CHAPTER 2: CROSSROADS

I'm feeling weak and weary
walking through this world alone
Everything you say, every word of it,
cuts me to the bone
I've got something to say,
but now I've got no where to turn
It feels like I've been buried
underneath the weight of the world

I try to hold this under control
They can't help me
'Cause no one knows

            ~Changes, 3 Doors Down

______________________________________________

"Are you sure you'll be all right?" Xander asked for possibly the hundredth time as he and Anya hovered anxiously in the doorway of Giles' apartment, seeming reluctant to leave.

"Yes. Fine, I'm sure," Giles answered shortly. When they continued to stand there and stare at him expectantly, he gave a small sound of annoyance and went on. "She's not in any condition to do battle tonight. Besides, the Council has vouched for her, and Spike—"

"We're taking the word of the Council and Spike here, Giles. Anything about that seem wrong to you?" Xander quipped drolly. "I mean, if anything happens to you, who'll look after the books… or," his eyes cut guiltily to the side as he attempted to sound casual, "your stamp collection, which happens to include the DC Comics special edition collection?"

Giles sighed. "Xander, if she kills me, you can have my stamp collection".

Xander brightened and nodded with new resolve. "All right then, our work here is done," he said with finality, putting an arm around Anya's shoulders.

"Does that mean I'll get the shop?" Anya asked, her entire face lighting up.

"So good to know I'll be missed," he muttered, before adding an acidic, "Yes."

"Yay!" Anya clapped her hands together, clasped them, and then smiling brightly, danced out the door like a little girl.

"Be careful," Xander cautioned with one finger as he backed out the doorway. "Oh, and if she starts acting psychopathic, try playing Beethoven's Ninth."

Before Giles could ask, Xander cut him off. "We'll call you later to make sure everything's okay." He held Giles' eyes for a moment in a serious way that was unusual for Xander, a way that let Giles know he'd only been kidding about the stamp collection and that he really was worried about Giles' well being. He held the look long enough for that understanding to pass between them, then he gave a last nod and left.

"Well, bye Giles!" Willow said with a little wave as she slipped out the door with Tara.

"Hold it."

Willow stopped and turned, her face crestfallen.

"We need to speak. Privately. Now."

"Someone's taking a visit to the woodshed," Spike observed with dry amusement. Before Willow could do more than glare at him, though, he went on. "Well, good luck then. I've done enough bloody good deeds for one day." He stopped, appearing to think that over with a frown. "Think I'll go kill a few demons and steal some blood to make myself feel better about it, too." He shrugged, and then brightened. "So long."

Giles shut the door behind Spike as he left, and then leveled his eyes on Willow.

"I'll just… wait… in…" Tara glanced around, realizing there was only one other unoccupied room. "…the bathroom," she finished slowly. She took one last look at the two of them, a stolen glance over her shoulder before she shut the door behind her, and was left with the impression of two gunslingers facing off at high noon.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

"Who does he think he is, anyway?" Willow sputtered, clearly flustered. "Great big know-it-all, British…" she fumbled for a word, failed and added lamely, "Watcher Guy."

Tara repressed a smile at her lover's ineffectual anger, tucking her honey blond hair behind one ear and ducking her head away to hide her amusement. It wasn't as if there was much that was funny about the situation, anyway, she thought, looking down at the road as they walked, side-by-side down the darkened Sunnydale streets toward home. But Willow was so cute when she got all flustered and passionately angry like this.

"He's just worried about you," Tara offered quietly.

"Well he shouldn't be!" Willow countered, seeming to grow even more agitated. "I'm-I'm practically a grown woman. I'm in college now. I… I have my own listing in the phone book!" she finished triumphantly, as if this were, at last, the final needed proof of being an adult.

Willow brought her chin up as she made her final point, looking vindicated, and cute as she looked, Tara found that her smile had vanished.

"Willow… he had a good reason to be worried." Willow stopped walking, turning to look at her in surprise. "What we did… that spell. It was wrong." She looked at her with searching blue eyes. "You know that, right?"

Willow seemed confused. "Tara—what?"

"Having the power to do something doesn't automatically make it right to do it."

"But you… we…" Willow shook her head as if to clear it. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying Giles was right. There was a line and we crossed it. We all crossed it," she added, accepting her own responsibility.

