To Buffy's surprise and appreciation, so far it seemed life after death was pretty much more of the same. So long as you could ignore the appalling lack of anything even vaguely caffeinated. Or the lack of a good American doughnut. Glazed...jelly filled pastry… *Can't keep thinking about that, I'm still here for another ten months. Stop it brain! Hmmm… wonder if I can convince the cook there is such a thing as a proper doughnut? Ugh. So not helping.*

There were other, less appealing parts of this setup though. Like hyper-annoying, know-it-all redheads who set impossible tasks before bedtime and had the gall to call it 'homework'. Who on earth expects someone to read an entire novel before lights out, (this no electricity business was old within the first five minutes of being here) and be in any way capable of discussing it the next afternoon? Especially without the help of copious refills of a triple macchiato with extra cream, or a Willow-shaped study-buddy? Can't the PTB's Chosen One catch a break- or was that asking too much of fate?

Her nose perked up, and her sleepy brain actually growled as it flooded her mouth with saliva. Someone, somewhere close *And why don't I think it's the cleaning lady?* had obviously gained access to a source of the sweetest smelling ambrosia known to her. Stride lengthening, the Slayer marched into the room, arms akimbo and head swivelling.

'Is that smell an indicator of me losing my mind and hallucinating or did this caffeine-forsaken Purgatory actually discover coffee?'

'I'm not sure. I don't have access to your perceptions and therefore cannot refute or guarantee the veracity of the sensory information your body is providing you.' Taliesin smirked to himself. It appeared his reluctant student was indeed bribable, given the right currency.

Buffy wrinkled the sensory organ in question, and continued to peer about the library's sitting area. 'Please stop. You make my brain hurt every time you open your mouth. I know, I know- I shouldn't ask rhetorical questions around Professor Snark because they push all the buttons of long-winded lecture time.'

'I make your brain hurt? That's a bit rich girl. The minute you walk in here I can feel my braincells fleeing me like rats from a sinking ship, and that's before you even say a word. However, I do believe I have finally hit upon a possible solution. Left you something at your torture station.'

As she wandered off he called out, 'Don't drink it too fast. It's still hot and I don't need you spraying priceless tomes because you burnt your tongue!'

'Not a child, Merlin!'

'Not Merlin, wench.'

'God if this is your idea of a joke I will slay you by inches. I don't even care if that makes me a bad person. If you've charmed a cup of hot water I will gladly go over to the dark side just so I can skin you alive.'

A few seconds later, a low, sensual moan was heard from the direction Buffy had left in.

'I can hear you, you know. Try not to wet the chair, other people have to sit there.'

'I'd reply to that but right now Buffy cells are reveling in Heaven. We've achieved completion and are at one with the Cosmic Logos.'

'You realise "completion" is just a euphemism for orgasm, don't you Buffy? I know it's good coffee but I think that's just a little too exhibitionist, don't you?'

'Please stop penetrating my happy endorphin haze, Badgerlock.'

Ever since she had discovered what that chunk of non-colour in his hairline was named, she took every opportunity to call him out on it. It was apparently a distinctive marker whatever form he was in; and that was another thing. Taliesin was a shapeshifter. Who happened to have started out as an ordinary human. Over a thousand years ago. Seems that being birthed a second time by a goddess was a great healthcare option.

'You aren't even listening to yourself, are you? If I knew coffee would induce this level of sexual gratification in a minor I'd not have risked a temporal incident by bringing you any.'

She ignored his last comment. It wasn't worth trying to get the last word in with a guy who had an endless supply of one-liners. Not for the first time, Buffy wondered what everyone was doing back home. She knew that she wouldn't have been gone more than a few days in their time but by her experience it had been two months now. Time had been flying and her schedule was full-on, with weapons and hand-to-hand in the morning, followed by supernatural history, martial arts and weapons theory, and finally her study time with Taliesin after the noon break. Her teachers were strict and quick to correct mistakes, but they were all much more engaging and willing to talk one-on-one when you didn't quite grasp the course material. While she still preferred to let her fists do the talking, the Slayer was coming to the realisation that school didn't have to be a drag, and books weren't her enemies.

