From the river came a strange mist, twisting like a thousand thousand chain-links in which pale dead faces rose. Above the river the clouds streamed apart, but what lay behind them didn't look like evening sky.

Demons crept from their hidden bars and shops, from holes in the earth and nests in old buildings, and looked up. Some grappled with their fellows, sharing guttural laughs at the signs written in the torn clouds. The Terminal would be opening, they said to each other, good times and plenty were on their way.

But others, the half-breeds and the vampires and the ones who didn't believe in Yeangelt's promise, didn't laugh. They looked to the sky for another message, since they knew that what some called the Rising Time was also the day of the dead.

Their dead.

The human standing on the Millbank side of Thames House, also watching the river and the clouds, could feel the changes coming. Although he'd been enmeshed in a meeting about a terrorism threat Danny and the rest of Section A was working in Dover, he'd also kept an eye on his watch – thinking about that other team on an op tonight, thinking about the ways he hadn't been able to help them. When his watch had flashed red, he'd excused himself and gone outside. He let himself see.

Suddenly, furiously, Harry Pearce dug in his jacket for his work mobile.

***

"Bring them together, then tear them apart!" Willow called out, her hands reaching over the candles, her body levitating an inch or two off the conference table.

Tom took a couple of involuntary steps forward before Zoe caught him. "Wait. She's talking to Giles and Anya," she said urgently. "It's the plan , Tom, you know that."

He stared at Zoe. She had changed while he was away; as he'd spent months blind to himself, she'd been learning to see further – and to use that vision to challenge him. For the first time he traced a resemblance in her face to the people of Tor House, but in emotion more than bone, wisdom more than surface. He said, "I'm sorry, Zoe," meaning more than for just this moment.

When he looked back at Willow, she'd come back down. "'Bring them together, then tear them apart'," she repeated. "Yep, they're good. They're doing what they're supposed to." Yet she dipped her fingers nervously into and out of flames as she closed her eyes again.

Bringing himself back to the job, he said, "Fine. What about our other fronts? Catriona, what do you see?"

"The effects of mystically enhanced bullets on demons' bodies." She spoke quietly, with a flutter of fingers over the further mirror, its Thames water shimmering red in the candlelight. The centre one remained dark. "It isn't pretty."

"But effective. The Brixton team is on piste, then." When she nodded, he said, "Good. Randolph?"

Without shifting his gaze from his mirror, Randolph said, "I can't see much in the darkness. The Watcher team has been delayed in the tunnels – almost there, I think, but something's gone wrong."

After a second of thought, Tom said, "That's the closest site. We can be there in three minutes, cause a distraction up top if necessary. Zoe, shall–?" Before he could finish, though, his mobile rang. The display number was clear: Harry, sod him.

Then Andrew's cry stopped them all. "Dawnie! What's wrong?"

"I don't know. Andrew –" Her hands to her face, she was sliding down with her back against the wall as if her legs couldn't hold her. What alarmed Tom more was the faint green glow flickering under her skin; she looked like a vessel for alien fire. Her voice wavered, barely audible over his ringing phone. "Andrew? I think the portal-opening's changing me. Changing me back."

"No, nuh-uh, can't be. You're imagining things." But he dropped to the floor and pulled her into his arms. A trick of reflection made him look green too – and very, very frightened.

Willow said, "Sweetie, don't worry. You're far enough away, you'll be fine."

Dawn didn't answer, but just buried her head in Andrew's chest and hung on. The green was deepening, throwing shadows everywhere in the room.

As he began to rock her, Andrew said desperately, "No, this isn't real. Come on, Dawnie. We Watchers know what's real and what's not."

And Tom's sodding phone kept ringing.

***

When the Cup of Xet came together in a shiver that rippled out through their world, Anya bit her tongue. It was worse than she'd imagined. She could hear Willow faintly in her mind, saying the words that had guided their planning, but then Willow didn't know what it felt like – the vessel transmuting into an conductor of power, into a golden blade. It scraped her and Rupert's hands through the protection they'd applied and the Thames water.

And it fused together. The Cup was whole again, even as the sky and earth began to slip apart. Not a gate yet, not the series of portals Yeangelt wanted, but the start of the unravelling.

Rupert's left hand went to the sword he had sheathed. Time to put the world back together.

But Yeangelt cried out first, "It's here , it has been found, you brought it to me!" Ignoring Nalph and Pennith, she leapt forward to grasp it. As she moved, she yanked her hands apart, as if tying off a knot.

Stumbling, Anya lost her breath.

But Rupert muttered "I have it, darling," and, catching the Cup in a hand already beginning to drip blood, dodged in front of her toward the far wall. She could feel his touch even after he let go.

Yeangelt wasn't able to stop her lunge in time. Once she fell out of the acid-burned circle, she collapsed onto her knees, and her robes tore at the impact of stone. Although a shrill "Give me what's mine!" echoed through the passage, she bowed her head and held onto herself, as if drawing her power in.

Pennith stood indecisive, hands fisted, gaze shifting between his demon-lady and Rupert. "You're a Watcher, aren't you, Beresford?" he said, tongue flicking out to show its fork. "Like the one who first trapped us? I can smell it–"

"Not a Watcher. But very like," Rupert said, still on the move. He was almost to the cart full of glass by now. Anya needed him to be safe there, to get through to Nalph and then–

She needed to do her own job.

Radiating from her temporary mark, the sense-memories of a millennium of battles, skirmishes, and hells strengthened her muscles, even though this human body wasn't the one that had fought or killed. The body wasn't as important as the spirit, as the connection.

Rupert now was almost to Nalph and the boium tree – and to their real object – but Pennith was threatening. She raised her dagger and moved to intercept.

Yet as she did, a clawed hand grabbed onto her ankle, its nails and skin piercing like a thousand burning needles. "Now, creature, explain something to me," Yeangelt said, trying to pull her back. "Your man may be like the Watcher filth I sought and killed after he stayed me in my travels – I shall kill and taste again before I go, just to see – but you're nothing like the Slayer who broke the Cup, nor the superfluity of Slayers that has given me my chance."

"Right, not a Slayer, thank you very much." Despite the pain Anya lifted her other boot and smashed down on Yeangelt's hand. The demon let go with a shriek, and from the demon's broken bones wafted a trace of magick that faded into the wind. Anya said, "But I was vengeance once, and I still remember."

Calling on those memories, she managed to jump into the circle. When she landed, the ankle Yeangelt had caught buckled underneath her – but she reached out to drive her dagger through Pennith's leg, then push him outside the circle to join Yeangelt. The two Xet demons huddled together, broken, hissing as one.

Only then did Anya let herself fall, her hands bruised on the stone. When she looked up into the London sky, she saw more of the world unravelling. The first gate was forming in the void, thanks to the Cup.

"Rupert," she whispered.

Somehow he heard her, despite the howling of the wind of lost souls and spirits. "Cover your head, then come to me," he said. She rolled over, arms over her ears. Still, even with the barrier she could hear breaking glass and feel the rumble of the cart's wheels over stone.

Then she pulled herself to her knees. Despite her hatred of sewing, there was stitching to be done, and a bad seam to tear out.

***

The last demon guard outside the wooden door dropped in a shower of foul-smelling blood. As with the others, the enhanced bullets between the eyes and in the chest had proven highly effective. Jools sent a mental thank-you to Roger Wyndam-Pryce in whatever noxious hell he currently inhabited; the man had been a first-rate shit, but at least his demon-weaponry was sound.

The hole that once had been the Frontier's roof had shown some ugly clouds, looking very like dead souls and spirits rising. Either the Giles team had finished the first half of their appointed task, or this Hartman bastard was further ahead than they thought, or both. Time to find out.

He glanced at Wes. Pale and tight-lipped, his son focussed on their own goal – the wooden door, behind which came the sound of breaking glass. "Shall we, Jools?" he said, finishing his reload and lifting his gun.

"We shall indeed. On my count. Three, two, one –"

After shooting off the lock, they kicked in the door.

Jools took in the scene, gauged it in terms of their plans. Right, a tunnel which sloped downward, but not far away – directly under Minton land – there was what would pass for a room: shelves, wooden walls and floors, lantern light, and an hourglass running down. Two creatures bowed and scraped over the glass containers; nearer the light, Griffin Hartman, greyer and far more marked than twenty years ago, dropped another spirit-jar onto the floor. The earth around them seemed to flinch as if struck when the glass hit.

When Hartman looked up, an odd expression disfigured the tattoos of his face: "What are – do I know you?"

"A stupid question," Jools said, firing at him even as Wesley aimed at the closest minion.

