For him, a wild kick was doing an extra load of towels on a Wednesday night.
She shut the door behind her, twisting the lock on the knob with a deliberate click.
“Hey, Dawn,” Andrew said. She couldn’t believe it; he was blushing. Little scamp. “I left a fresh towel in the bathroom for
you, in case you wanted to…” he said absently. He continued to try to thread his suit pants onto the hanger, but clearly his
concentration was shot.
“Condoms,” Dawn said. “You have some?”
Andrew hands jerked. He dropped his freshly-pressed pinstripe slacks on the floor. “What?”
She raked her hands through her hair. “Do you have some?”
Andrew performed the necessary mental calculation, then said, “I have three.”
Dawn crawled across the bed, sending his carefully tended laundry all willy-nilly, kissed him fiercely and broke away. “Good,”
she said, pulling him down with her. “You’re gonna need them.”
Buffy put Dawn to bed. Weird though it was, tucking in her adult sister, Buffy felt relieved that Dawn was at least sleeping
trouble-free outside of Sunnydale. In fact, Dawn had weathered the transition well, considering the sudden restoration of
her sight and the equally abrupt loss of her steadfast guardian, Spike.
Conversely, Buffy could not find sleep. When she lay down on her back, she felt a prickly sort of pressure on her kidneys,
caused, presumably, by the baby’s weight. It wasn’t bothersome, but it kept her awake, and she really, really wanted to
sleep.
After an hour she abandoned all attempts at rest. Buffy left Dawn alone in the room they shared, padding along the hall,
feeling the threadbare carpet under her toes. Thirty seconds out of her door, Buffy understood that sleep was doing a fine
job of evading everyone else in the place. The Hyperion Hotel reminded Buffy of her home in London then with its hive-like
buzz of constant activity.
The strong yearn to return home mingled with her reservations at having Team Angel’s help. It wasn’t that she didn’t
appreciate the offer, it was just so very much to ask.
Buffy found Angel’s and Cordy’s room easily enough. It was the one redolent of baby lotion and overflowing with little boy
giggles. She paused at the open door to watch them. Cordy was busy getting together Connor’s bath towel and pajamas,
chattering non-stop, while Angel knelt at the foot of the bed, puffing Connor’s bare tummy. The baby squealed with
laughter, his balled fists jabbing wildly at the air.
Cordelia asked Angel a question – something Buffy couldn’t hear – and he turned to respond. When he did, Connor swung and
clocked his Dad in the ear, good and proper. Angel’s head rocked back. He had to put a hand on the floor to steady himself.
“You all right?” Buffy heard Cordy ask.
Angel rubbed his temple. On the bed, Connor continued to wriggle, oblivious.
Angel grinned. “Helluva right hook, my man,” he said, marveling.
Buffy stepped into the room. “I’m thinking apples and trees,” she said.
Angel and Cordelia stood quickly. The cheerful family moment broke like a bubble. It saddened Buffy to see it happen on
account of her. She used that to strengthen her resolve.
“Angel, may I have a word?”
He and Cordelia exchanged a knowing look that seemed devoid of smug. He stood (a little shakily, Buffy noticed) and crossed
the room. He met her at the threshold and lingered without crossing into the hallway.
Buffy started to speak, but became mesmerized by the act of Cordelia playing with Angel’s son. Cordy’s son, Buffy
corrected mentally. Cordy was the only mother Connor knew in this version of things. They looked good together. They
looked like a family. Which was why…
“I don’t think you should go,” Buffy said.
Angel folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the door jamb. “It’s already been decided,” he said.
Buffy grimaced. Her intestines tangled. She plowed on. “Much as I appreciate you all swooping in, playing the part of the
cavalry, and I when they say chivalry is dead – you won’t hear me – but truly, really, I’ve got this one.”
Angel considered briefly, but shook his head. “No. No. And no,” he said. “We’ve been waiting for this a long time and my
guys…”
“Your guys?” Buffy asked.
