After patrolling through yet another cemetery with no sign of Lagos, Buffy was starting to think longingly of going home and sleeping. And then she'd get to see Angel. She slapped herself mentally. What was wrong with her? How could she want these dreams to continue? But the answer to that was simple. She may have been able to fool herself into thinking she was moving on, but in reality, she still missed him so much that she'd take anything that brought her closer to him, even if it came in the form of torturously realistic dreams in which he was suffering and couldn't even see her. There was no way this was healthy. Maybe it was a good thing that they had to put the research on hold now that Mrs. Post was here.

"You know what?" said Faith, startling Buffy out of her reverie, "We're oh-for-six tonight. Why don't we just blow this off?"

"Yeah, I am kinda beat," said Buffy, before offering feebly, "But Shady Hill's pretty close…"

"I'll swing through it," said Faith, shrugging. "It's on my way anyway."

"Alone?" said Buffy uncertainly, "I-I don't know if I'd—"

"I got Miss Priss on my back now," said Faith, cutting her off, "I don't need another babysitter. I'll holler if I'm having any fun."

"Okay," said Buffy, feeling the guilt about her morbid little secret squirm unpleasantly in her stomach.

"Later," said Faith, turning to leave.

"Thanks."

[o]

"Hey, Giles," Xander muttered sarcastically to himself, "here's a nifty idea: why don't I alleviate my guilt by going out and getting myself really, really killed?" Yeah, very smooth plan. Not that he'd exactly been able to think straight enough after that amazing—but very bad, bad Xander, you have a girlfriend—make-out session with Willow to formulate any better or less potentially fatal plans than this one. Xander shook off his fantasies about his (off-limits!) best friend and continued to make his way carefully through Restfield cemetery, his ears straining to hear the sounds of approaching demons, but he heard nothing.

Finally, he spotted the vast Von Hauptman family crypt and moved towards it, still pausing every other second to peer nervously in every direction. "It's quiet," he observed upon reaching the heavy door, then, unable to resist, added, "too quiet." Unlike in the movies, however, this silence turned out not to be an ominous sign. It took him nearly twenty highly stressful but mercifully undisturbed minutes to find the Glove of Myhnegon within the crypt.

"Well, I think I've filled my creep-out quota for the week," he said as he pulled the weighty metal Glove from beneath a skeleton in a large stone casket. He looked at the wicked hooks all around the end of the thing and shuddered. Curious he might be, but he didn't want to find out what those would do if he tried the Glove on.

He looked back in the casket and saw a small heap of old, decaying rags, which he pulled out and wrapped around the Glove, then hid the bundle as well as he could by tucking it beneath his jacket. This created a very obvious lump in the material, but at least the Glove itself wasn't visible. Still being as quiet and cautious as possible, he left the crypt and headed in the direction of Giles's apartment.

[o]

Giles scowled heavily into his tea. He didn't know how much longer he would be able to stand working with that insufferable, condescending woman. She had ridiculed his authority, his methods, and his ability to "control" Buffy—but thankfully, she had not encroached on his home. After finishing her own cup of tea and thanking him for his hospitality with few thinly veiled derogatory comments, she had left him in peace to stay, he presumed, in whichever hotel she'd lodged in the previous night.

A knock sounded at his door, and he groaned, thinking it would be Mrs. Post back again. Ironically, he was relieved to find that it was only Xander, who held up a raggedy bundle with a triumphant look on his face.

"Scooby gang: one, Lagos: zero," he said.

"Well done, Xander," said Giles sincerely, taking the bundle from him.

Xander grinned at the praise. "All in a night's work."

[o]

Angel shifted in a vain attempt to find a more comfortable bit of stone floor. His empty stomach seemed to scream at him indignantly, and his mind and heart were still wracked with grief. He felt as if he had traded one Hell for another, but this was the kind he'd never be able to escape. Even worse than the fact that Buffy and everyone else from his time in Sunnydale were gone was what he'd done during his last four months there. He'd spent that time trying to destroy Buffy like he had destroyed Drusilla, and now he would never have the chance to make it right.

The distant sound of footsteps broke the surface of his thoughts. Two sets of footsteps, in fact. He wondered vaguely who his new visitor would be, but he was more interested in the prospect of food, even if his daily allotment would barely take the edge off his hunger. Soon, he could hear voices too.

"There's not much to it, really, but it is a bit of a bother to come all the way down here to do it every day."

"I assure you, that won't be a problem."

"Right, well, he's in cell number seven, and you just take one of these bags to him and make sure he hasn't pulled his chains loose. You probably don't even have to bother with that last part now, though. I haven't seen him move from that corner since the tournament. Oh, and every so often, you'll have to replace the ice block in there, and when the blood runs out, you'll have to go to this butcher shop a few streets away to get more."

"Is that everything?"

"That's the long and short of it, yeah. Now then, all that's left, I suppose, is to introduce you." There was the usual jangle of keys, and then Angel's door opened. He supposed he might as well see who would be bringing his food from now on, so he turned his head to look at the newcomer.

The tall, black-haired and bespectacled young man in the doorway looked very out-of-place in a dungeon, with his crisp suit and almost unnaturally impeccable hygiene. He certainly didn't seem the type to want to spend part of his day delivering blood to an imprisoned vampire.

