Series: Mortal Allies

Story Title: Episode 4, My Turn

By: Passion4Spike

Chapter 31: Good Enough to Eat

Chapter Notes:

Thanks to all of you for reading! It means so much to me, like red currant jelly for my muse! Sending all the sloppy, joyful doggie kisses to everyone who has left a note, a like or a kudo. I'm working on replying to all your lovely comments and treasure every one of them.

Thanks also to my wonderful beta readers and friends: All4Spike, Paganbaby, and TeamEricNSookie. Holi117 has switched to a pre-reader, which I'm so happy she's finding time for that. All mistakes are mine because I keep fiddling with stuff. If you see any, PM me and I'll fix it.

Chapter 31: Good Enough to Eat

"Now I know what a birthday cake feels like," Spike complained as Willow and Lydia knelt on the bathroom floor on either side of him, using what he was sure were ordinary kitchen spatulas to slather a thick ointment over his upper body.

"Good enough to eat," Lydia murmured to herself as she made sure the translucent, crimson gel—which looked like nothing so much as red currant jelly—covered every inch of his wounds. It even smelled appetizing, a bit citrusy with an undertone of peppermint and a tang of ginger.

"What was that, pet?" Spike asked, hands folded beneath his head, looking up at her with a smirk.

Lydia flushed bright red and tugged at the tight collar of her shirt. She'd dispensed with the jacket and rolled up her sleeves, but hadn't made any other concessions to the labor of making sure the salve was applied in a thick, even layer over Spike's body. "I-I was just thinking that the ingredients themselves are all… edible," she stammered. "A-apart from our blood, of course," she continued self-consciously.

"Sounds perfectly delicious to me," Spike purred, raising his head to look down at the goo, which was easily half an inch thick, covering him from belt to collarbones. Down near his feet the dog sat at rapt attention, watching the proceedings but, thankfully, not trying to lend assistance.

Lydia's flush deepened, but she continued working.

Willow rolled her eyes. "I think that's got it, don't you?" she asked the other woman, sitting back on her heels and examining the overall effect. The hills and valleys of injury were still visible beneath the thick coating, but all the colors were muted, transformed into shades of red through the salve.

Lydia lifted her goo-encrusted utensil from Spike's stomach and raked her eyes over the area in question. She used the spatula to smooth some spots, adding a bit more of the unguent in a couple of places she deemed weren't thick enough. Finally, she looked up at Willow and nodded. "We can begin the incantation when you're ready. Go ahead and light the candles."

* X-X *

With Spike's behemoth of a car in the driveway, Joyce was unable to pull the Jeep all the way through to the backyard where it would be closer to the kitchen for unloading. With a resigned sigh, she parked behind the DeSoto and the two Summers ladies began gathering up the innumerable sacks of groceries.

With her mom several steps behind her, Buffy strained to open the front door, barely able to reach it past the bulging bags hanging from her hands and forearms. She was not making ten trips when two would do. When the door finally swung open, she braced herself for the onslaught of fur that normally greeted her, but the dog didn't appear. She was too relieved to really be worried as she started down the hallway, heading for the kitchen.

But then she heard it—a low, warning growl coming from upstairs. Then, just as that registered with her, the barking began. Spike's angry, dangerous bark. Buffy struggled to drop the grocery bags, the first few slipping from her fingers easily, but the ones up on her wrists and forearms proving more difficult to shed. She was mounting the bottom step before the last of them fell. She heard something break but didn't stop to examine it as she dashed up the stairs, reaching for a stake at the small of her back before remembering she'd put it in her purse. Her hands curled into fists as she reached the Guardian who was standing just outside the bathroom door snarling and growling, his hackles raised, his whole body leaving the ground with each vehement bark.

Light spilled out of the bathroom, bathing the Guardian in flickering shades of red, making his eyes gleam demonically as his own magical power flashed within them. Buffy came to a stop in the hall next to her dog, who continued barking at the scene in the small room.

