By the by, I put the latest snippet of V!Giles in my LJ because of our paripatetic natures the past few days. Should I put it here as well?

Aaah, Crispin is still alive. I'm relieved.

Connie, yes please!

More:

(He finished his efficient whittling, and held the stake up, hefting it in his grasp. "But your little correspondent, Ethan Rayne. Did you happen to see what he was doing in the Vincent Price floor deco?"

"No. And I don't believe in vampires. Are you having me on, Crispin?" Despite her own words, Emma broke off her own branch of applewood and began honing. She watched as Crispin slid the first of his newly-made stakes into the stretchy fabric belt he was wearing slung around his hips. It occurred to her, not for the first time, that he had the kind of inborn elegance that was enhanced by tension.

"You saw Drusilla's face change. Didn't you?" He met her eye and saw the remembered horror there. "Yes, I see you did. They're vampires, the real thing, creatures of the night, genuine and no substitutions offered or accepted. And this pair? They'd have Christopher Lee for high tea and move on to Dracula himself."

"All right. Assuming that I'm supposed to believe they were vampires, what's the story here? Why did Ethan Rayne want to bring me down here?"

"I don't know, dear, but I expect it has something to do with whatever he's up to in that bloody pentagram." A second stake followed the first, and he began on a third. Emma followed suit wordlessly, slipping her first stake into her own belt and beginning on a second. Apparently, a girl could never have enough pointy pieces of applewood, where vampires were concerned.

ok, here we go

In the house, Buffy was single-mindedly packing things for herself, Dawn, and Joyce. Willow followed her silently from room to room, only speaking when Buffy opened the drawer in Joyce's dresser that held sweaters.

"Are we going to be gone long enough to need winter clothes, Buffy?" she said softly.

Buffy froze, hands wrapped around a forest green cashmere sweater. She blinked for several seconds, then slowly let go of the sweater and straightened. "Right. Over-reacting. It's just--we've got to get stuff together, we've got to get out of here while we can."

Willow went over to her and put her hands on Buffy's shoulders. "We will. But we don't need too much stuff, do we?"

"No. You're right, we don't." Buffy looked at the duffle bag on the bed that she'd been packing and laughed uneasily. "But at least Mom would have a good work suit with her." She ran her hands through her hair. "Don't have time for this, got to get ready to go."

Willow shook her just a little. "Buffy, calm down! When you get all panicky, I get all panicky, and I don't need panicky right now, OK?"

"I'm not panicky! I'm just--" She took a deep breath. "I have to do something. Glory could be coming down the street right now, and--"

"I know, but--you've got to hold it together, please? We need you to hold it together so we don't fly apart."

Buffy closed her eyes. "Willow, I've only got so much holding it together left. You're going to have to hold on for yourselves here."

"I know." Willow hugged Buffy tightly. "But you've always been better at this than the rest of us."

Buffy hugged back. "Fibber."

After a few more moments, Willow pulled away. "I've got to go to the dorm, get stuff for Tara and me. I'll be back as quick as I can."

"You're not going alone! Take Xander or--or somebody."

Willow started to protest, then nodded and went. Buffy repacked the duffle bag with sensible things and slung it on her shoulder. She headed to Dawn's room to return some of the more impractical items, like dress shoes and a fancy blouse. She found Dawn curled up on her bed, clutching her Teddy bear.

Buffy started to scold Dawn for dawdling, but her sister's scared eyes changed her mind. "You can take that with you, if you want. I don't think anyone would care."

"I remember when I got Bear," Dawn whispered. "I was seven and had my tonsils out. Dad brought Bear to the hospital for me. Those monks thought of everything. I'm not going to survive this, am I."

"What? Dawn, what are you saying?" Buffy dropped the duffle bag and sat on the bed. "Of course you're going to survive this, that's why we're doing all this. Glory's going to miss that deadline, and you won't have anything else to worry about."

"But maybe--I was made to hide the Key. Once that deadline passes, the Key is useless. I'm useless. Maybe those monks just made me strong enough to last until the deadline, and after that there won't be any reason for me to exist any more."

