( continues...) blonde’s attention. Possibly Ripper could’ve, but that was another power he gave sparing attention these days. Unleashing it and creating that triangle with himself, Deidre and Ethan had been at least as destructive as having a young man die unexpectedly. They fought relentlessly, carping about small sums of money, washing-up liquid, household chores. One night, he’d caught them in bed, and when the jealousy simmered within him, he had no idea of its object. It was very loud and angry, their sex, as if they were using each other to get to him. By sunrise, he’d decided to clean up and go home, but it took another week to get through what people here would call “the denial” and in between the ritual went horribly wrong.
He wonders, as an older man, if that much sexual energy mixed with the dark arts wasn’t the true culprit, but he doubts he will ever share that knowledge with Buffy. It doesn’t seem appropriate...even as he thinks that thought, he feels foolish. Nothing is appropriate now, least of which includes watching a beautiful blonde witch lick somebody he’s known since she was a very awkward sixteen like an ice-cream cone, and finding it...personally gratifying. He reminds himself of Roland...something(He really isn’t thinking clearly right now.), an 18th century Watcher whose broad-minded take on both the Enlightenment and his job title involved watching his Slayer engage “in lewd and grievous acts” with the butcher’s apprentice after a kill. The overweening presence of the Watcher’s council dated from the resultant scandal, and Giles had had ample occasion to curse his portrait in the codex. And now he wasn’t acting much better, letting the creamy whiteness of Willow’s naked skin overwhelm him. But he can’t look away, not for anything, especially as Tara strokes Willow’s nether lips with her finger and says “You’re so wet. For me.” As if it is the greatest spell in the world. And for all of them, Giles thinks it is.

Willow, looking both more relaxed and more excited than Giles has ever seen her, whispers “Yes! Oh, yes,” She is so lovely Giles wishes they could be enchanted forever, but this particular charm is short-term by design, used by pagan and Native American sects in rituals...he already feels responsible enough to have looked that up, and feel some relief, and wonder at such a spell’s traveling the world. It must have good word of mouth, he thinks and groans, both at the pun and Tara, bent over a Willow writhing as if she couldn’t possibly feel anybetter, now or ever. She moans deep in her throat, the most sensual and uninhibited sound to ever come out of shy but talkative Will. This woman never cared what anyone thought. “Oh, damn, Tara,” she murmurs.

Giles is now even more determined to seduce the seducer. He pulls *that* smile out of storage, and aims it at young Ms. McClay with all the force he’s not used since Oxford. She is a tough nut to crack though and just gets up to find and afghan to cover a sated and sleeping Willow. Tara looks down at Willow with such tenderness Giles is stabbed with envy. “Fancy a neck massage?”

“Ok,” she says, “But that’s all.”

“We’ll lie on the couch then,” Giles says. “Or you can. Give the girl a chance to get her strength back.” They exchange knowing smiles in the dark, each taking credit for the fact that Willow smiles her curving smile in her sleep, piled among her magic books. Giles has seen her this way before but always as if tormented by her accidental and fragmented dreams or mumbling in her sleep about frogs. It was strange that being debauched made her look happy and innocent, but it was good for Giles’ heart to see it, not to mention his pride and his blood. It excited him and filled him with love, both. He explains this to Tara, who listens patiently. He loves that about her, no snarky comments, no mental fast-forward, he hadn’t known there were students like her in Sunnydale.

He tells her. She blushes. He leans in close enough so he can smell her, fabric softner, licorice, and if he is not mistaken, Willow. She is warm and inviting, such that (continued...)

( continues...) he forgets about his many elaborate plans and brushes an eyelash off her face and gets lost in another tidal wave of a kiss, one part of him keeps checking to make sure she returns. She seems to, which would be apersonal or political about-face for Tara so they take it very slowly, and as gently as one can under a sexual enchantment.

Kissing Tara feels like kissing when you first learn how, as its own reward, not as a prelude to something else, because you are just young enough not to be sure how something else works. He is perverse enough to love touching the mouth that touched Willow there. He both hopes and feels disappointed by the thought that Willow might sleep through the enchantment without realizing her deepest desire with him and he wondered which one would win out when Tara drew out a condom and said” This is probably the next step, isn’t it? I’ve hardly been with a boy.”

“In that case, my dear,” he said feeling weirdly gallant, “This birth control will be hardly adequate...there’s no magic around for that.”

”I heard Margaret Mead saw some in Samoa.”

“Where’d you get that?”

‘The Anthropology of Magic...it’s 400 level, I got special permission.”

”With that face, I don’t doubt it, my dear...but I mean the condom, love.”

”Joyce’s bathroom, behind some big book...my first urge was to steal it while I was in there...I...didn’t know why then...you don’t mind?”

“Mind? No, I’m flattered enough to make a big mistake with you. But there are many other things we can do.”