The Contar demon went down hard; Hartman did not, although he wasn't quick enough to dodge the bullet completely. He reached in, plucked it out of his shoulder, and then stared at it, letting the blood run down his fingers and chest, discolouring his art. Jools was not pleased to see that the bastard seemed otherwise unaffected.

Wesley said under his breath, "Ah. A sign that Hartman is demon, no longer human: created by magick, not born. Problem." Then, as his shot took out the second minion, he rolled forward and grabbed the creature before the body could crash into the remaining spirit-jars.

Raising his head, Hartman tossed the bullet back at Jools. Easy enough to sidestep – not as easy to avoid the sparks upon impact of magick on wood, which burned into his trousers. "My Lady has taken care of me," the demon said. "Shall I take care of you?" He dug into his pockets, then brought out a fistful of some sort of powder and blew it toward him.

One shove of his shirt-sleeve, and Jools' marked wrist was bare. Angling his hand so that the mark was in front, he dispersed the powder harmlessly enough – although he could feel a slight burn on either side of his tattoo.

"The Mark of Amk? I must know you," Hartman said, his brow furrowing.

"I wouldn't say you know me, old chap. One hardly remembers everyone with whom one trades, I should think, and it was a long time ago." Jools kept his gaze on Hartman, willing him to pay attention to the questions he was raising, rather than Wesley's stealthy progress to the shelves full of those taken. "On the other hand, this was one of your...what did you call them? Specials? And I was very drunk indeed the night you marked me, not to mention hanging on an attractively rough Italian sailor's arm. Buggered him senseless shortly after I left your delightful establishment, as I recall. Perhaps I might be more memorable than I supposed."

As he talked, he slid his other hand around to his second weapon, ready. Wesley was almost to the shelves, almost to the hourglass. That was their moment.

But Hartman suddenly whirled away, saying, "No, I don't think so," and kicked at Wes.

His son didn't take the blow – he caught the demon's leg and twisted, sending him reeling away from the shelves. The disturbance, however, was enough to shatter one more glass. When it broke, a released spirit howled upward, into the swirl of magick collecting on the ceiling.

A dimensional gate, smallish but regrettably real, formed in the darkness of the tunnel. Jools could feel the alien bite of other worlds reaching in.

Still, he would trust Wesley to deal with that aspect, while he explained to Hartman the serious error that had just been made. One leap, as easy as if he were playing squash with Rupert, and he had the demon by the scruff of the neck, his second gun pressed to his temple. "I really don't think you should have struck at my son," he said. "I find it irritating."

However, as the magick bullet provided by Roger Wyndam-Pryce went into Hartman's head, the gate creaked open. Wes put his hands on the hourglass. Then, in concert with the drop of the dead mage's body onto the floor, two large horned demons flew through the dimensional portal.

Jools sighed; he had known there would be attempts at undocumented immigration. He raised his gun, just as Wes raised the hourglass –

But a third figure appeared just on the other side of the threshold: this one curves and shadow, not substance. Her husky female voice said, "Hey, lover. Better late than never."

"Lilah," Wes said. The time-piece almost slipped from his fingers..

***

Spike pushed the last obstacle aside, cursing under his breath in order to obscure the bloody annoying memory-flashes of caverns in Sunnydale and Africa, of bone-deep chill and fear. This had taken much too long. When the rock crashed against a wall he couldn't see, he said for the third time, "Wish you'd have warned us about this lovely welcoming fortress of stones and demon corpses, Harris. What sodding good are you?"

But Xander wasn't listening; he was already scrambling through the opening. Smelled like decay and torture on the other side, Spike realised – some of the old Watchers had been given to tasting demon blood in their secret dungeons, and yeah, that kind of pain never came out. Ahead of them came the sounds of shattering glass, like waves carving away at the shore.

And Faith sent Spike a patented Slayer-glare. "Wasn't his fault, Blond Boy. Give it a rest."

"Ah, petal, does young love have you in its thrall?" Still, he took her point. Wasn't really Harris's fault, neither that they'd run into a hastily built fortification, nor that Spike had been feeling an itch along his spine for the last half-hour. But bad things were coming, unless they got there first.

He and Faith burst into the tunnel together, following their navigator. It wasn't really a tunnel, he noted even as they ran, but a hallway. The heart of the dungeons, then – and the itch along his spine dug in like claws hollowing out bone.

The passage ahead curved, and for one sharp instant Harris was framed on the line between light and dark, vision and uncertainty. In that same breath the glass-smashing stopped. A demon's claw reached out and got the man by the neck, dragged him out of sight.

"Shit – hey, you fucking let him go!" Faith shouted, putting on even more speed and disappearing around the bend.

Right, then. Sod secrecy. His boots sliding a little on the passageway's floor, he made his own move into the light.

Just as Rupes and Anya's briefing materials had suggested, there were shelves and shelves of glass jars lining the Yeangelt team's workroom, lit by lanterns running along two walls. The roof was open to the world; a look up showed an empty, windswept night sky and the outline of a dimensional gate.

The hissing wind, spirits and such like, was coming from the broken glassware – which was being dropped by some poncy bloke decked out in a cloak, hood and gloves, as if he fancied himself quite the incarnation of Death. Of course Spike had personal knowledge that Death didn't look anything like a fucking Bergman film. "I'll take the pretentious one," he said, already in mid-leap.

Coarse black fabric bunched under his fist as he threw the first punch. Below the haberdashery was bulked-up demon muscle, though. The wanker blocked the next hit and then grabbed Spike's duster, his claws latching onto leather. "You smell like a Watcher, but – but you're a vampire?" he said, in a voice deeper than hell.

"'Smell like a Watcher'?" Spike said, shaking loose. "'s that a bloody insult, or what?"

Then his foot connected hard with the git's chest, driving him back.

A quick look showed that Faith had dispatched the demon trying to choke the life out of Harris, who sat gasping on the floor, and she was well on her way to another little one dead. Two minions were left, as well as two more impressive demons, ones who could pass for human. The latter were creeping toward the furthest shelves, where –

Right, the hourglass they had been briefed to destroy. Sand had almost run out.

"Sod the little ones, Faith! Go for the mission!" he shouted, making his own rush – until the flapping edges of a cloak came over his eyes. He stumbled forward.

A blur of Slayer passed him, her wind blowing enough of the cloak away so he could see again. A flip up, two hands around the ponce's throat, and a growled "I don't think so," before he twisted sharp to the right with all his strength. The crack of the git's bones and the soft sound of tearing muscle eased him on some deep level. Demon was still in him, after all. Couldn't leave him behind.

But he had his own purpose now, separate from the thing inside that craved the bone-crack and the blood. Gathering himself, he went to Xander. "Come on, you lazy bastard. No malingering, you're still on the job."

"Well, of course. Hour's work for an hour's pay, that's my motto." Coughing, Xander let Spike help him up, move toward the shelves. When they were almost there, however: "I can get there myself, okay, guy? Still got the protection and everything. Go lend Faith a hand with the enjoyable killing."

"Your girl's got it under control," Spike began, seeing Faith take out one of the senior demons with a nice flying kick to the teeth. "Thing of beauty, she is." But when the other senior demon slunk out of the shadows, coming toward them – no, coming toward the hourglass – Spike dropped Xander's arm. Harris could manage.

This demon was stronger than the fat ponce had been, or maybe he was just more desperate. Hot hell-breath, like those endless moments after Sunnydale fell; hands like clawed hammers; the willingness to cheat. Spike surrendered himself to the fight, letting it wash over him like the wind coming from the shattered glass, coming from above. He could strike out safely just this once.

Punch. Kick. Don't think about the losses, the pain. Aim for the heart. No, aim for the head. Punch. Take a punch. Take another. Let the fangs come. Yeah, better, sharper. Punch, follow the arc of the body, punch again. Let the corpse fall. Let it go, let it rest.

Closing his eyes, Spike brought his human features back. The wind blew harder now, and he could feel pressure-change above and below–

"Come on , Blond Boy," Faith snapped. She and Harris were standing at the hourglass, their hands linked; with a slight pang Spike saw their connection, felt for a moment his solitude. The bracelets Anya had made for them glittered faintly in the lantern light, and his own weighed heavier for a second. But Faith frowned at him. "Want a fucking engraved invitation or what? Mission's not done, and you're part of this."

It probably wasn't right to smile, but he did anyway. Meeting them at the hourglass, he put his hand on top of theirs, and together they lifted the glass high. Together they chanted the words Rupes and Anya had given them. "Close the gate, keep us safe. Let all the taken and bound spirits find release."

When they dropped the hourglass, the dimensional gate slammed shut. In the same instant, the glass jars on the shelves burned a rich blue before they, empty now in truth, returned to translucence.

