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[A/N: The title comes from W.H. Auden’s poem, “This Lunar Beauty”; and the quotes are as attributed. Thank you so much to everyone who's taken the time to review. The feedback is wonderful. Again, this isn’t criticism of the show or the writer’s per se, but the deal is, I don’t know if they had a qualified “mystic” on hand to help with any of the background stuff, but knowing what I do, my guess is no, they didn’t. Which explains some of the comments made; “magic and medicine don’t mix” is one that comes to mind. *Sighs* I’m going to try and stay off my personal soap box, and just write the story, but sometimes, things (read that inconsistencies) will compel me to debunk them. That being said, Joss Whedon created something wonderful, a rich and varied playground. I’m just really grateful to him and the others that helped bring it to life, where it could be seen.] Standard disclaimers still apply.

Previously, Grieving is on-going, but healing is also starting, Willow’s planning on a retrieval, Spike is making like a 70's sitcom dad (sort of) and Giles had to return to England for a bit. Wheels are turning, some forward, some backward . . . .

8. Time is inches

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
W.H. Auden, “Stop all the clocks”

Heavens! Hinder, stop this fate; or grant a time
When good may have, as well as bad, their prime!
Francis T. Palgrave, 1875
"Doth then the world go thus, doth all thus move?”



Had there ever been a moment when this wasn’t going to eventually be part of the “job”? That he would outlive his slayer, perhaps was a given. That he would feel the way he did in recounting her last days, he supposed somewhere it was not an absolute given. Watchers are supposed to maintain some sort of neutrality, some distance from the object of their job. Supposed to maintain a sense of decorum and dignity. Right. They were not supposed to find themselves in a hole in the wall pub, sawdust and sufficient antiquities on the walls (if not in the bar stools) surrounded by those other than human, mourning the loss. Nor were they supposed to be nearly shouting into a cell phone at the time to a vampire.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Giles was aware that there was nothing normal about any of this. There had been nothing normal at all about his slayer. From the beginning she had been a wild card, an unknown. Defying him, defying everything and while not necessarily laughing in the face of fear or death, she’d been damn close to that on occasion. He knew from other accounts, that his slayer was a bit different, but then again, since the onset of the 20th century, most of the slayers had started becoming a bit different. They were beginning to realize that it was the slayer who held the power, not the watcher, and that knowledge was telling. He suspected the most recent of her predecessors had been somewhat of a conundrum for their watchers, but he didn’t imagine any of them had also had to deal with the presence of, and the temperament of, a master vampire bent on protecting what was left behind.

Said master vampire was now agitated beyond what Rupert thought was healthy. If Spike had a heartbeat and blood pressure, Giles was absolutely certain that he’d be hyperventilating and in danger of having a heart attack. As it was, he could see the man pacing back and forth as he relayed the events of the day before. He was going to wear a hole in the floor of the entryway of the Summers’ house, if he didn’t learn to keep still.

A disturbance behind him caught his attention, and Rupert missed whatever it was Spike had just ranted about. “Spike, hold . . . Spike, just a moment. Need to, right, can’t hear so well.”

Giles left his less than comfortable surroundings and wandered out into the early evening. England in July was usually nice, but lately the heat had been literally unbearable. He’d gotten so used to Southern California, where everyone had multiple, if not central, air conditioning and the lack was beginning to tell on him. Not to mention the constant repetition before the Council. Listening intently to the other Englishman on the phone, Giles stopped in his tracks.

“Say that again.” He was silent, waiting for Spike to repeat himself. Then, “did you write all this down? Have you figured out what this girl really is?” Again he held his questions, his patience beginning to wane the more he heard what Spike was saying. “And the girls both . . . right. Neither one heard you.”

A passerby would have taken more than a double take at his next question, but thankfully, Rupert was alone on the street. “What about the hellmouth and the . . . . you think something’s going to happen to the key?” A pause, “Spike, was she talking about people or demons?”

Simultaneously, an ocean and a continent apart, both men sighed and had nearly the same thought. It was Giles who broached the subject though, asking exactly what the other man was thinking. “Do you think someone or something is going to attack the key? And why does this seem directed at news concerning Buffy?”

