With a pre-moistened cloth she’d brought for this occasion, Anya wiped off the dead traces of her makeup. Result: one clean but exhausted face looking back at her from the weirdly lit bathroom mirror. She scrutinized her reflection closely.

Yes, just as she suspected. Jet-lag might not be as stomach-clenchingly difficult as interdimensional teleportation-lag, but it was nevertheless hell on a woman’s pores.

Ignoring the traditional icky airport-bathroom smells of cleanser and too many visitors, she dug into her makeup bag for her moisturizing foundation. Although Rupert would be pacing the hallway outside, expecting her to hurry so they could make it through the Heathrow Airport Passport Control and Baggage Reclaim, he could simply wait a little longer. The trip to see their new house could wait. She had the bathroom to herself, and she wanted to feel pretty for this life-changing moment.

She unscrewed the cap on the tube, squeezed out a little on her finger. The released liquid made a hiss –

Too many, too many, all hissing down the Sunnydale High hallway. Anya pushed Andrew behind her and lifted her sword to face the demon-tide.

Then she struck the first blow.

Teeth and claws and there, she got one, but there were more and more coming. Too many, too many, all hissing. She got turned around somehow, couldn’t see. She fought blind, she fought badly.

She could hear, though. She could hear her breathing, hear growls and cries and Andrew-whimpers.

She heard something else too, too late, too late – another hiss, a weapon coming from behind. It lifted the hair on the back of her neck.

And then a blow was struck, from – where? who? – from Rupert, who materialised with a sword in his hand, spinning her out of the way and then lunging forward.

She heard the scream of the creature as it lost its head. As she would have lost hers if he hadn’t been there.

"Come on, darling. Time to retreat," he said, locking onto her free hand. "Keep your sword up."

She heard Andrew scurrying behind them as Rupert pulled her to safety, to the light.

With a steady hand, she applied the foundation to her skin, smoothing it evenly. Really, if she got shaky every time she had a painful sense-memory of the Last Stand at Sunnydale High, she’d be a quivering and unattractive mess. She wouldn’t allow that to happen; in fact, she’d been practising Serenity Right the Hell Now during the whole past month in Cleveland.

What next. A little mascara, a little eyeliner – but only a little, to counteract an unfortunate tendency toward jet-lag raccoon eyes. As she worked, she opened her eyes wide and tilted her head up, which meant the light burned. Involuntary tears blurred the edges of her vision, hot-white–

The blinding sun and her lack of sunglasses weren’t the only reasons she was crying. As she looked into the crater that once had been Sunnydale, she said, "So Spike’s gone?"

"Apparently so," Rupert said for the fifth time. She’d heard him each time, but it still seemed... wrong, somehow. Although Spike had been technically already dead, what with the vampirism.

Rupert sighed, tightened his arm around her, dropped his head down on hers. The poor honey was probably thinking about his not entirely well-advised participation in Wood’s plot to kill Spike (who, again, had been technically already dead). Of course Spike tried to kill her first, right there in the middle of the trigger-removal process in the Summers basement, which made Rupert quite understandably flash back to a previous dead girlfriend killed by a hitherto semi-trusted vampire with a soul, and thus the whole deal had been guaranteed to end badly. Frankly, Anya thought Buffy had overreacted. It wasn’t like Wood or Rupert had killed Spike in the end.

In the end, something else had. And Buffy must have seen it happen, or why would she be standing frozen at the crater’s edge? Looking at where Spike had gone, ashes to ashes, demon to dust?

Involuntary tears blurred the edges of Anya’s vision, hot-white. It could have been her. It could have been her Rupert. It was sad that it had been Spike.

"Oh, damn it!" she said under her breath, reaching for a tissue. She hadn’t quite gotten the trick of preventing the crying jags. But a dab or two, a blow of the nose, and she was just fine.

No raccoon-action to fix, either. Good job, Anya, she told herself.

Before she could pick up the eyeliner again, however, there was a knock on the bathroom door. "Anya darling? What’s taking so long?"

After dropping her makeup bag into her carry-on, she hurried over and opened the door. "Just calm down, honey, I’ll be ready in a second."

He stood in the doorway, frowning down at her, looking so very tired and cross yet also loving and Rupert-like that she had to reach up and drag his head down to hers. Hmm. He must have brushed his teeth when he’d taken his own bathroom break; she could taste the weird British Airways toothpaste over his own deliciousness.

Then he was kissing back, his lips moving in a way that promised sex and caring and maybe a little consensual roughness, so that she forgot about airline toothpaste and merely enjoyed him.

He pulled away too soon, though. "Come on, darling. Get your things and let’s go. We need to pick up the car –"

"Back, back," she said, forcing him to return to her lips.

Another kiss, longer and deeper, before he said against her mouth, "All right now. Come on."

Her hands slid under his suede jacket, dipping slyly under his jeans. As she cupped his ass, which made him tense all over in an interesting and sexually charged way, she said, "Hey, I’ve got a great idea."

"Before you say anything, the answer is no."

However, he was already bumping against her belly, a slow involuntary roll which meant he could be persuaded. A nibble on his ear, then she whispered, "Oh, honey. Sex right here, right now."

His Rupert-sigh tickled the back of her neck. "Anya, really. We’ve got that appointment to get the keys to the house, and, uh, meet with the solicitors – Christ, don’t do that! – and we should get the hire car we reserved – ohhh God. Right. The, er, the first exit off the M4 and the back seat, darling, what do you say?"

"I say I’m not good at waiting."

"Anya, please. We’re in a women’s toilet, for fuck’s sake –"

She raised up on her toes and ground against him in just the way she knew he adored. Another heavy sigh, then he uttered the second most treasured combination of words that any woman who was in love with Rupert Giles could hear: "Oh, sod it." Which meant his finely honed brain had temporarily disengaged, and the bad boy he usually repressed so well was at the helm. Or steering wheel. Or cockpit. Or – she really wasn’t good with metaphors, she decided.

However, word choice didn’t matter, because he was in charge now. With one hand still holding his carry-on, he wrapped the other around her waist and started walking her backward to the last stall in the bathroom, nuzzling at her all the way. She encouraged his efforts with little moans and the judicious use of her hands on his erection.

He kicked her carry-on into the stall first, then threw his on top of it. Against her neck, he said, "Anything breakable in your bag?"