The woven bracelets snapped off the new Watchers' and Slayer's wrists, disappearing into the last trace of nothingness.

***

From the conference room came Randolph's excited "One down. The Bloomsbury team has come through," and Zoe's murmured response. Tom was still talking in a low voice to Harry, something about Special Branch. So the mission seemed to be going well enough, Andrew thought, even though only Willow could see whatever was happening with Giles and Anya.

But he didn't have time to worry about that. His purpose now was his best friend.

He'd pulled Dawn into the outer office and put her into her own desk chair when Willow had suggested the instruments of vision were bringing the portals too close to her, their semblance the same as reality. When she'd come with him without protest, it scared him more than.... He didn't have a comparison for how scared he was.

Now she sat in her chair, shivering in pain and still glowing that horrible green. Had it faded when Spike and Xander and Faith had shut the nearest gate? He couldn't tell, couldn't think, couldn't concentrate–

But he suddenly remembered Giles's lesson that morning. Maybe he could do something, after all.

Leaning forward from his place on the floor beside her, he caught her hands, his fingers linking with hers, white intertwining with green. Her touch didn't feel different, but– "Does it still hurt?"

She nodded, eyes down. She hadn't looked up since she'd curled into herself here, hadn't spoken since that first cry.

"Okay then," he said. He cleared his throat, swallowing all the frightened remnants of gay-loser-Andrew, of dumb-Tucker's-brother, of the nerd and the fool, of the murderer of his friend. ' Take it down, keep it even,' he heard in his head. And he said in a deep, calm voice that sounded kind of like their mentor-guy's, "Dawn, look at me."

She didn't want to, but when she finally did, all he could see surrounding her irises was green sparks. It was worse than the black-oil worms, he let himself think just once, before he concentrated on what was real and important. "Good, sweetie. Now tell me who you are."

Her voice was quiet, cracked as if it hurt to breathe. "Andrew, no."

"Dawn." Take it down, keep it even. "Look at me, and tell me who you are."

"I'm the Key–"

"No, that's who you were. Tell me who you are."

Her fingers grasped his more tightly, even as the green in her eyes intensified, even as his peach of a girl seemed to dissolve into nothing but energy. Her touch didn't change. She managed to say, "I'm Dawn Summers."

"That's right. What else?"

"I'm Dawn Summers. I'm Buffy Summers's sister. I live with Giles and Anya and you. I'm a Watcher in training."

"Good. What else?"

"Andrew–" Her hold loosened, as if she would slip away from him. He wasn't going to let her.

So scared, so scared, but he remembered the lessons, and he concentrated so that his voice didn't break. "Tell me who you are, Dawnie. And you keep right on telling me until Giles and Anya shut the last gate and make everything okay."

***

Wes stared at the gate – no, not at the gate but at her . Lilah, as he remembered her: long hair, longer legs, wicked smile, even that blood-red she'd worn when he'd seen her in the files room at Wolfram and Hart. But her eyes, oh God, showed him nothing but hell-torment. He felt too much to be able to speak, and the hourglass was slippery in his hands.

"It'll be all right if you can't save me," she said in the smoke-and-sex voice he'd heard in his dreams ever since his memory returned. When she came nearer the opening, the edge of her long silk scarf waved across the threshold, its scent bringing the taste of red wine and chocolate to his tongue. "Gotta say, though, I'd be fucking thrilled if you'd try again."

"Jools–" Wes got out, although he didn't know why he said his name. Confirmation he really wasn't insane, perhaps.

"Yes, right, I hear her," Jools snapped. At the sound of a gunshot, Wes looked away from her for a second. Two winged Sdea demons – no, just one now, the other a body brought down by his father's marksmanship. "I assume this is the girl you loved and lost? Regrettably, Mrs Giles didn't have time to tell me much about her. You should introduce us."

"Wes, lover," Lilah said. The scarf fluttered further over the border of the worlds now, the snap of it as loud as the fired weapon, louder than the howl of the taken spirits."It's time."

The Sdea landed between him and Jools – tricky, Wes thought, since if his father missed the shot, it either would hit him or take out the precious hourglass. He looked again at the marker of time: the green poison almost filled the bottom of the glass. Almost done.

"Don't move, son," Jools said, before two shots hit the demon between the eyes. As the huge winged body crashed to the ground, shaking the walls and floor in glass-rattling fashion, he added, "Lucky that worked. I'm out of bullets."

"I have more." But Wes was looking at Lilah, even as he worked the protection-bracelet off his wrist. "I had so much more for you," he said softly.

"Wesley. It just didn't work out." She smiled, weary and reluctantly sweet, as she had been in the files room. He could taste bitterness on his tongue, a protest, a curse, but he ignored it to look at her and listen. Her voice dropped a little, the sound of her after sex or at her most vulnerable. "But I had more for you too."

"Most affecting, really," Jools said, as the wind rose and a second gate formed beside the first. "Still, the mission calls."

"I know." Wes waited until his father had put his tattooed hand on the hourglass before he looked back at her – so close that he could see the marks his axe had left behind the scarf. Christ, he hurt. But he managed to hold out the bracelet, still damp with Thames water, almost to the edge of the gate. "I've done the research. Take the other half, Lilah."

With an effort she managed to grasp the edge of the weave, pulling him, Jools, and the hourglass closer to the other side. And she smiled again in a way that touched his memories, made them new.

He linked his index finger around the bracelet to keep it safe, before he looked at his father. "On your count?"

"Right. Three, two, one–"

Father and son chanted together, "Close the gate, keep us safe. Let all the taken and bound spirits find release."

And Wesley said alone, looking directly at her, "Let all the taken and bound spirits find release."

The hourglass fell. Gates slammed, glass vessels flared bright blue then clear, the wind dropped. Mission accomplished.

Lilah's smile lingered even when the rest of her faded, even as the bracelet held between them winked into nothingness. "It means everything that you succeeded, lover," came the whisper, and then there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Wes sank onto the ground, empty as the rows of glass vessels surrounding him. Time seemed to freeze. He couldn't say how long he'd sat there before he realised he wasn't alone.

Jools had taken his place beside him, albeit a little awkwardly – hard to fit those long legs into a comfortable position on the ground , Wes supposed rather numbly– and lit one of those foul brown cigarettes. When he noticed Wesley was looking at him, he said, "Oh blast, where are my manners? Do you want a smoke?"

"No, thank you." Wes closed his eyes again. He was so very tired.

That was his only explanation for his lack of protest when his father's hand came to rest on his back. "You know, I do think your mother should have warned me that my son fancied himself a bloody Heathcliff."

Despite himself, Wes laughed. But it was bitter on his tongue, a protest, a curse, so he stopped.

Jools patted awkwardly, then dropped his hand. "Right. Well, you rest a bit, then we'll leave. A drink at the Traditionalists first, or perhaps some good beef at Simpson's–?" When Wes swallowed hard, the hand lifted away. "No. No, I'll take you home. When you're ready."

His father smoked two more cigarettes in that underground room full of corpses and broken glass before Wes could let himself go.

***

Blown by the wind of lost souls and the draught around the dimensional gates, the last leaves of the boium tree fell.

As they hissed onto the stone, a revenant leaf drifted onto blue Mikh skin. Giles could see Nalph shiver, then lie still under the bare branches.

"Is he dead?" Anya said, limping around to join him. She had to balance herself against the rolling cart; it must hurt her terribly to stand, he thought.

Even though he had the Cup, his hand bleeding pain even as he held fast, he allowed himself a breath to set aside his sword and cradle her face in his other hand. As his thumb brushed off a tear she likely didn't know was there: "I don't think so. But it's time, darling."

She leaned into his touch for another breath before pulling away and saying crisply. "Hourglass is right here where they left it." Awkwardly she bent down and grasped the time-piece. Green fire glowed through her fingers for a moment before the impression was lost.

Framed by the steel gate leading out to Charing Cross Road, Yeangelt tried to raise her hands. One of them – the one Anya had smashed, and well done indeed to his darling – hung almost useless. She held them out best as she could, although he felt no tug of magick, and she said, "You shall not trap us again –"

"Ignore her," Anya said. "Now, honey."

He put his hand on the other side of the hourglass, spreading his fingers to match his wife's hold. Together they chanted the words he and Dawn had devised after their hours of research: "Close the gate, keep us safe. Let all the taken and bound spirits find release."

When the last time-piece hit the stone, the steel gate rattled even louder than the closing of the dimensional gates. Blue light from the glass jars drew a pattern of lace on the walls of the passage. The flash of the released souls made him think of the candles that he and Anya lit in their home, and he murmured, "Love and safety."