"Willow!" she exclaimed, her friend being the first person that registered with the Slayer. The witch's head was thrown back as she knelt on the floor, her body bent back in a painful-looking rictus. A flickering beam of red light as big around as a dinner plate shone down from the ceiling and plunged into the girl's chest. The magical construct made the witch's body flash from within like some demented stoplight, completely engulfing her in a nimbus of pulsing, crimson radiance. Buffy's gaze followed the pulsating light down from Willow's chest to her arms and finally to her hands, which were buried in… blood? It looked like blood, thick and red… and covering…

"Spike," she breathed, pushing past the dog who continued to bark and snarl futilely.

Spike's body was also bowed, his back rising off the floor in an unnatural curve, his entire weight borne only by his heels and the crown of his head. His face was frozen into a grimace of agony, the muscles of his arms constricted, bulging nearly to the point of bursting through his skin. The blood—no not blood—some kind of gel? Buffy wasn't sure—covering his body pulsed like a heartbeat as the magic suffused it, flowing through it.

On the other side of the rigid vampire was Spike's groupie… the woman from the Council—Lucy, or something. Her hands were also pressed into the radiant red mass that was covering Spike, palms flat on the vampire's abdomen. The ruby-red light surged up into Lucy's arms, flowed into her chest and then out again, disappearing back up through the ceiling. It formed what seemed to be an electrical circuit, fueled by magic—strong magic. Buffy could feel the undeniable power of it buzzing through the air, prickling her skin like static electricity. Like Willow, Lucy's body was a stiff contortion, bent back, opening her chest, her heart—where the shimmering beam flowed out of her—to the heavens.

Buffy's first and strongest instinct was to break the circuit before it fried them all alive—or in Spike's case, dead. She hurried to Willow and grabbed her shoulder, jerking her away from the beam of light, Spike, and the charge that was holding her in place. At once both Spike and Lucy—Lana? whatever—went limp, their bodies collapsing onto the cool tile like overcooked noodles.

In contrast, the redhead's body convulsed wildly as she was pulled free. When Willow's hands left Spike, her arms began flailing around violently as the gook they were coated in flared even brighter with the magical voltage which could not follow its natural course out of her body. In the small space, Buffy had no room to maneuver, and the witch's hands raked across her neck and face, smearing the over-charged, magically activated salve over Buffy's skin. It seemed to almost jump from Willow's hands, attracted to the Slayer like a magnet, coating her bare skin with the fiery, crimson gunk as the witch jerked and pitched convulsively.

Buffy's body bucked as she was hit with the ungrounded magical power, and she was flung back. Her head slammed against the doorjamb with a sickening crunch and she crumpled to the floor, twitching and juddering with the magic that had entered her. Willow flopped around like a landed fish for a few more seconds, red sparks of energy racing over her skin before finally dissipating with small crackles and pops, then she, too, went limp and still.

The Guardian continued to bark, putting every ounce of power he had into it, unable to help in any way other than to try and summon assistance. The sound of his frantic alarm shook the walls and echoed through the house, as the four hoomans lay as still as death before him.

* X-X *

Joyce came in several moments after Buffy, her arms also loaded down with groceries. Her attention was immediately drawn up the stairs, her brows furrowed. She'd heard Spike bark before, of course, but it was always difficult for her to determine if he was barking at a spider that had somehow strayed into the bathtub, or a nest of vipers—literal or otherwise. She would've continued into the kitchen with her burden if not for all the grocery bags strewn around the base of the stairs, at least one of which was leaking.

"Buffy!" she called, worry rising quickly as she set her own load down next to the others. "Buffy!" Joyce tried again as she began to mount the stairs. She heard more sounds, like a tussle, then a loud thud, and Joyce's steps redoubled.

Joyce gasped at the scene in the bathroom. She pushed past the distressed dog to find four bodies crumpled on the tile. "Buffy!" she exclaimed again, kneeling down next to her daughter, who was closest to her near the doorway. She began to move the girl, but then thought better of it. She had no idea what injuries Buffy might've sustained, or why in the world there were four unconscious people in the room. She checked Buffy's pulse at her wrist as best she could. It seemed—well, she was no nurse or EMT. There was a pulse. It seemed strong, if quite fast, but maybe she was adding the thudding of her own heart to the count.