"No, not really–"

"Good." Then he lifted her on top of both carry-ons, which position put her almost at his eye-level. At almost the proper angle for sex.

"Honey," she said, her hands slipping back to his nicely shaped bottom, "you are a genius."

He was too busy closing the stall door behind him to answer her. Then he was there, with hands and lips and concentrated bad-boy attention, and she needed to unbutton his jeans which would be difficult as he was very hard indeed, and – what had Rupert said so eloquently? Ohhh God.

His hands pinched at her nipples until she cried out in his ear, until she could feel the fresh lingerie she’d just put on dampen. She’d have said as much, but she was too busy playing with that lovely hardness, her fingers passing over and over and over – then, a shivering sigh in her ear, he unsnapped her jeans and slid his finger unerringly to her. A stroke, a dive into her wetness, another stroke, and another.

Ohhh God. Yes. That.

Their jeans and his boxers hit the floor at the same time ( the newly cleaned floor, luckily, as her three working brain cells noted). After he ripped her underwear – one of his more expensive hobbies – he lifted her up just a bit higher. She opened her legs, slid them up and around his waist, and arched back against the quite cold tile wall.

He was inside and moving before she could breathe.

This being by definition what she believed was called "a quickie," he didn’t waste any time on finesse. Just Rupert hitting every sweet spot she had, over and over, delicious, slippery, right there right there right there. Yes, that, yes – ohh God.

Because he was a gentleman, he let her go first, but only just. A moan against her neck, hot exhalation against moist skin that made her shiver even more, then he came with a jolt. His pulse started a second, smaller wave for her. As she enjoyed the last little ripples, he whispered, "Love you, darling." This of course was the most treasured combination of words any woman in love with Rupert Giles could hear.

They stayed together, connected, until she could feel his legs start to shake. "Love you too. Now let me down," she whispered.

Although it wasn’t particularly graceful, he managed to pull out and then get her on her feet. She wobbled a bit, what with being perched on two suitcases and having not quite recovered from a very fine orgasm, but she managed to stay upright. He smiled at her, kissed her behind her ear, then said, "Right. Now let’s go through Passport Control and get our bags and –"

"Shouldn’t we clean ourselves up first?" As she handed him some toilet paper, however, she heard the bathroom door open and what appeared to be a small flock of touristy sheep, all bleating and baa-ing about the long flight.

"Oh God, oh God," he said under his breath, leaning his forehead on hers.

There was definite squeaking and then a halt, which made her look past him. Tiny child shoes had stopped just outside their stall, then a tiny child voice piped, "Mommy, there’s lots of clothes and too many feet in here."

A woman’s shoes joined the child’s, and there came an adult intake of breath and a quite different squeak. "Let’s find another bathroom, little one," the mother said, as she pulled the child away. "This one’s kind of funny."

But that didn’t mean they were safe. The whole unit of doors rattled when another woman shut herself into a stall not too far away, and Anya could hear someone else begin a long and painfully uninteresting anecdote about the projected walk to the Heathrow Express.

With far more dignity than could have been expected, Rupert bent down and collected his clothing from around his ankles. Then he did the same for her. Taking her cue from him, she put herself together, tidied them both as best she could.

"So, Tiffany, what d’ya think about those English men? Aren’t they supposed to be cold and reserved?" the Heathrow-Express voice said, boldly advancing a new topic.

"That’s what I heard, Debbie. Must be true," said the woman in the other stall.

"Except that Colin Firth. He seems pretty hot."

"Or Jude Law. But that’s only two of them. So I don’t think we can expect any flings on this vacation. We probably should have gone to Greece or one of those hot-blooded countries. Or Italy, that’s where Colin Firth lives."

Anya finished patting Rupert’s hair into some kind of order, then checked that his belt was done up. "There," she whispered. "Now just think, honey, it could be worse. Could be an apocalypse."

"Right, darling. Thank you for the perspective," he whispered back. With a shudder of soul-deep embarrassment but a brave smile, he picked up his bag and opened the stall door. He said, "Er, hello. Yes. Well, um, enjoy your stay," to a sudden, profound silence.

The bathroom door was already swinging shut behind him when she made it out of the stall with her own bag. The Heathrow-Express woman, smudged red mouth hanging open like one of the less attractive types of stuffed dead fish, stared at the door, then at her.

And Anya said kindly, "I have to inform you, I’m sorry, but your premise about Englishmen is false. However, you can’t have mine."

She cast one more glance in the mirror – gosh, good sex in a Heathrow Airport bathroom did wonders for a jet-lagged woman’s complexion, better than any makeup – then went out in the English morning to start her new life with her Rupert.

***

One more box of books to unload. That made, er, thirty-two for home, not counting the twenty-five he’d hauled to their new office to serve as their work reference material.

Perhaps something could be said for the digital revolution, after all. Fewer bloody boxes.

Hunching his shoulders against the summer afternoon mist, Giles opened the boot of his and Anya’s new (well, used) Saab and wrestled the last one out. Juggling it, he managed to shut the boot, open the gate which had unaccountably closed, and make it up the gravelled walk to their new house –

The Islington house which had been his cousin Martin Giles’s, before the man had been lost in the explosion that levelled the Council of Watchers’s headquarters. There was some slight irony in a Council failure inheriting the property of a man who had been the quintessential Watcher, he thought. However, as Anya so cogently put it, there was also a hell of a lot of property value involved. He’d just focus on that and on her, and try to ignore the guilt.

As he went through the open front door into the small entry hall, he took a deep breath. The house smelled different now. Not that he had been in the habit of visiting weird Cousin Martin, but the few times he had done, the place had practically exhaled books, damp, dust, and eternally wet wool – just like Martin himself, who had been an archivist in the English Prophecies division. A man who’d lived alone, set into his white stucco shell like a peculiarly bookish crab.

Giles shouldered shut the door and breathed in again; he could just make out sage and the candles Anya kept burning, a hint of her citrus perfume, and the scent-shadow of the fresh paint the two of them had spent the past fortnight rolling, dabbing, and sponging onto the walls, like deranged refugees from Changing Rooms. Dear God, but Anya and paint effects were a sodding dangerous combination.