"Not yet." It was Pennith, who had crawled inside the circle, leaving a trail of demon blood smeared on the stone, and who now fought to get onto his feet. Reaching back, he pulled Yeangelt in after him, and a faint crack came from the circle they'd burned. Their magick strengthened – Giles could suddenly smell bitter almond, sharp and deadly. Pennith hissed, "No matter about the other gates. My lady and I wish to go home, and we shall."

"We will take our Cup now, not-Beresfords, not-Watcher, not-Slayer." Yeangelt tried to move the cart, but her wound crippled her, as did Pennith's. Still, after her good hand fumbled for her companion's, they lifted their clasp high. Slowly, off balance, they began to draw something in the air, the movements leaving behind a fading line of fire.

"I don't consider her sign a good thing," Anya said to him.

Although he didn't feel loss or breathlessness, nor did the Cup shake in his hand, his tattoo began to burn. Worse, he could feel Anya's ache as if it were his own. Their pasts were wearing away, he feared – time to finish this. He called in thought to Willow, " Now, please ."

She was ready for them. " Tear them apart ," she said in his mind, in Anya's, her words so loud they seemed to ring through the passage. Borrowed strength – familiar, yet better, clearer – flowed through him and his wife.

Yeangelt's sigil began to blaze in midair, hanging between the two pairs, the travellers and the ones who chose to stay.

Anya took his bleeding hand so that both of them held the Cup. With his other hand he grasped his sword, anointed that afternoon with Thames water and the elemental potion that the Mortimers had brought from Tor House. A different, better exchange, he thought. "Tear them apart," he and Anya said together, as they tossed the Cup high in the air.

When the vessel had first been split, the moon had been shining. There was no moon tonight, but still the vessel shone in the darkness as it spun, cobweb tracery of shadows in its wake.

Too late, Yeangelt cried "No," her hand reaching out alone–

But he sliced the Cup in two as it fell. The impact nearly wrenched his shoulder, but Anya managed to keep him steady. When the halves clattered on stone as they had done centuries before, Yeangelt and Pennith broke into fragments of old bone and magick, and then dissolved with a final hiss.

"Well, for all that effort, they weren't so tough in the end," Anya said – just as she collapsed.

"Anya!" Giles dropped his sword in a vain attempt to catch her. Then, groaning a little as aches blossomed everywhere, including his bleeding palm, he lowered himself to the cold ground to join her.

"I think I sprained my ankle when the late Yeangelt caught me. Ow. It really hurts," she said, just before she sank further down and put her head in his lap.

"I'm so sorry." He brought his other hand up to stroke her forehead, then thought to Willow, " Is everyone else all right? "

" They are now, " Willow sent back, an odd sense of relief in the words. " See you guys at home ."

"At home? We're supposed to meet at the office," he said aloud.

"At least our op protocols weren't confused until now. No casualties that way," Anya said. She shifted around so that she could dig her hand in his near trouser pocket, fingers teasing against him.

He stirred. "Oh for fuck's sake, darling. Not here and now, surely–"

"Please use your brain. Handkerchief." She brandished the cotton square in front of his face. "Now give me your wound, honey, I want to bind it."

"Oh, right. Thank you, Anya, but don't jostle your ankle in the process," he said, even as he obeyed. A groan from behind recalled his attention. "Nalph, are you still with us?"

"Yes, David, I am." The familiar edge of formality had gone from his voice. "Excuse me, I of course meant 'Giles.'"

Without disturbing Anya's first-aid efforts, Giles looked back. Nalph – pale blue now, dreadlocks coming undone, worn and tired – was struggling to sit up. Giles said, "Ah. Should we assume that Yeangelt learned of your, um, divided allegiance last night?"

"You should. I was beaten, and my new pet Azi, my Haloo–" his voice faltered –"it was killed. But Yeangelt, o great lady, suggested I be kept for the final sacrifice before she and Pennith departed through their cursed Terminal. Since they were having to make do without the Cup of Xet, of course." He laughed, a broken sound. "You can imagine my mixed emotions when you two arrived, bearing the very object."

"My husband's research told us they couldn't be truly defeated without the use of their own symbol against them. 'Reverse it,' yadda yadda. And, well, it ran in his family." Even upside-down, Anya tied off his bandage so firmly that Giles had to bite back a protest, before she added, "We thought you wouldn't need to know in advance. Was that wrong, Nalph?"

He smiled at them. "No, it is quite consistent with the Mikh code. I did not share all I knew with you, after all. We exchanged rightful due, which is all we can ask."

At that moment the steel gate slammed open, letting in West End noise, smells and lights, and Tom Quinn and Zoe, who stopped short at the sight. Giles realised that the place might look a little odd – cart of empty glassware, demon blood drying on the stones, actual chattering blue demon, discarded backpacks and sword, and the bare branches of a dead alien tree arching over them all. But Tom recovered nicely. "Right, all well here, I know. It's done. Every threat has been neutralised, and all sites have been secured."

Yawning, Anya nestled in Giles's lap. "Espionage talk for 'no one except bad guys died,' I believe."

Zoe smiled. "Exactly. And Harry, belatedly on the team, has sent an MI5 car to take you two home."

"Let all who wish go home," Nalph said dryly.

***

The TV murmured in the background, some weird 1980s TV-movie romance that Willow didn't have to pay attention to. She yawned and snuggled deeper into the couch, bringing the cotton throw around her throat. It was warm and cosy here at Giles and Anya's, and as long as she stayed down here, there wouldn't be the loud sex-sounds she would face at the Marble Arch flat.

When Xander and Faith had dragged wearily into the Investigations and Acquisitions office, Willow had caught her best friend in a hug and hung on as tightly as she could. He was so sturdy, such a guy to hang onto. Then she'd whispered in his ear, "You know, during the mission I felt how much you care for her. You need to get yourselves back on track, sweetie."

He'd hugged so hard in return that she couldn't breathe. "I'll try. But you know you're always my best girl, Will," he whispered back.

She wasn't a girl any more, but some small part of her loved that she had someone who would forever think of her that way.

Still, no need to be present for the wall-banging and the "Oh fuck, baby" repetitions and the other various embarrassing and envy-making elements of Xander and Faith reunion smoochies. Not even two doors down in a small flat was far enough away; she'd had enough experience of it in Cleveland.

So she had come back to the Islington house with still shaken Dawn and Andrew and with Spike. The Mortimers were already gone, off to catch a late flight to Glasgow after all their hard work, and with them went her link to Tor House. She felt adrift, just for a moment, before she clutched again at the throw and at peace.

Giles and Anya had been waiting for them when they all got back, ready with hugs, British-guy congratulations, and some yummy food items ("the Almeida Brasserie has never let us down yet," Anya had said briskly) and blood for the undead team member. As they all ate, they'd also had what the juniors called 'a debriefing session,' chatter about what had happened and what shouldn't have. Giles and Anya both had gotten very quiet when Dawn said something about the almost-Key incident, then there had been lots more hugging. Even of Andrew.

It had been Scooby-like, in a way, but Willow knew it wasn't the same. She missed Buffy. She always missed Tara. So she had sat in the corner, watched, smiled. Waited for quiet.

Finally, because Anya had begun to whimper loudly every time she put weight on her injured ankle, Giles had picked her up in a very swashbuckly and un-Giles way and carried her upstairs to bed. Dawn had disappeared next, mumbling something about phone calls. Andrew had helped clear away the food before taking the dogs out. She'd missed where Spike had gone. But here she was, Willow alone.

Which felt okay, actually. "Close the gate, keep us safe," she murmured to herself, sinking deeper into the cushions.

"Does the spell still work?" Dawn said. She stood in the archway, the flickering light from Anya's candle-tree gilding her outline. Not green energy, though, not like those terrifying moments in the office. Just a pretty young woman. "You want some company, Willow?"

"Yes, and love some. Grab some couch, sweetie." She moved her feet so there would be enough room. Dawn snuggled in, then casually stole some of the throw. Grinning, Willow said, "That's the Dawnie-thief I know and love."

"Hey, it's almost winter . Give a girl a break." She laid her head on the back of the couch, looking at the terrible 80s love action on the screen. Then, quietly: "I, um, I tried to call Buffy just now."

"Oh. I'm guessing the whole 'tried' choice of words means she didn't pick up, huh."

"No, not on the cell or at home." Dawn twined the fabric more securely around her fingers. "She and her Slayer-gang beat the Tchith demon last night. Their last night, I mean, nine hours behind us? Anyway, when I didn't get her, I called Robson. Gave him a fast report, then got the info about big sis."