It was a pretty wiggy thing to admit to herself, because the ex-cheerleader still suffered occasionally from the old attitude that books and learning were of the lame and nerdish. This despite admitting freely that Willow was a fairly awesome and totally sweet girl, without whom Math and much of her other classes would have remained an impenetrable morass of totally yawn-worthy concepts. When was she ever gonna have to use algebra, for one? And who really cared what frogs looked like inside, dissection was ick. It was bad enough when she had to decapitate a demon to kill it, guts were ooky things.

Startled by the wave of homesickness this thought created, she found herself angrily blinking her suddenly watery eyes. *This is totally unfair. Where were the Powers when I was being slowly killed? What kind of agency makes a 'Chosen One' and conveniently forgets to keep an eye on them to make sure they aren't dead before they get started?* The last thought bothered her especially. If she was important enough to be saved from going wherever dead people went, and placed in a re-education facility such as this apparently was, why couldn't they have avoided this mess altogether by giving her some kinda boost, or warning? Come to think of it, she'd been singularly slayer-dreamless the weeks preceding the big fight with her blond killer.

'Hey, Merlin? Why is this even a place? I mean, Ceri told me it was a training grounds for Champions, but there are a few here that're like me. We died, and woke up here. What's the deal with that anyway? I thought when a Slayer dies, a new one is called, no muss, no fuss and I'd be done. Do the Powers even keep an eye on their 'Chosen Ones' or is this the Hall of Oversight?'

'Look, what do you know about the PTB? I'll bet you were told something along the lines of "They are the white-hats in charge, the big Kahunas, and general all-knowing benevolent deities".'

She tilted her head, 'Yeah, kinda. Giles was always going on about the "Destiny of the Chosen One."' This last was surrounded by sarcastic air-quotes, as the Slayer clearly resented anything that smacked of a lack of independence.

'Well they aren't. Not all-knowing at any rate. Not omnipotent. They may be benevolent in the long term but they are not above using pawns to further their goals. If you look at them from a mortal perspective they are the anagogic equivalent to a large corporation. They employ a huge amount of people, and serve many more. But the wages are poor, and the health insurance sucks. Long hours and no severance package is guaranteed.'

Buffy's nose wrinkled in disgust. 'Sounds like a sucky deal to me.'

'It's worse if you're on the other side, frankly. It's the same sort of power, the same long-term goals, just twisted for evilness. And you don't get even half the care being a white-hat offers. It's why HR has such a huge redemption division. Now me, I work freelance. To further my analogy, I'm not directly employed by the PTB, I'm here in a consulting capacity given my particular talents. There's only one other fixed temporal anomaly that I know of, and he's got his own gig.'

'This is like Economics class isn't it? A duopoly setup with small independents trying to make a living on the sidelines of the competition? At least this way of explaining it is more interesting than Mrs Stibbons ever put it.'

'Don't talk to me about your quaint little colonial education system. It blatantly ignores over half of the important stuff going on in your world to focus the students on an insular and fanatically patriotic worldview, leaving aside the sheer blindness to anything that even hints at the supernatural. And I won't even start on your system of measurement. You claim to have wrested independence from the country that funded the initial colonies and yet still use imperial measurement. It's little wonder you were dying of boredom and unable to relate to half the material. You've come a long way since you arrived here Buffy, and it's not just because I'm a mean task-master.'

'I haven't ever been accused of being smart before. Blonde? Yes. I was pretty shallow before this whole Slayer gig was dropped on me. But Willow's always been the brains of my little group. I just like to hit things. Research and me have never been friends. It's nice that someone thinks I'm more than the Destined Muscle That Saves People.'