Joyce's eyes roamed over the others, taking them in. Spike, Willow, and that woman from the Council... Lydia she thought her name was. What in the world—? And then the odd scent registered with her, and the overturned candles. It reminded her of electrical sparks or lightning-produced ozone—much like the spell Rupert had done to wake Willow, Oz, and Xander.

"Magic," Joyce murmured, her mind whirling. With no idea what else to do, Joyce stood and hurried off to find a phone, leaving the Guardian to watch over the motionless bodies.

* X-X *

Spike swam up from the depths of nothingness to find more of the same. Blank… everything was a blank slate, like one of those whiteboards that had just been washed clean. No color. No memory. No awareness of where he was or even who he was for a few long, frightening moments. Then someone began drawing on the board, images and words flashing across his mind, filling in the blank spots. His life and memories came back in a flood, a blinding explosion crashing into him, up to a point. Then the images slowed enough for him to feel the emotion attached to each—the joy, the pain—all in perfectly clarity.

Lisa from Fairplay. The frightened child with only one shoe in Drusilla's arms. Leaving Dru. The sound of the door clicking closed on that chapter of his life. Buffy's phone call. Rushing to Sunnydale—to the Slayer. Buffy accusing him of killing her mum, her stake coming down toward his chest. The truce. Buffy calling him a friend. Holding Buffy in his arms after her nightmare, just watching her sleep. Kralik. The Council. Save the Watcher. Bullets. Agony. Blood. Warmth. His head in Buffy's lap as she fed him, cared for him. Her body curled against his, tender and soft. Her lips touching his, light as a feather. The pain that suffused him as he tried to follow her headlong flight. Too injured to move. But he'd been getting better—slowly. Faith. Zipper. Buckaroo. Then the witch and the Council bird. Magic.

'Sodding magic.'

He should've known. When was he going to learn?

Still groggy, Spike blinked his eyes open. He squinted against the overhead light as his vision adjusted, raising one hand to shield his face. Four heartbeats surrounded him, all galloping at breakneck speed, almost too fast for humans. He turned his head and saw the witch splayed out against the tub, limp and unmoving apart from the rapid rise and fall of her chest. On his other side was the Council bird, collapsed onto her side, seemingly in the same shape as the witch.

Who owned the other heartbeats? He lifted his head, propping his elbows beneath him to lift himself. "Buffy!"

Her face was half-hidden by her hair, and was pressed into the hard tiles where the floor and wall met, but there was no mistaking her. The dog—the fourth frantic heartbeat—stood over her and snuffled at her neck, apparently trying to rouse her.

Panicked, Spike tried to sit up but found the movement blocked by a thick, hard shell that covered his torso like rigid armor. He scrabbled at the red, translucent substance with his fingers, but the thing wouldn't budge; it seemed fused to his body. Giving up, he rolled to the side, then to his hands and knees, and scurried to the Slayer, his eyes growing wide at the sight of blood shining through her hair, coating her throat.

A flash of what he prayed was a nightmare filled the whiteboard in his mind for a moment. A river of blood. Buffy. Bitten. Bleeding. Turned. "No, no, no…" he begged, sliding to a halt next to her. He grabbed her shoulders, turning her over as he awkwardly flopped back on his ass. He pulled her to him, draping her limp body across his as he'd done in the dream. "Buffy, no… Buffy," he murmured, brushing her lank hair from her face and neck as the dog whined and whimpered with worry next to them.

His fingers slid over the blood on her neck. Not blood, he realized. Red and glistening, but hard and semitransparent like his breastplate. The relief that washed over Spike was palpable, nearly knocking him over like a wave in the ocean. "Thank you, thank you," he cried, lowering his face to hers, pressing his cool cheek to her warm one as he rocked her in his arms.