"But Buffy didn't answer," Spike said from the archway. When Willow and Dawn jumped, he waved the beer bottle in his hand apologetically – she thought he probably didn't know it looked like he was about to break it over someone's head. "Sorry. Passing by." Another wave with the beer bottle to indicate the spectrum of casual passing-by-ness. "Didn't mean to listen in."

"It's cool, Spike. Come on in!" Dawn said.

"No, petal, I've got... a thing. Yeah, I should–" He broke off, his gaze going to the screen. "Bloody hell! Is that Bruce Boxleitner?"

"Oooh! Is it B5 ?" Andrew said, appearing with the dogs behind him. As Cava vaulted over the arm of the couch and burrowed in between Willow and Dawn, he said, "Would this be an early ep, perhaps right after the introduction of Captain Sheridan, or–"

" Please ," Spike said, with withering scorn. "It's not some crap sci-fi telly. Now, Scarecrow and Mrs King – that was sodding televisual genius. Man and woman, drawn together for the good fight, working together and falling in love–" He stopped short. "Yeah, anyway. Wouldn't mind watching."

"It's just the usual Channel Five movie from the bad-TV vaults, but come on and grab the floor. Boys get the carpet, girls get the couch," Dawn said. "'Cause you snoozed, you lose, fellas."

"I'll go make popcorn!" Andrew said. "Please prepare your drinks orders for my return."

"Get me one of Giles's Tynant Blues, sweetie?" Then Dawn added, "But we have to keep it down, you guys. When Anya's not feeling well, Giles gets all 'shush, children, it must be silent for the recovery of my helpmeet and life-partner,' which is a total pain, but we humour him."

"Rupes is so bloody whipped." Spike sauntered into the room, then hesitated. With a start Willow realised that he was waiting for some sign from her. They hadn't talked much at all during that last Sunnydale year, not about his soul or what it was like to try to change. They probably should have talked.

"Like Dawnie said. Down in front, Spike," she said, giving him her best smile.

He smiled back, a rare sweet one like he used to give Buffy when he thought no one was looking. "Bossy-boots," he said, then folded himself gracefully onto the floor, the collie-dog stretching out in front of him.

As Dawn said something to Andrew about popcorn butter flavourings, as Cava dog-snorted on Willow's hand and sighed, as Spike snarked about the Bruce person's kissing technique, Willow decided that quiet was highly overrated. This felt just right.

***

As Xander watched Faith stride down the hall, he jammed his hands in his pockets.

Just a few steps down the hall to his tiny bedroom, just a few million new nerves as bad as those before the mission. He'd had thirty minutes that morning to come back and shower and change, post-hangover, and now he wondered if the bedroom looked as much of a disaster as usual. Wondered if he'd even know what to do when they got there.

They hadn't been alone together since that night in Cleveland. God, it'd been so romantic: breeze off the lake, dappled moonlight coming through the open curtains to mark their naked, post-sex selves, and one extremely stupid and scared Xander Harris burbling about breaks and not moving too fast and other phrases he'd learned from too much television, including the occasional programme of Dr. Phil.

He so could use a life-coach right now, he thought.

After Faith walked into his room like she owned it, he went in and shut the door behind them. Then he leaned back on the door to keep her in while he figured out what he needed to say.

There she was, weirdly still and wary, standing in the middle of the room and staring back at him. Dark-haired woman with an edge he could cut himself on, strength that could break him, hidden wounds he didn't want to make worse – like Cordy, like Anya (depending on her place in the hair-colouring chart), but at the heart, Faith. "Why do I always fall for the scary ones?" he asked, more to himself than to her.

"You think I'm scary? You got no fucking idea, sweetheart." She grinned, wicked and quick, but then her eyes dropped to his throat, and the smile died. "But yeah, I get that a lot. And, um, the demon-guy tried to strangle you tonight? Are you–" A whisper now, the question much more than just checking on his health. "You okay?"

He knew she was remembering her own hands at his throat, his world going black, fear everywhere – but that was so long ago. Hurt had been exchanged for items of similar pain value several times since then, and why the hell was he using an Anya-metaphor? He said, "You saved me this time. But hey, why don't you check anyway?"

She did that Slayer-stride thing, got right up close to him faster than he expected. He didn't flinch, though, and her fingers were gentle when they pressed against his bruises. Not many people knew Faith had gentleness in her. She pressed again, making it a caress. "I'm sorry, Xander," she said.

"Don't be. 'Cause we're going to do this right this time. Isn't that what you said? You know, on the phone, one of the actual times we spoke, and yeah, that was my fault."

"Yeah, I remember it. And we're gonna." And her mouth was on his, not gentle at all, tongue darting in as fast as any Slayer-punch. His arms came around her, cupping that sweet ass, bringing her in. This, he knew how to do. But she pulled back for just a second, that wicked smile so close and hot. "Take off your T-shirt, babe."

"Okay. Okay, sure, I suppose it is a little ripe, what with the crawling through tunnels and the demon residue and the effects of mortal terror on a Watcher Facilities Administrator–"

Ending his babble, she yanked his shirt away herself, licking a hot trail up his chest as the fabric came off. Then, as she kicked off her shoes: "Rest of the clothes off, Harris."

"As you wish." It took approximately twenty-five seconds to work the jeans and boxers off – his hard-on making the job a little more difficult – and take off his own shoes and socks, all done without grace. The trembles caused by her shucking off her own clothes added another five seconds to the task. Then they were naked and he was flat on his back on the bed, with her above him, hot and creamy and ready to go. He said, "Ah, just like old times."

"No." Her eyes had gone darker – in hurt? And he thought, I did it again , Jesus, how stupid can one man be –

She slipped the T-shirt she had been holding, his T-shirt, over her head. Then she followed the drape of fabric with a long stroke, cupping her breasts, arching up into the cotton and her own hands. His cock twitched at the sight, happy and yearning, and when she moved just a little, those Slayer-muscles took him in, just the tip. She smiled at him. "Gonna be so much better than old times, babe. Got you right here, got you inside and out."

"Yep, you got me," he said, moaning as she slid down all the way. "You can trust me this time, Faith."

Her smile got wider, wicked and gentle at the same time. "And you can trust me, Xander." Their hands linked as she started to ride, just like always. Just like never before.

***

The first thing Wes saw in the lamplit entry was his mother, sitting on the lowest step of the staircase, a shawl wrapped around thin shoulders. He had to blink to realise that it wasn't time past but time present, that he stood not with the ghost of his acknowledged father but the reality of his hidden one. "So you're both all right then," she said, rising to her feet.

"We're fine," Jools said. He shut the door behind them and threw his keys on the hall table. "It went according to plan, Elinor. All creatures great and small in the Thames Valley are safe for another day."

"I expected nothing less." She inspected them closely. "However, you're both filthy. Julian, your shoes are ruined ."

"I do realise that. It's a source of soul-deep anguish already," Jools muttered.

"Well, if you wish to bathe, I'll put together some food and drink. Sandwiches, perhaps – and brandy for you as usual, I assume, Julian. What would you like, Wesley?"

"I'm not hungry, Mother. But thank you." He stood there, swaying on his feet, too tired and empty to deal with the rabbit-hole down which he'd fallen.

"You should eat. Long, difficult day, and long, emotional evening," Jools said, even as he headed for the stairs. After he bent to kiss Wesley's mother, he ran up the steps, saying over his shoulder, "Yes, brandy, my dear. And by the way, our son did very well tonight. Very well indeed."

"I expected nothing less," she said again, this time so clearly that Wes had to hear it. The words sounded odd and unfamiliar in her voice. Then she came a step closer. Still inspecting, still judging – until she said, "I know I don't deserve forgiveness, nor shall I ask you for it. But let me take care of you now."

Careful of his stubble, he kissed her on the cheek. It was all he could manage. "Thank you, Mother. But truly, I'm not hungry."

"Of course." Her hands lifted and fell, as if she'd thought better of embracing him. And he felt her gaze on his back, all the way up the stairs.

His room was quiet, dim, almost empty, besides the single bed and two bookcases which contained his childhood library and his academic honours and certificates. After he toed off his shoes, he sat down on the edge of his bed. Time seemed to freeze again, uneven icicles of memory in the corners of his mind. But it wasn't his solitary boyhood or his adult failures that he remembered. No, it was the way Angel had told him at their last meeting that when –not 'if', he only now realised, but 'when'– Wes was needed, he would be called. It was Fred babbling her goodbye and rattling off address after address for him to write her. It was Gunn calling him "English" one last time. Cordelia in the Hyperion, gorgeous and domineering. Lilah in bed with him, laughing while their hands linked.

Just ordinary memories, he thought.