However, he now always would have a happy memory whenever he thought of dust sheets and late afternoon: flashes of her pale skin reddening wherever he stroked the dry ends of his most expensive brush, caressing the curves of her breasts and down her flat belly and down, down; her pleasure-cries like bells clamouring in the far distance; his ripped-off shirt buttons spinning into the tray of Heritage Crimson Fire as her hands pulled him to join her.

No more damp, no more dust, no more wet wool. Without Anya, he too could have so easily become a man who’d forever lived in his shell.

Before going upstairs he kicked off his shoes, and as he went he touched down as lightly as possible on each step. After they’d gotten back from Bath that morning with the last load from his old flat, she had plunged into errands, although she wouldn’t tell him what exactly was causing her to run around like a madwoman. In any event, she deserved a little nap.

The door to their bedroom was open, and as he passed, he glanced inside. She lay on her back, arms out and head tipped to the side, washed in gold from a bedside lamp she’d left on –

She lay on the concrete floor of the Summers cellar, arms out and head tipped to the side, as a game-faced Spike attacked again. Giles tried to stop it, to rescue her, but Buffy was there first to pull Spike away.

"Anya," Giles said, dropping down beside her, barely registering the pain in his knees. "Can you hear me, darling?" He fought down the memory of a dead woman laid on his bed, of a soaring aria and spilled liquor and death-blooming flowers, and touched his living woman’s face as gently as he could. He traced around the wounds on her forehead and cheekbone, careful not to touch her hurts.

"Rupert?" Her voice was small, the faintest of chimes.

"I’m here. I’ve got you." He eased his hand under her head so that she didn’t have to rest it on the concrete. Didn’t matter if his hand was scraped raw by the floor. Didn’t matter if he hurt. This time he wouldn’t be too late.

Behind him Spike said something he couldn’t hear, then Buffy’s voice came clearly: "Oh, Anya’ll be okay. She’s tough."

This time he wouldn’t be too late, he thought once more. He couldn’t go through that again.

And in the madness and failure of the night that followed, at least he did tell Anya for the first time that he loved her.

She cat-stretched in her sleep, rolling over to burrow her face into his pillow. She’d bloody better not drool on it, he thought, and went on into the room next door.

As he let the box fall onto the battered sofa that took pride of place in the study, he looked around at the space he loved second-best in their new home (after their bedroom, of course). He and Anya had chosen a rich scarlet to brighten the walls, and she’d hung colourful sari material at the windows, just as she’d seen on some sodding decorating programme. The only pieces of furniture his father had left him, the leather sofa and chairs and a fine Arts and Crafts desk, were scattered around the room. Best of all, old Martin had installed floor-to-ceiling bookcases along one long wall, which Giles had almost managed to fill. One shelf remained, ready for one final box.

He’d left this one until last for a reason. It contained his Watcher diaries: of course the contents had been scanned into the new Council database, but he’d talked Robson into letting him keep the originals.

He plucked the first volume out of the box, turned it over in his hand. Council of Watchers was stamped in tiny Gothic letters on the spine. Rupert Giles, once a stalwart member of the Council, but no longer –

"Watcher Council 2.0 life not working out for you, huh, Giles? Heading back to the jolly olde homeland?" Buffy’s question was wind-tossed over her shoulder. She had turned to look at Lake Erie, not at him. Robson had chosen a lovely spot for the new Council headquarters, right across from the water.

He had to squint against the harsh afternoon sun and the glare off the lake, trying to keep her in focus. "I beg your pardon?"

"I know what it looks like when you’re getting ready to leave. It looks kinda like now."

"Buffy..." He fought to keep his arms still at his sides, neither to reach out to her, nor to wrap himself in yet another failure. "Are you saying you don’t think my leaving’s a good idea?"

"No. It is." At that, she did turn, although the angled light prevented him from seeing her face clearly. "You’re taking Anya, right?"

"She’ll go with me when I go, yes."

"Uh-huh. Well, that’s cool. It’ll be easier for Xander if you two aren’t throwing your whatever in his face all the time. And Willow’s good now, better than good. She doesn’t really need a keeper."

"Yes, she’s in control of her power, she understands it. And of course you don’t need me." He’d said it before, the first time he’d gone. The words burned on his tongue now as they had done then.

She just looked at him. Still the Slayer despite the many others now Called, but with any and all prophesied ‘instability’ gone. And she was silent.

But then she’d already said the crucial words that horrible night Anya had been hurt: ‘You’ve lost it, Giles; you’re not a real Watcher any more. You can’t teach me anything.’ They didn’t need to be spoken again.

Behind her the lake shimmered intensely and perfectly blue, marred only by whitecaps kicked up by the previous night’s storm. He said, "Might I ask you something? Just something I’ve been wondering about."

"Sure."

"That last day in Sunnydale, why did you send Anya in with Andrew? Your two least skilled fighters on the same team, covering the same area – it didn’t make battle-sense to me."

"You didn’t say anything then."

"No. I’d done with questioning your decisions."

"Except for now, right?" A hint of the old Buffy, a bubble of laughter before it popped. She said slowly, "Because it wasn’t an important point to defend, and if they fell, they weren’t... it wouldn’t... I was thinking of the mission, Giles. Just like you taught me."

The knowledge burned, just as his eyes burned with the light off the water, but he kept himself still and focussed. After waiting for a response he couldn’t give, she said, "Turn about is fair play, right, British Guy? That same day, in the middle of everything, you left Wood and your mission, so you could go pull Anya and Andrew out of there. What was that about?"

Sun reflected pain: light off the water, light off the desert, remembered light off a hell-burnt crater in the ground. "I thought that the world was ending, Buffy. And I decided that if it was, the last thing Anya was going to see was me protecting her. Just as you taught *me*."

Not waiting for a response she couldn’t give, he turned and walked away.

When he and Anya left two weeks later, only Willow, Dawn, and Andrew saw them off. Buffy and Xander were unavoidably detained elsewhere.

He put the journal on the shelf, arranging it just so, then bent to get the next one. And the next. And the next. It only took him ten minutes to store away those six years of his life.

He looked at the empty box for a minute, then pushed at it until it fell off the couch and softly thumped on Cousin Martin’s threadbare Aubusson. Of course he should haul the box down to the rubbish bin. Or, better, he could sneak out to the weedy back garden and have a cigarette, despite the mist. Anya surely wouldn’t notice, since she was sleeping –

From downstairs came a shatteringly loud knock on the door. From their bedroom came Anya’s shouted "I’ll get it, honey, I’m expecting something" and her equally loud footsteps going down the stairs.