And they explored each other fully and with much laughter and affection on Joyce’s brown sofa..he remembered taking Joyce here as well. He loved that piece of furniture very much and what happened now further deepened his attachment. At some point, Willow awakened, and in addition to the glass of water she got up for, she and Giles took their drowsy, slightly unreal, and dreamlike pleasure on the same sofa while Tara dozed. Then, the three of them huddled together as if for warmth and slept deeply,
covering up but not caring that the house bore the stamp of their earlier research frenzy, books and papers flung hither and yon, glasses in the sink, just the sort of disaster Giles would never have stood for in his right mind. His right mind meant a great deal less to him with Tara’s gorgeous head on his chest and Willow curled up like a kitten at his feet, so he let it go. The sun was quite high in the sky when Giles was half-awakened by Buffy letting herself in. He tried to rouse fully but he knew this was an after-effect. Tara made a fetching little sigh in her sleep and he was loath to give up his comfortable position anyway.”Hey, you guys, I’ve been calling...is everything okay?”

”What is it, Buff?” Xander asked. “Anyone unconscious?”

“Sort of,” Buffy whispered. “Look!”

They pondered the sleeping Watcher, flanked by dreaming witches. “He doesn’t look half so fogey-ish in his sleep does he?” Buffy said
“Gives new meaning to ‘eat, sleep, and dream this stuff’. Rupert Giles, you are a research-a-holic. When you wake up, I’ll have an intervention for you. God knows I’ve been to enough of them.”

“Aw, Xand...so should we move them or what?”

”Considering I’ve had dreams that ended just this way, I couldn’t do that to another guy.”

“Too much information, Xander.”

“Sorry...guess I’m getting used to Anya.” “Glad one of us is....you don’t think...no, Giles has no life.” “ Nope, none.” “It’s sad, but comforting. Like finding Mom watching the tube in her sweat pants.”

Yesterday's Guitars

Part Seven

Dawn closed her eyes as the cab carried her and Andrew through the streets of Venice. This was not an easy place to concentrate, she realized, as the car zigzagged through narrow streets, like a caffeinated ferret. Still, she pushed the world away in her mind.

There were many ways to work magic, but Dawn had very little aptitude for spell casting. Instead, she and Willow had worked out a simple series of charms and glamours, triggered by concentrating on the image of symbols and sigils that had been seared into her memory. In a very real way, the spells she knew had been burned into her brain, and she desperately needed to know if she could still access them. Calling up the images of the symbols felt like when she quit cigarettes. Her head was racing, and a thing that once seemed simple now had her gnawing her teeth.

“Was not the same force at work in himself when he strove in cold fury to liberate from the marble mass of language the slender forms of his art which he saw with the eye of his mind and would body forth to men as the mirror and image of spiritual beauty?” said Andrew dreamily, as he watched the city careen by at a breakneck pace.

Dawn opened her eye in sudden shock.

“You’re quoting Thomas Mann?” she said.

“I love Death in Venice, he said, smiling. The movie. It’s so … Italian. can we stop for some delicious pasta? I’m hungry.”

“We can stop when I know where we’re going,” said Dawn, closing her eyes again and extending her mind outward. Dawn marveled at how he took all this in stride. It was just another adventure in a series of adventures. Andrew had put a pair of train tickets on his credit card, no questions asked. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed him.

Buffy kept a small stash of Euros and American dollars in a wall safe behind a Mprint of Monet’s “Water Lillies” she picked up at museum gift shop somewhere. Dawn snagged a small stack of bills, leaving a note to say she’d explain later. Which was probably a lie, but there you are. She had no idea when she was getting home. Or if she was getting home. She thought of Xander, and then pushed it from her mind. She needed to stay focused on…

There was a flash, like a clip of a movie running in her head. Pavayne at a dingy bus station, a knife in his hand. She could see the reflection of his face in the blade. He was the same, his smile pulled tight like some demented Jack O’ Lantern. She could see him bead down on the girl, who was praying. What language was she…

“French,” said Dawn, under her breath. “She was praying in French. And the signs on the wall…”

She opened her eyes.

“I think he’s in France somewhere,” she said to Andrew, who just nodded. “We’re headed to France.”

“OK,” he said. “Does this mean we can stop to…”

“We can eat on the train.”

“OK,” said Andrew, obviously disappointed, but not complaining.

Dawn could begin to feel tiny synapses begin to fire in her brain, as symbols began to burn their way across her consciousness. In her own, small way she could touch the infinite again. She felt like she could see again after being blind for hours.

She was ready to hunt.

Is Shrift around? Leviathan is hanging for me.

I don't think shrift is ever in this thread. Anyway, I got to Leviathan fine. (And I got your e-mail and will reply when I'm finished nursing husband through job crisis.)

No rush, and I'm very sorry to hear of the crisis. It seems to have been a temporary hang on Leviathan.

Sorry if that sounded curt. I was trying to talk on the phone at the same time, usually a mistake.

Is he safely docked at the port of Sanity?

Eh. The crisis is averted, but he's at the point of telling his boss to go fuck himself. As this would result in us having no benefits, I'm trying to avoid that. And this is hugely off-topic. I'll e-mail you about it.

Plei posted this elsewhere, but since the story was originally serialized here: my last fan fic, "In the City," is now up:

[link]