Title: Why I'm Here
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Pairing/Rating: Giles/Xander, hard R
Disclaimer: Not mine! They both belong to Joss and Mutant Enemy.
Summary: Xander didn’t call Giles until he was in Newark with five hours to kill, and even then only at the very end of the five hours.
Author's Note: Thanks to antennapedia for both the beta read (twice!) and the plot bunny, which was "Xander shows up at Heathrow in season six; angst is followed by smut." This is NOT a tag-fic. I repeat, NOT a tag-fic.

Xander didn’t call Giles until he was in Newark with five hours to kill, and even then only at the very end of the five hours.

He spent the first hour sitting in a coffee shop nursing a cup of something black and hot and burned-tasting, and the next hour searching for a jacket that didn’t say “I *heart* New York,” since he’d left his in Sunnydale, in the apartment he shared – used to share with Anya, he thought numbly. And he was pretty sure he was never going to get it back, because she was probably burning all his stuff right then, if she hadn’t already. He had at least the vague idea that England was colder than Southern California, though, so he looked around until he found something that wouldn’t make him look like too much of an idiot loser tourist.

He paid way too much for it, but in the grand scheme of how much money he’d just blown to get himself on a same-day flight to England, he couldn’t see how it mattered.

The two hours after that he spent wandering around the international terminal, until he thought the repeated announcement about not leaving luggage unattended would drive him crazy. Xander’s own luggage was on his back, the same backpack he’d had in high school, stuffed with an extra pair of jeans, four changes of underwear, three shirts, and two pairs of mismatched socks. He’d forgotten his toothbrush (big surprise there) and his pajamas.

Having no luggage on an international flight had earned him a strange look from the woman at the Continental counter at LAX. Between that and the same day flight, she’d taken a long hard look at him, probably trying to memorize his face in case it showed up later on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. He wanted to tell her not to worry, he definitely wasn’t going to be on anyone’s most wanted list, probably not ever again, but he hadn’t. He’d answered her questions about packing his own bag on autopilot, same as he’d done everything since Saturday – it was Monday now, he guessed, or at least that’s what the date on the Departure and Arrival monitors said. He and Anya should have been in Cabo, on the beach, drinking fruity things with umbrellas stuck in them.

He stared at his flight – CO 429 to Heathrow, on time – for awhile, and thought about daiquiris. Then he turned around and headed back toward the international phone place he’d seen in his wandering. It took him fifteen minutes to find it, and by then he was kinda frantic because he’d left it so long his flight was boarding, but his original plan – which consisted almost entirely of a crumpled up Post-It with Giles’s address and phone number – suddenly seemed like a really bad idea. Lex Luther diabolical plan bad.

Not that it’d be the first really bad idea Xander’d had lately.

Xander locked himself in the booth with the phone, dug the Post-It out of his pocket, and dialed the number.

Way too late, he remembered about those pesky little things called time zones. “Hello?” Giles said, obviously still half asleep. Xander checked his watch: eight o’clock, plus six hours was . . . two in the morning. Shit.

“Hello?” Giles said again, with definite annoyance this time.

Maybe it was that the tone was so familiar – all those nights in the library when Xander had known that Giles was only just holding onto his patience, not to mention the few times Giles hadn’t quite managed it – but something forced him to recover the magical power of speech. “Giles?” Xander managed.

“Xander, what –” He came instantly awake, Xander could tell. “Oh God, Xander, is Buffy –”

“No,” Xander said quickly. “She’s fine. I guess, I mean, I’m not in Sunnydale.”

“You’re not –” Giles let out a long breath. “Xander, do you know what time it is?”

“I know, I’m sorry.” He’d been saying that a lot recently, not that it had ever seemed to help. This was probably the worst of all of Xander’s recent stupid ideas, he decided, and almost hung up.

Except then Giles said, in his oh-so-careful Giles way, “Is everything all right?” and Xander found himself clutching the phone so hard his knuckles turned white.

“No,” he said. “Look, it’s – I can’t – I’m in Newark, Giles. At the airport. My flight gets into Heathrow in the morning at nine and I was going to ask if you could meet it but that was before I woke you up and if you could just tell me to shut up and find my own way it would save a lot of time.”

“Wait,” Giles said, “Heathrow – Xander, are you on your way here?”

“Um. Yeah. That was the plan.” The really stupid plan that was just seeming stupider by the minute.

“But . . . Xander, didn’t you just get married?”

“Um. No. Not so much.”

There was a really, really long silence then, while Xander waited in agony and almost hung up again about three times. But when Giles finally spoke, all he said was, “Nine, did you say?”

Xander had to swallow before he could answer. “Yeah.”

“What’s the flight number?”

Xander gave it to him, and then added, “Hey, I, uh – thanks, Giles.”

“I’ll see you then.”

They hung up. Xander stumbled back to the gate and stood in line to board. His seat was the middle one in the middle row of the 747. Legroom was a distant dream and the woman next to him had a baby. Xander shoved his backpack into the overhead bin, crawled over the already screaming kid, wedged himself into his seat, and, for the first time in two days, fell asleep.

Giles was there when Xander emerged from customs, way ahead of everyone else on his flight, of course, since they actually had baggage and all Xander had was his backpack. He looked tired, Xander thought guiltily, and then realized that he had no idea how far from Heathrow Giles actually lived. Someplace called Bath, Xander knew, but where was that, exactly? Xander’s U.S. geography wasn’t even all that great, much less his British.

“Hey,” Xander said.

“Hello,” Giles said, and there was a moment where Xander thought Giles might do . . . something. Hug him or touch him on the shoulder, maybe. But then Giles seemed to think better of it and just stood there. “Is that all you have?” he asked, gesturing to Xander’s backpack with nearly as much skepticism as the woman who’d checked him in at LAX.

“Yeah,” Xander said. He felt vaguely disappointed. This didn’t seem to be going great, as these things went, and they’d barely said ten words to each other so far. “I, uh, didn’t want to – I wasn’t planning real well, I guess.”

“Understandable,” Giles said. “The car is this way.”

“Right,” Xander said, following Giles out of the airport and into an underground parking lot. “I’m sorry, by the way,” he blurted after a few seconds of silence. “For waking you up. I didn’t think.”

“It’s all right,” Giles replied as they arrived at his car, something small and British and kinda sporty, but nothing like the convertible he’d had in Sunnydale. Green, with tan interior. Very Gilesy. “Er – are you planning to drive?”

Xander blinked and realized he was staring at the driver’s side. “Oh, yeah,” he said, squeezing back out between Giles’s car and the one next to it and going around to the other side. “England. Left side of the road.” There was a funny quip there, Xander thought, settling into the passenger seat, but he couldn’t think what it might be. Probably a bad sign, he thought; Giles was certainly looking at him strangely, though he didn’t say anything.

Not until they were out of the parking garage and on the freeway, anyway – or at least Xander assumed that’s what it was, though with only four lanes it certainly didn’t look like any Southern California freeway Xander had ever seen. Then Giles said, without taking his eyes off the road, “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Xander slumped down in his seat. “Not really.”

Giles was quiet for another few miles. “Is Anya all right?” he asked at last.

“Probably not,” Xander replied. He saw her suddenly, in her dress, the way she had looked at him when he’d told her – and bent over until he felt the seatbelt tighten against his shoulder. He buried his face in his hands. “Oh God, Giles, it was – I made such a mess of things.”

“I know,” Giles said, his tone some weird place between wry and gentle. Xander turned to glare. “Well, you wouldn’t be here if things in Sunnydale hadn’t, er –”

“Imploded?” Xander suggested. “In the spectacular and distinctly Hellmouthy way they always do if something seems to actually be going right for a change?”

“Quite,” Giles said. He sighed. “Also, I called Willow after you called me and she told me what happened.”

“Oh.”

“I hope you don’t mind. But they were quite relieved to know where you were.”

“Yeah. I kinda just . . . split, afterward.” He looked up. “Did you talk to – anyone else?”

“No,” Giles replied, firmly. “I didn’t.”

The drive to Bath took almost two hours, with decent traffic, and Xander had to reign in the impulse to apologize again because then he’d start babbling and it’d probably just make things even more awkward. Which would have been tough, Xander thought, because wow, if there’d been awards for awkwardness, they would have definitely won a few. Xander thought Giles probably wanted to ask him what he was doing there, and he was glad that he was way too polite and British to actually come out and say it, because now that he was actually in England, he had no idea why he’d come. For some reason it had seemed like the only thing to do when he’d first thought of it while lying on that filthy bedspread in that filthy Sunnydale motel room. It would have made a lot more sense – not to mention been a hell of a lot cheaper – to just get in the car and drive. By now he could have been in Chicago or something, anywhere really.