There was just as much fear in his scent as in Smith's, but his expression and posture suggested barely contained excitement. He'd clearly been waiting for this chance for some time now. Angel might have felt apprehensive about this, considering what had happened to him so far in this place, but the young man did not seem malicious—in fact, despite his air of snobbish pompousness, he didn't even seem like he'd had much experience outside of a library.

"Right, then," said Smith in a bored voice, tossing the bag of blood at Angel's feet. "Wesley Wyndam-Pryce: Angelus. Angelus: Wesley Wyndam-Pryce." Wesley inclined his head, and Angel surprised both of them by returning the gesture. Smith, who had already turned to leave, did not notice, and Wesley followed him out, closing and locking the door behind them.

[o]

To Giles's very great relief, Mrs. Post spent most of the next day training with Faith, which gave him plenty of time to research the Glove of Myhnegon in peace. A few minutes after the final bell, Buffy and Willow walked through the library doors, chatting animatedly. They smiled on catching sight of Giles and ended their conversation.

"How goes the Glove-hunting quest?" asked Buffy.

"Oh," said Giles, "didn't Xander tell you? He found it last night. It's at my flat."

"Weird. You'd think he would've gloated about something like that to one of us by now," said Buffy.

"He probably just did it to offset the guilt, so now he doesn't want to take the credit for it," said Willow without thinking. Giles frowned at her.

"Huh?" asked Buffy, confused.

"Oh—uh, no," said Willow, panicking as she tried to cover her mistake. "I mean, the guilt about giving you a hard time about your dreams."

Buffy snorted. "Well, if he's having guilt about it, maybe I'll hold off on my plan to punch him in the face." Willow winced uncomfortably. Fortunately, Giles chose that moment to inadvertently divert Buffy's attention from her.

"Not only is the Glove in our possession," he said, "but I've discovered a means of destroying it."

"Just you? As in, without the help of Her Supreme Snootiness?" asked Buffy.

"Yes," said Giles, almost indignantly.

"Ooh, and the first two points go to Team Giles," said Buffy smugly.

"Buffy," Giles admonished rather half-heartedly, "this is hardly a competition."

"Right," said Buffy, snorting again, "like you don't want to make her eat every last one of those stupid little sneering insults." Giles opened his mouth—not so much to protest, because she was actually quite right about that, but Buffy went right on with a new subject. "Faith still training with her?"

"I believe so, yes."

"Okay. Wanna come Lagos-hunting with me tonight, Wil?"

"Uh, sure," said Willow, caught slightly off-guard. "What snacks should I bring?"

Giles retreated back into his office, chuckling and shaking his head.

[o]

About an hour after nightfall, once he decided he'd collected the necessary ingredients to destroy the Glove (and had savored his victory long enough), Giles called Mrs. Post, who arrived at the library about fifteen minutes later. He was pleased to note that she looked completely exhausted.

"You wanted to see me, Mr. Giles?" she asked.

"Yes," said Giles. "Would you like some tea?"

Mrs. Post seemed to take this as an invitation to use his chair, for she promptly collapsed into it. "God, yes, please. I'm completely knackered. I spent the afternoon training with Faith. She doesn't lack for energy. I can barely move, and she's gone off to some club."

"She's your first Slayer, I take it?" said Giles, chuckling a little as he prepared their tea.

"If you're questioning my qualifications," began Mrs. Post in an affronted tone.

"No, I'm not," said Giles quickly. "I have the utmost respect for your methods. In my own…American way." He cleared his throat. "I also have the Glove." She looked at him expectantly, and he elaborated. "Not actually with me at the moment. It's at my flat."

"Do you really think it wise to leave it there?" asked Mrs. Post, standing up urgently. "We must get to it. Immediately. Hide it in a more secure location before someone else finds it."

"Or, better still: destroy it," said Giles. He felt a sense of deep satisfaction upon seeing the startled look on her face.

"Destroy it?" she asked, smiling incredulously.

"Yes, I didn't think it could be done either at first, but," he picked up the book he'd been reading before and showed her the relevant passage, "it involves transforming fire into Living Flame and immolating the Glove. It's complex, but, er, I believe I have all the necessary materials." He left the book on the desk for her to keep reading while he moved over to check the items he had gathered.

"Well, I must say, Mr. Giles, good show," she said, her voice slightly colder now. A second later, stars exploded across Giles's vision as a heavy blow landed on the top of the head. He staggered around to see Mrs. Post wielding a wooden tribal statue from his desk. He barely had time to look at her in surprise before she swung at him again. "Good show indeed."

*Dramatic chord* aaand, cut to commercial. Haha. I love writing competitive Giles. And awkward uncomfortable Willow. And offended-on-Giles's-behalf Buffy. Yeah, with these episode-based chapters, I'm basically only writing the scenes that are different from canon. A very big difference is the intensity of Buffy's loyalty to Giles. Nothing has happened in this story to challenge their trust in each other, since she *did* confide in him completely in this story and he has been protecting her from the Council and is being supportive even though he has every right not to be, since it's about Angel. So, if anybody messes with Giles at this point, Buffy is going to automatically view them as an enemy.