The glass holding her orange juice fell to the kitchen floor, caught only at the last minute by a ghostly hand. Cordelia fell, crumpled, after it, curling into a fetal ball with her arms held over her head, as though to ward off a blow. Her face contracted in pain, and her breath halted in her chest as a pain, like someone squeezing her heart, consumed her above and beyond the pain of the vision.

"Cordelia?"

She could hear Angel's voice, faintly, far beyond the screaming pain in her head; could feel Wesley's hands on her shoulder, holding her upright against the warmth of his chest. She tried to grab for them, make them a lifeline to cling to as the vision took her, but the pain was too intense, the nausea sweeping through her body overpowering all else. It wasn't like normal, whatever normal was supposed to be the headache that came with the visions hurt, but the visions themselves didn't hurt, not like this. Not like she was living it herself...

A crest of sweat rose on her skin, and she shivered, trying to crawl further into Wesley's embrace. Then a final sharp pain shot through her head at the same time the hand clenched and twisted

"Giles!" she screamed. "No!"

And just like that, it was over. The burning pain in her chest receded, and the normal, expected, totally blessedly ordinary migrane kicked in.

"Oh god." She looked up at her friends, her eyes tearing and red-rimmed from pain. "Giles. Something's going to happen to Giles. Now. Oh god, it hurts."

Angel was already halfway into his coat when he looked out the window and swore. They had been up all night going through the real estate ads, looking for new digs. The sun was just starting to rise. There was no way he could make it down to Sunnydale; even if they stuffed him in the trunk again, which he hated, he'd still be stuck there until dark. Not much use if there was an emergency. And trying to reach someone down there...who? It was summer, Buffy was taking her month-long break from Sunnydale so there was no use trying her at her mother's house, and they didn't have a contact number for Willow or Xander...they had never needed one. Giles had always been their intermediary.

Giles. Angel still felt the bitter guilt at the thought of the former Watcher, a guilt distance and time hadn't been able to mend. If something were to happen to his friend, before they had to chance to find all the pieces, much less put then all together...

"We'll go," Cordelia said, getting to her feet with Wesley's assistance. "But not on the bike. Angel, the keys?"

"Cordelia I don't think that's a good idea "

She turned on Wesley, savage, then winced, her hand going to her head as the migrane made its displeasure at sudden moves known. "Shut up and drive, Wesley."

They didn't speak the entire drive down. Top up, radio off, they both sat in the silence. Wesley floored it like a native Angelenos, cutting off every delivery truck and early morning commuter in his way before getting onto the highway. Cordelia dry-swallowed another aspirin, and set her jaw against the pain, and the memory of her vision.

Hang in there, Giles. Whatever it is that's coming to get you, hang in there, 'cause the cavalry's coming.

The car hadn't even pulled to the curb before Cordelia was out of the car, running the stairs to Giles' apartment. Wesley managed to get the car parked, and then was on her heels, reaching her as she hammered on the heavy wooden door.

"Giles! Damnit, Giles, let us in!"

There was no answer. Giles wasn't the heaviest of sleepers, she knew that from way too many times sitting and waiting while he recovered from yet another conk on the head. He was too well-trained for that. If the doorbell hadn't woken him, then the sound of her voice, panicked, sure as hell should have.

"Giles!"

"Cordelia. Perhaps he is not at home, for whatever reason. Are you sure the vision saw him here?"

She nodded, almost in tears again. This was wrong, this was very wrong. They had to get inside, they had to get to him, now!

Wesley sighed, not certain of his actions but aware that Cordelia's visions had never once been wrong. Withdrawing a fob from his pocket, he sorted through them, trying to find the right key on the chain. He settled on one, and Cordelia grabbed it from him, turning the lock and pushing open the door.

"Giles!"

He was kneeling on the floor in the kitchenette, one hand outstretched as though reaching for something, the other curled in towards his chest, the same way Cordelia had done during her vision. From the still-hot tea splattered on the floor next to him, shards of the ceramic mug underfoot, he must have just fallen as they arrived. His eyes were closed, his breathing thready and pained-sounding.