“That’s right.”
Buffy pouted. “I had them first.”
“Buffy.”
She backed away, arms swinging restlessly. “Angel, take a look around, will you? You have a good thing here.”
Angel moved into the hallway, pulling the door almost closed behind him.
“I know that,” he said. He paced the hall a few steps, hands on his hips. “No one – least of all you – needs to tell me how good
it is, because I know. I know. I fight down Angelus on a daily basis, Buffy, because I have never been this close to perfect
happiness…”
Buffy cut her eyes at him.
“Well just that once, but here, it’s…”
“Daily?” Buffy asked.
“Yeah,” Angel said. He stopped pacing. “Point is: I’m winning.”
Buffy folded her arms across her chest. “So don’t do this,” she said. “Stay here. Raise fat, handsome babies and man the
second front in case I don’t make it.”
Her head swam as she heard the words ringing so familiar in her ears. Not much with the damseling, she’d said. I need a
second front, and I need you to run it.
Angel had responded by leaving.
Buffy stalked away from him, to the end of the hallway. The window, with its floor-length crème colored damask curtains,
looked out over an empty alley. She stood in the lacy light of the streetlamp, trying to soothe herself, to regain her
composure, to remember why she was telling Angel that he needed to stay and let her return to Sunnydale on her own.
Angel joined her. “You won’t make it, Buffy,” he said quietly.
“Think I can’t take on a bunch of little witches, Angel?” she asked, not feeling the bravura she heard projected in her tone.
“I’m a Slayer. It’s what I do.”
Angel pressed his lips into a thin line. “Okay. What’s your plan?”
“I go in,” she said. “And I kill them.”
“It’s not that simple. They have something…”
“Like a weapon?”
“Or worse.”
“You mean you don’t know?” she asked.
“We only know that The Coven has something of great power at their disposal, to make this sort of dimensional squishing,”
he said.
“Squishing?” Buffy asked, doubtfully.
“Fred’s term,” he said. “Besides, we do have some semblance of a plan, and it’s more than, ‘go in and kill’. We even have
maps and schematics of The Coven’s lair.”
“Schematics?” Buffy snorted. “Step back! You’ve got a crack team of cartographers.”
“Lay off it, will ya?” Angel said gruffly. “The set up here: it’s good. I know it. We all do. Which is all the more reason we are
going in.”
“But…”
Angel steamrollered over her. “We have been waiting, Buffy. Biding time. Building strength. You may have forced our hand,
but we’re ready. We’ve just been looking for a sign to fight.”
Buffy wheeled away from him, her face burning. She could hit him, and thought that was probably not the best action to
take. When she turned back, Angel was right behind her, staring hard into her upturned face.
He traced a finger down the twisted white scar that ran the length of her face. “What did this?” he asked.
Buffy dropped her eyes.
What kind of evil has us fighting its war with the blood of our children? She had asked.
Don’t be naïve, Buffy. That’s how all wars are fought…
She closed her eyes. “You did,” she said.
She felt him step away. After a moment, he asked, “And the baby?”
Buffy opened her eyes. Outside, a dust-colored cat streaked noiselessly across the alley. Down the hall, Connor was trilling a
high-pitched, warbly noise. She heard muffled conversations behind closed doors nearby, and in the lobby, Lorne was singing
a kicky rendition of “It’s Not Unusual.”
She smiled. Once again, the skewed sense of familiarity assailed her. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she said.
“Try me,” Angel said.
The door to Angel’s suite opened, halting their conversation. The volume of Connor’s gleeful shrieks increased momentarily
as Cordy stepped into the hall. She came toward them, looking slightly harried.
“Connor’s had his bath. He’s ready for Daddy to rock him,” Cordelia explained quickly. “And I’m not pulling another all-
nighter, mister. I already look like I can store the contents of a Fendi handbag under each eye.”
“My shift,” Angel said, turning to go.