She turned back to her cooling cup, happily sipping at it while taking notes from a rather large bestiary dedicated to commonly found demons of the Americas.

'You aren't the only warrior-scholar there ever was either…' Taliesin muttered this more to himself than anyone else. He had hopes of his long term goals, and some of his gambles had to have paid off. It was harder to play black than white, and the bright won more often because of that, but if you had the skill it was not a setback either way. And he was nothing if not a master.

Spike'd dropped the DeSoto off with the cargo company some four days before he and Dru skipped town, using a fake ID he kept since he'd gotten the vehicle for just this sort of reason. Once he'd seen to his beloved car, he'd taken his princess and they'd shacked up at a nice hotel in the meantime, ordering room service and snacking on the staff who brought it. He'd managed to keep Dru from killing anyone at the hotel and forcing them to move, but only by taking her out every night. He counted down the days until they flew out with barely concealed impatience, and brought snacks to her in a lovely park he'd found near a university.

A few hours before they'd left Salvador for the 16 hour flight to LA, the blond vampire had stolen a hospital cooler, and several bags of human blood. Spiking it with some morphine he'd lifted at the same time, he made sure his princess was comfortable and drugged her to sleep through the jostling and disorientation she suffered whenever they flew. In the air, he alternated between stroking her hair and fidgeting. He lacked patience with sitting around doing nothing. Worst part about traveling, unless he was driving, was all the festering inaction.

Left him too much time to think, and for damn sure the Big Bad wasn't much for introspection. It smacked of brooding. And brooding was not only Poofter territory, it was bloody boring. He quickly exhausted both the untainted blood and the only book he hadn't read before they took off, and now faced the remaining hours hoping he'd gotten the dosage just right, so that Drusilla would be waking as they taxied into LAX. He liked getting things just right. It so rarely happened that it was always a nice change. Sure, chaos had its perks, but he didn't like to take chances around his girl.

Spike was pleased and surprised at how well Dru seemed to be doing once she woke from her poppy-assisted torpor. Since they'd alighted from the bowels of the cargo plane on the freight side of LAX, she'd been fairly lucid- well, lucid for Dru anyway, still barmy as anything. She had been singing rather a lot though, which was fairly unlike her. His princess was rarely coherent enough to croon more than a few lines before wandering off into her frequent monologues about fairies and pixies and what-all. In recent times she hadn't even done that much, the closest she'd come to singing was when she hummed children's rhymes. Run and Catch, Ring Around the Rosy and London Bridge were her favourites.

Dru hadn't actually sung anything in its entirety for near on twenty years. Might have been longer. Was in the 60's any rate. Sodding folk singers. Had an alright rock cover, but it was a mite poncy to listen to in company. All bloody neon gods and silence when he'd never been one for quiet. Still though, hook of an opening line; "Hello darkness my old friend/I've come to talk to you again". But ever since then his Plum would go on about gardens and flowers and her lack of a green thumb.

LA was a good place for demons. Unless they were painfully new, cabbies never even blinked if your reflection didn't show up in their rearview mirror because as long as you had cash, they didn't care. Sure they were more nervous, taxis always smelt heavily of fear-sweat; even so, for the most part they were 'live and let live', and that was just the human variety. If you were short of the dosh you flashed a bit of fang and it shut 'em up right quick. 'Course since the last time he'd been here the radio'd gone to pot, nothing short of aural torture being produced for the last decade. He'd be relieved to get his beloved girl back from the shipper, and if there was one scratch on his baby he'd… Well, a meal wasn't out of the question.

They arrived in Sunnydale a week later. His beloved car seemed to drift over of its own accord, plowing down the billboard welcoming them to the Hellmouth town. Bloody thing better not have scratched his Lady. He pulled to a stop, anchoring an unlit cigarette between his lips, as he laid his boots on soil he'd shaken off little more than three weeks ago- with no intention of ever returning. But that was the way of things usually, any plans he made tended to bollix up at the drop of a fang, and sod his efforts to avert disaster six ways to Sunday.