A tap at the door, and Jools, resplendent in a dressing gown, walked in with a glass of red wine and a plate of sandwiches. "I know you told your mother you didn't want anything, but try to think, my boy. Does you no bloody good to starve." He set the food down on the table and then put the wineglass into Wesley's hand. "The alcohol might make you sleepy, at any rate. Rest of the bottle's open in the kitchen if you need more."

The red reflected strangely on his fingers, Wes thought. "I don't– no, I...." He ground to a halt. "Thank you, Jools."

"Yes. Well, better late than never, what? And you need to keep up your strength. I'm taking you to tea with your great-grandmother tomorrow, and as Rupert would tell you, Lady Rosemary's rather intimidating on first meeting." Halfway out the door, he paused, and over his shoulder he said, almost dismissively, "Proud of you, you know. Want to show you off."

When the door shut behind him, Wes took a sip of his wine. It tasted like tears.

***

A sharp hurt woke Anya – her ankle, she realised groggily. She must have moved in her sleep. She vaguely remembered going to bed, after a tiring and painful evening and post-mission time spent with most of the Scoobies. As they'd all eaten and drunk and talked, they'd attempted to hog Rupert's attention, just like always. But then he'd brought her upstairs and gotten her some aspirin, bound up her ankle and put her to bed. Rupert –

Opening her eyes, she took stock. Yes, she was in her bed, wearing her nightshirt. Candlelight, wavering in the cold draught from the window they really needed to fix. She was lying on her side, with a pillow easing her now wrapped limb. Her husband, however, wasn't warming her.

He had arranged himself in what looked like a very uncomfortable position in their big bedroom armchair, his blanket-draped feet resting on their bed. His bandaged hand cradled an empty tumbler which was perched on his stomach, and his eyes (glasses off) were shut. He looked manly, and gold and silver in the candlelight, and still exhausted, and – "Rupert, honey."

A shudder, a murmured "Just another few minutes," and he sank further into the chair.

"Rupert Giles , just what do you think you're doing?"

"Er, sleeping," he said without opening his eyes. "Which you should be too. Good night."

"Rupert."

"Anya." With that, he opened his eyes. "Darling, I move too much in my sleep, as you know very well. I could hurt your ankle without knowing it."

"Since I just woke myself up doing the same thing, I think the comfort of my husband's warm body is an equitable trade. And we've discussed this, honey, you know I don't like it when you're not with me." When he shifted his weight, his teeth bit into his lip. "See, now you're hurting yourself. You're too old to be sleeping awkwardly in chairs."

"Thank you. That's precisely what I wanted to hear," he said dryly. He pulled his blanket up further, exposing his feet to the cold, and shut his eyes again.

"You know what I mean! You have aches and pains. I now have aches and pains. We should be having aches and pains together."

"Thus, my wife, with the working definition of our marriage." But he was smiling when he opened his eyes again.

"In, Rupert. But get your pajama bottoms off first."

Although he'd put his hand to his back, wincing as he moved, that made him stop. "May I remind you about commands?"

After pushing back the covers for him, she propped herself up on her elbow and smiled sweetly. "Rupert, please. I very much want you next to me, warming me up. Just you and me, skin to skin. Here, I'll take off my top as a pledge of good faith." Carefully so as not to hurt her ankle, she began to unbutton her nightshirt.

"I know what you're doing, you know." Eyes narrowed, he stared down at her. "This is the shadow-effect of your vengeance mark. I don't sodding know why, or for what, but you're trying to torture me. Wreak vengeance of some sort."

"It isn't either, and I am not." Which were lies, of course, but a quick look under her eyelashes revealed that he was already getting hard. Yep, a nice shadow-effect of his chaos mark, she thought, grinning a little. With a flourish she undid the last button and then slid one arm out of the nightshirt, letting the navy silk pool around her waist.

"For fuck's sake! Anya, you're a vengeful strategist, and I have half a mind to sleep in the study." The tumbler slammed down on his bedside table. Of course, then his pajama bottoms hit the carpet. Definitely a shadow-effect of chaos there, and a quite substantial one, she thought.

"I don't think you should tell lies, Rupert. Not when we're not working, anyway."

He blew out the candles before moving closer. Not in yet, though: "Do you promise to be good and not suggest any activities that would hurt your ankle?"

"Absolutely. Now please get in, I'm freezing."

Her shiver was feigned, but it was enough to have him crawl – not particularly gracefully; she could tell he really was sore – into bed next to her. He managed to find a position that got him quite close without touching her, and then pulled the duvet over them. He brushed a kiss on her forehead. "There, dearest. Now please go back to sleep."

"Hang on. You're still too far away." She held him in place while she wriggled closer, so that his erection was snug and warm against her stomach, his breath in her hair, and his hand finding a place on her bottom.

She gave him five minutes before he figured out a way around tonight's technical difficulties.

In the meantime, she relaxed into him, at ease for the first time since – "How long have we been working the Yeangelt case, honey?"

"Months now." He began to absently stroke her back, feathering up one side of her spine and down the other. She could feel herself melting, yearning toward him, and she rested her own hand on his waist. "A difficult job. Bloody lucky that everyone could help."

Not everyone, she wanted to say – but that would disturb the moment. Besides, she was already jealous enough of the ones who were here. "It was terrifying. Except strangely not as bad as I feared."

This time his mouth found hers: taste of Scotch, taste of reassurance, hint of chaos. "You did beautifully." Another kiss, before his quiet, "Are you glad you stayed?"

"Always. With you, always. Anchored."

His hand drifted down to cup her bottom again, then dip further down; she moaned at the slide of his fingers through her wetness. Against her stomach she could feel the honey from the tip of his cock. "I love you, Anya. But what should we do to thank everyone?"

She let her fingers trace down the veins in his arm, making him shiver a little, until she caught his hand and helped him lift her thigh – the one with the injury. Carefully, he moved her leg up to drape over his thigh, her ankle protected, then shifted so he was nestled just right. Not in yet, but soon. She said, "Love you too. And I was thinking of a party tomorrow night. Before the Cleveland residents go home?"

"What?" When he raised his head to stare at her, she moved her hand around to his arse and pressed him in – always a perfect fit. Even as he slid inside her, hot and thick, he repeated, "Oh Christ, darling....A party ?"

"Oh honey, right there....Yes. A social occasion with food and beverages....Honey, honey... I've already talked to Harry at the wine shop about our order." Experimentally she moved her top leg, brought him closer. His arm banded around her, and – oh God yes. "Rupert–"

"Shut up. We'll talk about this later," he whispered, his other hand slipping under her shoulder so he could wrap it in her hair. Nice, hard tug of pleasure-pain, and he said, "Stay still, dearest. I'll do all the work." He began to move in earnest, hitting everywhere just right.

To hell with technical difficulties, she thought dizzily.

***

' Mommy's all right, Daddy's all right, they're both just a little weird....'

An old AOR tune blared out to meet Xander and Faith as they crunched toward the front door of Giles and Anya's house. Looked festive tonight, Faith thought, and she swung his hand. "Nice flowers and shit in the pots, don't you think? Fancy touch."

"Yeah. Say, whatever did you do with the apology-flowers I gave you?"

"Tossed 'em in the trash." When he flinched, she leaned over, said "Wouldn't do it again, babe," and kissed it better. So easy, so comforting to know that this time he was there to kiss back. Light from the lantern washed across her shut eyes, she leaned in closer–

"Excuse me. If we could get through–?"

She turned around to see the MI5 head dude, Tom, standing there with raised English-guy eyebrows. Fucking good-looking English guy, she had to say – tall, dark and built, but way too intense, like her own English Watcher-pal. She was so over the crazy intense types. Grinning, she said, "What'll ya give us to let you pass through the gate?"

"We brought drinks. How would that do?" That came from the Zoe chick, who did dress up nice, walking up the path with this fine black guy. "Oh, and Xander, Faith, this is Danny."

"Hey, Danny. And if you have water, Zoe, that'd be great," Xander said. When she sent him a what-the-fuck look, he blushed. "Not in the mood for alcohol tonight. Got to be fully up to speed to handle you, sweetheart."

"Harris, you're a prince," she whispered, and slid her hand under the waistband of his jeans. He startled into her fingers, made a little squeak.

As Tom shouldered past them and rang the doorbell, Zoe handed Xander a bottle from her sack. Looked like a Dasani. "Here you go. Straight from the Thames."

"Yes. It's magic," Tom said. Faith could have sworn the SOB didn't crack a smile.

The front door swung open on lights and music, voices and doggy barks and food-smells. And Andrew smiled and extended his arm like he was on Master-fucking-piece Theatre . "Welcome, guests! Please do come in."