Not sleeping any longer, then.

After using one socked foot to spin the book box into a corner, he went over to his old stereo system. Before Anya’s nap he’d been listening to one of his favourite albums, and he rather thought he’d hear it one more time through. Carefully he took the LP out of its protective vinyl sleeve, placed it on the turntable, and cued up the first song.

"Jesus died for somebody’s sins, but not mine," Patti Smith sang over the opening notes of the piano, and despite the words, he smiled. Yeah, that was the stuff. Good tune for a grey day.

Thunder rolled back up the stairs, and Anya appeared at the doorway, a small box of her own in her hands. She announced, "Okay, I’ve just about had it with that harsh and aggressive music you so unexpectedly like. I get to listen to Dusty in Memphis next, it’s only fair."

"Um-hm," he said neutrally. "What did you get delivered, darling?"

"Sit on the couch, please."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Sit on the couch, and I’ll show you." When dutifully he did as he was told, she leapt to join him, making the leather creak with the force of her landing. "Budge over, honey," she said, already practically in his lap – and then quite actually in his lap. With ease borne of six months with her, he adjusted himself to her weight, while she pulled off the loose lid and tossed it over on top of his book box.

Resting his chin on her shoulder, he looked at her treasure. Correction, their treasure: hundreds of their new business cards, the black letters pressed into cream linen. She picked up one of them, and he adjusted his glasses to see it better, muttering, "Could you please hold it a little further away? And if you say one word about bifocals, you, er, won’t be happy with the result."

"Listen, Mr. Cranky Man, it doesn’t matter to me if you need to hold your reading material across the street so you can see it," she said cheerfully. "But aren’t they great?"

He took the card from her hand, angling it so that the light reflected off its surface. Giles and Jenkins, Partners in Investigations and Acquisitions scrolled across it in bold, followed by the motto The extraordinary, found and explained. Reasonable rates. Smaller script indicated the address, phone numbers, and e-mail addresses of their new Bloomsbury office. "They’re bloody brilliant, is what they are."

"I know!" she said, her wriggle of joy setting everything into dangerous motion. It took their joint efforts to catch the cards before the box slid off her lap, and then he took the precaution of putting it on the floor. She threw one arm around his neck and beamed at him. "It feels just right to be officially back in business together."

"Yes, it does," he said, tipping her onto her back, easing her onto the cushions and covering her. Their combined weights made the leather creak again.

"And we’ll start going into the office tomorrow, right? Start our new work the proper way, with punctuality and enthusiasm?" She took off his glasses and put them on the side table. Then she threw out one arm aimlessly, turning her head to the side to facilitate his attention.

"Absolutely. I feel quite enthusiastic already," he murmured, his mouth now buried in the citrus-sharp hollow of her throat. When she sighed, he brought the card up, brushed it against the corners of her mouth. The bend of paper, the hush of breath, the creak of the sofa, all were counterpoint to their Patti Smith soundtrack.

"Honey, each card costs 15p," she whispered against the paper, even as she arched up higher and harder, her body bowed into his. "You’re wasting a valuable business resource here."

"Better put it to good use, then." He slid over so that he could reach her breasts. Lightly but unerringly, he flicked the edge of the card across one nipple, then the other, then the first again. Then he repeated the process. Over her happy little gasps, he said, "What have we here? Something extraordinary indeed. I believe, er, investigation is called for...."

"Gloria, G-L-O-R-I-A," the song rang out, as he unbuttoned her shirt and took one breast into his mouth, as Anya burrowed a hand in his hair and shifted to cradle his hips. The throb of blood, the movement of tongue and lips on such deliciousness, the creak of the sofa.

Yes, he’d just concentrate on her and their home and business, ignore the guilt. And this new life would be glorious indeed.

***

A misty midday at work, and Anya was bored. Bored, bored, bored. She tapped her nails against the stapler and tried very hard not to brood.

Rupert, the stupid man, was of course as happy as a Mikh demon-dwarf merchant receiving a half-price shipment of pickled entrails. She spun her desk chair around to look at him through the open door. Wearing one of his beautiful suits from the Magic Box days, he sat at the long oak table in their new conference room/library, buried in a stack of old books and scribbling away madly. He had scored two nice commissions in their first week and a half, both from people who had known him in his mysterious Watcher career, the time he wouldn’t talk about: a report to be done on the pixies infesting a St. James gentlemen’s club (with accompanying recommendations for disposal or removal), and a preliminary report on a ghoul seen on the high street in Peckham.

Of course, they’d done the legwork together for those jobs – an afternoon walk-through of the musty, it’s-a-man’s-world-after-all club and some pixie-battling, much like the Kizzyoit deal of their first night together; an evening out at a Peckham pub, then a little spirit-observation in an adjacent alley. But now it was over to Rupert for the final research and report-writing. She’d be able to help him transfer his hand-written notes to actual word-processed brilliance, but that wouldn’t be for a day or so.

Thus, that morning while he worked, she had accomplished the following: long, chatty e-mails received from, and replies sent to, Dawn and Andrew; obsessive checking of her stocks, which were doing well, especially the magic-and-technology sector; a scan of E-Bay competitors offering herbs, candles and potions, none of whom had anything like the quality and quantity she offered; another rearrangement of their outer-office client chairs to better reflect prosperity and good energy; fifty-two games of computer solitaire. Oh, and she had concocted a secret plan to alleviate boredom and increase business as well.

Now, as it was almost lunchtime, she could put the plan into action, including the "still a secret" part.

Going to the conference-room doorway, she rested her hands against the wooden frame, smiled at him. "Almost time to eat, Rupert."

"Um-hm." He didn’t look up from his notes.

"I’ll go get it and bring it back, if you want. I was thinking Indian so you could have your favourite tikka masala, but I could be convinced to get sandwiches."

"Um-hm." He flipped a page, messed with his glasses so he could see the illustration more clearly, then started writing again.

"But I have an errand or two to run first, is that okay? It might take me an hour or so."

"Um-hm."

"Before any of that, however, I think I’ll masturbate in the front office, using the office-supply item of my choice as an aid to pleasure."

