So, here's my first BTVS fanfic. I'm not finished with it yet, but I want somefeedback so I can edit and
make it all nice. Keyword here...feedback. Tell me what you think. Give me suggestions. What's good
and what's not? Please let me know if you find any mistakes as I'd like to correct them.


My policy of course, is that if you review me, I'll review you.




Chapter 1: Running

It was late. The eccentric old bar known as the Hag's Breath was just about to close. Tom Devries,
the owner, was washing a few stray glasses, while the band, a dusty collection of men trying to escape some
unpleasant reality, finished up their last number. The last few patrons, regulars at the Hag's Breath, hardly
noticed when the final sounds floated out the open door, ghosts of the songs they once were.

"Thanks boys." Tom smiled. Justin Page, the lead singer smiled back quietly as they began to pack
up their equipment. "I-it was our pleasure as always, Tom. Same time Saturday? " Page's band had been
playing at Tom's bar every Monday, Thursday and Saturday night for the last month and a half.

"Of course." Tom reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded envelope. "Here's for tonight
and Monday. Sorry I couldn't pay Monday, by the way. You know how it is sometimes."

Page, a quiet, unassuming man with an amazing singing voice, got a cloudy, far away look for a moment.
Then he smiled, more to himself than to Tom. "Yes. Yes, I know how it is sometimes. Don't worry about it."

"Thanks, mate. See you Saturday."

Tom watched as the private man walked out of the bar into the rainy London night, and shook his head.
The Hag's Breath did not cater to a wealthy clientele. Most of the people who came to the bar, either to
drink or to work, had one secret or other. He knew very well that the dilapidated establishment attracted the
darker side of London; the side that most fine, upstanding citizens didn't want to acknowledge. Page was
something completely different though. He had secrets. There was no question about that. But somehow
he was different from the others.

"You're reading into things too much again, mate." Tom muttered to himself, and walked back in to
kick out the last few stubborn customers, who would take up residence if they could.

**********

Justin Page entered his tiny flat, wearily. He managed to lock the door behind him and turn on a light
before collapsing on his couch, which was also acting as a bed at the moment.

He sprawled, absolutely still and silent for a moment, before setting himself to the task of sorting through
the small stack of envelops he'd picked up from his post box. "Bill...bill...order..." He froze at the forth one.
The address was written in tidy scrawl with rainbow colored ink. "Damn!" He whispered. Of all the things
he had to suffer through...and he suffered through a lot...he thought these letters were the hardest to cope with.

He opened the letter carefully and pulled out the neat, feminine stationary.

Dear Giles,

I know you won't write back, but I wish you would. We all miss you so much. I was half expecting you
to show up at the wedding. A whole week before the wedding, every time the door bell would ring, I'd cross
my fingers. You never came though, did you? I'm sorry, I don't want you to feel guilty. Well, maybe just a little.

You missed and interesting event. I don't know what was worse...having to fight demons for a chance in
the bathroom, or having to listen to Xander's family. They didn't get married you know. I don't want to go
into details because I still don't really want to deal with it. How come nothing good ever happens on the
hellmouth? I mean you find a good thing and then it gets ruined by a demon, or a vampire, or an apocalypse.
I think I'm going to college in New York.

I hope that London is nice, although I hear it's kind of gross this time of year. I'll write again soon to give
you the excruciating details of Days of Our Hellmouth.

Love,
Dawn

PS Don't worry, I still haven't told the others where you live.

Giles stared at the letter for a long time, trying to fight back the tears. After he came to London he'd
moved several times. He tried to break off all contact with his former life after it became painfully clear
how upsetting it was. Buffy was the worst, sending letters filled with such anger and hurt. She really thought
Giles had left in order to punish her. She wouldn't accept that what he did was best for everyone. More
than anything, he wished that Buffy and the Scoobies would forget him and move on with their lives...their
adult lives.

Somehow though, no matter what he did, Dawn found him. Even with his new flat rented under the
alias of Justin Page, she had still found him. It was quite remarkable actually. Giles had long suspected
that Dawn possessed a subtle kind of magic that put any of Willow's spectacular achievements to shame.
This was just another example.

Giles sighed, folded the letter back into the envelope, and put it in a box with a growing pile of similar
letters and cards. He threw the other 3 envelopes on the trunk that passed for a coffee table, and stalked
off to the bathroom to get ready for bed.

