II.

Meddy sat on the sofa, watching Giles pace back and forth. He had a book in one hand, flipping pages with the other, talking out loud in brief, distracted fragments. His coat was folded over the back of the armchair, and he was dressed in a pale brown sweater that matched his courderoy slacks to a boring fair-thee-well.

She sipped from the mug of tea in her hand and made a face. "I think this mild-mannered Englishman thing has gone too far, when you don't have any coffee in the house."

"What?" He stopped in mid-mutter, staring at her.

"Nothing. Go on as you were," she said, gesturing grandly.

"Thank you ever so much."

"Nice to see your sarcasm's still sharp. I was starting to worry about you."

"In the vernacular of several of my less erudite students -- bite me."

Meddy stopped, her eyes widening. "Rupert, dear man, was that an invitation?"

"Excu --" He looked up at that, the distracted look fading away as he looked at her curled up on the sofa, her hair tousled, books scattered around her with various ends of envelopes stuck in them to mark places.

"Because if you were, all I would have to say is, what took you so long?"

"And if I wasn't?"

An instant of hurt flashed through those clear green eyes, then was gone. "Then I'd go back to watching you solve the question of what an avatar close to a Hellmouth will possibly do, and consider my options based on what you conclude. But I would much rather you =were= propositioning me."

Giles nodded, shutting the book and reaching over to place it on the table. "This is...awkward." He took his glasses off, rubbing the bridge of his nose with the thumb and forefinger of his other hand.

"Why? If you're not interested in me physically, that's... all right. I've been turned down before." She paused, tilting her head thoughtfully. "Not very often, but occasionally. And if it's because of... of what I am... That wouldn't be okay. Sorry. A man who deals with vampires and slayers and Hellmouths should be a little more open with his sexu--"

She stopped. "Oh" She blinked. "No. I would have known if--"

He laughed, a short, sharp bark without amusement. "No. That is... I am attracted to you, Mada. I always have been. And as to who you are..." He folded his glasses and carefully placed them on top of the book he had been reading, moving to crouch next to her. "Mada, when I first met you, I needed comfort. Sympathy. A non-judgemental understanding. You gave me that. I would have followed you anywhere, done anything you asked. But instead, you sent me away."

"I needed you to be honest to yourself." She reached for his hands, but he stopped her.

"You gave me back myself. Maybe not the self I would have preferred to be, but it's someone I feel comfortable with now." He sat back with a sigh, his eyes suddenly very tired, very alone. "Perhaps too comfortable. But Buffy is my first priority and I accepted that, and the sacrifices I have had to make were... acceptable. Even Jenny, when it became obvious that she.. had issues with the dangers that I could put her in, I let her go without a fight. I needed to be focused, disengaged.

And then you sweep back into my life. Decades after I erected a shrine to the lovely young girl who saved me, the maiden who resurrected my soul with the scent of heather and green grass and the smile like rain after a drought -- you appear in my library and the maiden is gone. And in her place is this... woman. And my mind, my damned overfed, overheated brain, can only focus on one fact out of all the unimaginable number of --"

"Rupert."

"I'm babbling, aren't I?"

"Yes, you are." She reached out deliberately and took his hands, bringing them up and tucking them under her chin, against her heart. "Rupert Giles, my knight errant, and not-so-stuffy librarian, do you love me?"

"Since the moment I opened my eyes and saw you forcing that terribly overrated instant coffee at me."

"Do you want me?"

He swallowed hard, and she felt his hands tremble within her own.

"Do you want me, Rupert?"

"Yes. I want you. My one regret has never being able to tell you that."

"But you're afraid of me."

"Afraid of losing myself in you. Sex magic is so powerful, so overwhelming..."

"Rupert. Have I ever taken anything from you that you did not willingly give?"

"No. But I know myself, Meddy. I know what I'm capable of -- and not. And I'm not capable of doing anything halfway." He grimaced. "As we both well know."

She raised their entwined hands to her lips, kissing each of his fingers lightly in turn. "I won't let you fall." She opened her mouth, sucking the tip of his left index finger lightly, closing her teeth around it. "I'll wrap myself around you and keep you safe," she whispered, letting her senses reach out and caress the glow that was Rupert Giles. Gently, slowly, making no sudden moves either physical or etherical.