***

Lots of noise coming from the lounge and the hallway, so they had to shout–

"Rupes, I'm tellin' you that she didn't. Know our history's complicated and what all, but believe me on this one."

"For fuck's sake, Spike, I was there . At the Paradiso gig in '76, Patti did sing the alternate verse to 'My Generation.'"

"Hey, I didn't go to New York until the next year, mate. Spent '76 enjoying the European scenery. Happened to be there, and she didn't warble the tune."

"Frankly, I wouldn't trust your, er, powers of recollection. Can you truthfully tell me that you weren't fucked-up on some bizarre vampire mixture of blood and whatever street drug you could find?"

"Bloody hell, Rupes, like you weren't? Bet you were all Rippered out on chaos and the finest Amsterdam street shit and what all – okay, no blood, of course, but other than that–"

"Right, that's it," Giles muttered, acting like he was going to roll up his sleeves and do a little Fyarl smash-and-bash. "It's time someone taught you a lesson, you little prat."

"And that someone would be you, Watcher?" Grinning, Spike raised his bottle of Bishop's Tipple to his mouth and took a long drink. Best sodding party he'd been to in forever.

"Would you two stop?" Anya said, leaning forward to steal her husband's glass of wine. She'd perched herself on the kitchen counter, her legs wrapped around Giles's waist where he leaned back against her, Giles's free hand protecting her wounded ankle. After she had a sip: "I'm getting bored by this pointless argument about music I dislike."

"Well, if you would actually use the crutches I got for you, darling, you could go off and find a conversation more to your taste." Rupes stole back his glass and took his own sip.

"But I like having you carry me everywhere. It's the way things ought to be," she said, laughing before she gave the old man a little nip on the ear. Which, actually, he didn't seem to mind.

"Ha ha. If I'm too old to, er, 'sleep awkwardly in chairs', I'm too bloody old to be carrying you around."

"Don't know about that, but Willow thinks it's 'swashbuckly,'" Spike offered. When the other two stared at him, he said, "What? Merely repeating what I heard."

Before Rupes could do another Fyarl impression, the doorbell rang. Dawn sped across the archway, and then they could hear her say, "Hey there, Wesley! Come in, come in."

"Wes!" Spike said at the same time Giles did. They shot suspicious glances at each other before Spike continued, "In the kitchen, mate!"

Smiling, the Head Boy appeared in the archway. He looked a bloody sight better than he had the day before, as if he'd got his first good night's sleep in aeons. "Hullo, everyone. Seems like I'm a bit late, I'm sorry."

"Wes, we missed you last night. Come here so you can get your congratulations hug," Anya commanded. When he obeyed, she did a clumsy slide around in order to give him a tight one-armed embrace. "Look at you! Why, you seem at least fifty percent less crazy."

"Is everything all right? With the, er, Jools, and everything." Giles hesitated. "I know you had tea with Lady Rosemary today."

"Oh, right, sipping a bit of the old Darjeeling with the toffs," Spike said before he remembered that weird pre-mission moment with the Siviter bloke and the use of the word 'son.' "No, really. Like Rupes said, is everything all right?"

"It's better." Wes looked away for a second, then smiled. "It's fair to say that it's better, which is more than I would have hoped for."

"Good. Watcher resurgent, eh?" Giles said with a smile.

Wes said blandly, "True enough. Does this apply to you as well, Giles?"

Anya slapped her hands on her husband's chest. "Yes, Rupert, you need to talk to Wes about that." When he looked over his shoulder to send her the official Giles Stare of Death, she shrugged. "I told you the subject was only tabled. You have to consider the offer. Think."

"Anya–"

"Your wife is of course correct, Giles." Wes wandered toward the table and picked up a handful of sate sticks from the spread. Looked good, actually – Spike took a couple for himself. "We should talk about the job."

"If you'll take me out to the lounge first, honey, then you could come back and be all Watcher-y with the boys." She scooted forward, wrapping her legs and arms more securely around him. "As they say in films set in the American West, giddy-up."

Spike could hear Rupes's teeth grinding from all the way over there, but he said, "Right. If you'll excuse us–" With only a little wince, he caught her legs and struck out across the room. Demon-girl threw a blazing smile over her shoulder as they went.

Their departure meant Spike could turn his attention to the Head Boy, whose smile was already beginning to fade. "Seriously, Percy."

"Seriously, Spike." A cracker consumed before he said quietly, "Sorry I didn't check in with you yesterday after the mission. But I had lunch with Faith today – she tells me it went well?"

"As smooth as a sodding baby's arse. We missed you, though. How was it, working with James Bloody Bond?"

Wes looked down at the food. His hands absently building a little pile of cheese in one corner, he said, "More than I would have hoped for."

***

' You're my-yyy favourite waste of time....'

As he spun Faith around the hallway in a little dance, Xander sang along (badly) with the old power-pop song on the sound system. From her perch with Andrew on the stairs, Dawn rolled her eyes. Xander's effort was pathetic; she so couldn't believe she'd ever had a crush on him.

"Can't believe you're calling me a waste of time, Harris. 'Bout to get yourself smacked across the English Channel," Faith said, pulling away even though it was clear she loved it. "You'd think you'd know what the hell was romantic and what wasn't by this time."

"You would think, but you would be wrong," Anya said, as she and Giles passed through the hallway. When Giles spanked her leg, she said in irritation, "Excuse me, Rupert. If I'm not allowed to do sexually arousing things to you in public, defined by you as 'watched by people we know,' then you're not to do them to me–"

As the master and mistress of the house disappeared into the lounge, Xander and Faith looked at each other. "Want to go in the kitchen and talk to the undead and the restless?" he asked.

"Hell yes. 'Cause I just got a visual I fucking did not want to have," she said. After he swung her around once more, they danced through the archway.

Which left Andrew alone with Dawn. There was something she really needed to say to him, and there just hadn't been time so far. Still, this would require careful handling. Brushing her hair against his shoulder, she said, "Want some of my prosciutto, sweetie?"

"I'd love a nibble, thank you."

When he took the slice from her hand, she said, "I owe you a lot, you know, Andrew. You helped me so much last night."

"'Take it down, keep it even.' Just an application of the Giles Watcher-voice, as taught by Rupert Giles. No big deal." But his blush showed how pleased he was by her praise. He took another bit of ham from her plate and munched.

"It was a very big deal. Do you know how scared I was?" How she had felt like she was tearing apart, molecule by molecule, collapsing into a force bigger and yet less than herself, Dawn Summers – she shivered at the memory. "I mean, how really scared I was?"

"I was scared too, Dawnie." He spoke quietly, without any of his flamboyant voice-things. It meant that he was as serious as he could be. "You're my peach. My best friend."

She smiled at him. "And you're mine, Andrew. Which means I want to do stuff for you, about which you won't get mad–" The doorbell rang at that moment, before she could even prepare him. This might be better, in fact: a quick glance at her watch showed that another guest was right on time. "Why don't you see who's here?"

"Of course." He stood up and assumed his role of Andrew Wells, Party Host. Biting back her giggles, she watched him stride across the hall and throw open the front door. "Welcome, come in," he said, then stopped. "Ian?"

Ian Matthews, the tall, punked-out guy from many evenings at the Duke of Nowhere and who Dawn knew for a fact was Andrew's Secret Crush, stood on the threshold. "Yeah. Hey, Andy." He offered his hand, which Andrew took like he would a time-bomb. "Dawn called me, said you were having some party-thing. Said that you'd be here and what all."

"Yep. Here I am," Andrew said cautiously.

"Right." Ian stuck his hands in his back pockets – Dawn thought the move did a nice job of emphasizing his attributes. "Anyway, so I came. Oh, Dawn, evening."

"Hey, Ian, glad you could make it."

"Yeah. Anyway, Andy, hear you're a comics fan? I am too. Thought we might talk, yeah? See if our favourites are the same." Smoothly, he slipped out one hand to rest on Andrew's ass. Dawn suppressed another giggle; Ian Matthews was a bad, bad boy. "Want to show me around, get me a beer or something?"

"'Kay," Andrew said, hitting a note somewhere above Cava's yelp when Giles accidentally stepped on her paw that one time. Then he lowered his voice to Andrew Wells, Super-spy. "Sure. Yeah, Ian."

As he led Ian into the kitchen, though, he threw her a quick 'What?' look, half thrill, half terror. She blew him a kiss.

Dawn Summers paid her debts and took care of her friends, she thought. That's who she was.

***

It was too noisy for Wes inside. The kitchen had filled up with people, and much as he liked all of them (except perhaps that strange protege of Anya's), he still felt a little too raw for flash and chatter. Besides, he'd spent much of the afternoon being interrogated by his great-grandmother, and he deserved a break.