"You think I made a mistake," Willow realized with dawning indignation.

"N-no—"

"You're all against me!" she declared angrily.

"I didn't say that!" Tara protested, her own anger beginning to rise. She stopped, took a breath, closed her eyes, opened them again. "I-I don't want to fight, okay? I just want you to understand that it was a big deal." She reached out and laced her fingers through Willow's with an apologetic smile that pleaded for her lover's understanding.

Willow looked at her uncertainly for a moment, seeming out of breath with anger, and then she nodded. "Okay."

They walked the rest of the way home hand in hand in silence, Willow stealing sideways glances at her lover every now and again, thinking about what Tara had said…

She still didn't get what the big deal was.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

Faith was visibly surprised when Giles returned to the bedroom and began unlocking her manacles. She arched a dark brow at him as he worked, taking in his self-conscious, slightly guilty and very flustered expression.

Seeming to sense her gaze, he cleared his throat to speak, but didn't meet her eyes. "The Council has vouched for your, ah, credentials," he began awkwardly. "I—I'm sorry you had to wake to this after the tragedy you've suffered, but you must understand—"

"I get it, Giles," she said shortly, cutting him off as she sat up, briskly rubbing her wrists. "No harm, no foul. Besides, I've spent more time than that in shackles just for the fun of it," she confided with a predatory grin.

There was no mistaking her meaning, not even for someone trying desperately to ignore it. "Ah…well, y-yes. I—I, ah…"

"You're so cute when you get all flustered," Faith noted with appreciation, seeming determined to render him tongue-tied. And why not? Not only was it fun to watch him blush and stammer and get all indignant, but if she could keep him off-balance, maybe she could avoid all the really tough questions he was sure to ask until after she'd gotten a good night's sleep.

Giles' mouth moved wordlessly for a few seconds more, and then he stopped shy of unlocking the final manacle around her ankle, setting the key down very deliberately. "Now listen here," he began, managing to sound flustered and annoyed all at once. "The Council has vouched for you, but that does not wipe the slate clean, as it were. You are still on probation. Given the death of your assigned Watcher, they have asked that I step in to serve as a replacement, which means that this sort of inappropriate behavior is—"

Oh, this was fun. She couldn't remember the last time someone had honestly played hard to get, and she was beginning to lose the point of her avoidance in the thrill of the game. "So it's like that, is it?" she asked, her voice sly as she slid her body down the bed toward him. "You want to be the big, tough daddy-figure? I can play along with that." She gave him a dark, seductive smile resembled nothing so much as a shark, and reached out toward him with one hand.

He grabbed her wrist before she ever touched him, eyes hard and unforgiving.

"Oooo," she breathed, seeming giddy. "I like it when—" she broke off, gasping slightly as he tightened his grip on her wrist, his fingers hitting a cluster of nerves that sent pain shooting through her fingers and up her arm, despite her Slayer toughness. Instantly the seductive expression dropped from her face and she looked down at her wrist with open admiration. "Wow. Go Giles."

"Let's set this straight here and now," he said, his voice even and taut. "If we are going to work together, there will be no playing of games. We will conduct ourselves with complete professionalism, adhering to the code of conduct set in place by the Council centuries ago. Any deviation from this code will result in my reporting your utter disregard of morality to the Council." The look in his eyes made it apparent that he knew they were both aware of what that meant. "Are we clear?"

"Damn. So no dog and pony show?" Her voice was somehow fretful and sarcastic at the same time.

"Dog and pony—?"  he began, confusion and mild disgust clouding his eyes, then cut himself off with a very firm, "No."

She sighed with mock regret. "Oh well. Can't blame a girl for trying," she added with a shrug. She wasn't really surprised; she'd pretty much expected this kind of reaction. And, okay, maybe she had overdone it a little… but he was awfully cute for an older guy, and that kind of distraction could have meant skipping the conversation they were about to have.

He held her eyes intently a moment more, then dropped her hand.

"Faith… I know this is not the most auspicious of beginnings…" he trailed off, looking uncertain, and something in the sadness of his voice caught her.