"Meddy..." he whispered, his head tilting back as though offering her his throat. "Meddy, my sweet Lady..."

His fingers untangled from hers, reaching out to thread themselves through her hair, thumbs brushing against her temples, forcing her gaze up to meet his eyes. "For two decades I dreamed of you, loved you from a distance, and thought myself satisfied with that..."

"Love me, Rupert. Give me your passion. Your joy. Touch me, make my skin sing." She leaned forward, brushing her cheek against his, mouth warm against his ear. "Worship me."

A groan, and Giles surged to his feet, bringing her up with him as though she were light as a feather. His mouth came down on hers, their first kiss a hard, bruising attack that scraped teeth, sucked at the soft flesh, demanded and gave succor. Five o'clock stubble tore at her throat as he stroked his face against her, breathing in every inch of her as though she were his sole sustenance. Whispered moans rose from throats, filled mouths, were swallowed again whole.

"Rupert..." She pulled back unwillingly, breathing hard, her skin red and flushed, her mouth swollen. "We should take this somewhere a with a little more room. While we still can."

"A very good idea, yes."

And then, inevitably, there was a knock on the door.

"Whoever that is," Giles said, closing his eyes. "I believe I shall have to kill them."

"Giles? Giles, are you there?"

"Or perhaps not," she said stepping back and wiping at his mouth, which glistened with their shared saliva. "Your Slayer needs you, Rupert."

She tugged at her collar, adjusting the fall of her shirt, and sat down on the sofa again, picking up a book and opening it at random. He watched for a moment, still quivering from arousal and frustration. It wouldn't matter, no matter how they pretended -- the entire flat stank of their intentions, and she was practically glowing from the energy he had given up unto her. But appearances mattered.

"Giles?"

"Yes, I'm coming." He winced at the choice of words, but went over and opened the front door. "Yes, what is it, Buffy? Oh, Angel. Um..."

"May I come in?" Angel asked, hanging back. Giles hesitated -- only a second, but long enough for both Buffy and Angel to notice.

"Giles? Aren't you going to invite him in?"

"Oh. Er.. Yes. Come in, Angel."

Buffy stalked through the doorway, full of righteous anger. "They were at the Bronze tonight, Giles. They walked right in, as though I wasn't there, and..." She saw Mada. "Oh. I'm so sorry, didn't know you had company." Her voice was saccarine sweet, and both Giles and Angel said at exactly the same time "Buffy..." in the same warning tone.

When the door opened, Mada had looked up, and frozen. Her eyes dialated, and as Angel came into the apartment, she sprang up, the book falling unheeded to the floor. Her eyes burned, and she suddenly seemed taller, more solid, her presence filling the room like the crack of thunder.

"What?" Buffy started to ask, and then Giles was between them, pushing the woman away.

"Mada, no!" His voice was a solid thing, not the least bit hesitant, and it stopped her -- barely.

"You let that.. thing in here? Have you lost your mind?"

"Mada. Listen to me. It's all right. Angel is a friend."

"A friend." Her skepticism was clear in her voice.

"Yes. A friend."

Green eyes met brown as Angel and Mada sized each other up over Giles' shoulder.

"Look, Giles, I don't know what kind of issues your ex is dealing with here, but --"

"Shut up, Buffy."

She blinked. Looked at her Watcher. Shut up.

"It is an abomination." Mada's voice was tight, as though held under intense pressure. "Death animate. An offense against the soil it walks on."

"Mada. I am telling you this. I who have never lied to you. Angel is welcome in this house." Giles let go of her, stepping back so that the two opponents could see each other clearly. His face was very still, his gaze intent on her.

Mada's nostrils flared, and a crease appeared between her eyes. "You've run afoul of the Rom, have you? Yes. Cruel, but artistic. A just retribution."

Angel lowered his head, his entire body screaming submission. Buffy, not knowing what the hell was going on and not liking any of it, was still held mute by her Watcher's words.

The thunder faded slowly, the crackle of electricity subsiding into Mada's skin. "That is quite a hell you walk around in, thief. Does it pain you, to be what you are?"

Angel nodded, still wary. "Yes."

"Good."

She turned to Giles, and her eyes were filled with tenderness and exhaustion, not fire. "I will leave you three to your discussion. It's late, I should be going."