“Here,” Cordy said. She thrust a pillow-like package at Buffy. It was wrapped up in jewel-toned tissue paper tied with a
strip of gold ribbon.
“I… but,” Buffy sputtered. Angel seemed equally surprised.
Cordelia heaved a belabored sigh. “I was pregnant once,” she said. “It didn’t last, but I had this and thought it would be of
more use to you.” Cordelia looped her arm with Angel’s and pulled him in the direction of their room. They disappeared
behind the door, leaving Buffy alone in the hall.
Curiosity compelled her to open the package on the spot. As she pulled the paper wrapping apart, the velvety material
poured out like a silken waterfall. Buffy drew it between her fingers, letting the tissue float to the ground. It was a robe of
deep sapphire, its sleek surface embossed with a leafy pattern.
It was exquisite and elegant and much better than the clothing so generously donated by Dr. Kriegel, for which Buffy had
been extremely grateful.
She clutched the robe to her chest, breathing in its softness. She understood, then, that she was in no position to refuse
what they offered. Not when she needed so much.
Buffy returned to her room, where Dawn still slept in one of the room’s two full-sized beds. Buffy peeled off her shabby
drawstring pants, her ill-fitting underpants, and her t-shirt. She drew on the slippery sleeves, savoring the cool texture of
the fabric against her skin. She cocooned the robe around her body and lay flat on her bed. Her belly curved, round as a
melon, beneath her fingers.
Buffy realized that for the first time in a long while, she felt safe. She was calm. And she felt comforted. She found herself
daring to hope. She had no answers or guarantees; just assurances, and the assurances of familiar friends had proved
worthy in the past.
She was not alone. Even here, not alone.
And that felt really good.
Mr. Giles built a small fire behind the shell of a military Jeep and sat waiting on a bare wheel well, stirring the embers with the
end of a long, charred stick. Rachel joined him, puffy-eyed and weary, and for a long while, the pair sat watching the erratic
flames.
Finally, Mr. Giles raised his spectacled eyes to hers. “How long did you know Ethan Rayne?” he asked.
Rachel tucked her frizzled hair behind her ears. “I never met him before yesterday,” she answered, her voice hoarse.
Mr. Giles felt around the inside of his mouth with his tongue. “Never?” he asked.
She gave a dispassionate nod, and returned her attention to the fire. Their world had shrunken to the circle of flickering
yellow light, bordered by fathomless dark beyond.
“Yet you reacted so strongly to his death,” he said.
Rachel blinked as if waking. “What?”
“Miss Greenspan, you have been quite out of sorts. And your reluctance to leave his body in Rosal del Virrey. You expect me
to believe you did not know him?”
“Out of sorts,” she repeated. “Yes.”
“In the Tombs of Satu, you played your part so completely,” he said, coolly. “The information in that contraption of yours
must have come from him. He passed it along, hoping that with my assistance, you could find what he did not. And here we
are, two children in the wilderness, lost…”
Rachel gaped at him, as if she’d not heard him until now. “What are you talking about?”
“Her life is not her own?” Mr. Giles said. “You have played me from the start. Neither of you knew where to find those
parchments and so led us on this less than merry chase.”
Rachel stood abruptly. “I’m afraid you are mistaken,” she said. Her racing pulse made her voice tremble, her tone reedy.
“Am I?” Mr. Giles said. He was maddeningly composed.
“Entirely,” Rachel said through clenched teeth.
“Care to explain this, Miss Greenspan?” Giles asked. He passed the picture to her. She passed it back.
“Really, Rupert. I’m surprised at you. Did you even bother looking at that picture?”
Giles stared at the young woman before him, trying to settle out what it was about her that he found so troubling. Stripped
of her lacquered Boston veneer, Rachel Greenspan seemed little more than a slim girl in impractical shoes. When she had
borne up to the challenge of their jungle trek, he felt that he had underestimated her training in the Watcher’s ways.