But instead, he’d thought, with a clarity that was really pretty weird considering how completely out of it he’d been, I need Giles. Why, Xander wasn’t sure. But it had been enough to get him out of that room and onto the plane.

And now . . . Xander had no fucking clue.

Giles’s apartment was messier than Xander had expected. At first, Xander thought he was in the middle of something – a big research project, maybe, since a lot of his books were in stacks on the floor instead of on the dark wood shelves, or redecorating, because a lot of the knickknacky things that Xander recognized from his apartment in Sunnydale were lying around instead of hanging neatly on the walls. It took Xander a minute to realize that that wasn’t it; it was that Giles still hadn’t unpacked all the way, even though he must’ve been there a couple months already. Since Xander thought that Giles was probably the kind of guy who unpacked his suitcase in a hotel room he was only going to be in overnight, that was really weird.

Xander stood staring until Giles finally cleared his throat to get his attention and led him down the hallway to the guestroom, where Xander dropped his backpack on the bed and then sat down beside it. Giles leaned in the doorway and Xander realized once more just how totally, completely, ridiculously awkward this all was. A very special Xander kind of awkwardness. Nobody screwed things up like he did, after all.

“Are you tired?” Giles asked at last.

“Nah, I slept on the plane.”

Giles nodded. “That’s for the best. It’s easier to acclimate to the time difference if you just stay awake. That is,” he added with a frown, “if you’re staying –” He broke off and took a deep breath. “How long are you planning to stay?”

That was easy to translate, Xander thought bitterly. From Giles to English: You’re disrupting my life and I’m being all polite and British about it because I am, in fact, polite and British, but the sooner you leave the sooner I can get back to my totally Xander-free existence, which I was enjoying very much, thank you, until two o’clock this morning.

“Right,” Xander said, jumping up and grabbing his backpack. “Look, I’m sure there’s a bus station around here somewhere, if you could just drop me there I can get back to the airport myself and –”

“Xander, what are you talking about?” Giles asked, his frown deepening. “All I did was ask how long –” He stopped, and Xander could practically see the light bulb blink on. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stepped into the room for the first time. “I’m sorry,” he said, not quite looking Xander in the eye. When Xander didn’t move, he sighed and reached out to take the backpack from him. His hand brushed against Xander’s as he took it; Xander jumped, startled, but if Giles noticed he didn’t let on, he just laid the backpack on the bed again. “I didn’t mean to make you feel unwelcome, it’s just that this has all happened rather quickly. Less than twelve hours ago I hadn’t heard from any of you in weeks, and now . . . you’re here.”

“And you wish I wasn’t, I get it.”

“No, Xander – I don’t know what to think.” Giles sighed again and pulled out a handkerchief to start polishing his glasses. Xander almost laughed, except that exactly none of this was funny. “It might help,” he said after a moment, “if you told me why you’re here.”

“Yeah,” Xander said, and fell back onto the bed. Maybe Giles did want him gone, he thought, but if he was going to insist otherwise, Xander wasn’t going to argue much. The idea of getting back on a plane right then – especially one headed to Sunnydale – was enough to make him want to knock himself upside the head with something nice and blunt. He looked up at Giles, who was still polishing away, and said, “It’d also help if I knew why I was here.”

Giles put his glasses back on and stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket before coming to sit on the edge of the bed. He left lots of space between them though. Actually, Giles was about as far away from Xander as he could get and still be sitting on the bed. Xander sighed and stared up at the ceiling as Giles said, “Well, I can certainly understand the need to be away after the scene Willow described to me. Which, really, Xander –”

“I know,” Xander said sharply, sitting up and twisting around to glare. “Look, you don’t get to lecture, all right? Whatever I came here for, it wasn’t that. I know I couldn’t have come up with a better way to humiliate Anya if I’d tried. I don’t need to hear it.”

“No, I don’t imagine you do.”

“And anyway,” Xander went on, standing up in sudden anger, which just felt so good after days and days of self-loathing, “you weren’t there. You didn’t even bother to come – to my wedding – so you really don’t get to lecture. At all.”

Giles looked up at him. “All right,” he said quietly.

Xander looked away. “You know what?” he said, staring at the swirling grain of the hardwood floor. “I think I’m tired after all.”

“It’s really better if you don’t –”

“Yeah, well, what can I say?” Xander gave a harsh laugh. “I live on the edge.”

“Well then,” Giles said, standing as well, “I’ll just – if you’re hungry later –”

“Thanks,” Xander said shortly. Giles left, closing the door softly behind him, and Xander fell backwards across the bed. “And your perfect record continues, Harris,” he muttered. Blunt and heavy, he thought, but was eventually forced to settled for shoving a pillow over his face.

Giles wasn’t home when Xander finally emerged, driven out by boredom and hunger. A quick raid on the refrigerator – which took Xander ten minutes to find, because it was masquerading weirdly as one of the cabinets – turned up nothing, but then he spotted a note on the counter in Giles’s neat, sharp handwriting.

Went to the shops. Be back soon. – Giles

“And, oh yes, you’re an idiot, Xander,” Xander muttered to himself in his best pissy Giles impersonation. He sighed to himself and went to put the TV on, flipping channels until he found something that looked like a weird British version of Friends. Friends-with-accents, he thought, slouching down on the sofa.

He was actually laughing when Giles came in the door, and later Xander thought that maybe that was the only reason things didn’t continue to avalanche into a black hole of badness (and yeah, he knew black holes and avalanches didn’t have anything to do with each other, but he’d never been Metaphor Guy and he wasn’t going to start now). Giles looked kinda stunned as he dropped his keys and the two bags of groceries he was carrying on the kitchen table, and then came over to see what Xander was watching.

“What are you – oh God, I hate this rubbish.”

“What are you talking about?” Xander replied. “It’s like Friends, but better! They can make jokes about lesbian porn!”

“Surely a sign of high art,” Giles said wryly, and sniffed. “British humor should be dry and understated. That,” he pointed to the TV, “is entirely due to bad influences from across the pond, I assure you. Are you hungry? I was going to make pasta, if you’re interested.”

“Starving,” Xander said. The show was over and the theme music was really awful, so he turned the TV off and followed Giles into the kitchen. He watched for a minute as Giles assembled things on the counter – olive oil, eggs, flour. “Wait,” he said finally, “you’re actually going to make pasta? Like, the noodles?”

“That was the idea, yes,” Giles said, slipping an apron over his head and tying it behind his back.

“I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Well, you do need a pasta machine,” Giles said, reaching up to take what must have been his down from the top shelf of a cupboard. “Do you want spaghetti or fettuccine?”

“Uh,” Xander said, “don’t they all taste the same?”

“Yes, but –” Giles sighed. “Never mind. We’ll have fettuccine.”

“Those are the flat ones, right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Xander watched as Giles measured out flour and then used a large spoon to make it into a kind of bowl. He cracked two eggs into it, and then used the spoon to measure out olive oil. There wasn’t a cookbook anywhere to be seen, which, if it had been Xander cooking, would have meant calling for take-out (or possibly an ambulance) eventually, but Giles seemed to know what he was doing. “Do you do this a lot?” Xander asked at last.

“No,” Giles said. He was using the spoon now to sort of fold in the edges of the bowl of flour, into the egg and oil middle. “It’s really a two person job, and I never feel like going to all the trouble for just myself.”

“Oh,” Xander said. He fidgeted for a bit, and was glad that Giles didn’t seem inclined to look up and notice. “So, there isn’t anyone else for you to be making pasta for then?”

Giles did glance up then, which, Xander thought, considering how he’d just managed to mangle the English language beyond all recognition, wasn’t all that strange. “Are you – Xander, did you just ask me if I’m seeing anyone?”

“No,” Xander said. “Except yeah, I totally did. You don’t have to tell me, I just thought I might as well find out how much I’ve wrecked your life by bursting in here like this.”

Giles didn’t answer as he laid the spoon aside and went to wash his hands. Then, leaving them wet, he started kneading the leftover flour into the dough. It looked way messier than Xander had ever thought any Giles-project would be, but he thought it might also be kinda fun.

Not that Giles looked like he was having any fun. He looked . . . grim. Xander was just about to apologize – and shove his foot so far down his throat it would have to be surgically removed, he was sure – when Giles finally said, “No, I’m not seeing anyone. And you haven’t wrecked my life, Xander, I promise you.” He sighed and went to wet his hands again. “I’m – I am glad to see you, if I hadn’t already said.”

“No,” Xander replied, looking away. “As a matter of fact, you hadn’t.”

“Well, I am,” he said. “I won’t deny that the circumstances are strange, but . . . I’m glad you’re here.”