Footsteps on the stairs drew his attention and in the next moment Joyce was there, looking as frantic as he felt. "Spike! Thank goodness you're awake! What happened? What should I do?" Joyce stammered, kneeling to be on a level with the vampire and her daughter. Her heart jolted a bit seeing that Spike had moved Buffy, but perhaps he knew better than Joyce about these things.

"Call the Watcher," he barked. "Some kinda magics… dunno… something went wrong."

"I… that's where I was. Mr. Giles will be here in a few minutes. What can I do? Is Buffy alright?"

"She's breathing… don't see any injuries," he assured Joyce even as his hands roamed over the Slayer, checking for blood or breaks. "Need t' get this… this bollocks off," he continued, indicating the hardened magical muck that clung to the Slayer's neck and one side of her face. He tried to peel it off, but, like his, it wouldn't budge. Buffy moaned in pain as it tugged at her skin, which was threatening to tear, and he stopped.

"Water? I dunno… acetone? Mineral spirits?" he suggested, finally looking up at the woman, his eyes as wide and as frightened as Joyce's.

Joyce nodded and rose, hurrying away to find nail polish remover, as the dog stood panting worriedly over the two blondes. "Can you get it off?" Spike asked his namesake, adjusting Buffy so that the Guardian could get to her neck.

The dog tried a tentative lick, but immediately began violently shaking his head and sputtering, rubbing his muzzle with one paw, and backing up in a circle, as if he'd been stung by a bee.

"Spike," Buffy rasped, one hand lifting in slow motion to cup the vampire's face. Her eyes fluttered open, though they were distant and dazed. "You came," she continued in a muffled voice. "Did you stop them… the monsters… are they… gone?"

Spike's vision suddenly blurred and wavered as tears threatened, relief suffusing him. "Yeah, pet, they're gone. No worries now," he assured her, beginning the rocking motion again, holding her against the hardened plate that covered his chest.

"Thank you… for coming," she murmured, her lids falling closed and her hand dropping to rest on his shoulder.

"Always, Buffy… just gotta ask, I'll be here," Spike promised. "Gonna be alright, pet."

Buffy floated back to semi-consciousness, looking up at him again. "You… you'll tell me, right? Is it me? Am I … not good enough?"

Spike's brows furrowed, his head shaking automatically. "You're perfect, Buffy. Bloody glorious. A miracle, a goddess. Thought we'd covered that, luv."

"Mmm," the Slayer groaned, her eyes drifting closed, but they opened almost immediately. "But… then why don't they stay?"

"Who, pet? Who won't stay?" Spike wondered, realizing Buffy must be still in that strange half-aware state, lost in memories or dreams like he'd been when he'd first woken.

"Everyone. No one. They all leave. Because of me… not good enough," she murmured blearily, trying to focus on him through a thick fog of confusion.

Spike shook his head, his fingers gently brushing her hair back from her face where it had fallen. "Anyone doesn't stay with you is a bloody prat. Too big a git to see the wonder of you, luv. Cowards and fools is what they are."

Another low groan from the Slayer accompanied her eyelids flickering again, then closing. Spike couldn't tell if she was agreeing with him or protesting his assertions. "I'd stay with you, pet. Stay forever if you'd let me," he whispered, leaning down to press his cheek against hers again.

There was no reply, no further stirring from the woman in his arms. "Buffy… Slayer?" Spike prompted gently, swiping away his tears when he heard the front door open and slam, and the Watcher's voice booming through the house.

"What happened?" Giles demanded of Spike as he limped up to the open bathroom door, still leaning heavily on his cane, taking in the scene. He bent down and checked the pulse in Buffy's wrist—steady and strong, if a bit elevated. "Are they alive?" he asked, gesturing to the other women.

Spike nodded. "Alive," he confirmed.

"What happened?" Giles asked again.

Spike shook his head, but relayed what he knew. "The chits said they had some magic rubbish that would heal me up good and proper. Covered me in it like sodding nappy rash cream, then started chantin' some bollocks to Hecate. Next thing I know..." He shrugged and waved a hand at the bathroom. "The stuff turned hard… can't get it off. Buffy's got some on her too."