"You won't stay here?"

"Do you want me to?"

He touched the tip of her nose with one finger. "Very much so."

"Will you wake me when you come in?"

He smiled, only a small quirk of his lips, casting a wry glance at his guests. "If I'm in any shape to do so."

"Good enough." Ignoring the other two, she gathered up the books from the sofa and left the main room, closing the bedroom door softly behind her.

"Now," and Giles turned to them. "What is all this about?"

Part III

The bedroom was filled with darkness. Giles closed the door gently behind him, only familiarity with the furnishings allowing him to move without bumping into or stumbling over something.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he listened to her breathing, content for the moment just to be. No action required, no wisdom demanded, no... anything. Just the sound of a demi-goddess sleeping in his bed.

"Mmmmmmm?"

A sleepy interrogative, one pale-skinned arm reaching out blindly, finding his face with the back of her hand, caressing it.

"MmmHey."

"Hey yourself." Green eyes glinted in the lack of light, generating their own glow, and his breath caught in a wonder that had clung to him for two decades without fading. Power escaped her in the smallest ways, all the more awe-ful for being unintended. And if her power made the muscles in his stomach and thighs tighten in anticpation, that innocent abuse of it broke him out in a rutting sweat.

"Good night's hunt?"

"Not really. I believe that Buffy... overreacted."

"She's jealous." Meddy was awake now, turning over to prop herself on one elbow, her hair falling in disarray around her face. "Daddy's not paying enough attention to her."

"Don't be snide."

"I'm not."

Giles sighed, removing his glasses, folding them, and placing them on the bedside table next to the alarm clock. "I know. And I will deal with it... in the morning." He took his shoes and socks off, dropping them to the floor, and stood to undress.

"Wait," she whispered, and there was a faint noise, then a quick scritch and hiss, and a candle that hadn't been there before flared to life. She propped herself up more comfortably, and waved a languid hand. "Proceed."

"Thank you." The sarcasm dripped off his words.

Feeling more than a little self-conscious, Giles unbuttoned his shirt, fingers fumbling with the familiar task. Pulling the white cotton out from his waistband, he tossed it across the back of the chair.

"Nice to see your newfound stuffiness doesn't extend to hanging up your clothes. I always did adore a messy man."

He smiled briefly, the candlelight catching the planes of his cheekbones before he turned his attention to unfastening his belt. His movements became slower now, more deliberate, playing to his appreciative audience. The Rupert Giles of recent years faded away, the soft contours so carefully cultivated sharpening into edged tension, his hesitations into the languor of an unhungry tiger.

Sliding the length of leather through his hands, he held it for a moment, as though considering, then placed it on the dresser. The metal of his zipper rasped, followed by the soft rustling of wool against skin as his slacks skimmed lean hips to fall to the ground. He stepped away from them, kicking the material aside.

One eyebrow raised. "I see that some of your dressing habits haven't changed. How shocked your little students would be." She patted the bed next to her. "Come here."

He shook his head. "You come here." Not a command, a request, but not one that brooked refusal.

The sheets fell away, Meddy rising from the warmed white cotton sheets like a wet dream made flesh. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, stood in front of him, her head barely to his chin. His hand touched the skin of her shoulder, fingers grazing the softness of her neck, the rise of her breasts, back up to the stubborn tilt of her jawline.

Her breathing sped up, and he felt a faint tickle of sweat rise from her pores. Turning her around, so that her back was to him, he bent forward, sweeping the length of hair to one side and placing his mouth against the nape of her neck, lips grazing that moist pasture. His hands slipped forward, sliding down from her shoulders to cup her breasts lightly.

"Ah..."

His tongue flicked out, tasting the sweat, the salt and tang of her skin. Again. Then a longer, more sweeping brush, from nape to shoulder, then back again.

Meddy breathed in deeply through her nose, eyes wide open, standing perfectly still. Rupert's mouth moved over her skin; first with soft touches of his lips, then tongue, then nibbling bites that left small red marks on her flesh, an uneven alternation of caresses that seemed to have no discernable pattern to predict.