“Well,” Xander said, “thanks. I am too, I think.” He looked around and decided it was time to stop being totally useless. “So, uh, you said this is a two person job. Can I help?”

“Yes, please, you can start the sauce.” Within minutes Xander found himself up to his elbows in raw mushrooms and onions. Giles finished the dough, wrapped it in plastic, and set it aside. “There,” he said, with obvious satisfaction.

“Is that enough onions?” Xander asked. He hoped so; his eyes were watering like crazy.

“Yes, I think so. Here, chop some basil for me, please, while I start the tomatoes.”

“Whoa, wait, actual tomatoes?” Xander asked, staring.

“Well, tinned, I’m afraid.”

“I thought we were just adding stuff to Prego or whatever it is you buy here,” Xander said, watching in fascination as Giles applied his can opener to a large can of tomatoes.

The look he got in response was one that Xander hadn’t actually gotten from Giles in awhile. It was the same look he’d gotten that time Giles had caught him and Cordy making out in the library when they were supposed to be researching something demony: exasperation, disappointment, and annoyance, all rolled into a single Giles-glare. Efficient, not to mention effective. “Do not blaspheme in my kitchen,” Giles said with dignity. “Prego – were you raised by wolves?”

Xander winced; he’d been studiously avoiding thinking about his family ever since the wedding. “Close,” he muttered. “So, uh, basil?”

“Yes.” There was a pause, while Xander was sure Giles was staring at him, trying to figure him out. “And if you could peel some garlic too, please,” he added finally.

Xander set to work, peeling and chopping obediently – and silently, even if that meant that his brain was free to start coughing up images of the wedding in general and his parents in particular, because he had the impression that the ridiculous amount of time and effort this dinner was taking was not an accident. Giles must’ve wanted a project, so they wouldn’t have to talk. Not that Xander blamed him. Talking had definitely been a disaster of Sunnydale proportions earlier. Mostly, Xander realized, because he’d been a Grade A Extra Large Jerk. He’d have to apologize or something eventually, but for now he just kept chopping, and occasionally sneaked glances over at what Giles was doing.

. . . Pasta sauce had sugar in it? Weird.

“All right,” Giles said, once he’d apparently finished messing around with the tomatoes and sugar and Italian seasoning. He added the mushrooms, onions, and garlic, the last of which went in a garlic press so heavy-duty that Xander thought it could have easily doubled as a personal weapon – which, come to think of it, maybe it did.

“All right what?” Xander asked when Giles didn’t say anything more.

“All right, we need to let it simmer.” Giles crouched down to rummage around in the cabinet under the stove for something, which turned out to be a glass lid for the sauce pan. “The longer, the better, really – but at least while we make the pasta.”

Making the pasta turned out to be fun. Giles put himself in charge of feeding the dough into the machine, and also of catching it as it came out, leaving Xander to crank the handle (something he was confident even he couldn’t screw up) and marvel at the miracle that was pasta not in those funny little sticks his mom used to give him to chew on when he was hungry before dinner.

Then it was into a pot of boiling water, and Giles, testing the sauce, pronounced it ready. He produced a block of parmesan cheese (Xander just barely managed to stop himself from asking, “Doesn’t that usually come in a powder?”), dished the pasta into two shallow bowls, and grated the cheese liberally over the top. He shocked the hell out of Xander then by pouring two glasses of white wine and offering one of them to him. Xander looked at it for a minute, blinking stupidly, he was sure, and then took it. They sat down together at Giles’s small kitchen table – and suddenly and painfully discovered the flaw in Giles’s plan, which was that pasta, even really amazing pasta way better than anything Xander had ever eaten before in his life, couldn’t make up for a severe case of Conversation Death.

Or maybe Xander was the only one just discovering this. Maybe that’d been part of Giles’s Master Plan all along. He hadn’t turned on the radio or anything and he didn’t look awkward at all, sitting there eating his pasta with (again, weird) a fork and spoon, twirling the noodles up neatly.

Whether or not that was Giles’s intention, it worked. Xander didn’t last three minutes before he said, “It’s, uh, really good. Really, really good.”

“Thank you,” Giles said, and then didn’t say anything else.

“You didn’t have to go to all this trouble though,” Xander said. “I mean, just because I’m, you know, here.”

“Well,” Giles said, reaching for his wine, “it’s your first night. I wouldn’t expect it all the time.” He took a sip and then said, “By the way, and I would appreciate it if you refrained from biting my head off this time, but how –”

“A week,” Xander said. “My ticket home is for a week from today.” He sighed, and sipped his own wine. He knew even less about wine than he did about pasta, but it seemed okay to him. Kinda sour, maybe. “I’m – look, I’m sorry about before. I don’t have any excuse, I was just – I don’t know.”

Giles nodded. “Well, thank you for the apology,” he said, and that, Xander was relieved to see, was that. They moved on to talking about what touristy stuff they might do – though Xander found himself a lot less enthusiastic than he’d thought he’d be, which Giles somehow seemed less surprised about than Xander himself – until their plates were empty and so was the wine bottle.

At that point, Xander found he could hardly hold his eyes open. He sleepwalked through helping Giles wash and dry the dishes, and then let Giles pack him off to the guestroom, handing him a toothbrush as he went. “Thanks,” Xander managed from the bedroom doorway, even though the sleep-fog in his brain had pretty much tied his tongue in knots by then. “For, uh,” he gestured with the toothbrush, “and dinner. And everything else.”

Giles gave him a very different look then, one that Xander didn’t think he’d ever gotten from him before at all. It made him feel better though, the same way that a hug at the airport or afterward might have, and kinda warm inside in a way that Xander realized he hadn’t felt since way before the wedding. He’d been feeling cold all the way through for weeks and weeks and he hadn’t even noticed.

But all Giles said was, “Think nothing of it” and Xander was way too tired to try and translate that into anything useful. He’d probably only botch it up. In the morning, he decided, he’d try and make sense out of all of this. He brushed his teeth, stumbled back to his room, stripped down to his boxers, and collapsed into bed, where sleep claimed him about thirty seconds later.

It was still dark when Xander woke, and a glance at the bedside clock told him it was four o’clock. He spent a useless hour then, trying to get back to sleep, until he finally decided that too much time in his own head was a really, really bad idea. He dragged the quilt off his bed and into the living room, where he plopped down the floor in front of the TV, turned it on as low as possible so he wouldn’t wake Giles up, and leaned back against the sofa. But TV at five in the morning in England apparently wasn’t any better than it was in the U.S., and it really didn’t do a great job of doing what Xander needed it to do. Which was stop him thinking.

The problem, Xander thought, scrunching down into his nest of blankets and glaring at the barely audible Dynasty rerun, was that there was just so much bad to think about, once he got going it was really hard to stop. His parents, for one thing – not that anything had really changed there, but there was definitely a humiliation factor now that there hadn’t been before. Xander was sure his father would have a number of things to say to him when he saw him again – which he’d have to sometime, Xander guessed, even though avoiding them for the rest of his life was pretty appealing – most of which would probably have to do with what a complete waste of money the wedding had been.

If he ever decided to get married again (which seemed pretty unlikely since why would it be any different with someone who wasn’t Anya?), he was definitely eloping. No question about it. At least then if he chickened out he wouldn’t totally humiliate anyone else.

Which brought him to the second bad thing. Which was actually the first bad thing, except thinking about his stupid, fucked up family was easier than thinking about Anya and how she might go back to being a vengeance demon and decide that no one needed avenging more than she did herself. It was way more possible than Xander would have liked that being a toad or a newt or something else slimy and amphibious was in his near future.

But even that was just a smokescreen, he knew. If he was worrying about what Anya might do to him, it meant that he didn’t have to think about what he really had done to her. Whenever he thought about the look on her face as she’d finally realized that nothing she could say would change his mind, he thought that newtdom might be better than he deserved.

He finally managed to doze off, head tilted back against the couch cushions, and dreamed of being a newt in a tank on Willow’s dresser in Sunnydale. He was watching TV through his little newt eyes and the curved glass of his tank, which made the TV look all weird and distorted, and wondering when Willow would come give him his minnows.

“Xander,” someone said, close by.

He didn’t answer, because newts couldn’t talk, duh. But maybe that would be better. If he couldn’t talk, he also couldn’t fuck things up beyond repair, like he almost had with Giles earlier. There might be advantages to being a newt after all.

“Xander,” the voice said again, more loudly this time.

Xander woke up, and it took him several seconds to figure out where he was. “Ow,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked up at Giles, who was standing over him with a weird look on his face – sort of worried and sort of amused, Xander thought, and something else too. He had an extremely blurry half-memory that Giles might have looked at him like that last night, and he wished Giles would do it sometime when he was awake enough to figure out what it meant.