"Um-hm." He flipped another page, ran his index finger down to a particular passage. "Just give me three minutes to finish this paragraph, and I’ll be there with the digital camera to record the, er, hot pornographic action."

When she threw a convenient stack of Post-it notes at his head, he barely managed to duck. Smiling, he said, "Anya, I was listening. I just need to get this draft done today. The sooner done, the sooner invoiced."

"Rupert, that’s a very good point." She smiled back at him. "So it’s okay if I go off for an hour of two?"

"Of course, darling. And I think I’d like a vindaloo for lunch, please. Lamb, preferably."

"You got it," she said. "Or you’ll get it in an hour or so." Walking over to him, she leaned down for a long, mint-tea-flavoured kiss. Then she whispered against his cheek, "If you finish your draft early, we can still do the whole camera-and-the-er-hot-pornographic-action activity before we go home tonight."

"Oh for fuck’s sake. Just go." But he grinned as he said it, and his hand lingered on her bottom even as he pushed her away.

As she left the room, she said, " Now, my absence means you’ll have to answer the phones, you know, if you think you can do that and write at the same– "

"Thank you, Anya, I’m capable of answering the bloody phone," he snapped, even as he turned his attention back to his papers. Yep, his aggravation continued to arouse her in some inexplicable way, and she kind of thought it always would.

It took only a second or two to collect her light jacket and purse on the way. In some sort of perfect justice, the phone began to ring just as she shut the door behind her. But since he said he could do it, she didn’t turn around.

Still smiling, she clattered through the outer hallway, then took the flight of stairs down past the ground-floor art gallery and onto the street. Gilbert Place was quiet, especially on a day like this one. Not the greatest location for retail, but Rupert had gotten a good deal on the office lease, and it wasn’t actually as if they needed walk-up trade for their business.

The weird thing, of course, was that it was only two blocks from the bombed-out rubble of the Council of Watchers building. As she walked in that direction, she thought about poor Rupert’s shudder every time they went by it, his dark moments of silence immediately thereafter. She made a mental note to call Robson and hurry up the New Council in clearing the site, so that something else could be built and her poor man could stop feeling the pain of things he didn’t need to remember.

Making her way through side streets, through mist and traffic, through diesel-and-greasy-food smells and too many pedestrians, she found herself remembering her own previous trips to London. Business trips, of course, several centuries’ worth. Screams of vengeance victims could still haunt her sometimes, when she allowed herself to get quiet and listen to memory. It was useful in small doses to remind herself what she had chosen to give up, what she knew had been wrong.

Only in small doses, however. There were other, more profitable uses for her memory.

Finally, Shaftesbury Avenue. She took a short cut, smiling to herself as she crossed to St Giles High Street – amusing because she was in love with a Giles who couldn’t be further from a saint, which was good because the three saints she actually had met had been tedious people. Then she zipped past the church, toward Charing Cross Road.

On Charing Cross, two doors down from Foyles, the giant bookshop, she found her target: a blue wooden door, not-quite-full-size, set into a brick wall. There was no handle, but she remembered the trick of it. Two raps at the top, two raps at the bottom, and the door swung open. "We don’t open until sunset! Do you know the before-hours password?" a gruff voice shouted.

"Nalph, there is no password," she said. After circling herself and muttering a protection-spell just for safety, which was one of the things Willow had deigned to teach her before the flight from Cleveland, she walked across the threshold into the tiny, crowded and aromatic magic shop.

Demon magic, of course.

"No, not Nalph, it’s pronounced Nafe, as I’ve told you several times before. Anyanka, isn’t it?" The Mikh demon-dwarf, a swarthy blue like most of his tribe, tossed back his indigo dreadlocks and peered at her. "You’re different now, though. You’re...oh dear, oh dear, you’re human." This attitude seemed a little hypocritical, considering that his shop was located in the heart of the human West End and she knew for a fact he served all kinds. But allowances must be made for the Mikh.

"It’s Anya now. Human again, human to stay," she confirmed. "But still demon-friendly. To some demons, that is, peaceable demons."

"I am very much interested in peace," Nalph said piously. After pushing aside his jars of pickled entrails– she had somehow known it would be delivery day and he’d be in a good mood; maybe she was turning psychic – he crossed his claws on the counter and said, "Go ahead, human Anyanka, or as you would have it, Anya. What can I do for you?"

First she pulled out the item she’d prepared for this moment. Then she walked to the large bulletin board that covered one wall. Tapping the display of photos and flyers, advertising various goods and services for the shadowy half-demon market, she said, "Got space for another business card?"

"Perhaps," Nalph said. "And for what purpose would I put such a thing up on my highly exclusive board, screened for my customers’ convenience and purchasing safety?"

Beaming at him in her best Magic-Box-honed way, she said, "Because you care about your customers, and because Giles and Jenkins does not discriminate in its cases, much. Peaceful demons and half-demons are more than welcome to give us a call for help in investigations and acquisitions. That’s what my partner and I do, you see. We investigate problems and acquire items of interest – for a fee charged in British sterling, obviously, although we also will accept Euros."

"Intriguing." The Mikh hopped around the counter on his frog-legs, then held out a claw for her card. She could feel the waves of magic, darker magic than most creatures knew he had – of course she knew, hence the protection-spell – but she could also feel his keen interest. As he perused the card, he said, "And this Giles is your partner? Also human, one imagines."

"Very much human." She swallowed hard, because the next bit could be tricky, but since the truth would out eventually, it was better to control the information-flow oneself. "Um, he was once a Watcher."

The blue claw tightened on the cream, one sharp nail digging into the bold Acquisitions. "A Watcher. Enemy to our kind."

"Not a friend to vampires and killer-types, no," she said. "However, a perfectly reasonable man." Some of the time, she silently qualified, and a good test would be when she told him about what she was doing. Another hard swallow, but then, brightly, "We wouldn’t acquire weapons of mass destruction or creatures for ritual sacrifice, you see, but answers to demon-history questions? You bet! A line on that Nri-encrusted cup, last seen in Morocco, that you’ve always wanted? Giles and Jenkins is the firm you want to deal with."

"How long have you and this Giles been in London?" he asked out of nowhere.

"A few weeks."