"Dear god," Wesley said, already moving towards the phone. Cordelia went to crouch beside Giles, halfway reaching out then withdrawing, as though afraid to touch him. "Wes?" She looked up at her companion, her expression terrified. "No bite marks, no marks of any kind. He's breathing, but look at him! His skin's all gray. What could have done this to him?"

"I'm calling the paramedics," he told her, trying to be reassuring. "Nothing did this to him, Cordelia, except possibly himself. I believe that he has had -- is having a heart attack. Hello? Yes, I require an ambulance, please --"

Cordelia turned back to Giles, turning Wesley out. One hand reached out, touching the side of his face. His eyes opened at the contact, his gaze trying and failing to focus on her.

"It's okay, Giles," she said. "We're here. We're going to get you to a hospital and everything's going to be fine."

She could hear the distant sound of a siren outside already. You had to hand it to Sunnydale -- they responded to emergencies really fast, so long as it was daylight outside.

"See? And no need to make up some really lame story about muggers, or gangs on PCP, 'cause this was totally weirdness free. Idiot man. Don't they teach you any kind of stress management over there at Watcher school?"

Her eyes threatened to overflow again, but were checked by the expression in his eyes, half-wondering and unsure, like he didn't know where he was, or who she was. "You hang in there," she said, finally giving in to her impulse and putting her arms around him, comforting him as best she could. Wasn't there something you were supposed to do for heart attack victims, something - oh! She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out her bottle of aspirin. "Here. Come on, swallow these, quick. Oh, water. No time, come on, swallow them -- that's good. It's going to be okay, Giles. I did not drive all the way down here to be too late, you hear me?"

His eyes closed again, slowly, pale eyelashes against skin that was too ashy-colored for her peace of mind, but it seemed to her as though his breathing eased slightly. "Right. Hang in there, Giles, okay? We're almost home free..."

Rupert Giles hated hospitals. He hated emergency rooms, he hated the stupid paper robes they made you wear, he hated the cold instruments they used. He even hated the stupid paper cups they gave you when they made you swallow yet another type of totally worthless, so-called painkiller.

He tried very hard to hate the competent, white-clothed staff who worked in the hospital as well, but it was difficult.

Not impossible, he thought wearily, hearing the door open and bracing himself for yet another round of well-meant prodding and poking, but difficult.

"Giles?"

He opened his eyes to see Cordelia standing there, her hands clasped in front of her like an anxious schoolgirl. Her hair was pulled back from her face, and she was wearing a top of some kind of shiny blue material that looked like something from his own youth in London. Every fashion comes around again, he thought hazily, even the ones we wish wouldn't...

She smiled, on seeing that he was awake and aware. "Hi."

"Cordelia." His voice was rustier than he expected, considering the amount of arguing he has been doing with the staff since he was admitted the night before. But she doesn't seem to notice.

"I didn't want to come by earlier...they said you were going to just want to rest. Well, actually, they said you were going to need to rest, and that you weren't going to want to, and so we should just stay away boy, they've got your number here, don't they?"

"I suppose they do," he admitted. Dr. Bahir had, in fact, been rather clear on his opinion of Giles' medical history. The words "death wish" had been uttered a number of times.

He studied the girl in front of him, his mind putting the pieces together. "You found me."

Her gaze shifted away, flitting around the room before reluctantly coming back to him. "Um. Yeah. We -- Wesley and I -- we stopped by in the area and found you -- you scared us!" The wail was unexpected, and distracted him from the question of why, exactly the two of them were in Sunnydale at all.

"Yes. Well, I am sorry "

"Don't be sorry! Be smarter!" Cordelia pulled a chair from near the wall and dragged it closer to the bed, sitting down and staring at him disconcertingly. "No deep denial, Giles. You had a heart attack. If we hadn't been there, you could have died. Okay? Are you with the program now? If not for yourself, because you've never been good with the self-care thing, then think about the people who need you here, okay? Don't make us go to another funeral we don't have to."