Giles seemed to absorb that, taking in the unconscious women and the translucent armor covering Spike's chest and stomach, and come to a decision. With care, he stepped over Buffy's legs and headed for the sink, his cane banging down on the hard tiles with each hurried step. He thumped a book down on the counter and had the first-aid kit out and opened in the next moment. It only took another few seconds for him to find the small, cardboard-covered vials he was looking for. Spike watched as the man snapped the smelling salts and waved it first beneath Lydia's nose, then Willow's.

The vampire knew the man was tough—he'd withstood Angelus' tortures and threats without giving away any useful information—but he'd never seen him in quite this mode before. All business. Movements as crisp and sure as they could be given his injuries. His mind was fully focused on the problem, clearly already formulating a plan and carrying it out. This, Spike realized, was the Watcher in the man, his instincts just as inborn as a Slayer's, his training different but just as arduous.

It took waving the ammonium carbonate under Willow's and Lydia's noses three times before they began coming around, shaking their heads, and trying to escape the sharp aroma. By then, Joyce was in the doorway with the nail polish remover, but Giles stopped her from trying it. "It is a magical construct; it will likely need a magical cure."

Joyce and Giles helped Willow and Lydia into more comfortable, seated positions on the floor while Spike continued holding Buffy, who was still drifting in and out of consciousness. However, when Giles approached with the smelling salts, Spike had growled and waved away the astringent vial. "Let the Slayer be. She'll come around in her own good time," he insisted. "Her body knows what it's doing."

Giles scowled at the blond a moment, taking in the gentle way he was holding the girl, but didn't press the issue. At his core, he knew Spike was likely right, even if he didn't like the position it put his Slayer in, cradled in the vampire's arms. With a shake of his head, he turned his attention to the other two women, who, after a glass of water and a few minutes to recover, seemed alert enough to answer some questions.

Giles picked up the book they'd been using and opened it to the spell that he assumed to be the one they'd used. He thrust the book at Lydia, asking, "Is this the spell you used?"

The woman took the book shakily, blinking a few times to focus on the page, but then nodded. "Yes… and we did everything perfectly correct," she insisted, shaking her head. "I don't understand—"

"You didn't add anything else into the salve?" Giles interrupted. "Or substitute one thing for another?"

Again, Lydia shook her head vehemently, but Willow ducked hers, letting her red hair fall round her face to hide her expression. Giles didn't miss it. He'd seen that look before. Guilt. "Willow?" he pressed, the weight of his ire heavy in the single word. "Do you concur? Nothing else added? No change in the ingredients or the incantation?"

Willow cleared her throat nervously and looked up at all the steely gazes that were trained on her. Giles. Spike. Lydia. Joyce. Even the dog was looking at her curiously from the hallway.

"I… I, umm, might've… umm…"

"Speak up, please," Giles demanded harshly as a low growl rumbled from the vampire's shielded chest.

Willow cleared her throat again and took the book from Lydia. "I… well, this one is for flesh, for the lacerations, but he's got broken ribs too, so I added in some things from this other spell so it would—"

Giles sighed, removed his glasses, and rubbed at his eyes, leaning back against the counter to take weight off his injured leg.

"B-but… that's not… you can't simply change spells willy-nilly," Lydia protested in horror, looking at the page Willow indicated. "This spell requires a completely different offering," she pointed out, pulling the book from the redhead's hand, shaking her head in dismay.

"What did you give as an offering?" Giles asked, returning his glasses to his nose, and looking at Lydia.

"Blood. Blood for the healing of flesh. It's quite common and perfectly safe," she assured him.

"And the other spell, what does that one require?" he continued.

"Bone for bone, of course," the woman answered. Her hair had started coming free of her neat, tight bun and she tried brushing it back with her fingers as she quickly scanned the other spell.

Giles fixed Willow with a hard glare. "Were you aware of the additional offering required?"