"Ah, a few weeks. And an ex-Watcher and ex-vengeance demon, together. Intriguing indeed." With a sudden decisive movement, he leapt, higher than Anya could reach, and tacked the card up on the board. Very good placement for casual traffic, she noted. Then he turned and extended a claw. which she took. His eyes had gone so dark that they were almost purple. "Let me wish you the best, Anya now human, but let me tell you that London is changing in many ways, both surface and deep. You need to know that if you wish to prosper."

"I’ll keep that in mind," she said as she shook his claw. It was hot to the touch, which was unusual for a Mikh. Tucking that bit of information away, she said, smiling, "It would be an honour to do business with you, Nalph."

"Only if you pronounce my name correctly," he said, eyes lightening in amusement.

From the back room, hidden by a curtain of glass beads – or rather, she suddenly realized, a curtain of threaded Ihioo babies’s skulls, which was unpleasant any way you looked at it – came a bellowed "Nalph, where is it, where is it, where is it?"

"Go now," Nalph said, all amusement gone. "We shall speak again. And again, best of luck."

She didn’t lose time in getting out of there. That bellow sounded scarily familiar, although she couldn’t place it exactly; damn her memory, she thought.

Once out in the open air, she inhaled the mist and diesel and grease smells, exhaled tension she hadn’t known she’d been carrying. Of course some nerves remained. Now that she’d actually made the first connection to the demon world, she didn’t feel as comfortable with the thought of telling Rupert as she had done before. But no, that was silly. She was a strong woman who understood the proper positioning of a new firm in a crowded marketplace, and he’d just have to deal with it. She hoped.

Okay, she knew he’d be mad. She simply had to trust that it would be a small mad, more like irritation, rather than his real anger which could be either glacial or volcanic. Her Rupert had a nasty temper, more dangerous than any demon’s when it was roused, and since he’d stopped repressing it quite so much –

Now breathe, she told herself. And don’t borrow trouble, Anya, because it’s hell to pay back. Serenity right the hell now.

She found herself in front of Foyles, just as the doors opened and two chattering women came out. After they brushed by her, saying to each other "–new book by George?" and "No, I prefer the classic mysteries," she turned and went inside the huge, cold, maze-like space.

While she was here, she’d just pick up a couple of books, in case the afternoon was as boring as the morning. Or, in case Rupert decided to cut off sex because he was furious with her, she’d at least have something to read.

He could wait a little longer for his vindaloo. He was working, anyhow.

***

Giles looked at his watch for the fifteenth time, got up from his desk chair, and resumed the useless activity of pacing. Where was she, where was she –

But he made himself stop, made himself lean against the front of her desk and cross his arms to keep in the nerves. The unexpected phone call had rattled him so that he couldn’t write any more about the cellarage preferences of pixies. Instead, he’d straightened the conference room and put away the texts he’d been consulting, making the space ready for the hastily arranged meeting. He’d also made his own call to Robson, who not only didn’t know anything but also was rather pissy about being rung so early in the morning. Sodding time zones made everything so complicated, Giles thought.

Actually, his past, and the fact that he’d kept it under wraps, was what made everything so complicated. Oh, bloody hell, he thought he’d left this all behind. Where was she, where was she–

The percussion of heels and the smell of spicy Indian food announced her arrival even before the door opened and she appeared, balancing a sack of food, her purse, and a full bag from Foyles. He didn’t have time to ask about the latter or start his confession, though, for she was saying, "Hi, honey, I have something to tell you, and a relevant passage in a book to read to you."

"Darling, let me get that." He went forward to collect the food sack (which, he saw, also included a bottle of Newcastle Brown and a bottle of Perrier), then said, "Actually, I have something extremely important to tell you, too."

"Great! But me first, because I think we need to get this out of the way." She tossed her purse on her desk, then dug in her Foyles bag for something.

He looked at the food in his hand; no time for lunch, he needed to put this away. As he headed for the conference room, she followed, flipping pages in a paperback. "Okay, Rupert, let me preface what I have to tell you with an apt quotation I just happened to find when browsing in the Mystery section of the bookstore. And what on earth are you doing?"

He stowed the food in their tiny office refrigerator, then stood up. "We don’t have time to eat, Anya, because, er, we got a call...."

"A new job?" she said. "No, you can tell me in a minute. I need to read you this passage from Agatha Christie first, and then explain carefully what I’ve done. I worked out the proper order to this."

"Anya–"

"No, listen. This is how I was feeling this morning." Grabbing his tie with one hand and pulling him closer to her, she read, "‘I wish,’ she said, ‘something would happen.’ Her husband looked up reprovingly. ‘Be careful, Tuppence, this craving for vulgar sensation alarms me.’" She threw the book on the table. "See? That’s us."

"I would never be so stuffy as that. Er, wait, that’s not the point –"

"Honey, you so would. But the point is that you’ve been busily working away, while I don’t have anything to do at the moment. I wanted to make something happen for my own job satisfaction."

He pulled his tie free, smoothed it out. "I don’t think I like where you’re going with this. Anyway, I need to tell you – "

His tie was grabbed again, and she dragged him back down, almost to her lips. Brown eyes focussed on his, she said, "Here’s the thing, Rupert. I just placed our business card on display in Nalph’s Mysterious Emporium, The Best for the Discerning Demon or Half-Demon, because I’m attempting to broaden our clientele and find work for myself." She stepped back with a hesitant and adorably irritating smile on her face. He did love her so.

But then what she said actually registered: Nalph’s Mysterious Emporium... oh bugger. Oh sod it. How else could he put it: "I can’t believe you did that. Anya, we’re fucked."

Her smile dropped away. "This isn’t exactly the response I expected. What the hell is wrong with you?"

A quick glance at his watch: they’d be here any second, and he didn’t know how to put this. "Right, I’m sorry. Anya, when you left I got a phone call, and we’re going to have visitors shortly, and they, um, relate to what I used to do. To my past." You fool, he told himself, stop bloody stammering and just tell her.

When she wrapped her arms around herself in a gesture of defending against pain, however, he couldn’t help but drag her into his embrace. Burying her face against him, she mumbled, "You’re going to tell me you’re married, aren’t you."

"Dear Lord, no."

"You’re gay?"

"What? No. Although there was the one – no."

"You’re dying of a terminal illness, and I’ll have to nurse you through your tragic final days?"

