He was finally done, now if he could just remember how to turn the bloody contraption off. He was sure there was a series of selections he should 'click' on to shut it down. But he just couldn't figure out where to start. He was lucky he'd remembered how to turn the blasted thing on. Then once it was on he couldn't figure out how to get to the 'works' or 'word' or whatever the soddin' hell it was. But lucky for him there was a tiny 'notepad' icon so he'd opted to use that instead.

He knew he'd never figure out how to get into, much less send an e-mail, so he'd typed up his correspondence on the screen that popped up and thankfully recalled that he had to click 'file' and 'save' before the bright red 'x'. Sure, he could have called Andrew in to help, but just the thought of yet again seeing that smug little grin was enough to put him off that idea. So he'd bumbled around the machine and the 'mouse' and forced himself to accept that written correspondence was a dying art.

Since they'd started to rebuild the council, with him at the head, he'd just been so busy. Willow had insisted on giving him lessons on how to use a computer, making a very valid point. He lived in a tech-happy world and it was high time he joined it. So far he'd mastered the art of double-clicking, but until today that was about it. Bloody hell! How did this thing turn off?

He knew Willow would probably balk if she saw him do it, but Willow wasn't here was she? That little light on the power button was calling his name. Just begging him to press and have done with it.

Come on G-man, you know you wanna stretch your back and legs. Just press me already.

He pressed the button. If his apparently now mushy brain was talking for his computer in the voice of one Xander Harris it was most certainly time to get away from his desk for a bit.

Speaking of Xander, or rather thinking of Xander as it were, he should be arriving soon. Or at least sometime in the next 12 to 24 hours. He wasn't quite sure of the details, not for lack of trying, but the reality was Xander had been in the heart of Africa and was relying on a small plane pilot to get him out and to an international airport. According to his sources, which were pretty reliable, the man's wife had gone into labor directly before he was supposed to fly Xander out. Normally in Africa that wouldn't be enough to stop a man from earning a good day's pay, but Xander had insisted the man not miss the birth of his first born.

So, a few gears at the council had stopped turning. Slayers on hold and awaiting their guide. The world coming to a halt to wait on the birth of one child, and not even a prophesied birth at that. Ah, but he would have expected no less from the boy. His heart was in fact the reason Giles had given him this particular mission in the first place.

For some of the girls their destiny was a gift, for others a curse. Xander was the best of all of them to ease those girls into this existence. He, being purely human and quite likeable, was the embodiment of what they were called to protect. Add that with his uncanny ability to relate to people and he was the only man for the job.

Giles poured himself a scotch and took a seat in the chair in front of the fireplace in his office. He kept telling himself he really needed to leave, go home and rest, but he liked being here. In his office, surrounded by his books, he felt more at home than he did in his actual home. He didn't even try to kid himself about the whys of that particular truth.

When his 'kids' came to visit, hardly ever all at once, but sometimes up to three at a time, this was where they spent most of their time. He was always here doing some kind of work or research and more often than not they were gathering information for their next mission or post. So yeah, this felt like home because this was where his 'hearts' gathered.

The phone ringing pulled him out of his rather depressing reminiscences. He checked his watch and was surprised to see that it was nearly 10pm. It wasn't abnormal for the council to receive calls at this time of night, but his personal phone usually only rang this late if it was important.

He quickly sat his glass down, forgoing his typical hunt for a coaster, as always his heart rate picked up as he made his way to his desk to answer. He was assailed with worry over his young charges and hoping that none of them were in danger, hurt, or worse lifted the receiver to his ear.

"Rupert Giles speaking."

As the voice on the other end of the line drifted to him he was sure he'd finally gone 'round the bend. He must be completely barmy because the owner of that voice was dead, and dead voices didn't call you unless you were crazy.

"Oy, Watcher, how goes it?'