He sounded so torn, looked so vulnerable. For a moment, clear blue eyes locked on hers, the barriers within wavering uncertainly, and between the cracks in the invisible walls the world had built there, she saw through into his soul. For just that moment, she saw him, really saw him, and she found an image of memory there, remembering a sunlit afternoon in the high school library when he had looked at her much the same way he was looking at her now. Golden light and shadows had played over his handsome face as he talked, and he had paused, catching his glasses thoughtfully between his teeth, blue eyes open as they were to her now, their gaze settling upon her, looking at her, looking into her, like she was someone. Like she mattered. As if he were worried for her, as if he cared what happened to her. As if, somehow, he had known the dark path she was traveling down and feared for her very soul. And for a moment she had penetrated the mist of her own confusion and unconscious self-absorption, had become aware of him, and she had known that he saw her. That she was real to him. She had always felt like a ghost among the others, intangible, unimportant, but in that moment, she had seen how things might have been. How things could have been, maybe, if she had chosen a different path.

She could see he was reluctant to accept this responsibility as her Watcher, and yet he refused to shrink from it, bearing it with the same pride and nobility he bore everything else. He might look and act like a bumbling librarian lost in the world, but there was strength in Giles that ran deep and strong, like a building's steel structure beneath the raiment of glass.

The thought occurred to her suddenly that he had no reason to be so kind now, after all that she had done to them… and yet, he, of all the Scoobies, had always been the least vengeful, the least condemning of her behavior. He was a good man, a true hero, and he lacked the self-righteousness Buffy had possessed that always grated on Faith's nerves. He had done nothing to deserve her toying with him. She sat and absorbed the scope of his character in that split-second, and for just a moment, she was shamed by her own behavior. "Yeah." She glanced away and gave an uncomfortable little shrug. "But it's cool. I was just… you know, yanking your chain a little."

Not quite able to keep herself from looking at him, she met his eyes again, and for a moment, the pretense between them completely fell away, and they shared look she couldn't quite put a name to. Understanding, maybe.

He gave her a faint smile and then took the key back in hand, dutifully returning to fishing the lock. It clicked and tumbled, then with a snap, the final manacle fell open and she was free.

He paused, eyes scrutinizing as he looked at her, as if waiting to see what she would do now that she could move. A thousand possibilities raced through her mind, unbidden, but she ignored them and him, turning her attention to rubbing her tingling ankles. It was a deliberate movement, almost blatant; her way of making it known that she had no ill intentions.

She held the moment long enough to make it understood, and then let it pass, feeling somehow bare, eager to re-clothe her suddenly naked psyche with the familiar comfort of banter. "So," she cleared her throat and gauged her tone, making it light, keeping it distanced, and injecting casual sarcasm for good measure. "How'd they con you into being my Watcher?" Yeah, this was much better. She could feel the usual reflexes kicking in and taking over, carrying her words forward without any thought or assistance. "I mean the life expectancy on my Watchers is about the same as a gallon of milk. Plus, with the mortal enemies thing, I'm thinking: not rating very high on your "Top 10 Things To Do" list."

He came to his feet and slipped the key into his pocket, considering, and she felt the air between them change, felt that brief moment of understanding each other slide away to be replaced by the brisk air of business. "Well, they have asked me to take the position on a temporary basis." Gathering his thoughts, he walked to the dresser, leaned his lower back against its edge and folded his arms over his chest. "It would appear that your Ms. Hall came very highly recommended from one of the Council's most advanced academic branches in Europe, and was one of the few qualified Watchers to survive a rash of vampire attacks there. All other candidates with the required knowledge and experience are currently assigned to other locations and tasks. It will take time for them to recall someone to replace her."

She studied him for a moment, listening to the deliberately academic, bright tones he used while describing all of this, plying them like a magician, trying to distract her with the flourish and flash of knowledge, completely avoiding the question. "They made you do it, didn't they?" Her voice was sharp, razor edged with knowing and dark with amusement.

"N-no, o-of course not. I… had a… choice." When Faith smirked at him, he went on almost indignantly. "It so happens that I have a duty to perform, just as you do, and I have a vested interest in keeping Sunnydale in one piece. In this instance, that means including you as part of the group." He sighed when her expression didn't change, and finally relented. "Given the circumstances, yes, my hand was somewhat forced."

"I knew it," she gloated.

"As was yours," he added meaningfully. "How do you feel about that?"