He wandered around the front of his vehicle, ostensibly to check the bumper for scratches- in reality, to stretch his legs and survey what he could see of the pissant little town they'd returned to. Dru was sleeping in the passenger seat, having become bored with her burning fishies or what-have-you about an hour back. She'd become even more pale and ephemeral as the weeks went past since his big night, and she still flatly refused to come anywhere near his blood, shying away or slapping him off when he offered a vein. He tried not to be too hurt, but it burnt every time. Used to be he'd go through three or four meals a night just to keep up with her appetites. Now she barely tolerated his touch, and she was fading to the point of needing him close by.

Spike was at his wits end, and fast running out of time to help his nocturnal saviour. Growling with impatience he returned to the car and put her in gear. Driving through the darkened streets, on the lookout for something appetising for his Sire, and desperately refusing to imagine the worst scenarios that repeatedly crowded his thoughts in the quiet. He cranked up the old radio and tried to lose himself in the beat of the loud station.

The trip across Britain had been made in relative silence, the two occupants of the train compartment lost in their own thoughts.

Giles was still stuck on research mode, a thousand and one possible outcomes to what they were planning flickering through his head. The woman beside him seemed to operate on autopilot for the most part, having mechanically fulfilled her supposed purpose for visiting the rainy country. As it grew dark, they retreated to their own corner of the small and noisy cabin and tried to sleep through the majority of the eight hour journey.

When they reached their final destination the tired Watcher gently shook his companion awake. She surfaced from her slumber with a tired yawn and stretched, before rubbing bleary, jet-lagged eyes and peering around.

'Where are we? What time is it?' Joyce was somewhat like her daughter, and took a little bit to wake to full consciousness. She stumbled like a sleepwalker behind Giles as he led her through the small crowd disembarking at the tiny station at Haverfordwest.

Collecting their luggage, they went to the locker number Giles had been given when he rang ahead at Heathrow Airport. Collecting the keys to the hire-car they'd been assigned by the company, they loaded the trunk and got in. Giles turned to Buffy's mother and spoke the first words beyond the strictly necessary between travel partners.

'How are you holding up my dear? Do you need anything before we head out? We're only a few minutes away from Morgan's' house, but if you need some time we can surely find a place for you to freshen up.'

'Oooh I could use a bathroom Giles. Travel always makes me feel so grimy. I could use a good wash up, and a date with a toothbrush. My mouth feels like a cat died in it.' Her shudder of distaste turned into a shiver. "A sweater would be appreciated, too.'

Giles grimaced with very British distaste. 'Charming analogy Joyce. And I did warn you to pack warmly, this is not California, and it's fairly mild for this time of year. I suppose I could use some private time with a bathroom mirror myself.'

Back in the train terminal they parted ways to their respective restrooms, agreeing to meet back at the car in a quarter of an hour. Giles finished swiftly, and made a quick call from the pay-phone to make sure the welsh Watcher was apprised of their imminent arrival, then he returned to the car to wait for his companion.

In the bathroom, Joyce quietly fumed as she splashed water on her face. Her baby was gone, and Giles had the nerve to lecture her about sweaters. Yes, she probably should have packed one, but how could he think that was important at a time like this? Besides… all of her sweaters were still packed away in the basement with Buffy's. She hadn't been able to bear….

She took a deep breath and fought for composure. They were going to fix things. Buffy would come back, and everything would be okay again. She nodded resolutely to her reflection and began to determinedly brush her hair, as if defeating the tangles would also defeat any obstacles in their path.

She finished up her grooming tasks and headed out of the ladies room, telling herself that she would be kind and gracious, and not give into the 'I'm an upset mama bear' urge to punch Giles in the nose over the least little thing.