"I-it doesn't say anything in the book…" Willow defended.

"Well, no," Lydia agreed. "It's common knowledge. Any first-year magical student would know that."

Willow gnawed at her bottom lip, dropping her gaze to the floor. "Oh."

"Have you been doing magicks without bestowing beneficium propriis to the goddess?" Lydia wondered, aghast.

Willow bristled, her eyes flashing as she looked at the other woman. "No one told me anything about that. I've done plenty of spells and never had to—"

"Perhaps small spells in which the reckoning was negligible," Lydia cut her off. "But the goddess gives nothing for free. It's possible you didn't even notice the cost—or perhaps it has yet to manifest—but all magic has a price."

"Seems I've heard that somewhere before," Spike grumbled sarcastically under his breath as Lydia continued speaking, "—and it is best to pay it up front rather than being surprised by it after the fact. The goddess must have her due, and she will extract it, in her time and as she sees fit."

Willow opened her mouth again, but Giles broke in, "We can address this at a later time. What we need to concentrate on now is how to remove this—" He waved his hand at Buffy and Spike. "—hardened unguent from Spike and Buffy."

Lydia huffed, but desisted, looking back at the spell book. "Well, clearly, we will need bone for the offering and I would suggest sage for cleansing and—"

Willow drew her legs up under herself and wrapped her arms around her torso. "W-what kind of bone?" she asked worriedly, remembering slashing her own palm to give the blood.

Giles turned his intense gaze on her. "Were you offering?" he wondered dryly, taking in her closed posture.

Willow chewed her lip again and looked over at Spike, who looked like he was about to take all her bones whether she agreed or not. "Umm… I kinda like my bones where they are," she squeaked.

"What type of bone would you use, Miss Chalmers?" Giles wondered.

"Well, of course, the most desired and efficacious bone would be the skull of an innocent," she revealed.

A frightened little 'eep' came from Willow's throat, her eyes going wide. "We have to… kill…"

Giles' lips twisted into a smirk. "Luckily for you, no," he broke in. "But it seems a trip to the cemetery is in order. How do you feel about grave robbing?" He pushed himself off the counter, taking the weight back onto his leg and the cane. "Thank you, Miss Chalmers, I think you've done enough for one day. You may go. Willow and I will handle it from here."

Lydia looked taken aback. She scrambled unsteadily to her feet, trying to smooth her disheveled hair with one hand and her wrinkled skirt with the other, leaving no hand available to straighten her glasses. "I… I don't understand. This was not my fault," she insisted.

"You were the one who offered your assistance to Miss Rosenberg, claiming to be a 'dab hand' at magic, as I recall," Giles retorted sharply. "Clearly, you aren't quite as polished as you think, allowing a child to add ingredients without your knowledge?"

"I'm not a child," Willow protested petulantly as she, too, got to her feet.

"You most assuredly are—and you've just proven it! You are untrained and incredibly foolish, you have no respect for the forces of nature or the power of the goddess," Giles snapped at her before turning back to Lydia. "I will take over from here and show her how to undo this mess you've created. You may go," he dismissed with a wave at the door.

Lydia returned his glower with one of her own, embarrassed heat rising in her face from the rebuke. She looked around at all the faces turned toward her, settling finally on William the Bloody, whose blue eyes looked like raging flames boiling up from the depths of hell.

Her throat closed up, clogged with unbidden tears. Everything was ruined, she realized. She'd never get her interview with the vampire now. He likely blamed her for this as Mr. Giles did. After all, he didn't even know her, and was apparently friends with the little witch who had cocked this all up.

In an effort to retain a modicum of dignity, Lydia straightened her back, grabbed her jacket and her bag, and headed for the door without another word, not even chancing another glance at William the Bloody as she passed. Joyce and the dog moved to allow her to exit and, in a moment, the front door opened and closed without another sound from the remaining occupants of the house.

Giles looked at Joyce, Buffy, and Spike near the doorway. "We should be able to correct this shortly. I'd like to get to the cemetery before dark. I believe I know a couple of crypts that hold what we will need."