However, upon seeing her in the photograph he’d plucked from Ethan’s pocket, Giles had begun to doubt that Rachel
Greenspan had such connections at all. He had recalled Gwendolyn Post – a rogue Watcher intent on securing dark power for
her own ends – and placed Miss Greenspan alongside Ethan as a woman of alternate ambitions.
Giles took a moment more to study the lone image in the photograph. The picture was grainy, taken in poor light, but the
resemblance was unmistakable: the same pointed chin, same trim build, and the disapproving glint to her eyes – identical.
But they were not the same. All at once, Giles understood. Icy comprehension flooded his veins. He gripped the picture
between his tremulous hands, as Rachel began to speak.
“Of course, I know all about you, Mr. Giles,” she explained, in a practiced, scholarly tone. “I studied the family’s chronicles
with rapt eagerness for every small mention of the celebrated Rupert Giles. I traveled twice as an adolescent to London with
my uncle Piers, where with guileless enthusiasm I pored over countless volumes in the Watcher’s archives with the sole
purpose of gleaning the every last morsel of information about you…”
“Miss Greenspan,” Giles whispered. She continued as if she had not heard him.
“Imagine my disconsolation at reading that the regard you held for your Slayer was more like that of a daughter,” she said,
her voice fracturing on the final word. “The woman in the photograph is not me,” Rachel went on. “It’s my…”
“Mother,” Giles finished. “Dear lord. Muriel Snow was your mother.”
Rachel narrowed her eyes. “Yes.”
Giles folded the photograph into his hands. “No wonder you hate me so,” he whispered.
Rachel uttered a short laugh. “Hate you? No,” she said. “How could I? Surely I could not regard with such strong emotion the
man whose inattention left my mother a ruined, loveless husk…”
“Miss Greenspan,” Giles uttered. “Rachel. I can explain.”
“You destroyed her. She died because of you.”
Giles lowered his head. “I’m wrong. I can’t explain it.”
Rachel stared down at him. “So that’s it, then?” she challenged. “That is all you have to say?”
He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again, knowing that nothing he offered could make anything any better.
“You!” Rachel shouted. She rounded the fire and snatched the picture from his hands. “You were supposed to be this
legendary thing: A man of extraordinary character and cleverness. But you are none of those things.” Her face crumpled
with beneath the burden of her disappointment. “You’re just… a man.”
Rupert Giles rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands loosely, as though he didn’t know what to do with them.
“I never knew what happened to her,” he muttered, his words almost lost to the crackling of the fire.
Giles peered into her scornful face. In a flash, he saw that it was his features in Rachel that had leavened her mother’s dark
looks – his high forehead, his sandy hair, his green eyes. These were the features in her which he had found so irksomely
familiar.
“I never knew about you, either,” he said. “Though I can’t say that I had known things would have been different…”
Rachel knelt opposite him. She picked up a stick and stabbed at the embers, sending sparks into the murky canopy. “Well,
then,” she said. “Let’s just leave it at that. Shall we?”
Giles nodded. It was not over. They both had questions; neither had the strength to ask them.
After a while, Rachel curled up on the ground to sleep, but Giles could not. The ghosts of his past had pursued him, as
relentless as the demons that plagued the Hellmouth at Rosal del Virrey, but this time had taken on a most unexpected form.
It was more than regret that bore into him, that in his pursuit to find Buffy, Rachel found him.
Rachel Greenspan. His daughter.
Three days passed. Three days of mind-numbingly pointless research, of waiting on lab results, of failed and rather stinky
waking potions that rendered the kitchen inaccessible for hours at a stretch. Three days of resisting – and succeeding
against – the urge to draw. Three days of reading Frost and Blake and Yeats to Spike, in hopes that poetry would be the
miracle cure to rouse him.
In three days, they had received neither word nor warning from Lorne about the Sulskquelawtna-majigs. As Dawn saw it,
this was a good thing. The only event worth mention was that the school in Tokyo had been burned to its base by some sort
of destroyer demon, and that their Watcher had been killed. Robson dispatched a new Watcher and a fresh group of Slayers
to re-establish control there.