Buffy remembered being Dawn's age, railing against the fates that had made her a Slayer, wondering if she was destined to have any kind of life other than the one foreordained for her. But she'd never had reason to doubt her own physical existence. Fifteen years of memories notwithstanding, Dawn's true lifespan covered mere months. Born for a single purpose, much like being a Slayer, with no clear idea if there was a future to look forward to. Much like a Slayer.

Buffy reached out and pulled Dawn towards her, resting her forehead against her sister's. "I don't know, Dawnie. But for as long you live, understand that I love you and I will die before I let anyone hurt you." She held the embrace for as long as she dared, then pulled free. "OK?" Dawn shrugged. Buffy pulled the duffle bag over and held it open. "You could put Bear in here, no one would mind."

"Are you taking Mr. Gordo?" Dawn asked suspiciously.

"Um, well, no--but I am taking Mr. Pointy!"

"Work stuff doesn't count." Dawn hesitated, then pushed Bear into the bag. "He makes a good pillow, if nothing else."

"Sure. Oh, here, your fancy-schmancy slutty shoes that Mom doesn't know you own. I don't know why I packed them, but I guess we can use the room for other things."

"Thanks." Dawn peeked into the bag. "Who are the black lace undies for?" Buffy smacked her with a pillow, then went back to her room to put back certain things of her own.

gah sometimes it's like pulling teeth, but I think I'm about ready to get them on the road to adventure and pain. And I can't forget Ethan and Giles on the road to China. Please, Joss, please don't kill Giles, please, please, please.

more:

"All right." She spoke slowly, puzzling it out. "Ethan Rayne called the Ministry; he got me, but he could have got either of us - he only got me because Steed was off having his Bentley serviced. So this wasn't some nefarious little plot to lure me specifically down here. But he wanted someone from the Ministry, either me or Steed. Does that make sense?"

"I suppose so, yes." He watched her steadily. "We need to suss this out quickly, Emma. There are a few things you need to know about dealing with vampires. And you have to know them soon, otherwise that girl in there is going to be very dead, or possibly even worse, in a rather short amount of time."

"Worse?"

"Undead," he told her quietly. "If they decide dinner ought to become a dancing partner for all the nights yet to be, one of them will slip a bit of their blood down her throat and bob's your uncle, she becomes one of them. It's called turning."

"Fine." Emma had always prided herself on having a firm grip on reality; if Crispin, who was the sanest person she knew other than Steed, insisted that the two mental cases at Number 17 Norham Gardens were not only cannibals but bloodsucking creatures of night, she was damned if she was going to argue. Especially since he seemed to have good strong ideas about killing them. She obediently kicked her brain into a higher gear. "Rayne calls us, not caring who comes down here, so long as it's a Ministry expert. We hook up, he tells me about eleven bodies found, emptied of blood. Steed checks into it and finds that the blood part is true, but the numbers are wrong. The Oxford people told us seven. Where did he get that number - eleven?"

"I don't know." Crispin practised a few high kicks, taking down an empty birdhouse and two excess branches. "It may have something to do with that thing on the floor. As to the Ministry, perhaps he wanted someone he thought might have a fighting chance against that pair in there? He's certainly keeping himself safe from them, so long as he's in the pentagram. But there's a problem with that." He straightened his shoulders and rolled his head, limbering up his neck muscles. "That pentagram has been there for the past three days."

"What?"

"Quiet, for the love of heaven! I came by here three days ago. One of my fencing students, Deirdre Conover, went missing. I knew she'd been hanging about with this Ethan Rayne bloke. He's got a bit of a rep in Oxford, dabbler in the dark stuff, all that rot. So I tracked him down and came here, and took a butcher's through the window. It was broad daylight; he was elsewhere. That pentagram was right where it is now. When did he call the Ministry?"

"Two days ago. Damnation. What is he up to? Did you find the Conover girl?"