"Darling, please stop before you lose what’s left of your mind." After forcibly removing her from his suit jacket, he cradled her flushed face in his hands, caressed her cheekbones with his thumbs. As gently as he could, he said, "Listen. Er, I never told you what I did for the Council before I was assigned to Buffy, or in that year after I left Sunnydale. You see, I was never trained for active Slayer duty, still can’t imagine how I was given the job." Of course his spectacular mistakes with Buffy would have been enough to tell anyone that he wasn’t intended for it, he thought, before repressing the familiar acid-burn of guilt. "I, well, I was the Council of Watchers liaison to MI5, in charge of demon affairs."

"You were what?"

From the doorway, a calm, controlled voice said, "He means he was a spy. In fact, he spied on demons." MI5 spymaster Harry Pearce, every bit as round and bullet-headed as ever but sporting a sling on one arm, walked into the conference room. Giles hadn’t even heard him come into the outer office.

He found himself putting Anya behind him, as if to shield her – which was ridiculous, because it wasn’t as if the man would hurt her. Probably. Forcing himself to smile, he said, "Ah, Harry. How are you?"

A brief, awkward handshake, then Harry seated himself at the table, saying, "Oh, fine, fine. Giles, would you introduce me to your, shall we say, colleague?"

Time to remember who he’d been when he’d dealt with these people on a day-to-day basis, what skills were necessary to tread through the vipers’ nest. Summoning up coolness from his past, he said, "I rather think you already know, but nevertheless... Anya, this is Harry Pearce, who works for MI5, one of the British intelligence services. And this is Anya Jenkins, my partner – "

Who chose that moment to explode somewhat belatedly, "You were the what to the what and did what?" Judging from her frown and folded arms, if she still owned her powers he’d be crumbled to dust. Or covered in unpleasant, oozing pustules. Or something.

He said, "I was the Council’s liaison to MI5. And yes, I gathered intelligence product on demons. Darling, would you sit down so that we can discuss whatever Harry –" a sharp glance showed that the man was enjoying this far too much – "needs to talk to us about?" He hit the us as hard as he could, although he wasn’t sure for whose benefit.

"You didn’t think I’d want to know you were a spy?" she whispered again, as he pulled a chair out for her and she sat down.

"We’ll discuss it later," he said in her ear. He took his seat next to her, took her hand in his, and then said, "Well, Harry, why did you wish to meet with us?"

Harry leaned back in the chair, calm as he could be. "It came to my attention that you’d returned to England, Giles. You’ve been working on a pixie-infestation? A friend of mine in Six called me last week to let me know."

A friend in Six, MI6 – "Ah, of course. I gather Jools Siviter is a member of the Traditionalists’ Club." He’d have to sharpen his research skills in order to check out these jobs more closely, Giles thought. And he further thought, what a fucking bastard.

"Yes, it was Jools. Although he and I agree on very little, we do agree that if an asset like you is available, we should recruit you back into her Majesty’s service."

"You’re an asset now, Rupert?" Anya said in what she probably thought was an aside.

Harry’s smile widened. "Oh, not just Giles. We’ve done some preliminary vetting of you as well, Ms. Jenkins, and even considering your...unusual history...we certainly feel that you could help our intelligence services in the same capacity."

Giles could hear prison doors slamming all around him, locking him into a past he thought he’d escaped, locking Anya in with him. But he had to try to get out: "Yes. Well, as I no longer work for the Council, Harry –"

"Not an issue. Since the explosion last fall which took so many lives, Giles, the Council of Watchers is no longer a primarily British institution. You’re on your own now, isn’t that right? That’s why we can approach you both, appeal to your sense of English fair play. It’s about the Xet, you see."

Anya’s hand tightened on his so hard that he lost all feeling in two of his fingers. She said, "What about the Xet, Mr. Pearce?"

"Please, call me Harry. And we don’t actually know. The name has been floated to us by our last contact with the demon world, who is sadly no longer with us. We just know it’s bad news."

Giles rather thought so; the legend of the Xet, a vague and half-formed prophecy of a demon uprising that would overthrow humankind in the Thames Valley, had been around since the days of Londinium. "What else have you heard?"

"And what would you need us to do, and how much would you pay us?" Anya said sharply.

"Ah, all excellent questions. For a start, I would ask you to discover who this is." After taking two folded sheets of paper out of his suit jacket pocket, Harry slid the first slip across to them. The name Ian Gold, Lambeth was written on the top. "Our late contact mentioned that there is a man who goes by this name and in this location, who has been recruiting demons. He apparently is running what is in essence a terrorist cell, planning to attack an unspecified target here in London. We’d like you to locate this man, find out what he’s targeted."

"Should we find him, would Special Branch be responsible for taking him out?" Giles asked, even as he stared at the paper. The name teased at him somehow – he should know who he is –

"Of course, " Harry said. "You know that our mission is only the gathering of information, Giles."

Yes indeed, he thought. And he, Rupert Giles, owned every sodding bridge across the Thames and charged a shilling per crossing.

He could feel Anya trembling, even as her grasp on him tightened. To Harry, however, she said coolly, "And our fee, whether or not information is obtained?"

Silently Harry slid the second slip of paper across the table. When Anya pulled it closer to them both, they both started at the amount. MI5 was certainly freer with the pounds than they used to be, Giles thought. Still fighting the inevitable, however, he said, "We’ve just opened our own firm, Harry. I don’t see how it could be closed so soon."

"You’re certainly free to run Giles and Jenkins, just as you’d planned. In fact, it’s an excellent cover. This is simply an extra job, for the good of the country and the happiness of your bank manager," Harry said.

"Do we have a choice?" she said.

"No, not really." Harry pulled out a mobile, then said into it, "Come on in."

Giles could hear the door to the outer office open and footsteps coming toward them, but the lovely, if tired, young woman who appeared in the door wasn’t who he’d expected to see. "Er, then our contact won’t be Tom Quinn?" He’d always liked young Tom, even though the man twitched every time he saw him. Something about him looking like someone else, he remembered.

Harry and the woman exchanged a glance that Giles couldn’t read, before she said, "I’m sorry, but he’s no longer with the service. Hello, I’m Zoe Reynolds."