How did she feel? Oh no, she was so not going to have therapy time right now, not while her ribs were on fire and the image of her dead Watcher was still so fresh in her sleep-deprived, pain-maddened, close-to-hallucinating brain. She was about two steps from the edge of emotional breakdown, and she wasn't budging another step. "Wow, is the psych session part of the Watcher package deal or is that extra?" she asked with affected sincerity.

"Your attitude is hardly becoming of—" He caught himself, took a breath. "Fine. Perhaps we should put all of our cards on the table, as it were. If we're going to work together—"

"Then we have to trust each other, blah blah blah, truth, justice, mind-numbing boredom." He was starting to sound dangerously like an authority figure again, and she rolled her eyes, capturing the rhythm of her routine. "I got the speech from Angel enough that I got it memorized."

"Yes, I imagine you did," he commented quietly, regarding her with open curiosity. "Am I to understand, then, that you do not require further repetition?"

"Nope. You and me work together to fight off this big bad until the Council comes up with a replacement, they switch you out for the newer model, and you can go back to your exciting life of tea and crumpets. Or possibly retire," she added speculatively.

He looked mildly outraged; an expression that perhaps only the truly British can manage. "I'll have you know that I am… years away from the proper age of retirement."

"You know," she said, her eyes thoughtful as they rested on him. "I figured you'd be gone by now. Especially since Willow and the gang don't seem to be taking your advice anymore." Her voice held its usual edge of innate challenge, but more strongly it reflected genuine curiosity and, perhaps, even the faintest trace of compassion.

It was that trace that caused him to avert his eyes and answer honestly. "Yes. Well. Things—things have been difficult, since…" he trailed off, not meeting her eyes, and she could tell by the shadows she saw in his blue irises before he looked away that he was thinking of Buffy.

She nodded. "Yeah. My life hasn't exactly been coming up roses since then, either."

He made a small motion with one hand as he shrugged, as if to say he expected nothing else.  "Doing the right thing isn't always the most rewarding."

"Yeah," she answered dryly. "I got a lot of that from Angel, too. I don't think this is gonna be too different of a partnership." She didn't look thrilled by the prospect.

"Well, perhaps this arrangement will spell a change of luck for us all," he offered with quiet optimism.

They stared at each other for a long moment in silence, and then Faith burst into laughter.

"Oh yeah," she cackled with wry humor. "Like that's ever gonna happen."

After a startled moment, Giles more modestly joined in her mirth. The tension between them lessened just a bit as their laughter trailed off, and he relaxed his posture, settling more comfortably against the dresser. In the brief silence that followed, he studied her, eyeing her almost kindly, as if he had gained some sort of insight into her mercurial moods.

"I imagine this is somewhat difficult for you."

"Understatement much?" Her voice oozed sarcasm, but he was left with the impression that it was not directed at him.

"It is… very strange…"

"Like the Twilight Zone on a bad acid trip," she agreed.

"And sudden," he added with a solemn nod. "Do you think you'll…"

"Go homicidal again and try to kill you all?" she asked with a mocking smile. She appeared to consider, then shrugged. "Seems kinda passé, don't ya think?"

"I was going to say 'be all right with the arrangement'?"

"Oh, that. Huh." She looked up at him curiously from behind veiled eyes. "What about you? You okay with that?" She raised a dark brow at him.

"I… well…" he faltered for a moment. "I suppose I'm not really certain, as yet," he finished, sounding quietly surprised, as if he'd only just discovered this fact himself.

"I'm right there with you, G. Guess we'll see how it works out, huh?"

He considered her, blue eyes thoughtful. "You really intend to stay and work with us?"

"What?" She seemed almost offended, her voice rising in challenge. "You think I'm gonna take off? With the bastards that did this to me and Ms. H still running loose? I'm not setting one foot outside good old Sunny D 'til I dust every last one of those worthless flatliners."

"Were you… close with her?" he asked, genuinely curious.

For the first time, she dropped her eyes uncertainly, looking down at the patchwork colors of the quilt on his bed as she debated her answer. "We… didn't get along, half the time, but she was… she was my Watcher. She tried to do right by me." She raised her eyes to look at him again, and this time they burned with the fire of determination. "She didn't deserve what she got."

He nodded his understanding. He and Buffy hadn't gotten along splendidly well in the beginning, either; they'd clashed in beliefs, often. Still, if anything had happened to her in those early months of being partnered, he would have felt the exact same way as Faith.