“I’m sorry for waking you,” Giles said. “But you didn’t look very comfortable.”

“It’s okay,” Xander said, frowning. “I was a newt.”

“Er.”

Xander sighed. “I was thinking about all the things Anya might turn me into.”

“Ah.”

“And then I fell asleep and dreamed I was a newt.”

“I see,” Giles said, looking down at him. He was wearing pajamas and a bathrobe, totally unGilesy. Probably that was the only reason Xander didn’t fall over from shock when Giles turned off the TV and then settled himself, not only on the floor next to Xander, which was weird enough, but close enough that their shoulders were touching.

It was the first time Giles had touched him on purpose since Xander had come to England. There had been that one, horribly awkward moment in the airport, when neither of them had known what to do, and so had ended up doing nothing, not even a handshake. After that Giles had seemed to make sure he stayed well clear of him, except for that one, accidental brush of hands when Giles had taken his backpack away, which wasn’t even worth remembering, really (except that Xander apparently did). And it wasn’t that weird either – it wasn’t like he and Giles had ever hugged much, or ever, actually; Giles hugged Buffy and Willow sometimes, but not Xander. It wasn’t until that moment, when Giles sat down and didn’t shift away after their shoulders had touched, that Xander realized exactly how much he’d been wanting it. He let out a long breath and only just managed to stop himself from letting his head tilt just a little to the right to rest on Giles’s shoulder.

“If it helps,” Giles said after a few seconds of silence, “I doubt Anya will be able to do anything to you herself. That’s not really how it works.”

“Great,” Xander muttered. “So she’ll just get one of her vengeance demon friends to help her. Not that I don’t deserve whatever she might dish out. And then some, probably.”

Giles said nothing for at least a minute. “Xander,” he finally said, “you don’t have to tell me, of course, but . . . what exactly did happen? Willow was rather uncertain on the details.”

“Yeah,” Xander said. He took a deep breath and let the quilt he still had wrapped around his shoulders slide down a couple inches so he could feel the warmth of Giles’s own shoulder through just the two layers of his bathrobe and pajamas. And then he started talking and once he started he couldn’t stop. Everything, from the beginning to the end of that horrible day, just came pouring out, until Xander was pretty sure he wasn’t making any sense: his father drinking before the wedding had even started, Anya’s demon friends, who’d been way better behaved than Xander’s human family, and finally the visions. He had a hard time getting those out – they were fuzzy now, for one thing, but mostly it was just the awful sense of shame. Even if it hadn’t actually been him at all, they were futures that were . . . inside him somehow. They’d never have been able to scare him that badly if they weren’t.

Giles just kept nodding. He wasn’t looking at Xander, and Xander was glad. It was easier to just tell it to Giles’s totally bland and non-judgmental beige carpet.

“And I realized – I realized it didn’t matter,” Xander said, finally, desperately. “Who the guy was, I mean. It – he – I – I couldn’t do it, because it might – because of what it – what I might do to her. To us. And I’d been having those thoughts for a long time and just pretending I wasn’t. Fooling myself and her and everyone until I just . . . I just couldn’t anymore.” He felt cold inside again, suddenly, and worried that Giles might lecture or – or move away from Xander now that he knew what had happened.

“Oh, Xander,” was all Giles said. And Xander found himself leaning closer, wishing he had the guts somehow to reach over and take Giles’s hand or something. Sadly he found himself totally gutless, as usual. But Giles must have known somehow – and how he could’ve, Xander didn’t know, but it shouldn’t have surprised him, Giles knew everything, after all – because Giles leaned back, and when he spoke he turned his head, still not looking Xander in the eye, but so their foreheads were almost touching. Xander’s throat suddenly hurt, but at least he wasn’t cold anymore. “I can’t say the way you did it was . . . well,” Giles said quietly. “But do you think it was the right thing to do?”

“I don’t know,” Xander said, squeezing the words past the ache in his throat. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Can you live with maybe?”

Xander sighed. “I guess I have to.”

Giles smiled sadly. “A wise answer.”

Neither of them moved then, even though Xander kinda thought the conversation was over. He sneaked a glance at Giles after awhile and saw he had his eyes closed. He wasn’t smiling or frowning or anything. He looked . . . peaceful. Xander wished Giles could lend him some of that Zen, because he had just thought of something he really wanted to ask, but he was afraid it might ruin things all over again, and if he could just keep his mouth shut for once maybe this week wouldn’t be a total disaster after all. And then Xander could go back to Sunnydale and . . .

. . . And what? Pick up the pieces?

Maybe it was the jetlag talking, but God, that idea was exhausting.

Giles stirred beside him. The moment was gone, which was probably for the best, Xander thought. He felt more than saw Giles pull himself up onto the sofa and then push himself to his feet.

“I’m going to shower,” Giles said. “Would you like to go out for breakfast?”

“Yeah, sure,” Xander replied. “Hey, Giles?”

Giles turned. “Yes?”

Xander swallowed and figured what the hell. If this was going to be a disaster, it would be a disaster, and he didn’t have a whole lot of faith in his ability to keep his mouth shut for the whole damn week anyway. “Why didn’t you come? Anya was really hoping you would. So was I,” he added lamely after a moment. “Maybe – maybe you could’ve talked me out of it.”

Giles looked away. “Perhaps,” he said, apparently examining the doorjamb with great attention. “But would you have wanted me to?”

“Yeah,” Xander said. And then, “Or . . . I don’t know. Maybe not. But that still doesn’t tell me why you didn’t come.”

“I’ll tell you,” Giles said, looking up, “when you tell me why you’re here.”

“Well, that sucks,” Xander said, pushing himself up from the floor at last on stiff legs. “Because I don’t have the foggiest idea.”

Giles smiled at him, a little wistfully, Xander thought. “Think about it,” he advised, and then turned down the hall, leaving Xander staring after him.

Xander did think about it a lot over the next few days. At least it was something to think about that wasn’t Anya or his family when he couldn’t sleep at night. During the day, Giles kept him busy with tours of Bath, which was way older than anything in Sunnydale, except maybe for some of the demons. It wasn’t nearly as boring as Xander had expected, but when Xander sometimes said that he didn’t feel like going out after all, that he’d rather stay home and watch weird British TV, Giles didn’t seem to mind. Sometimes Giles even watched TV with him, sitting side by side on the couch, and that was . . . confusing. Because the first time Giles sat down with Xander to watch a Dr Who rerun, Xander found himself moving just a little closer until their shoulders were touching. Giles didn’t give any sign at all that he’d noticed, but the next time – they were just watching the news, or not watching, in Xander’s case – it was Giles who sat down closer, so that their thighs were touching, warm through two thin layers of cloth.

All of this made watching TV way more confusing than Xander thought it should ever be. But he also found himself suggesting that they stay in more than before. Out in public, Giles never touched him – and with that thought came a rush of guilt so strong that the next time Xander went to watch TV, he sat in the armchair instead of on the sofa. Giles looked at him kinda strangely as he passed through the living room, but since Xander was watching Coupling, the Friends look-alike (except way funnier with the accents), it wasn’t like he was going to stay and watch anyway. But maybe he could guess what was going on in Xander’s head anyway (and if he could, Xander wished Giles would let him in on it), because that night, for the first time in the four days Xander had been there, Giles suggested that he call home. And Xander suddenly realized that he really wanted to talk to Willow.

It was early evening in England, but morning in Sunnydale. Willow sounded so relieved to hear from him when she answered that Xander immediately felt guilty for not having called sooner.

“Hey, Will,” he said, cradling the phone between ear and shoulder and taking it into the guest bedroom with him. “How are you?” He lay down on the bed.

“I’m . . . well, I’m okay. How are you?” she asked. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” he said, not totally truthfully. “Have you, um, seen Anya at all?”

“No,” Willow said. “None of us have.”

“That probably isn’t good.”

“No. Xander,” Willow said, sounding suddenly anxious, when up until then she’d just sounded sad, “you’re being careful, right? Because with Anya’s connections, she could make your life really . . . unpleasant.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he said ruefully. “Not that I wouldn’t deserve it. But yeah, I’m being careful. And I think Giles’s apartment is warded or something.”

“Good, good,” Willow said. “That’s good.” She paused. “How’s he doing?”

“I . . . don’t really know,” Xander said. He frowned to himself, wondering if he could have actually been that self-centered the past few days, and then realized that yeah, he really had been. And Giles had let him. “I think he’s lonely,” he finally hazarded. “He hasn’t unpacked his stuff here still.”

“Really?” Willow said. “But he hates unfinished projects. And clutter.”

“I know. I don’t really know what’s up with him. He’s never been Share Guy and I’ve been thinking so much about my own stuff, I guess I haven’t really asked.” He swallowed. “Hey, Will?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” Willow said, sounding surprised.