His mind recalled, out of the blue, one of the few conversations he had had with Angel since the vampire's move to Los Angeles. He had commented on the fact of Angel's hiring Cordelia, considering their history. "Cordelia is... growing up. It's humbling, in a way, to watch..." the vampire had said, sounding rueful. He thought, perhaps, he saw what Angel had meant.

He looked up to see her still looking at him, those bright brown eyes not giving an inch.

"I get it," he told her, and was rewarded by a crooked smile that told him she wasn't buying a word of it.

"Yeah, sure. Cause you just have such a history of paying any attention whatsoever to what the doctors say. But next time you fall on your face, there may not be somebody with a key around. And just how did Wesley get a key, anyway? It's not like he's going to stop by and water your plants or anything, even if you had any.

Never mind," she continued when he would have explained Wesley had his key in case something should happen and his books were needed when he himself wasn't available "You can tell me some other time. Wes got a call from Angel and we're needed back at the bat cave. Not that there is a bat cave any more, seeing as how it got blown up, but you know what I mean."

Not really, but when had that ever stopped him, when dealing with his children? Wait a minute -- "Blown up?"

"Long story," she waved her hand in dismissal. "Another time. You rest. Take it easy. And start eating right, okay? I saw the junk you had in your kitchen and I don't care how many vamps are on your tail, you've got to do more shopping than that." Her words were casual, almost mocking, but the expression on her face was what he listened to. Worry, he saw there. Tiredness as well, and soft caring that he had never seen before, not even when she and Xander had been together.

Oh, Cordelia. Would that you could have grown up more slowly.... That I could promise you a happy ending somewhere, somehow.

She cocked her head, as though hearing his thoughts, and a furrow appeared between her eyes for an instant. Then, as though she had come to a sudden decision, one warm, well-manicured hand touched his cheek, and equally warm lips brushed his forehead. "Take care," she whispered, and she was gone.

Even if he'd had the strength to get out of bed, he couldn't have caught her in time. Rupert Giles lay back in his uncomfortable metal cot, and closed his eyes. Astonishing. Not the heart attack -- his family had a history of heart disease to match the liver damage -- but that Wesley and Cordelia had been in exactly the right place at the right time in order to -- admit it, she was right, the doctors were right -- save his life. And equally as astonishing, the fact that the sharp-tongued, shallow girl he had said farewell to barely a year ago seemed to have metamorphasized into a compassionate, caring woman. Not that the seeds hadn't always been there, but potential, as he well knew, was one thing. Actualization was another.

"And she is quite, quite actual," he told himself with a faint smile. Exhausting as well. Perhaps a nap would be a good idea....

"Giles?"

His eyes seemed to be gummed shut, and he opened them only with great difficulty. Willow stood there, her face pale, her pretty eyes shadowed. Someone moved, just out of the corner of his vision, and Buffy came into view. His Slayer's expression was tight-lipped, and he braced himself for the coming storm.

"Hello. How did all of you get in here?" If Willow and Buffy were here, then it seemed likely that

"Snuck in," Xander's voice said from somewhere on the other side of him, confirming his guess. "The nurses here are tough, you know that?"

"Buffy's mom called us," Willow said. "I guess you've got her listed as next of kin, huh? Cause we wouldn't be old enough to " Willow's voice caught, and she firmed it with an effort, "To make any decisions, 'cause we were underage?"

He nodded, suddenly unbearably weary, as though his sleep had lasted only minutes instead of -- he glanced out the window and saw it was dark hours. Buffy still hadn't said anything, staring at him, expressionless.

"Yes well, it was nothing," he told them, pulling himself upright and cursing the hospital gown once again. "The doctor merely wanted to keep me overnight for observation, make sure I hadn't done any damage."

"Mom says the ambulance brought you in," Buffy said finally. "You called them?"

"No, actually, I believe that Wesley did."