Three days passed since she and Andrew had begun to share a bed. So far, they slept side by side, innocent as sister and
brother, and that, for its part, was a comfort. So far, too, Maya and Xander had been too wrapped up in life, work and each
other to notice the sleeping arrangements. Not that Dawn was complaining.
But she was mighty frustrated. For three days, she and Andrew would wake and sneak about all morning, behaving like shy,
sweet children. It was time to put a stop to that. Three days, Dawn figured, was long enough.
On the evening of the third night, Dawn entered the bedroom to find Andrew already there, busy with hanging up his
clothes. He was near-religious with his laundry. For him, a wild kick was doing an extra load of towels on a Wednesday night.
She shut the door behind her, twisting the lock on the knob with a deliberate click.
“Hey, Dawn,” Andrew said. She couldn’t believe it; he was blushing. Little scamp. “I left a fresh towel in the bathroom for
you, in case you wanted to…” he said absently. He continued to try to thread his suit pants onto the hanger, but clearly his
concentration was shot.
“Condoms,” Dawn said. “You have some?”
Andrew hands jerked. He dropped his freshly-pressed pinstripe slacks on the floor. “What?”
She raked her hands through her hair. “Do you have some?”
Andrew performed the necessary mental calculation, then said, “I have three.”
Dawn crawled across the bed, sending his carefully tended laundry all willy-nilly, kissed him fiercely and broke away. “Good,”
she said, pulling him down with her. “You’re gonna need them.”
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.Chapter Index.
Anywhere Out
of This World
Blood, Pressure
The Drawing Board
All's Well
Anywhere Out of
This World
Mourning Sickness
Welcome to Hell
Relative
Matters of Time
& Fishes
International Calls
Empty as Houses
Lusty Wrong Feelings
Enthralled
Thanksgiving
Seduced
Innocents Lost
Burn
Flashback
Not A Chance In Hell
Empty Rooms
Two Roads Diverged
Starfall
Blindsided
Not Her Own
Outta Here
The Valley of the
Shadow of Death
Comes the Rain
Smoke and Mirrors
Drawn to You
Team Angel
By Fire Reborn
Salvage
Ashes to Ashes
Life Is...
With A Little Help
Appearances Deceiving
Familiarity
Sweetness
Not All Who Wander
That Old Black Magic
For Lorne
Drawn Together
Lost to Sand
Fall of Triumvirate
Parallel Lives
The Lovers
Avenger
Double Cross
Pursuit
Ripper's Girl
Pandemonium
Negative Space
Raveled Threads
Asunder
Human Hands
Singular
Fragmented
Symmetry
Plans
Rogue Squadron
Legends
Anywhere Out
of This World
Blood, Pressure
The Drawing Board
All's Well
Anywhere Out of
This World
Mourning Sickness
Welcome to Hell
Relative
Matters of Time
& Fishes
International Calls
Empty as Houses
Lusty Wrong Feelings
Enthralled
Thanksgiving
Seduced
Innocents Lost
Burn
Flashback
Not A Chance In Hell
Empty Rooms
Two Roads Diverged
Starfall
Blindsided
Not Her Own
Outta Here
The Valley of the
Shadow of Death
Comes the Rain
Smoke and Mirrors
Drawn to You
Team Angel
By Fire Reborn
Salvage
Ashes to Ashes
Life Is...
With A Little Help
Appearances Deceiving
Familiarity
Sweetness
Not All Who Wander
That Old Black Magic
For Lorne
Drawn Together
Lost to Sand
Fall of Triumvirate
Parallel Lives
The Lovers
Avenger
Double Cross
Pursuit
Ripper's Girl
Pandemonium
Negative Space
Raveled Threads
Asunder
Human Hands
Singular
Fragmented
Symmetry
Plans
Rogue Squadron
Legends
Warning: This chapter is PG-13 due to insinuated sexual content.