**********

By the next morning the rain had stopped and even though it was still cloudy, the sun did show through
in spots. Giles woke up early, despite his late night. After making himself a large mug of very strong tea,
he sat back down on his couch to start his day job.

When Giles first arrived in London, he didn't find a lot of job openings for librarians. What he did find
was a large population of very rich people looking for very rare books. While he worked at several menial
jobs, he established a name for himself as a man who could find books. Of course that name was Justin Page.
He knew that the name was rather tacky and obviously contrived, but people remembered it. Pretty soon
he was able to quite his other jobs and become a book hunter full time.

He kept the band job though. No matter where he was in life, music kept him grounded. When he
sang, all of his worries and fears disappeared, even if only for the space of a song. He lost touch with
his music for a while back in Sunnydale. It took him several apocalypses and the loss of a job before
he went back to it. He didn't want to loose touch of it again.

Giles picked up the order that came in the mail the previous evening and opened it. The order was
for an incredibly rare latin text about early christianity. Giles had heard of it before, but had never seen
it. He had a few contacts that could probably give him leads on that one, but it would have to wait. He
had a large shipment of books to distribute and hopefully some considerable checks to collect.

**********

Nine hours later, Giles stood at the door of a very fancy county house just outside of London. He held
two books in his hand; the last delivery of the day. He stood with some trepidation as he rang the door
bell. This was the home of Mrs. Welmont; a wealthy widow of sixty three years whose interest in rare
books grew exponentially when her friend had mentioned the new, mysterious book hunter who could
find 'simply anything, dear.'

Heavy, eager footsteps could be heard inside. Then, there was a click of the lock, and Mrs. Welmont
was there in all of her corpulent, flowery glory.

"Mrs. Welmont, how nice to see you." Giles said with a rather sickly smile plastered on his face.

"Justin dear, please call me Anna!" Her Wagnerian voice grated on his few remaining nerves. Every
time he delivered books to her she said the same thing. Six deliveries and I still call you Mrs. Welmont.
Take the hint, you old cow.> To Mrs. Welmont he said "Yes, of course Anna."

They stood there for a moment in silence; Giles in self conscious irritation, Mrs. Welmont in undisguised
admiration. I feel like a piece of meat.>

After the agonizing pause, Mrs. Welmont jumped as though she had just remembered where she left
her keys. "Oh yes, of course. Your check!" She laughed, and smiled flirtatiously. "When you get to be
my age, things just slip your mind. Won't you come in? This will just take a moment."

Giles followed her in. 'Come into my parlor' said the spider to the fly.> He knew that she had not
forgotten his check. She probably hid her check book under a couch cushion somewhere so that she
could keep him there an extra half an hour.

She puttered around the downstairs of her enormous house, all the while dragging Giles with her and
wondering in a singsong voice "Now where did I put that check book?" Finally, unable to stop himself,
Giles asked "Did you check the couch cushions?"

"Excuse me, dear?" Mrs. Welmont's head turned towards him, delightedly.

"Never mind." He struggled with the rude smirk that was trying to surface. Mrs. Welmont might be
a terror to single men everywhere, but she was also a good source of income. She always ordered extravagantly
expensive books and always paid top price for them. He didn't want to loose one of his best customers, just
because of a rude comment.

Eventually she did find her check book("Oh, it was in my purse the whole time! How silly of me?") and
Giles was able to return to the relative peace of his little apartment. He stepped into his apartment with his
usual stack of mail and a much more satisfying stack of checks, to be deposited the next day.

"Order...order...bill...junk..." He sat on his couch, sorting his mail. He stopped at an unusually letter.
The address was handwritten, but not by Dawn. And, unlike Dawn's letter which were always addressed
to Justin Page, this one was addressed to him, Rupert Giles. There was no return address, which made
the whole thing even more suspicious. Cautiously, Giles opened the letter. The message was quite simple
and direct:

Tully's. Saturday. Noon. Important.

His eyes narrowed at the cryptic message. Was the Council trying to contact him? Usually, if the Council
wanted to talk to a person, they just walked in the front door without knocking.

He couldn't think of who it could be. No one knew where he was except Dawn, and she didn't exactly have
the means to fly to London.

As he got ready for bed that evening, he found it incredibly difficult to relax. A terrible feeling was beginning
to form at the base of his neck and spread, like frost, down his spine to his limbs.