“It’s kinda personal.”

“Uh . . . Xander, you’re making me nervous here. Just ask, okay?”

“Right.” Xander took a deep breath. “How did you know that you liked women?”

“I didn’t,” she said, a little sadly. “I knew I liked Tara.”

“Yeah,” Xander said, “but how did you know? And how did you know she liked you? How did you know that you weren’t just friends?”

“Oh,” she said. “That’s easy. We kept touching each other, you know? Not a lot, but we were always finding excuses to just . . . touch. And when we did I’d get all nervous and have butterfly feelings and –” He heard her break off and sniffle.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to –”

“No, it’s okay,” she said thickly. “I just . . . really miss her.”

“Yeah,” Xander said. “I know.”

“But I think we might – we’ve been talking lately,” Willow said, “a lot. And I think we might work things out.”

“That’s great, Will,” Xander said. “Really.”

He heard her take a huge, shaky breath. “Any particular reason you’re all of the sudden so curious?”

“Um.”

“Xander, have you – have you met someone?” Willow demanded, sounding incredulous. “Because really, I’m already worried about Anya turning you into, like, a dung beetle or something, but if you’ve met someone new –”

“I haven’t,” Xander said quickly. “No one new.”

“But you’re asking these questions for a reason, aren’t you? ‘No one new’ – wait.” Xander could hear it all clicking into place in the amazing Willow brain, and he suddenly thought that maybe this hadn’t been such a great idea after all. “Giles?”

“I wasn’t – that wasn’t – I didn’t – yeah, maybe,” Xander finally admitted.

“Giles, Xander?” she squeaked.

“I don’t know!” he said desperately. “It’s just been so weird – not bad weird, well, not after the first day, which was awful weird, but since then it’s just been . . . weird. Like with the touching, like you said, but I don’t know, I’m so screwed up right now, Will, I don’t know if maybe I’m just making it all up or if he’s just being a friend –”

“Whoa, Xander, hey, slow down. This is Giles we’re talking about. Since when is he all touchy-feely?”

“Since . . . never.”

“Right. So if he’s touching you then it, well, it probably means something. But really, Xander, please be careful, okay? Because I kinda think you are screwed up right now, and it’s awfully soon.”

“I know, Willow, I know.”

“I just don’t want anyone to get hurt,” Willow said softly.

“Kinda too late, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

They were quiet for a few seconds, long enough for Xander to realize he felt better than he had before calling. He’d been feeling better a lot more often lately, though only sometimes and mostly when Giles was around. Not good but better, and it mostly just made him feel guilty all over again. Wherever Anya was, he didn’t think she was feeling better. He sat up, searching for something to say that would distract them both. “Hey,” he finally blurted, “do you think Buffy would talk to Giles?”

“Uh,” Willow said, obviously as surprised at the question as Xander was at having asked it. The more he thought about it, though, the more he decided it was a good idea. The back of his brain was obviously smarter than the front, not that that was saying much. “Yeah, I think so. She was pretty hurt the other day when he called and didn’t talk to her. Do you think he would?”

“Hang on.” Xander jumped up and headed back into the kitchen, making listening noises for the benefit of Giles, who was stirring something that smelled like garlic and onions in a pot on the stove. Despite telling Xander that first night that he shouldn’t expect full-blown meals all the time, Giles had cooked every night Xander had been there. “Yeah,” he said, as though Willow had asked him something. He could hear her – having obviously read his mind – calling for Buffy, her voice muffled as though she’d put her hand over the receiver. “I’ll be back Tuesday night, late,” he said, and then paused. “Yeah. Oh, Will, could you put Buffy on? Giles wants to talk to her.”

Giles’s head came up, his eyes wide. He shook his head, but Xander just held the phone out. He shook his head again; Xander shook the phone in reply and glared. Giles glared back, but after a few furious seconds he took the phone. “Buffy?” he said. “Hello, I – yes . . . yes . . .” He shot one last glare in Xander’s direction and took the phone down the hall to his bedroom, just like Xander had.

He didn’t come back for almost forty-five minutes. The soup would’ve burned – or whatever it was soups did when they overcooked – if Xander hadn’t been there to stir it and turn the heat down when it started to boil. Giles hung up the phone and turned to glare at Xander. “That,” he said, “was not playing fair.”

“Did you have a nice talk?” Xander replied, totally guilt-free. He gave up his place at the stove to Giles, but leaned against the counter next to him, almost but not quite touching.

“Yes,” Giles admitted. “Or, well – it was eye-opening. I – I knew things had been difficult in Sunnydale, but –”

“Things suck,” Xander replied firmly. “They have ever since you left. I mean, it’s not like it was all sunshine and daisies before, but since you left they’ve just sucked like a vacuum cleaner.”

Giles, who was grinding black pepper into the soup, bent his head over the stove and didn’t answer.

“And you did know, didn’t you?” Xander said, suddenly sure of it. “You knew, and that’s why you didn’t come to the wedding. You knew you wouldn’t be able to leave again.”

“Yes,” Giles said quietly. “That was part of it.”

“So?” Xander said. “Why was it so important for you to take off again? Giles, you haven’t even unpacked. What’s here for you?”

“Xander, my reasons for leaving –”

“Were bullshit,” Xander finished, letting the anger he’d been keeping all bottled up leak into his voice. Giles looked up sharply. “You knew it, Buffy knew it, everyone knew it. So why?”

Giles didn’t answer. He returned the salt and pepper shakers to the kitchen table and then turned around, crossing his arms over his chest. “Why are you here, Xander?” he asked steadily.

Xander smiled despite himself. “I think I’ve almost got it figured out,” he said. “Do you want me to make a salad?”

The next morning, Xander found himself blinking awake at 8:30, the first time he’d been able to sleep to a reasonable hour since arriving in England. He guessed he was finally adjusting, which was almost too bad, since he was supposed to leave in three days. He lay in bed for awhile, listening to figure out where Giles was in the apartment, and grasping at the wisps of a dream he’d had just before waking up. Giles was in the kitchen, he decided, drinking tea, making coffee for Xander, and reading the newspaper. And he’d been in the dream too.

Twenty minutes later, showered and dressed, Xander found himself standing in the hallway, looking at Giles’s back. He was sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of tea and, instead of the newspaper, he had a huge dusty book open to the middle and a yellow legal pad he was scribbling on. Xander didn’t think he’d noticed he was there yet, and Xander just stood there for awhile, looking at him and trying to stop his hands shaking. He’d figured it out, he was pretty sure, especially when the rest of the dream had come back to him in the shower. His unconscious at least seemed to know what it wanted. It was just the rest of him that was too freaked out to actually do anything about it.

Not that he needed to do anything at all at the moment, he reminded himself, and with that was finally able to unfreeze enough to go into the kitchen. “Morning,” he said, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Good morning,” Giles replied, in obvious distraction. Good thing, too, because if he’d looked up right then Xander wasn’t sure what he might have seen in his face.

Xander made himself some toast and went to sit at the table. His hands had finally stopped shaking and his stomach had stopped doing weird loopy things, so he buttered the first slice and ate it. While he chewed he eyed Giles and his legal pad, the top sheet of which was half-covered in what looked like chicken scratch, but which was actually, Xander knew, Giles’s personal (meaning indecipherable) shorthand that he used while translating. Xander hoped it wasn’t anything apocalypsey. His wedding had been about as much apocalypse as he could take for the week. He found himself remembering his conversation with Willow from the night before, and wanting badly to know what Giles had been up to lately, but he knew better than to interrupt him while he was working. So he ate his toast and sipped his coffee – even made an effort not to slurp it – until finally Giles laid his pencil down and leaned back with a sigh, rubbing his eyes.

“That’s enough for now,” he said. He went to take a sip of tea and – either seeing that it was empty or seeing that it was cold, Xander didn’t know which – grimaced and stood.

“Nothing urgent then?” Xander asked, mouth full of his last bite of toast.

“What?” Giles said as he filled the electric kettle. Xander nodded toward the book and legal pad. “Oh, no. More of a longterm project for the Council.”

“Oh,” Xander said, not sure if he was surprised or not. “So you’re still working for them?”

“More or less,” Giles said. “Mostly freelance projects, like this one. They certainly don’t invite me to meetings.” He poured his tea and carried it to the table. “If I may ask,” he said, “why the sudden curiosity?”

Xander felt himself flush. “Well, it’s just, when I was talking to Willow last night, she asked me how you were and I kinda realized I didn’t know.”

“I see.”

“So, uh, sorry,” Xander said. “For being such a self-centered jerk the last couple of days.”

“Well, you’ve certainly had a valid excuse,” Giles said.