"If that means being a Scooby for a while, then rev up the Mystery Machine," she finished with a shrug.

She seemed resolved, and yet… "You seem very…calm about this," he commented, his voice delicately probing.

She didn't feel calm. In fact, she felt like she was cornered by the biggest, nastiest most bad-assed demon she'd ever fought against—without a weapon or even a stitch of clothing and both arms broken. Her heart thundered in her chest, her palms were slick with sweat and she could feel her stomach trying to crawl out through her throat. On the outside though, she was completely cool and collected, clear-headed. She had a feeling the only keeping her together right now was the speed at which these life-changing events kept happening; she hadn't had a chance to stop and think about any of it yet. The last thing she wanted was to be here with Giles right now, trying to psychoanalyze herself. Her reactions and replies were automatic, instinctive at this point. It was like fighting; block, parry, thrust. As long as she was fighting, she could keep going. If she stopped for more than a second to think about how she felt… she'd probably fall apart, and there was no way in hell she was going to do that here and now, in front of Giles.

"Yeah, you know me," she said with a shrug, her voice about ten thousand times more casual than she felt. Wow, did you hear that, self? If this Slayer gig doesn't work out, we may have a career in acting to fall back on. She choked back a giggle that bubbled up in her throat and tried to escape with her stomach. God, she was tired, wrung out, and loopy from pain. She was getting punchy, losing her grip on things. She couldn't afford to do that.

He looked at her, eyes intense and very serious as he explained. "Yes, that's exactly why I'm curious about your attitude."

She cut him an annoyed glance. "What do you want from me? Should I get on me knees and cry and beg forgiveness and thank God that the Scoobies are saints enough to take me in? Let's face facts: we're stuck with each other, we wouldn't be if we had any other choice and we might as well make the best of it." Her voice wavered only slightly. There was more to it all than just that, of course, but be damned if she was going to launch into the "Redemption Song" so he could fall down laughing at her. No way he'd buy that bullshit. Hell, she didn't know if she bought it.

He thought about that for a moment, wondering at the slight hint of a question in her voice, almost as if she wanted him to contradict her statement. Dismissing the errant thought as a mistake, he nodded as if in agreement with himself, and finding nothing more to say about it, changed the subject to more practical matters. "Do you, ah, have somewhere you can stay?"

The reminder of not having a home, of everything that had happened jolted her, but she kept control of herself, pushed aside her emotions and tried to focus on the question. There was something strange about it... something that didn't quite make sense. Then she realized. "Wait… you mean the Council's not going to keep me under lock and key?" she asked in disbelief.

"Well, they ah, received favorable reports from your Watcher. I suppose they feel you've proven yourself well enough to be somewhat on your own. As long as you maintain constant contact," he added hastily, his posture seeming to crimp with discomfort… or was it guilt?

Yeah, and you probably wigged out all over them when they said I should stay with you, didn't you? she thought wryly. "Sure. Angel's place is empty, has everything I need."

"Very good."

She couldn't help but notice that he looked slightly relieved, and wondered why it stung. She tucked that feeling away with all the others though, and she did it with the precision and practiced ease of a stripper tucking a bill into her top, not letting any emotion show on her face. What the hell did she expect, anyway? Her own room? Milk and cookies after a good slay?

"Yeah. Guess I should get gone, then, huh?" she asked abruptly, rising to her feet. Her ribs exploded with nearly unbearable pain and the world wavered red before her eyes, the room and its sparse furnishings turning dangerously gray before regaining their normal spectrum of colors.

Giles seemed agitated by her question, confused and uncertain. "I—I thought you'd stay through the night, at least until your injuries have a chance to—"

"I'm fine." She made a show of walking, making a supreme effort not to grimace in pain. "See?"

"Yes, of course." He sounded perfectly reasonable, but he looked doubtful of her assessment. "But what if you encounter some sort of monster along your way?"

"I'll deal," she said hitching up her shoulders. "Won't be the first time I've fought with a few mending ribs."

"Well…" he seemed uncertain about how to pursue the subject. He clearly didn't want her walking around injured, but he didn't seem convinced of his own authority over her as yet. He wasn't quite willing to order her around, and for that she was grateful.

"I've been on my own since I was fourteen, G. I'll handle it."