"Zoe will run your ops and receive your intel. Don’t worry, we won’t make you come to Thames House to report," Harry said. As he stood, ready to leave, Giles and Anya got up too. "I won’t be seeing you two again unless it’s absolutely necessary. But it was lovely to meet you, Ms. Jenkins. Pleasure to see you, Giles." Then he left, faster than one would think he could move. Always foolish to underestimate Harry Pearce.

"So. Not much to go over, really," Zoe said, smiling. "Just a few procedures, a contact number, and –"

"I’ll take the number," Anya said aggressively, stepping in front of him. Which seemed a little odd, actually. "You can expect to hear from me whenever we find anything."

"Oh, well, that’s fine, but I think we’ll need more regular contact." Zoe got a mobile and a slip of paper out of her purse and handed it to Anya. "While you’re on the op I’ll ring you every day on this unit, let’s say, at 1500 hours? And my number is set on the speed-dial, number one. If that fails, call me at the number I’ve given you, and ask for Miss Carter. That also works if you find out any time-sensitive information. Your code names can be– " When her glance went to the book Anya had left on the table, she smiled. "Oh, I always loved those books! We can call you Tommy and Tuppence, if you like. Now, do you have any questions for me?"

"Yes. When do we get paid?" Anya said.

"I see you get to the heart of things. First payment should be in your bank account now," Zoe said. "And I do want to say how much I look forward to working with both of you."

For some reason Anya wouldn’t let him shake Zoe’s hand in farewell. However, they escorted their new handler to the front door, said their goodbyes – then Anya shut the door and threw the lock.

Too late, too late, he thought.

And then his darling girl turned to him and punched him in the shoulder. "You were a damn demon spy for years and years, and you didn’t tell me?"

"Don’t ever hit me again, Anya," he said, catching her hand before she could bring it around again. He could feel anger – at her attitude, at being manipulated by that bastard Pearce, at his sense of replaying an old and despised scene – rising up, threatening to blind him like too much light in a night-creature’s eyes. Even though he was attempting to control it, he said far too loudly, "And don’t you say one bloody word to me about spies or secrecy. You took our card to Nalph’s without asking me, for fuck’s sake!"

Her fists on her hips, she said, "Why is that such a problem, Giles?"

The name she hadn’t used for months lasered in, a freeze-burn on his greatest insecurities, but he had to push past that. Had to be very clear for her. "It’s a problem because Nalph was my chief informant when I worked undercover. Well, he knows everyone, doesn’t he? He knows me very well, too, but as David Blackburn, exhibit specialist at the British Museum and weekend dabbler in the occult. My cover, you see. Can you imagine the difficulties if I walk in there now as Rupert Giles?"

"Oh," she said, hands flexing flat, sliding down her sides. He’d made himself clear, then. "Okay. Yes, I understand why you think we’re fucked."

At the sad little note in her voice, he couldn’t help but touch her shoulder, caressing just for a breath. "It’s not good, no. I don’t think we could manage with you as the sole contact with him, even if I felt comfortable with your going into danger alone. And while I do have other sources in the demon world, it will take time to make the connections, and... well, you see."

"Yes, I see." Turning away from him, she went into the conference room. He got there in time to see her heave herself up to sit on the table, kicking off her heels and then sliding back so that her legs dangled over the edge. She didn’t look happy at all.

Well, neither was he. Sighing, he went over to the refrigerator. "I think I want that beer you brought. Would you like your water?"

"No, I want to share your alcoholic beverage," she said, staring at her feet.

After he got the cap off, he brought the bottle back to the table, joined her. After a long pull or two at the ale, he let her have a taste. He lay down, propping himself on his elbows and looking at blank magnolia walls. She drank, then scooted herself over so that she warmed his side. For a minute or two, they passed the bottle between them, drinking, saying nothing.

Then he pushed the bottle aside and lay flat on his back. She was practically on top of him before he could breathe, one arm banding around his middle, one leg thrown over his thighs. Her stockinged foot idly began to stroke his leg, and just as absently she began to unfasten his tie. She said, "I’m trying hard to think outside the box, Rupert, but I don’t feel very brilliant at the moment."

He caught her hand, brought it to his lips, inhaled citrus perfume and her own scent. "No, me either. But don’t worry, darling, we’ll figure something out." One more kiss, then: "By the way, I loathe it when you use that phrase."

"You know what, you’re a stuffy, snobby, cranky man. Who was also a spy and who didn’t tell me and that’s why we’re in this mess," she said. Yet before he could complain, her mouth was on his, and she was kissing him as if he were everything she’d ever wanted. When they had to breathe, but not a second before, she moved a millimetre away and said, "I love you, honey. If we can make it through several apocalypses, we can make it through this."

"Yes, we can." When he pulled her on top of him, she snuggled in. A perfect fit. He kissed her hair, ran his hands up and down her silk-covered back until she all but purred. "Love you too, Anya."

"Mmm." She wriggled closer, sliding his shirt out of his trousers and then her hands underneath the cotton, stroking his chest. "Maybe sex would be a good interim answer to our problems. Make us think better, you know, so we can address the real issues?"

He was already getting hard, just from the touch of her hands lovely sinuous movements she was making against his cock. But he said, in his best stuffy, snobby, cranky voice, "‘Be careful, Tuppence, this craving for vulgar sensation alarms me.’"

"Oh, Tommy!" she said, in perhaps the worst English accent he’d ever heard. Getting her hands in between their bodies, she undid his belt and slipped it off. In her normal voice, she said, "I didn’t have time to get very far in the book. Is there any hot action between Tommy and Tuppence? Like, for example, surprisingly athletic spy-sex on their conference table?"

"No." He crushed her skirt up around her waist, then traced his hands between her thighs, taking the time to unsnap her suspenders. As he probed underneath her lingerie, one finger tickling until he found wetness, he said, "Dame Agatha wasn’t much for the graphic depiction of sexuality, as I recall."

"Well, damn. And oh God, honey, a little higher – oh yes, there, that feels great."

He rolled her over and pressed himself in between her legs. Smiling down at her, he said, "Really, darling, we shouldn’t. I still have that pixie-report to finish, and then we have to find this Ian Gold bloke and earn our fee from her Majesty’s secret service."

"Shut up, Tommy," she said. "We can do all that later. Right now, I need you inside me, no matter what important activities Agatha Christie failed to record."

He reached down and ripped her lingerie. "Whatever you say, Tuppence.