On the other end, Spike had finally stopped pacing. His eyes stared at the walls of the living room, bathed in early morning light. He’d waited until all the girls were gone for the day before calling Rupert, not wanting any of this conversation overheard. No reason to worry the girls, especially Dawn. Not until they had something a bit more concrete than cryptic warnings and messages from delicate little girls. Damn him, though, Spike thought. Damn Rupert for mentioning her name. His eyes clouded with unshed tears and Spike took another moment before he dared answer.

“Dunno, Rupert, just my sixth sense kickin’ in and tellin’ me something is up with that. Not sure what it is yet, but its something.”

“Right then. I don’t know . . look Spike, I’m coming home. Don’t tell the girls yet why though.”

Spike hunched a shoulder, unknowingly mimicking Rupert’s pose. “‘sthat wise?”

“Probably not, but I think I can manage it. If the Council recalls me, then, I’ll return, but for now I think its best I come home.”

******************************* *******************************

She’d done it. Figured out how to keep the bullhide full of water, by rigging a small frame, kind of like a playpen frame with the bullhide strapped around the top and secured that way.

Actually, that was exactly what she was using. A playpen frame that she’d found in the dump. Coming up with a way to keep the bullhide around the metal pieces had proved just a bit more difficult, but finally Willow had settled on the idea of using clamps like her mother used on their picnic table to keep the tablecloth attached.

Everything was ready. It was all in place. She just needed the key and blood from a woman untouched by man. Tara’s blood and Dawn’s blood. Both girls had to be present.

She’d been wracking her brain, trying to come up with a way to get them both involved without revealing her intent. She expended so much time and energy into research and getting all the supplies that she hadn’t focused any attention onto how to get the girls involved. Until today.

During a trip to the Magic Box, looking for something completely unrelated to anything she was planning, Willow had watched while Anya unpacked the latest shipment of deadly and dangerous herbs, cataloguing everything as she went.

And there it was. The answer was there in front of her. An entire box of Lethe’s Bramble. Used for forgetting and obscuring spells.

It was perfect.

She could use the Lethe’s Bramble to cloud their minds, make them forget who and what they were, get them to the ritual and then, when all was over and done, remove the spell and everything would be fine. And Buffy would be back.

Neither girl would remember.

****************************** ***************************************

Giles hated flying directly from London to Sunnydale. He much prefered a stop over in either New York or Chicago, with a couple of hours in between. Then he could stretch his legs and relax from the stress. But he couldn’t do that this time. The only flight he’d been able to book was London - Los Angeles direct.

Which gave him hours stuck in the same place, with nothing but his thoughts for company. The information he’d been given by Spike had done nothing more than confuse him. While not strictly a prophecy, it had the air and feel of one, moreso than anything he’d run across. It was enough that Spike thought it so.

Despite early misgivings, and his own inherent distrust of vampires in general, Giles had come to trust and believe in Spike. It was not something that he’d ever, in all his life, have expected. They had discovered, in the time they’d shared living quarters, more commonalities than just being English.

They shared a love of the written word, a taste in music that ran from Mozart to General Public, and an understanding of the demonic world that none of the others could fathom.
And now, now that Buffy was gone, the two men had bonded and decided, albeit tacitly and not verbalized, to undertake the protection of the girls and the hellmouth. While he couldn’t contribute nearly as much physically as Spike did, Rupert was aware he was no slouch. They made a fine pair, both ex-patriot Englishmen in a sea of Americans, fish out of water, in more than one way, and yet they were more at home here in California than in England. Rupert had a sneaky suspicion that it was because their hearts were engaged that made Sunnydale more home than either London or Bath.

Spike hadn’t been very forthcoming about life prior to his arrival in Sunnydale, but Rupert knew the last time he’d been in England had been a very very long time ago. So, in light of that, Giles had brought a selection of goodies, including Wheatabix and shortbread. Hopefully that would appease Spike’s hunger. Well, at least one of them.