"Is there anything I can do in the meantime?" Joyce wondered.

Giles' disapproving gaze settled on Spike, who was still on the floor holding the groggy Slayer. Giles would've liked to have extracted her from his grip, but that seemed like a fight he was unlikely to win at this moment. "Just keep Buffy comfortable until we return," he suggested before heading for the door. "Come along, Willow," he called as if she were an errant puppy as he stepped over Buffy's legs and started for the stairs.

Willow felt like a puppy in that moment—one that had been beaten, starved, and abandoned on the side of the road—but she followed dutifully, head hung in shame. Joyce laid a sympathetic hand on her shoulder as the girl passed and gave her a reassuring smile, which Willow appreciated but it didn't really make her feel any better. How was she supposed to know what any 'first year magic student' knew? She'd never had any classes in magic; she didn't even know there was such a thing outside of children's books.

In the car, Willow kept her head down, wringing her hands in her lap as Giles struggled to get in, his leg giving him difficulties. Once he was finally seated and his cane was stowed in the back, he removed his glasses and once again rubbed at his tired eyes. "This is not entirely your fault," he admitted, putting his glasses back on and looking up at her. "Or that of Miss Chalmers. I take responsibility as well."

Willow looked up at him dolefully. "I didn't mean to—"

"I'm well aware of that, and clearly you didn't know the ramifications. And that is where I've failed you. I should have been more forthcoming with information, begun teaching you the basics earlier, but after Jenny…" He stopped and struggled to clear his throat for a few long moments before he could speak again. "You've been unfairly left to your own devices. Tossed into the deep end and expected to swim, but you were unaware of the sharks lurking beneath the surface."

"Is there a… school for… witches? For magic?" she asked tentatively. "Is there a real Hogwarts?"

Giles snorted. "Not as such. There are various covens around the globe which offer training in that area. The Council, does, as well, of course, but I'm not certain they would be the best option for you. I was actually wondering if you would allow me to mentor you in the art. Since my duties as Buffy's Watcher will be taken over by someone else, I should think I'd have more time to spend on… other endeavors."

Color suddenly returned to Willow's cheeks, her expression turning hopeful. "That would be… yes! I… I'd like that," she agreed immediately.

"But you must respect my judgement in this. I will do my best to steer you away from the pitfalls that lurk down this road, but I cannot do that if you do not listen and mind me," Giles warned sternly. "This is not a game. These forces are not to be trifled with or disrespected, and neither am I."

Willow nodded eagerly. "Sure. Of course. I'm totally listen-girl," she assured him.

Giles nodded and turned the key in the ignition, starting the engine. "Well, I suppose our first lesson will be in procuring the bones of an innocent, preferably without being arrested for grave robbing or eaten by a vampire."

Willow chewed her lip. "Do you think this will work? You know, with it being all after-the-facty."

He nodded and put the car in reverse. "The more benevolent spirits are generally forgiving, providing that you sweeten the deal a bit. I think a trip to the liquor store will also be in order."

"What do goddesses like to drink?" Willow wondered.

Giles shrugged as he pulled into the road and put the car in drive. "In my experience, they're partial to single malt scotch whisky."

End Notes:

Oh dear! Willow, Willow, Willow! But, hey – look at Giles finally stepping up to help her. Let's hope she does actually listen and learn from this. Will Giles be able to get it fixed? Will Lydia get pissed off and cause trouble? Is Spike really good enough to eat? We'll find out soon...Well, we know the answer to that last one already.

I may have to change the posting days next week as I'm supposed to get my second COVID vaccine on Friday, which means I'll probably not be feeling well on Saturday. If that vaccination schedule remains unchanged, I'll try to post early so you don't have to wait for a chapter.

Thank you so much for reading and for your patience as I try to catch up with your wonderful comments! I thought things would slow down a bit for me, but so far no luck with that. But I'll get there – I love reading all your notes! They keep me inspired!