He hesitated, then finally nodded. "Rest today then, and tomorrow we'll meet at the Magic Box to get started on research. If you think you'll be well enough?" he added belatedly.

"Right." She nodded, shifting her weight uncomfortably back and forth between her feet. "So, are we five by five here?"

"If that means 'do we understand each other and can you leave now?', then yes."

She started for the door.

"Oh, and Faith." She paused, her expression turning curious as she saw the smirk that tugged at one corner of his mouth.

"If you call me 'G' again, I'll let Willow update your progress reports."

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

It had been a truly stupid move to chance getting caught by some nasty with her ribs in this condition. Wincing, Faith gingerly touched her side, hoping to ease the pain a little, and instead felt fire ignite and bloom beneath her fingers. She hissed and shook her head, berating herself for her stupid pride, and plodded on toward the mansion.

She probably should have stayed, curled up on Giles' wool-blanketed couch among the dark yellows and warm browns and enjoyed the slightly musty scent of paper that filled his apartment, but everything was just too… surreal right now. Bizarre didn't even begin to cover it. Teaming up with the Scoobies? Giles as her Watcher? The Council letting her walk somewhat free? None of it made any sense at all. She supposed she could chalk it all up to circumstance, but it was just so freaky. She was going to be working alongside people whom she'd previously attempted to kill, none of whom had as yet forgiven her and weren't ever likely to. It seemed impossible for her to even begin untangling how it all made her feel.

She'd known before he'd come back into the room that he'd been coerced into being her Watcher—they really did forget that Slayers had better hearing than other humans. Still, she'd been surprised when he'd released her right away. It had occurred to her then that she could refuse his status as Watcher and take off… but not only would that mean having the Council on her ass, it would also mean leaving Sunnydale for good, and there was no way in hell she was going anywhere until she got her hands on the things that had killed Ms. H. If that meant teaming with the Scoobies and being Giles' pet Slayer, then she could play along. But then he'd taken off the chains and gotten all sympathetic and apologetic, and she'd realized that maybe it wouldn't be so bad. She'd been slightly disappointed when he'd shut down her advances. She hadn't really expected him to take her up on her offer, but it might have been…

Whatever.  She'd been running for about a week straight, and her brain was as tired as her feet.  She knew that when she woke up tomorrow afternoon, there would be pain, regret, sorrow and loss waiting to hit her like a freight train, and probably, when she fell asleep tonight, her dreams would run nightmare marathons of her final battle through the fire. But for now, the shock and the rapidity of events kept it all blissfully at bay. All she cared about right now was sleep, somewhere quiet, safe and warm.

Angel's mansion felt like a tomb; deserted, silent and ancient. It was all too easy to imagine ghosts walking those darkened halls, specters grown tired of their catacomb graves restlessly roaming the timeworn stone. Cold air permeated the hallways and clung to the corners with the whispering fingertips of the coming fall. Momentarily, she debated building a fire, then shrugged, went through the curtain and fell into bed fully dressed, thinking two out of three wasn't bad.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

Giles sat in his apartment, staring distantly into a glass of scotch for a long time after she left. Scotch, depression, and melancholy, contemplative thought—his constant companions for longer than he cared to remember. There was a song in there somewhere, he mused with a derisive smile, probably some hideous, twangy, country composition that would cause him to shudder uncontrollably upon hearing it.

He couldn't really blame the others for wondering if he'd lost his mind—he half wondered the same thing, himself.

On the outside it seemed simple, almost routine. He sifted through the papers spread out over the table with one hand, catching a headline here, a picture there. It was all here, Faith's past, laid out in neat little blocks of text and illustrated with a spectrum of photographs: police black and white, Kodak family color, the faded sepia of Instamatic cameras. The files read like some tragic movie story, showcasing all the usual suspects in such a dramatically punctuated life: abusive childhood, abusive boyfriends, deviant behavior, criminal behavior, misdemeanors and arrests, correctional facilities. A separate folder began chronicling her Slayer training, complete with Watcher reports and psychological profiles, none of which had saved her from a permanent criminal record cataloguing manslaughter, murder, and attempted manslaughter, culminating in prison records.