“Maybe,” Xander said dubiously.

“Xander,” Giles said gently, and Xander thought jealously that if he’d been one of the girls, Giles would have reached across the too-wide expanse of table and taken his hand, “you might not have asked, but I didn’t offer any information either.”

“True,” Xander said, feeling very slightly better. “So . . . how are you?”

Giles sighed. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah?”

Giles nodded, and then sighed again. “It – it was very difficult for me to leave Sunnydale,” he said after a moment. “Whatever you think of my reasons for leaving –”

“Total crap,” Xander said, but he made sure to half-smile as he said it, so Giles wouldn’t take it personally.

“Er – quite. But it wasn’t a decision I made lightly or easily, and it certainly wasn’t one I enjoyed making. It – I’ve been finding it hard to adjust to being back here, to be honest.”

“Oh,” Xander said. It wasn’t really any more than he hadn’t already guessed from the unpacked boxes of books in the living room, but he was sort of surprised that Giles had said as much as he had. Surprised, but happy about it. He’d expected the conversation to begin and end with “I’m fine,” leaving Xander to figure out the rest on his own. “Have you thought about coming back?” he asked at last.

“I –” Giles began, and then stopped. “I hadn’t,” he said finally, “at least not until last night. I was so sure – Xander, please believe me when I say that I was as sure as I could have been that I was doing the right thing. But having you here, this week, and talking to Buffy last night –” He stopped again. “I just don’t know anymore,” he finished quietly.

“Huh,” Xander said, standing to rinse his plate off in the sink. “Well, you know what I think.”

“Indeed,” Giles said dryly, sneaking an arm in past Xander to put his mug in the sink. “You were quite clear on that last night.” He didn’t move then, even when Xander went ahead and washed his mug, placing it carefully upside down in the dish drain to dry, so when Xander finally turned away from the sink, they were suddenly really, really close. Xander looked up at Giles and remembered what Willow had said about excuses.

“Hey,” Xander said, reaching out and covering Giles’s hand with his own, which he realized too late was still wet and kinda soapy, but Giles didn’t pull his away. Xander guessed that was a pretty good sign. “You realize we all miss you, right? It’s not just that things are easier when you’re around. We miss you. I miss you,” he added.

Giles ducked his head and cleared his throat, and if he’d had both his hands free, Xander thought he probably would have been polishing his glasses. “Thank you,” he said.

And that was enough of that, Xander decided. Any more would probably be pushing things too far with Giles, who was definitely overly fond of his emotional and physical boundaries. Xander took his hand away and (kinda too late) dried his hands on a dish towel. When he glanced back, Giles was still standing in the exactly same place, looking down at his hand – not frowning exactly, but with a really weird expression.

“Here,” Xander said, offering him the towel.

He blinked down at it, and then accepted it slowly. He wiped his hand off and then put the towel back where it lived, neatly folded in one corner of the counter. “Xander,” he said finally.

“Yeah?”

“Would you like to go for a drive today? There’s a pub about fifty kilometers from here where I’d like to have lunch.”

Which was how Xander found himself back in the green and sort of sporty Gilesmobile, headed down a backcountry road that was just a little too narrow for Xander’s comfort. He liked his lanes wide, preferably with another one on the left to swing into in case of an emergency. But it didn’t seem to bother Giles at all. He changed gears smoothly and zipped around a truck that was plodding up the road with some sheep tethered in the back. He drove leaning back in his seat, one hand on the steering wheel, arm straight out. He’d rolled his sleeves up, because it was actually warm today for once, and Xander could see the fine hair on his forearms and the smooth muscles under his skin.

It was really kinda . . . hot.

Xander blinked, looked away (out the window there were yet more sheep – was England one of those countries with more sheep than people?), and then looked back. Yup. Hot. Giles. Not that he hadn’t been thinking along those lines for a couple of days now, but this was different somehow. Less about Xander being needy and more about Giles being . . . hot.

“Xander?” Giles said suddenly.

Whoops. Caught staring. It somehow embarrassed him less than he’d have thought it would. “Sorry,” he said, in a way that, if Giles was willing to read it right, would let him know that Xander actually wasn’t the least bit sorry. The wry look Giles gave him made Xander think he actually was willing, and (not for the first time) Xander wondered if maybe they were on the same page after all.

That . . . needed more testing. This was not something Xander was willing to be wrong about, and considering his recent record, he was going to have to be extra careful.

The pub, which was called the Bird and Bath, was on a lazy-looking river and had a deck. They sat out on it at a time-scarred wooden table that wasn’t very comfortable, but which had probably been there since the pub had opened in, according to the sign on the door, 1852. That was a long time ago, but after five days in Bath anything built after 1800 was starting to seem new to Xander.

Giles ordered a beer. After a moment, so did Xander. He didn’t know why he hesitated – he was old enough to drink at home even, he just didn’t much.

Xander watched the wide, slow moving river. “It’s pretty,” he said, after their beers had come and the waitress, who looked like maybe she’d been there since the pub opened too, had taken their orders.

“Yes,” Giles agreed.

“You must’ve missed it, right? In Sunnydale?”

Giles took a swallow of beer before answering. “Yes,” he said, “I did. I . . . don’t much care for Southern California’s climate.”

“Yeah, somehow we all picked upon that,” Xander replied with a grin. “You’re the only guy I know who can wear tweed when it’s ninety degrees out.” Giles smiled ruefully. “Not that you do much, anymore,” Xander added, eyeing Giles’s jeans and black button down shirt with an interest he hoped wasn’t too obvious. “Did you get rid of all your tweed after Sunnydale?”

“No, I still have it,” Giles said, smiling. “But you’re right, I don’t wear it much anymore.” He took another sip of his beer. “Part of the reason, I suspect, that the Council conveniently forgets to let me know when their meetings are,” he added dryly.

Xander laughed. “Yeah, sure, that’s why.”

Giles shrugged. “There might be some truth to it. Of a symbolic nature, anyway.”

Xander wasn’t sure what that meant and decided he didn’t really want to ask. Instead he waited until the waitress had brought their food – shepherd’s pie for Giles, whatever that was, and a hamburger and fries for Xander, which he had ordered while ignoring Giles’s silent disapproval – and then said, “So, you were glad to come back then?”

“I – no. I thought I would be, that it would at least be comforting, but . . .” Giles cleared his throat, loaded his fork with shepherd’s pie, and, once he’d swallowed, didn’t go on.

“It’s just that,” Xander said, “I don’t want you to feel like you have to come home if you’d rather be here. Things are bad, but we’ll get by if we have to.”

“I thought I would rather be here,” Giles said, looking down at his food. “It turns out I was wrong about that along with everything else.”

“So when you realized that, why didn’t you come back?”

“Because it wasn’t that simple, Xander,” Giles said sharply, looking up at him. “I had left. I had no reason to think Buffy would even want me to come back. And – and I hadn’t quite realized, Xander, until you showed up, just how much I was missing all of you.”

“Wait,” Xander said, gesturing with a French fry. “You mean you didn’t realize how much you missed us until I scared the hell out of you by waking you up in the middle of the night, forced you to drive two hours to pick me up at the airport, and then sulked at you for a whole day?”

“Er. Put that way, it does sound a bit mad, doesn’t it?”

“Just a little,” Xander said, grinning. “That’s okay though. I’ve always fallen for people who were kind of insane.”

Oh. Shit.

There was a moment of frozen silence. Xander took an enormous bite of his hamburger, chewed it even though it felt and tasted like sawdust in his mouth, and tried not to look at Giles. So much for being extra careful. Him and his big mouth – they would just never learn. After a minute, Giles started rambling about the history of the area, something to do with the Romans and possibly druids and Xander didn’t know what all because he totally wasn’t listening. One stupid, careless remark, and he’d probably just undone all the progress he’d managed to make in talking Giles into coming home. Because Xander had been an idiot to think Giles could ever be interested in him, and now he would think that if he did come home he’d have to not only put up with Xander, but with his stupid crush too.

It had clouded over by the time they’d finished and started to rain by the time they’d paid inside and then jogged out to the car. They crawled inside just before it really started to come down, in big splashes that echoed against the roof of the car and ran down the windshield, blurring everything outside into colors. They sat in the car without speaking for what felt to Xander like the longest three minutes of his life. Giles had stuck the key in the ignition when they’d gotten into the car, but then he hadn’t started the engine.

“Xander,” he said at last, “why –”

“I don’t know,” Xander said. He sighed, suddenly feeling exhausted; probably it was all those interrupted nights lately catching up with him. Yeah, that was it. “I don’t know why I’m here. But I’m leaving in two days, so does it really matter?”

Giles didn’t answer. He finally turned the key and backed out of the pub’s small parking lot.