He slid to his knees, naked at her feet like a supplicant, his arms around her waist, holding her hips steady as his mouth roamed the flesh of her ass, around to the paleness of her flanks.A quick bite, laved by his tongue, and he slid his hands down her flanks, smoothing the skin behind her knees before picking up one foot and pressing a warm, open-mouthed kiss to the pink-skinned sole. He then repeated the gesture with her other foot.

Throughout all of this, she stood motionless, moving only when he moved her, responding to his ministrations with quiet encouragement and the occasional harsh exhalation through her nostrils. He could feel her skin warming under his touch, the cool alabaster flushing with his adoration.

His hands slid back the way they had travelled, his fingers pressing the softness of her, the well-tuned muscles covered by a woman's flesh. The Maiden was gone; the Mother stood before him, warm beneath his questing hands and mouth, and the need to give himself over to her, to drown himself inside her, became too great. Anticipation turned to pain, and he stood quickly, turning her to face him.

"Rupert. Mo cariad. My own, first, best-beloved."

"My Lady." It was less an endearment, and more of a prayer. She tipped her head back to look at him, and smiled, the small sweet smile that he had first fallen in love with.

"Do we stop to figure logistics, or take the easy way out the first time?"

A short bark of laughter escaped him, and he swooped to capture her in his arms, swinging her into a cradle-carry. "I'm too old for acrobatics."

Tossing her back onto the bed, Rupert knelt next to her, pinning her with one hand flat-palmed on either side of her shoulders, his body hovering inches above her.

"But I am not," he said, enunciating every word, "too old for certain other things."

His mouth came down on hers, lightly at first. His lips traced hers, his tongue flicking at the outlines. Meddy opened under his touch, her own tongue coming out to tangle with his.

"So sweet," she murmured. "Who would have thought you would taste so sweet."

His only response was a grunt, moving his attentions to her chin, along her jawline, to the tender skin of her ear. His tongue darted into the delicate curve, and warm breath tickled. The rest of the world faded, and there was only this miracle of flesh, folded like nature's own oragami, before him.

Her arms rose to encircle him, her fingers stroking the skin of his ass, running one fingernail into the crack, and up his spine, delighting in the shiver which ran through him.

"Distract me, and this will be over too fast," he warned into her ear, taking the lobe between his teeth and tugging in warning..

Her hands stilled, then stroked up and down along his spine, urging him on. "So make it fast and furious. I've wanted you for too long to wait now."

Rupert took her at her word, dropping the earlobe and moving his attention down to more rounded possibilities.

Meddy's back arched as his teeth grazed one nipple, then took a larger mouthful, pulling with a newborn's urgency. Her fingers flew from his backside to his head, tangling in his hair, the carefully combed-back strands now completely disarrayed. He moved with the pressure she exerted, making a trail of biting kisses from the left breast to her right and repeating the process there. Clover and sunlight, milk and seaspray, she tasted of every longing he had ever not vocalized, every dream of home, and a wave of longing, of pure, primal lust swept through his veins, making an already stiffened erection swell to bursting.

"Blood of my father, Rupert..."

He raised his head at that, his eyes a bit wild. "Could we not bring your father into this right now?"

She laughed, a little breathlessly. His body shifted, hands grabbing at her shoulders, his legs straddling her hips. His erection pushed up against her belly, as though demanding entrance, and she squirmed under him, causing them both to moan.

His hands replaced his mouth on her breasts, kneading them almost too hard in his urgency. He could feel the flames rising from her, burning him down to the core, and he gloried in it. Another time for tenderness, another time for the slow build and release.

For now, there could be only immolation.

He reared back, the cool air coming between them and making her nipples, already hardened to small rose-red nubs by his ministrations, tighten even more. Unable to help himself, he bent his head and licked one, lightly, the rasp making her cry out and arch herself under him once again.

The words were clear, fluting sounds, a language he could not recognize, but there was no mistaking the tone, or the urgency. He slid down her hips to rest against her thighs, his hand inserted between their bodies. Two fingers jammed into her warmth, feeling the slick wetness coat from tip to second knuckle.

She bucked again, and he pressed further, moving his fingers in an ancient rhythm. His thumb searched for the nub of flesh hidden by a soft pair of lips, burrowing into the crisp tangle of hair to uncover his prize, which he then flicked in a cross-pattern to his fingers' movements. His forehead wrinkled, his face a study in concentration, trying to co-ordinate her pleasure without losing track of his own desperate need.