"Wesley?" That was from Xander, astonishment and disbelief clear in his voice. "What was he doing in town?"

Giles frowned, remembering that he had never gotten an answer to that question himself. "I'm not sure, actually. He and Cordelia appeared to have been driving through "

"Cordy? She was here too? And she didn't even call?"

The Look both girls gave him reminded Xander of what a foolish comment that had been. "Right. Okay, and that's making even less sense, that she'd be driving by, I mean. Wasn't she the one who swore she'd never come back to Sunnydale, not until they burned the whole thing to the ground and washed the ashes with holy water?"

"Those exact words," Willow agreed.

"People change," Giles said. "I'm sure they had their reasons, whatever those reasons were."

"And then they just up and left?" Buffy, her voice flat and strange. Giles looked at her curiously, realizing that she was angry but at who? Himself, probably. Since the incident with the First Slayer, she had been much more possessive around the Slayerettes, as though aware anew of their value to her. She would take this incident as a personal affront to that, no doubt.

In fact, however, Buffy wasn't even remotely angry. She was terrified. When Xander and Willow finally dragged her out of the hospital room, shooed out by Giles who didn't really want an audience for his next round of blood-taking and test-running, all she could remember was her first sight of Giles, lying pale and exhausted-looking in the white-sheets of the hospital bed, followed in quick succession by the image of him the way he'd looked when she had left the apartment two weeks before; tired, yeah, but normal. Or as normal as things get, when you're the former Watcher to a renegade Slayer.

He almost died, she thought miserably. Buffy had long ago come to terms with her own mortality; if dying hadn't taught her that, everything since then had kind of pounded the message in. Slayers died. Watchers died, too. Even people who were just standing around accidentally in the line of fire died. But this wasn't from a vampire, or a demon, or Ethan's stupid idea of fun and games. Part of his own body almost killed him...

The thought seemed impossible. Giles was healthy. And still kinda young, she'd finally gotten that through her head after Olivia, and the singing thing, and then seeing her dad flirting with his new sweetie. People his age had lives, they didn't just keel over and die. Except sometimes they did. He almost had. And she hadn't been there not because she was avoiding him, or too busy with other things, but because sometimes people were on their own. Sometimes you just didn't have anything nearby. And it didn't have anything to do with being the Slayer, or Watcher or Slayerettes just being human.

God, I really hate being an adult, some times. And what were Cordy and Wes doing here, anyway? Oh god, I hope it wasn't end-of- worldish.

"He's okay though, right?"

It was the seventh time Angel had asked that. Or maybe the eighth Wesley had stopped listening after a while. Cordelia looked up from the sofa and rolled her eyes. "If you're still that freaked, Angel, there's this great invention called the phone pick it up and talk to him!"

"No, that's okay. I wouldn't want to bother him."

"You're really going to have to get over that, you know." Cordelia's voce was sharp, but not unkind. "If he had died, poof no more chance to make nice, more guilt trip to carry around forever. Not a pretty thought, is it?"

"But he's okay now, you said. Right?"

"God, Angel!"

Wesley sighed, and went back to the real estate page. If they didn't find new quarters soon, he wasn't going to be able to vouch for anyone's sanity, least of all his own.

"Okay, if you're determined to keep dragging up the topic, how come I saw Giles in my vision? I thought the oracles said I was supposed to be your messenger for stuff going on here, right? So what's the deal with the flashback to Sunnydale? Not that I'm not happy to help, but it would be nice to know if I'm going to start getting SOS's from all over the country."

"I don't know," Angel admitted. "I wish there was some way to contact the powers that be."

"Oh yeah, like the oracles were all that helpful before they got themselves offed. Please."

Wesley kept his head down, out of this also-too-familiar discussion. He had a suspicion about the cause of the vision, but it wasn't a theory he cared to venture aloud just yet. For one thing, he might be completely wrong. And even if he was correct... he wasn't sure it's anything he cared to contemplate. Time enough to burn that bridge when they came to it.