They drove back to Bath in total silence. Giles turned the radio on after awhile, and Xander slumped down in his seat and pretended to doze. He didn’t think he was fooling Giles at all, but it was easier than just sitting there.

Xander “woke up” once Giles had parked the car in a space in front of his building. He went to get out and Giles said, his voice startling after so much silence, “Xander, it does matter.”

“What?” Xander said impatiently. He really wanted out of that car.

“Why you’re here,” Giles replied. “It matters to me.”

“Why?” Xander asked.

Giles looked away. “Because I haven’t told you all of my reasons for leaving. And I think – maybe you’re here for the same reason I left.” He unbuckled his seat belt, and, before Xander had the chance to demand just what exactly that meant, continued, “I’m afraid have to work some this afternoon, but the weather seems to be improving. Why don’t you take a walk?”

Xander glanced outside. It had stopped raining and the clouds had even started to break up, letting some weak sunshine through. “Okay,” he said, shrugging.

“And – think about what I said?”

“Sure,” Xander said, without much conviction. He climbed out and shrugged into his jacket. “See you,” he said, and took off without waiting for a reply. He spent the first few minutes not thinking about anything at all. He reached the center of town, turned past the yellow brick buildings of the baths themselves, and then hesitated. From here he could walk along the river, go to the park (except that you had to pay to get into it unless you lived in Bath and Xander had exactly 25p on him), or go to that market he and Giles had gone to together the other day, the one that was also a bridge across the river.

He didn’t want to deal with people. He crossed the river at the bridge that stretched over the park and started up the other side until he found a bench.

Thinking. Right. About why he was here. He was pretty sure he knew now, actually. He hadn’t known when he’d gotten here, but it was pretty damn clear now. To Giles, too, he was sure, especially after he’d opened his big mouth at lunch. Giles hadn’t seemed mad though; surprised, maybe, and kind of uncomfortable, but not mad.

And then . . . maybe you’re here for the same reason I left.

What the hell was Xander supposed to do with that? Why couldn’t Giles just come out and tell him? Xander was getting awfully tired of trying to guess what Cryptic Man was thinking, especially since he’d been wrong so much of the time so far. Giles had said he’d left because he thought Buffy needed to be on her own, needed to take responsibility for herself and Dawn and the rest. It had rung hollow at the time and it still did, and now Giles was saying there’d been another reason, one he hadn’t said anything about at the time or since, and maybe it was the same as the reason Xander had come running to England after the wedding.

Speaking of which, oh God, Anya. If she ever found out about this, he and Giles would both be in more trouble than they could imagine. The kind of trouble that would end in them sharing a tank on Willow’s dresser and arguing – however newts argued – about who got the last minnow, probably.

Or maybe not. Even after three years, Xander had trouble predicting what would piss Anya off. Another woman would have meant newtdom at the very least, and probably evisceration or castration would have been way more likely. A man, though – hard to say how she might react to that. She might still be really, really pissed. Or she might shrug and tell Xander he should have just said something. Or she might demand a threesome in return for not turning them both into something amphibious. And she did like Giles, more than she liked Xander sometimes, he’d occasionally thought. He couldn’t really see her turning Giles into anything too horrible, not permanently at least.

But that was all moot, unless Cryptic Man decided to let Xander in on what he was thinking. Or unless Xander managed to grow a pair and ask him outright.

It just wasn’t fair, Xander thought, sighing heavily and standing to continue his trudge up the river, in the general direction of Giles’s apartment. After three years with Anya, who had always told him exactly what she was thinking whether he’d wanted to hear it or not, it was totally not fair to expect him to be able to decipher Giles.

By the time Xander finally got back to the apartment, it had turned chilly again and he was more fed-up than anything else, to the point where doing anything at all seemed a whole lot better than doing nothing, even if nothing was definitely the safer option. He paused on the steps of the apartment and took a deep breath. He had two days left, he reminded himself. If he botched things beyond all reason and it was horribly awkward, he could always go down to London and stay in a hotel for the last two nights. It wouldn’t be that bad. And no one would be any worse off than they were before.

He didn’t think so, at least. He hoped not. But then again, Xander had learned recently that it was best not to underestimate his ability to totally and completely screw things up for himself and whoever happened to be standing next to him at the time.

Giles was in the kitchen, working at the kitchen table again with the big, dusty book and the yellow legal pad. He had his back to Xander and he didn’t move as Xander came in, probably because he was deep in his translation and hadn’t even heard. Xander stopped for a long time, just looking, and thinking that he really, really didn’t want to screw this up, because it was Giles. Giles, who’d known Xander forever and who deserved a break in the romance department more than just about anyone else Xander could think of.

Unfortunately for Giles, it seemed that instead he was going to get Xander.

By the time Xander finally forced himself to take the five steps between him and Giles, he was pretty sure Giles knew he was there. He hadn’t written anything on the legal pad in awhile. Xander stopped just behind him and reached out, pressed both palms to Giles’s back.

“I figured it out,” he said.

“Did you?” Giles replied, his voice sounding sort of weird, controlled but just a little shaky.

“Yeah. This is why I’m here.” Xander pressed down with his hands and then walked his fingers up Giles’s spine to the back of his neck. Cordelia had trained him how to do this years ago, claiming that it was an extremely important skill for any boyfriend of hers to know. He hadn’t fallen out of practice; Giles’s head fell forward and he sighed, the sound somehow going straight to the pit of Xander’s stomach. Those were butterflies, oh yeah. And it made him feel warm like he’d felt when Giles had looked at him in that funny way those first couple of days. He had the feeling he could put a name to that expression now, if he wanted to.

No more making up excuses for touching though. Now that he was doing it, Xander wanted to keep on doing it for as long as possible.

“You don’t seem surprised,” Xander said.

“I – there were signs, in case you missed them,” Giles said to the legal pad.

“I didn’t.”

“I didn’t think so.” Giles sighed again, and then reached up, capturing one of Xander’s hands in his and then twisting around in his seat at the same time. “Xander, I don’t want you to think I don’t want this, but I’m just not sure –”

“Don’t,” Xander said, frowning at him. “Don’t say it.”

Giles frowned back, obviously going against his better judgment as he said, “All right.”

“But could you tell me,” Xander said, “if this is what you meant? I’m here because I – uh –” He didn’t know what to call it, actually, so he just kept going, “And you, you left because, because –”

Giles looked at their hands, grasping each other. “Yes,” he said, and thank God because Xander didn’t know how to finish that sentence either. “Not the only reason. I did think it would be better for Buffy if I weren’t around for awhile, but I – I had realized that, um . . .”

“You don’t have to say it if you don’t want to.”

“I was rather in love with you,” Giles finished, looking up at him almost shyly.

Xander’s mouth dropped open. “Oh.”

“Quite.” He sighed. “But you were with Anya, obviously, and not just with her but engaged, and it was . . . extremely inappropriate. I couldn’t seem to stop it while I was around you every day, so I decided it would be better for us both if I wasn’t.” His hold on Xander’s hand tightened. “It seems I was mistaken on just about everything, really.”

“Yeah,” Xander said, “no kidding.” He stroked this thumb over Giles’s hand.

“So now,” Giles said, looking away, “I suppose we have some, er, options.”

“Yeah, I guess. For instance, you could stand up and kiss me,” Xander said, trying not to sound too giddy in his relief, “or you could . . . no, actually, I guess there’s only one option there.”

“Oh, um, well,” Giles stammered. Xander tugged at him until he finally did stand up, but then he just stood there, looking down at him with this worried, kinda guilty expression that did not bode at all well for what Xander hoped would happen next. “Xander, I really – I don’t think –”

“Shut up,” Xander told him, and, deciding that the direct approach had worked well before, leaned in to kiss him. It took him a few seconds make it past Giles’s reservations, but finally, finally, he felt Giles relax against him, his arms, which had been stiff at his sides, sliding around him, pulling him closer. Xander let himself relax too, now that he was pretty sure Giles wasn’t going to push him away and insist it was all too soon. Which it probably was – okay, definitely was – but Xander didn’t care. He realized suddenly that he’d been wanting this since the moment he’d gone through customs and seen Giles standing there, waiting for him.

It was the first time Xander had kissed someone taller than himself – not that much taller, but definitely not shorter. Giles was broad in the shoulders, Xander realized, smoothing his hands across them, and his hair was thicker than it looked, but not soft exactly, he thought, rubbing his fingers through the short hair at the nape of Giles’s neck. He felt Giles sigh again, felt it through where their chests were touching, pressed up against each other. It was weird to not feel breasts, Xander thought, but not bad weird, really. Just different. He shifted a little and then gasped; he’d felt himself getting hard, of course – but he wasn’t the only one, apparently.