From that point though, things showed signs of drastic and—for someone with Faith's profile—unusual improvement. She'd spent her time in prison with good reports, had received good reports from her Watcher since being released, and from what he'd seen, she certainly seemed genuine enough in wanting to follow her mission, even if she was conversationally abrasive. He had witnessed firsthand the conflicting emotions in her as she'd told the story of what had happened to her Watcher, and as she'd relived the memory of her villainous past. He still didn't trust her, but her current record pointed to the rocky road of redemption, and he was willing to give her a chance.

"You believe in second chances, Ripper?" Ethan's voice.

"Absolutely." The memory of his own voice echoed back to him.

Everyone deserved a second chance—he, himself, was proof enough of that. But for him, for all of them, it wasn't just a question of taking Faith in… it was a question of letting Buffy go. Buffy… his surrogate daughter, child of his heart who was bound to him by more than blood, the only child he would ever have. Buffy would have scoffed at his compassion for Faith. But Buffy was gone. And that was rather the point, wasn't it?

He'd been lost since she'd died, stumbling about in a haze of mind-numbing grief, no longer feeling he had a purpose or a home; a graying man in a graying world that suddenly sensed the steps of the reaper close at his own heels. He'd spent far too long pondering the meaning and unfairness of life, the passion that fueled his sorrow and anger burned down to ash long ago. Depression without focus or passion to drive it quickly turned to apathy, and he found himself with an empty space where once his heart had burned fiercely bright with the light and hope of heroes. That was gone now, his heart cracked and charred, its cavity hollowed out as if she had clawed her way from it like a womb. She had been birthed from it and taken all meaning with her when she had gone. He was empty now, a blank canvas in desperate need of paint, a man who has woken from youth to find himself in the clutches of a mid-life crisis. No longer Watcher, no longer father, a nothing man in a nothing place, barely clinging to the skin of the world by his fingernails.

He'd considered returning to England, of course, to the clean, narrow streets of his home city, to the buildings dressed in their drab browns, grays and greens, skyline set against the familiar gray backdrop of overcast sky… but he'd kept finding reasons to delay. There was nothing on the other side of the ocean for him; there was nothing for him here. He loved Willow and the others well enough, but they couldn't provide him with what he was lacking. They could not make whole what had been destroyed. He wasn't quite sure that anything could. And then, this…

His first impulse had been to laugh in the Council's face when they'd asked him to be Faith's Watcher. In point of fact, he had. And then they'd begun making a bizarre kind of sense that he couldn't argue with, and he'd begun to realize that this was his chance, a sense of purpose fairly being dropped in his lap. He could be someone again, could be what he had been trained all his life to be… or he could go home and fade into obscurity, living out his days in a flat in a country that seemed almost as foreign to him now as America had when he'd first come here. He loved England, oh yes, and he belonged there, without a doubt… but he wondered if it would ever feel like home again after Sunnydale.

Again, on the outside, it seemed very simple. He should stay and do the job that he had been trained to do. It was ingrained in him; it was the essence of who he was. Olivia had liked to joke that even naked he always smelled faintly of tweed and paper and all things right and proper. And the part of him that was completely Watcher, completely detached and analytical, very easily understood the logic of taking up his natural role again. In fact, that part of him understood a great deal more than that.

His emotional mind screamed that this was madness, but his logical mind somehow found it right that they'd been brought together in the wake of Buffy's death: Slayer, Watcher and Scoobies. It was a feeling that was hard to define, but he felt it nonetheless, like a vague tickling in the back of his mind, a forgotten word perched on the tip of his tongue. There was a sort of terrible symmetry to the situation, a feeling of everything coming full circle. There was no other group in the world as trained in fighting evil as they were. They were better together than they would ever be apart. Their power would be all the stronger for their joining together, and, to a lesser degree of importance, they could keep an eye on Faith, perhaps even guide her.

Yes. That was the logic of it: It was somehow right that another Slayer should come to them, and it was their duty to fight at her side and instruct her—no matter how deep their love of the first. It was putting that logic into action that was difficult. It felt like blasphemy, letting go of Buffy. These last few months he had held her memory to him, basking in it like the light of the sun. But the sun that gave him life had now begun to poison him, and he had lived in his memory too long, a tiny part of him wrapped safe in the cocoon of his daydreams and longings while the rest of him wasted and withered away. God, nothing would ever replace Buffy; he loved her as he had never loved anyone, with the purity and adoration he imagined all parents must inherently feel, love like pure golden light, precious and vital—but he knew that the time was soon coming when he would have to let her go, or follow in her into death.