She whimpered, moving her hips restlessly against his hand, and he almost lost it there, pausing to watch her face. The treacherous leap-and-subside of his member warned him not to delay any longer. Taking his fingers away, he grasped the flesh of her hips and pulled back, sliding forwards and into her honeyed passage with one thrust, less skill than sheer blind luck and an innate animal instinct.

They both went still, savoring the contact, and then he pulled out halfway, and back in again, pumping like a piston, his fingers clenched on her, leaving the faint beginnings of bruises. She thrust up against him, tried to follow when he retreated, grabbing at his head, his shoulders, anything within striking range as the pace increased, the friction beginning to use up her moisture, sparking even greater aching and the need for something, some resolution building to a crescendo.

She keened, a high, wailing noise that could have been elegy or exhultation, and he felt her clench around him, pulling him into her depths, absorbing everything that was him into the eternity that was her, and in that endless falling instant he could see the atoms of the air in front of him; as though the very pattern of life danced in his veins, and the eternity of the ages spun through him, scattering into infinite possibilites of the future.

He cried out, the jerking spasm of orgasm nothing compared to the utter joy and desolation he had glimpsed, only to have it spiral down and away from his grasp. Then the physical reclaimed him, and a fierce lassitude flooded his body.

Exhausted, he fell back onto the bed, bringing her with him. She glowed in the darkness, an unmistakable aurora of blues and golds and greens and every color to be found in the natural chaos. A faint swirl of gold traced the path his hands had left.

The heat faded slowly, absorbed back into her skin, and he tucked her into his arms and drifted off into a satiated sleep.

When he awoke, the ruddy glow of sunrise filtered through the blinds, dappling the room with warm light and shadows. She lay curled into him, still tucked under his arm, letting her fingers play across his chest. In the light, she could see what touch had already described to her, and she traced the scar tissue tenderly.

"You've added a few more."

"A librarian's life is a dangerous one."

She laughed, a husky sound more of sadness than humor, and he stared up at the patched plaster of the ceiling, a disloyal corner of his mind wondering if she mocked him.

"A librarian like few others, I suspect." She kissed his ear, and felt more than saw him smile.

"And even more so in this case."

She made a noise of interest, so he continued. "It's no secret, really. At least, not in my particular litle community. Buffy's first Watcher was killed during a vampire attack."

He paused, fighting down memoies. "A rare occurance, that the Watcher dies and the Slayer lives. Even more unusual when the Slayer is as untrained as Buffy was then. So there she was, in the full-blown glory of being a teenager with immense abilities and no idea of what she needed to learn. It could have been... ugly."

Meddy snorted at the understatement.

"The Council didn't know who to send in at that point; someone her own age would not have had the authority to make her listen, someone older would have been seen as an imposition, too much an authority figure. I was the best choice they could find, apparently. A father figure, at a time when Buffy needed a male adult in her life, due to her parents' recent divorce. Someone unthreatening, to make her comfortable. Someone flexible, to adapt to her lack of training and discipline."

"Someone who remembered what it was like to hate what you were born to do," Meddy suggested. "A rebel, who had adjusted."

"Er. Yes." A self-conscious laugh. "That would be me. As I said, the best they could do. Damaged goods. Poor Buffy deserves better."

Meddy sighed, curling her arms more securely around him. "Best-beloved, the world is wide, and the choices infinite. You have paid your penance; now let the actions of the past go. The Great Dance demands forward motion."

But she could feel his body tensing underneath hers, and knew that he was rejecting her words. Her anger coiled, searching for an outlet. The power still lay within her, heavy like a snowfall, but its song was muted. She summoned the gold traceries of his worship from where it now comfortably layered into her godhead, adding to her core.

Closing her eyes, she dove into those gold waves, feeling the warmth of his love, his adoration. And in that gift she could feel the echo of his soul; the small joys and great pains, and her heart ached for the damage even she could not undo. The guilt was branded too deep, and the self-hatred too severe.

A tear pooled in the corner of her eye, burning, but did not drop.

After a while, she felt him drop a kiss on the top of her head and untangle himself from her grasp. The soft sound of his bare footsteps padding into the bathroom covered her soft whisper.

"Your Council chose well, best-beloved. As did I."

Go To Book II, Part B