And that – that was just about the best sort of weird in the long and glorious history of weird, which, he thought dizzily, he and Giles had definitely contributed to significantly this past week.

“Xander,” Giles said breathlessly.

“Talk bad,” Xander managed. “Bed good.” He pulled Giles along, trying not to let go anymore than he had to.

“Xander, Xander, stop,” Giles said, forcing them to pause in the middle of the hallway.

“Stopping,” Xander informed him, “is really bad. No stopping.”

“Because if you stop you’ll have to think, and if you think you’ll realize that this is a bad idea?” Giles suggested.

“No,” Xander said in exasperation. “There’s really no way you could make this easy, is there?”

“I think I’ve already proven several times over that no, there really isn’t,” Giles said. He hadn’t let go at least, so that was something. Giles leaned in so their foreheads were touching, almost like that first morning but better, and closed his eyes. “Xander, please understand. I – I can live with never being with you. I hadn’t ever expected to be. But if this – if I become something you regret – that, I don’t think I could live with.”

“Oh,” Xander said. He smoothed his fingers down the back of Giles’s neck again, soothingly, and then used one hand to start fiddling with the top buttons on Giles’s shirt. “I understand,” he said. “But . . . I know regret pretty well now. And this isn’t what it feels like.”

“By definition, regret happens afterward,” Giles answered, but Xander could tell his resolve was weakening in direct proportion to how many buttons Xander got undone. Three, so far.

“Then . . . maybe it’s a risk we both have to take,” he said. He left off with the buttons and stroked Giles through his pants. Giles moaned weakly, his breath ghosting across Xander’s cheek, and his fingers, which had been resting lightly on Xander’s lower back, dug in a little. “Okay?” he added.

“Yes,” Giles said, almost a hiss. He opened his eyes and from so close Xander could see that his pupils were wide and dilated, and the triangle of skin where the shirt gaped at his throat was flushed. “Yes, I – yes.”

“Good,” Xander said, and pulled him along until they were in the guest bedroom, which was closer than Giles’s own. He wished now that he’d made the bed that morning, or bothered to pick up the clothes he’d left piled on the floor last night when he’d undressed. Not that Giles seemed to notice much, and at least neither of them tripped over anything. Xander stopped when the backs of his knees hit the bed and they kissed again, wet and hot and messy this time. Xander fumbled with Giles’s buttons some more, until Giles could shrug out of the button-down shirt, leaving him in his undershirt, while Giles slid his hands under Xander’s t-shirt, touching his back and chest so lightly that Xander shivered. He let Giles pull the shirt over his head finally, and toed off his own shoes and socks while Giles took care of the undershirt.

That left pants. Which were really the stupidest invention ever, Xander decided, hands a little shaky on Giles’s fly.

Giles’s hands seemed more certain as they unzipped him, took a moment to caress Xander through his underwear until Xander had to stop and breathe, fingers clenching on the waist of Giles’s pants, or this would all be over way too fast. Then Giles slid them down over Xander’s hips and let them fall to the floor, and Xander’s head cleared enough to let him do the same, and then underwear too, so that when they finally fell back on the bed, it was all hot bare skin against hot bare skin and delicious warm friction.

“Oh God,” Xander gasped, back arching, as Giles reached for him and stroked him twice, too gently. He opened his eyes and saw Giles looking back at him. “I, uh, I haven’t done this before,” Xander managed. “So I kinda hope you have.”

“A time or two,” Giles replied, smiling a little. “Don’t worry,” he added, brushing his knuckles across Xander’s cheek. “We won’t do anything you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” Xander replied quickly. “But –”

“Hush,” Giles said, “weren’t you the one who said talking was bad?” He leaned in and kissed Xander, tracing his lips with his tongue and then biting, just enough to hurt, at Xander’s lower lip. He started stroking Xander again, more firmly this time and with an easy rhythm. Talking was sort of out of the question after that, especially when Giles started kissing down his body, pausing to linger over Xander’s nipples, first one and then the other, and then again in the hollow of Xander’s hip, where he licked and sucked, hands holding Xander’s hips down, careful not to actually touch him. Xander was gripping the sheets in both hands and he was pretty sure that as soon as Giles get around to actually touching him again – which he had damn well better do soon, or Xander couldn’t be held responsible for his own actions – he was going to embarrass himself completely, but he really did not care. He didn’t think Giles would either.

Finally – finally! – Giles stopped with the teasing and licked a wide swathe up him, swirled his tongue around the tip, and then swallowed him down. Xander gasped, hips thrusting, and gave up on anything even resembling self-control. The orgasm wiped everything else from his mind, landing him in a pleasantly warm, wrung out gray area, where he floated, unaware of anything for awhile except that Giles was still touching him, hands drifting gently over his back and chest.

Xander sighed and opened his eyes. Giles was lying beside him on his side, smiling at him and seeming awfully patient for a guy who still had an erection that needed to be taken care of. He smoothed a hand down Xander’s side when he saw he was watching, making Xander shiver again.

“Hey,” Xander said, running his fingers through the hair on Giles’s chest. He didn’t have a lot, Xander had noticed earlier – more than Xander did, but not much, mostly dark brown with a few gray. Giles had a nice body, Xander decided, especially his arms. He had good, strong arms from swinging a sword and training with Buffy. Good, strong arms, broad shoulders, a stomach that was just a little soft and then a line of darker hair, no gray there at all, leading straight down to –

Giles moaned, not weakly this time, not like he was trying to hold back at all, and Xander decided it was a sound he could stand to hear a lot more of. It was strange to stroke Giles while trying to remember how Xander himself liked it when he couldn’t feel it to know for sure, rubbing his thumb over the tip, which made Giles go first shivery and then perfectly still, his mouth open a little, his hand rough as he gripped Xander’s hip. He gasped and Xander thought he might come right then, but it took another few strokes, and then Xander leaned in and bit down hard on Giles’s earlobe.

Xander had no idea what sort of noises he’d made when he’d come, but it didn’t surprise him at all to find out that Giles was really quiet about it. His body jerked once, twice, he gave just the faintest moan, almost more of a sigh, and then thrust his hips one last time before collapsing, bonelessly, against Xander. He lay with his head on Xander’s chest, and Xander could feel his heart thumping away, just a few inches from where his own was. Xander threaded his fingers through Giles’s short hair and closed his eyes.

He was on the verge of following Giles into sleep, but suddenly he realized there was something he had to ask first. “Giles,” he said, poking gently at his shoulder.

“Mmph,” Giles replied, turning his head so his response wouldn’t be muffled in Xander’s shoulder. “Xander, it is customary to sleep now.”

“Yeah, but I have to ask you something.”

“What?”

“Come back to Sunnydale with me? Please?”

Giles raised his head. “Xander,” he said slowly.

“I don’t regret anything,” Xander replied. “And I hope you don’t either. And you said yourself, all your reasons for leaving were just wrong. No one is better off without you there. We need you. And I – I want you. Please?”

“I . . .” Giles stopped, and then lay his head back down on Xander’s chest. “It’s a big decision.”

“You haven’t even unpacked, Giles, how big a decision could it be? You know you want to.”

“I do,” Giles said on a sigh. “I just . . .” He closed his eyes. “It’s not uncomplicated. I have obligations here.”

“What, you mean freelance work for the Council that you could do, oh yeah, anywhere?”

Giles opened his eyes again and grimaced. “You’re not going to let me go to sleep until I say yes, are you?”

“Would it work?”

“At this point, probably. Very well, I’ll call tomorrow morning to see about a flight.”

Xander grinned in satisfaction. “Good.”

“I probably won’t be able to get the same one you’re on, however,” Giles added, raising his head. “The day after tomorrow is a little soon for me.”

“Then I’ll just have to change mine,” Xander said. He reached down, wrestling one of the blankets out from underneath to pull over them both. He snuggled down until he was tucked beneath one of Giles’s arms and kissed him on the temple. “If you think I’m going back there without you, you’re crazy.”

Giles looked at him, his eyes and mouth softening. Xander wondered how he’d ever had any doubts at all about how Giles felt, but then, he guessed Giles had always been careful to only show it when Xander wasn’t real likely to catch on. He was glad he was awake enough now to enjoy it.

“I won’t argue, certainly, if that’s what you want to do.” Giles yawned suddenly. “But that’s tomorrow. May I go to sleep now, please?”

Xander smiled. “Yes,” he said, magnanimously. Giles tucked his face into the crook of Xander’s neck, and Xander closed his eyes too. He knew it was probably a good idea to get cleaned up before falling asleep in these situations, but if Giles didn’t mind waking up all stuck together, than he certainly didn’t.

There were much worse things, he decided, than being stuck to Giles.

Fin.