And those were his choices, laid bare. He could go on living, already a dead man walking, or follow behind her and sink willingly into the arms of oblivion, or he could take up a new purpose and resign himself to her loss. He had choices, and yet he felt cheated, like the young man forced to choose between the lady and the tiger.

"You're certain the spell didn't work?"

"No. Nothing, Giles. We were there for a few minutes before the vampires came and just… nothing."

It was just as well that it hadn't worked, but he'd had a moment of hopefulness, of wishing. He would never have dared try what Willow had, but to have Buffy back…

He downed his drink and killed the thought, wincing a little as he swallowed. There was no point in dwelling on what could have been. The time was coming to leave behind the trappings of sorrow, memories and ghosts tucked away in shiny boxes, to be admired again someday in the light of better times. The future was opening eagerly, devouring him in the familiar, ever-uncertain vortex that promised nothing and gave everything without consideration for good or ill.

The future. Faith.

He shook his head, heaved a sigh, and rose to pour himself another drink.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

Tenth pushed open the door to the tiny Sunnydale motel room and was greeted by the faint smell of years-old grime and mildew; old, pale scents that were nearly lost beneath the fresh, fatty grease aroma that permeated the room, reeking of soy burgers and fried potatoes. Both scents were muted beneath a layer of sickly lemon-freshness that was meant to be perky but was instead only cloying, drawing even more attention to the cheap, unsavory atmosphere of the room. Used to it by now, Tenth paid little attention to the tackiness and disrepair of his surroundings, eyes skimming over the dull, gray-green walls and threadbare carpet with a quick, cursory glance that ascertained only the security of his surroundings.

Fox sat in the center of the room, completely unperturbed by Tenth's entrance, hunched over his laptop amidst a drift of fast food wrappers and empty Mountain Dew bottles like some kind of Geek God, the soft glow of the electronic screen illuminating his intense young face. Smirking, Tenth slammed the door behind him, the whole room seeming to rattle on its foundation. If anything, Fox's look of concentration increased, and the tapping of his fingers against the keyboard never paused.

"That how you guard the place?" Tenth asked with gruff humor. "I could have been anybody."

"I knew it was you," Fox replied, still not looking up. "I know your movements."

Tenth looked at the young, freckled face and bit back a retort. Sometimes he wished he had chosen an older partner, someone not just escaping the lankiness of their teen years, trails of acne just fading from their cheeks; someone who didn't make him feel like he was on his way to becoming archaic and geriatric in the tender years of his late twenties. But there was no one among the Order who showed as much promise and talent as Fox.

"Anything?" he asked, glancing at the laptop.

"Nothing yet," the boy replied, biting down on his lower lip and finally looking up at Tenth. "You know, for a town with so much supernatural activity, they don't log a lot of unusual events."

He hesitated a moment and ran a hand over his hair, not wanting to ask, but knowing it needed to be brought up. "How about the obits? Turn up anything there?"

"I... checked. Nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe she's still operating?" Fox asked, his hazel eyes upturned hopefully. "Undercover?"

Tenth considered the question a moment then shook his head. "If she is, she's deep enough under that I can't find a trace of her. I tracked her to the hotel room she was staying at… looks like she hasn't been there in days, at least."

"Maybe someone caught on and she couldn't go back."

"Maybe…" He looked at the young face, so soft and hopeful in the glow of the laptop screen, wishing he could make this easier for the kid, somehow. He knew the boy had a thing for Blackwell. Hell, they all did. But in their line of work they couldn't afford foster false hope or leave loose ends; either of those things could get them hurt, or worse, get them dead.

He walked over and laid a commiserating hand on Fox's shoulder, hoping to soften the blow a little. "Still, I think we should start checking the police and hospital records. County Coroner, too."

Tenth could feel the boy tense beneath the thin cover of his sweaty tee shirt. For a moment, Fox looked as if he might say something, pink lips that just barely escaped being freckled trembling uncertainly, and then he swallowed instead, nodding.

"For what it's worth, I hope we don't find anything," Tenth offered gently.

It was true. But he could tell by the way the boy went back to work without another word that they both knew hope and reality were two trains that seldom met.