"No. Listen, Emma. Listen to me. We're going in and we're taking down those two. Prime objective here is to get that girl out safe. If it means losing one or the other of them, either William or Drusilla, so be it; we rescue that girl."

"Good." Her nerves were singing, strung along like piano wire. Dusk had fallen, and darkness, full darkness, was closing in. "Let's go. What are we standing about for?"

"Not yet. Listen to me, and pay attention, because this is absolutely vital. One: they're supernaturally strong. The slim little thing in the funny shoes can pick you up with one hand and throw you across the room. Or she can break your neck. Don't try to engage either of them hand to hand; there's really only one person alive right now who can do that, and like it or not? You aren't she. Understood?"

"Yes." He was completely convincing. "Keep them at leg-length then?"

"Yes. Two: metal does nothing, unless it's a question of decapitation. You need to stake them, through the heart. Alternately, fire works, or sunlight. But sunlight's not an option, and fire can take us both out as well."

"Stake through the heart. It has to be the heart?"

oooh, serious tension... I'm very much enjoying this, Deb.

I had a moment of wanting to drop Amanda Lisle into this - after all, she was the Slayer in my world at that point in time - but it seems like overkill to me.

Awaiting Nic. I have Rupert the Schmoopheaded kitty in my lap and he's so sweet, I could frellin' die of insulin shock. WHAT a cutehead.

Oh my bloody god. This is fabulous.

And more Vamp!Giles! Yay!

t /cup brimming over

A little more...

He was beginning to suspect it would have been kinder to let her die seven years ago, when it was still a legitimate option. It certainly would have been easier, and Dawn Summers and Rupert Giles would, in all likelihood, still be alive.

Perhaps Faith would have survived.

The trouble with guilt was that it fed on itself, fed on the what-ifs and if-onlys, none of which were any help solving the problem at hand. Not that he was making any progress through conventional routes. Or through unconventional routes, for that matter. Wesley checked the time--half past eight. About two hours later than he'd planned on staying. He filed his notes by category, put away his books, and rang for take out.

He briefly considered calling Buffy first and asking for her opinion, but as she'd treated everything from Chinese to Italian as if it were made from post-consumer paper products, he decided it wasn't worth the bother. She wasn't eating as much as he'd like, nor healing as rapidly. He suspected she wasn't sleeping well, either, but after the first night, he'd allowed her her privacy, even when he heard noises coming from under her door that cut into his guts like he'd swallowed ground glass.

Indian didn't go over any better than any other region. He observed her carefully as she toyed with her fork, occasionally managing a mouthful of korma or a bite of naan. She wasn't wincing too much when she chewed, and the last traces of bruising were almost invisible, even without make-up. When she got up and left the table, however, her gait was still as hesitant and uncomfortable as it had been three weeks before.

"I think you should see the doctor again," he said, flatly.

Buffy rinsed her plate and put it in the dishwasher before answering, a spark of irritation flickering briefly in her eyes. "Why? So you can feel like you're doing your duty, assure yourself that I'm not beyond repair? He said I'd be fine; it'll just take a few weeks for me to heal completely."

"You've been here nearly a month."

She shrugged. "And the bleeding stopped about two weeks ago." He felt himself blanche, and she gave him a bitter smile before continuing. "What? You don't want to hear the gory details? Then trust me when I say I'll be fine. That way I can stop repeating myself."

• **

Buffy managed to hold herself together long enough to get to the bathroom. After locking the door behind her, she stripped quickly, taking care to avoid the mirror, and stepped into the shower. The hot water soothed some of the constant tense aching in her back, with the added bonus of masking any frustrated crying she might feel like doing. Which was kind of a lot.

She hated feeling helpless and dependent. She also hated feeling more like a project than a person, and she really really hated that there wasn't a single thing she could do about it. Crying settled into coughing, which had the unfortunate effect of working soap bubbles into her mouth. She liked his soap; after several years of cheap bars that reeked of chemical cleanliness, the thick sandalwood-scented bars were heavenly. She just didn't like it on her taste buds.

Self-pity, she thought, was more trouble than it was worth.