When the Watcher looked up, Joyce was headed back towards him across the parking lot, no sweater in sight. It being too late for any of the sleepy little town's boutique-sized stores to be open, he perforce removed his own coat, offering it without quibble to the woman as she came up beside him. 'Feel a little more yourself?' he enquired politely, trying to inject some normality into the situation. God knows it couldn't be easy for the poor lady. To all intents and purposes, no matter what their end goal was, at this point in time Buffy was in actual fact dead.

Joyce looked at the coat for a moment, her expression neutral. Then she took it and put it on. 'Thank you. And yes, I do feel a bit more myself now. This situation isn't easy for either of us.'

'I daresay you are right, my dear.'

He couldn't help but feel a sense of urgency about the circumstances. Given his experience in the occult as a rather rebellious youth, he had some appreciation for the twistings of his gut instincts, and they told him time was of the essence. With that in mind he ushered Joyce into the small car, and after checking a complementary local map from the glove compartment, he exited the train station parking lot and headed out to the south.

In the predawn darkness he almost missed the turnoff onto the small laneway that would take them to Morgan's farm. The man ran a seasonal Pick Your Own produce setup as a cover for his Council activities. Arriving in the large yard he pulled up to the buildings behind the main homestead and turned to Joyce. She looked wilted. Dark circles bruised her eye-lids, and lines of strain deepened the creases that were just beginning to show at the corners of her mouth. She looked as though she'd aged overnight, going from vibrant middle-age to broken seniority. He sighed sympathetically. He wasn't the girls' blood relation by any means, but he'd felt a part of her life since she'd bounced into his library insisting she was quitting the 'Slayer gig' like it were some summer job she could discard when she returned to school.

'Let's go inside, I called Morgan while you were busy and let him know we were here. He's generously offered to put us up while we're staying in Wales and I saw no reason to refuse him. Accommodation here can get rather pricey if you aren't prepared and frankly neither of us have had much of a chance for any real preparation. I hope you don't mind that I made the decision without asking, I didn't think to question you before you left.'

Joyce's eyes narrowed as she looked at him. Then she visibly composed herself. 'This is acceptable, but in the future, I want to be consulted. I am a modern American woman, Mr Giles, and I do not appreciate decisions being made on my behalf without my input. We're in this together.'

Giles winced. His brain was running on autopilot by this point. It had been a minor miracle that he'd remembered which side of the bloody road to drive on, and now he had to worry about offending a woman whom he knew was quite capable of wreaking untold havoc if slighted. Mumbling his apologies he hurriedly walked up to the door of the house. Before he could knock, it was opened.

The man in the doorway peered at them, his features thrown into relief by the overhead light. He backed away from the door and gestured them inside. When both managed to pass the threshold with no issue he grinned suddenly.

'Welcome, welcome! I've been waiting on you both,' his voice was gratingly cheerful to the two weary travelers, bright and chipper with a soft lilt. Giles turned gimlet eyes on him, attempting to stare a hole through his head. He'd been more subdued on the phone, but the Watcher had forgotten his friend's habit of being wakeful while the sun slept. Morgan had always been near as nocturnal as the vampires he studied.

The redhead bustled in front of them, directing them to a cheerily lit kitchen where a trio of mugs awaited the kettle that was just now coming to a boil. 'Tea?' Morgan enquired solicitously. 'Or I have some instant coffee I suppose. Either way we have a lot of work to do and not a lot of time for it.'

'Believe me, no one appreciates the need to get things going more than I do, but Mr Giles and I are exhausted.' There was a stubborn set to her mouth and shoulders, as if she didn't want to be the voice of reason but was going to do it anyway. She was a mother. It was what mothers did. 'As much as I hate to admit it, we'll be useless if we don't get some sleep.'

The younger man looked positively crestfallen, apologising as if it were a personal failure that their exhaustion kept them from springing at the chance to unravel this mystery. He instead directed them to the wing of the large house where the bedrooms were located, and placed them across the hall from one another. They barely had the presence of mind to shuck their travel-stained clothes and prepare for bed before the two succumbed to oblivion.