Taking his glass of wine – white this time, he wasn't in the mood for red – he left the kitchen. The lounge was too full of people as well. Anya held court on the sofa, with Giles leaning indulgently over the back and smiling at her even as he talked to Willow and Tom Quinn; husband and wife seemed golden in the reflected glow from the nearby lamps. Not the time to talk business, Wes thought. He couldn't see who was sitting in the chairs nearer the door, but it was still all too much.

The French doors at the end of the hallway beckoned – panes that didn't reflect, London-dark that soothed. As he went, he heard the scrabble of dog paws, just before he was buffeted by Macallan on one side, Cava on the other. They must want to escape too, he thought, and he opened the doors for them all.

Even in late October, Anya's garden was lovely. Rows of shrubbery and autumn plantings gleamed in the low light; in one corner, the laceprig web shone as if tiny sparks burned eternally on Belgian lace. Smiling, he sat on the table and drew his feet up. Then he closed his eyes and breathed in the night.

For the first time in months, he didn't have a headache. And his sleep had been free from dreams the night before.

He didn't know how long he rested in the dark, sipping his wine while the dogs rolled but played, how long until he heard the doors open. "I'm sorry," he said automatically, looking back over his shoulder.

When he saw a woman's form silhouetted in the doorway, his heart constricted. ' It means everything that you succeeded,' he heard again, a whisper from far, far away. Then there was nothing but the woman in the doorway, the flutter of silk against skin–

And the dogs barked happily and bounded to her. When she bent down to pet them, murmuring to them, in a shaft of light from inside her face was lit. It was Zoe. One hand on Cava's head, she looked up at him and smiled. "Hello, Rory."

"Hello, Troy."

She stood, twirling her own wine glass in her hand, gazing around the garden. "Oh, it's lovely out here – Anya and Andrew have put in so much work. At any rate, I was wondering....may I join you?"

He closed his eyes, so he could hear the voice whisper to him in wine and chocolate, smoke and tears for the last time. Then he opened his eyes and smiled at her. "I'd like that. Please."

***

Giles looked at the empty glass in Anya's hand, then whispered in her ear, "Do you want another Viognier, darling?"

"Yes, please," she whispered back, her lips against his cheek in a smile. Then she turned back to Danny – "So you're telling me that Ruth is interested in Malcolm ?"

"Shocking, I know," Danny said, shaking his head. There was nothing that Danny and Anya liked better than gossip, Giles thought, yet they so rarely got to indulge. This truly made it a party for them.

He made a point to brush his hands over Dawn's and Willow's heads on his way out, and he was rewarded by grins in return. The comments Willow had made before the mission still burned a little – since then, he had tried to show them all he was happy to have them here, even Xander. He was trying, anyway.

He could see the kitchen through the archway. Spike of course hadn't moved from the food and beer supply. He, Xander and Faith were laughing with Andrew and...that pillock Ian Matthews? Who practically had his hand down Andrew's trousers?

Giles stopped in the entry, blinking at the scene. Then he sighed. "What does Anya say? 'A Watcher can take care of himself,'" he muttered. Which was complete bollocks, actually, as he had proven time and again. Absently he sent his fingers through the topmost flame on the candle-tree, felt a tiny burn –

Just as the doorbell rang. Blowing on his fingertips, he opened the door, saying, "Hello –" And then he swallowed hard. "Hello, Buffy."

There she stood on the path, framed by the open gate behind her, a piece of hand-luggage at her feet. He took in the sight of his Slayer – no, not his Slayer any more, he corrected himself. Just Buffy, looking travel-weary but fit and more at ease than he'd seen her in years, with a small smile on her face: "Hey, Giles. Nice place you and Anya have here."

"Yes. Er, hey." He made himself smile through what felt very like panic. "Come in, come in. Small end-of-mission party – Dawn will be thrilled to see you, of course, but the other Scoobies and Faith are here as well...." A burst of wild laughter from the kitchen confirmed his statement, and he gestured aimlessly before reaching for his glasses.

"So you guys won, I take it?" She didn't move. "I only just heard that something biggish was going down here – we've had e-mail troubles in Baja, all kinds of troubles with the phones and stuff, and – anyway, when I got off the plane in Cleveland, Robson said there'd be apocalypse over here too?"

"No, not apocalypse. Localised end of life as we know it, that's all. But our team stopped it." He forced another smile, made himself put his hand down before he started polishing his lenses, and then stepped over the threshold. "Here, let me get your bag."

"No, not yet." It was the dismissive tone he'd heard all too often in the last months of Sunnydale. When he looked again, however, she was still smiling. "Could we talk for a sec before I go in? Maybe shut the door?"

"Of course." Bracing himself for more reproaches, he pulled the door to, and then turned to her. "What would you like to talk about?"

Her arms were crossed over her chest in a gesture he'd grown to dread – but then she started to rub them briskly, saying, "Ooh, it's cold here! Nice thing about Mexico is the sun, you know? London's just as cold and damp as advertised. Okay, not advertised , like 'Come to England, freeze to death, yay,' but you know what I mean."

"It's a lovely night," he said, "but I can imagine it would be a change for you. Er...did you wish to discuss the weather?"

"No. No, I'm kinda – no." She dropped her hands. "I wanted to talk about Baja. About the last month or so."

He had no idea where this was going, but then she had always had the gift of surprising him. "Tell me about Baja."

"Okay. Okay, so it was me, and Robin Wood–" he felt a stomach-lurch at the name– "and five under-seventeen Slayers. We were in this little village on the Gulf, with lousy bus service and worse TV and internet access, and we had to learn all the lore – you know, lore , about 'lo, the Tchith-demon cometh' – as well as train. Which meant trying to make these little girls read extremely boring tomes and talk to people and work out, and, please." She shuddered dramatically. "They were so annoying. The girls, I mean. They wouldn't listen to me, and they wouldn't understand what we were doing, and one day, swear to God, I almost found myself making flashcards to explain it to them."

"Oh, no, Buffy. That never works."

"Well, I get that now ." She smiled again, a little nervously. "I get a lot of things now. One night near the end, when it was tenser than tense, Serafina – the littlest Slayer – just hauled off and yelled at me about what a bitch I was, so unreasonable, I just didn't understand anything, yadda yadda. And I, um, yelled back."

"Well," he said slowly, "that happens."

"Yeah. But see, I got it. I really got it for the first time."

"Got what, exactly?"

"Got how it was for you." She looked down, scuffing at a stone on the gravelled path, before she said in a rush, "In Sunnydale all those years, I mean. How hard, how frustrating – anyway, it was what I needed to see." And she looked up at him, all smiles gone. "All those things I said about you letting me down and betraying me and leaving me, I don't need a Watcher, whatever – I still sort of feel like that. But I get it now, I really do, and I can forgive you."

As he stared at her, trying to understand what she'd said, a sudden surge of anger threatened to drown him. How dare she stand there, forgiving him when he hadn't forgiven her–

And he saw it at last. "Oh Christ, no."

"Giles?" She stepped forward, put her hand on his arm. "Um, that really wasn't the reaction I was expecting."

He looked down at her bent head, and he understood. He had made all the right noises, spoken sanctimoniously about forgiveness and what people needed, and he had thought he meant them. But they were lies. Even as he had choked in guilt for his own sins, he had never forgiven her. Neither for Jenny and Angelus, nor for that first year of college where every day she'd made him feel useless, nor for the way she'd treated him and Anya when he returned for the final fight. Those were small wounds, however, compared to what lay at his heart. Most of all, he had never forgiven her for dying, no, for choosing to go and leave them. For a moment he had to fight back his own father's words, 'Apparently you just don't care.'

"I am not a generous man," he said, almost to himself.

"Well, okay. But that's kind of irrelevant," she said. "'Cause this was my deal. You know, go to Mexico, have an epiphany."

So very Buffy, he thought. His fingernails were digging so hard into his bandaged palm that he had started to bleed again under the wrapping. As the physical pain came, a tide of aching, he let the rest of his anger go. Different, better choices – now that he knew the truth, he could change it.

She made one of her Buffy-faces, as cute and vulnerable as if she were in the old library again. Lightly, to cover what he knew were nerves: "And I got a great tan and killed the demon too. If that counts."

"Of course," he said, holding out his arms. "But I'm more grateful you told me. Grateful for the forgiveness, I mean, Buffy."

In a burst of energy – like Dawn, he thought – she was there, hugging him too hard, the way she had done the first time he'd seen her after her resurrection. "It feels so much better not to be mad at you," she mumbled into his jacket. "God, it feels so much bett