The other hungers Giles could do nothing about. Spike had been bagging it now for over a year, nearly two, though he still yearned for human blood from the source, Giles as aware his bloodlust was more controllable. Whether it was because he was a master or because he had learned restraint because of the chip, Giles wasn’t certain. Or, on the other hand, it could just be Spike.

Whatever it was, something set Spike apart.

While it confused him, he was still eternally grateful for it. It had brought him to their side, fighting on the side of light.

Giles shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. His long legs ached, cramped by the lack of room and movement. He’d long since come to terms with the reasons behind Spike’s betrayal of all his blood ties.

Initially, he’d been appalled, outraged and disgusted by the revelation of Spike’s feelings. They’d all been. Horrified and disgusted. Somehow, some bizarre way, in the months following, battling with them against Glory, Spike had proven something. Proven his feelings, proven the trust they’d tentatively placed in him and done everything in his power to prove that his feelings were not misguided obsession.

Never once had he turned his back on them, even after the horrific beating he’d received from the Hell-God. And it had been a beating, had he been human, it would have been sufficient to kill him. Glory had inflicted damage the likes of which Giles had personally never seen on a living (or unliving) body. Both legs had been broken in multiple places, one forearm shattered, every single rib was broken, his jaw, skull and she’d nearly blinded him as well. It had taken him weeks to heal, even with the bagged human blood they’d supplied him with. What surprised them all, since they had absolutely no expectations otherwise, was that Spike had taken all that abuse, and not given up the name of the key. He’d kept the secret. Saved Dawn and, well, temporarily at least, saved Buffy. Made it harder for the Beast to find what she wanted.

And then, the little bugger had gone out, after getting healed up, gone right back into the fray. Stood beside them, knowing intimately how much damage Glory could inflict, knowing exactly what they were facing, without any hesitation on his part. Pretty damned amazing considering he did it without any sort of encouragement, any sort of hope for renumeration or recognition. It had in fact surprised him no end. Later on, when he’d had a moment to sit and contemplate things, Giles had realized this was just another part of Spike, a characteristic of both man and demon. Spike was a protector, he’d done it for over a hundred years with Drusilla, and Giles was beginning to suspect it would have been more than natural for William prior to turning. A small snicker escaped his mouth, drawing the momentary attention of his seatmate. Giles smiled apologetically, turning his thoughts inward again. It might just be his Victorian upbringing, but Giles was beginning to discount that, or rather consider it only incidental as opposed to an ingrained character trait.

It had been entirely too natural for Spike to just step into the role of protector, to slip in and take on a role that almost literally had to have been thrust upon Angel. Giles was convinced that it was the height of idiocy to assume that every vampire was the same. No two people were the same, and even demons of the same species were different, why on earth had the Council ever tried to perpetuate the idea that vampires were all the same. Angel and Spike were so diametrically different from each other that the only things the two had in common was the fact they were Aurelian vampires, both masters, and, ironically, Drusilla and Buffy. It was the last two items that gave Giles pause.

Angel had driven poor Drusilla mad, killing her family, torturing the girl then turning her. Drusilla in turn had picked William turning him. And then for the next hundred ten or so years, Spike had protected Drusilla as well as a female master vampire would allow. But he’d done it.

The hellmouth had drawn all of them, in one form or another, bringing them into Buffy’s orbit. Giles suspected that while Angel had desperately needed something to give him a reason to continue, and since his nature was already obsessive, his feelings for Buffy might have been real, but there was no . . . . longevity in them. Obsessive love tends to disappear with time and distance, and that seemed to be the case with Angel. He was more in love with the ideal of Buffy than the girl herself. Angel had never wanted to see her flaws and faults, never wanted to know that her feet absolutely stank after a hard patrol. But Spike, on the other hand, knew all her faults, all her weaknesses, hell, he’d exploited them on more than one occasion.

And still he had deep feelings for her. She was gone and still Spike stayed.

William the Bloody was more trustworthy than Angel.

William the soulless demon was more trustworthy than souled Angel.

Giles sat dumbstruck in his cramped airplane seat, surrounded by a sea of travelers, amidst the most profound revelation of his life. A chill crept up his spine, shaking him from to the core. He had the sudden feeling that trust and love were all going to be sorely tested in the coming days.





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