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Disclaimer: Characters from Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel: the Series are property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui Enterprises, Sandollar Television, the WB, and UPN.

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The interior of the bar was more dimly lit than would be considered desirable for most establishments, but Giles was unsurprised; the usual habitués of this type of venue would prefer added privacy, and many of them would be largely nocturnal besides, and desire lower lighting. He looked about in the moments it took his eyes to adjust, noting the layout and the positions of the various customers … and, as well, the woman seated at the small table against the leftmost far wall.

She was already watching him, of course, there had been no avoiding that. Even had she not possessed Slayer awareness, anyone coming in through the only entrance would naturally draw notice. In point of fact, Giles had the attention of several of the other patrons as well … the difference being, their expressions were closed and at least faintly hostile, while the woman seemed — if anything — somewhat amused.

He went to where she sat, the heavy walking stick thumping authoritatively against the floor with every other step, and in the meantime he inspected and evaluated this person of whom he had recently heard so much. Her hair was medium-brown (with reddish highlights, according to the photos accompanying the reports, though he wouldn’t be able to see such subtle detail in here), and kept shoulder-length in an apparently casual style that was actually the result of being periodically hacked off in the interests of martial convenience. Beneath a studded vest of coarse dark leather, she wore a light short-sleeved blouse of a type that a number of Slayers favored (and probably had been borrowed from one such), while her trousers were of ordinary, serviceable denim, though cut in a fashion that allowed unhindered freedom of movement. The vest might have been overlooked as a minor off-key note in an otherwise mundane ensemble … but her boots were nearly knee-high, and buccaneer style, of butter-soft leather over hob-nailed soles. They, and the overlarge bronze buckle on her belt, would mark her out in any setting.

Among Slayers, of course, her age would be the most remarkable feature. Her face had its share of laugh-lines and squint-lines, with the slight roughness that spoke of weather exposure and an absence of any dutiful moisturizing regimen, and her eyes were merry and somewhat wide-set. She could easily have been a contemporary of Joyce Summers, if rather less carefully well-kept and of an entirely different mode of dress.

“So,” she said as he reached her table. “You found me.” There was an odd lilt to her speech, a subtle influence Giles couldn’t positively identify … which, under the circumstances, was entirely understandable.

He shrugged, drew out a chair so he could sit. “In fairness, you were hardly hiding.” He glanced around. “Still: a demon bar?”

She grinned at him. “Believe it or not, this is one of the few places I can relax and feel at home these days.” She tilted her head to one side, and repeated, “Home,” as if testing the feel of the word.

“Ah,” Giles said. “Well, then, Miss Shea —”

“Just Imogen,” she corrected. Then she paused, one eyebrow going up. “You know, I really can’t remember after all this time: did you and I ever actually meet before now? I mean, I remember you from seeing you in meetings and making announcements and delivering lectures to groups, and you’d be talking to one or another of the Core Four when we were passing by, things like that … but I can’t think of any time you and I, you know, spoke.”

Giles considered the question. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I can say that, when I was told of your re-appearance, I tried to recall if I had dealt with you directly … and I couldn’t.” He shook his head. “My, er, my duties bring me into contact with so many young Slayers —”

Imogen’s laugh had the rich, comfortable timbre of one fully at peace with herself. “And a not-so-young one, now.”

Giles sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said. Her eyes were gray, he could see now, and there were small scars on her hands and forearms.

“For what?” She took a long pull from the mug of beer in front of her. “I lived all those years.” A flashing smile. “And now I’m back.”

“Such as that may be,” Giles acknowledged. Still, her response had eased some of his concerns. “You weren’t forgotten, you know. We searched, physically and mystically. And would have continued to do so, even without any starting point, had not your opportune return rendered the effort unnecessary.”

“Oh, I figured that,” she said. “When the years went by without any message, or any news of activity from the archway, I wondered what was the hold-up. Really started to worry over time, but worrying didn’t do any good so I focused on immediate needs.” She took another swallow from the beer mug, her expression pensive this time. “To be honest, when I finally did stumble onto the right combination of elements to bring me back … well, it was a relief to discover that you hadn’t all been wiped out, you just hadn’t known where to start looking for me.” She shrugged. “Or, as it turned out, enough time to narrow things down.”

Giles looked around and, catching an unfriendly gaze from behind the bar, pointed to the Slayer’s beer, then to himself, then held up one finger. The scowling barman (the cranial features were distinctly non-human, but Giles couldn’t identify the species under the conditions of distance and lighting) pulled out another mug and began to fill it from the tap.

“They’ll try to overcharge you,” warned Imogen, who had followed and clearly understood the byplay. “Your choice whether or not to let them get away with it; me, I incline to think they’ll escalate if they believe you’re a pushover.”

Giles nodded to her, but only said, “I have done this before.” He had already come to his feet; British pubs didn’t bring drinks to the table, which fact had discommoded any number of unaware American tourists, and Giles had no reason to expect that a demon hangout would offer any more solicitous service. He went to the bar himself, again using the walking stick as if it were an emblem of rank rather than a needed support. There were a few low words, a locking of eyes, a couple of bills laid on the counter, and he returned carrying the beer.

(Additionally, going to the bar while the drink was still being drawn meant he had ensured there would be nothing undesirable added to it.)

“They don’t know what to make of you,” Imogen observed as he returned to the table.

Giles resumed his seat, propping the walking stick within easy reach. “And what did they make of you, I wonder?”

He was finding that, while her face seemed always to hold one smile or another, the smiles themselves communicated a variety of impressions. This one held smugness and satisfaction as well as humor. “I think they were still trying to make up their minds when you showed up.” She glanced around, her eyes glinting amusement. “Human-looking woman walks into a place like this, especially with the body-confidence I made sure to project, they had to be thinking Slayer. But then, they’d also know Slayers don’t generally show as many years as I do.” She shrugged, the smile holding. “Also, I suspect they’re confused by my smell.”

Giles sat back slightly. “I’m sorry; your smell?”

She nodded, and her gaze continued to sweep the interior of the bar. “The first few weeks Over There — on the other side of the archway — the locals didn’t like my odor. Some of them were even rude about it, and those were the ones who weren’t trying to kill me.” Then she waved that away with a quick flick of her hand. “I didn’t really notice when that started to fade out. When I thought about it, I figured my perspiration carried a different scent once I’d been eating the native foods for a while and cycled all the old diet out of my system.” Another gesture to indicate the bar’s patrons. “And now I haven’t been back long enough for that to have worked its way out of me. So I don’t smell quite the way they’re used to getting from humans, and it goes to keeping them unsure of exactly what I am.”

Giles considered that. He’d heard of something similar occurring during the post-war occupation of Japan, wherein the greater amount of meat in the diet of Allied soldiers gave them an odor that the Japanese civilians found … off-putting. Imogen’s theory seemed entirely plausible, and even a bit intriguing, but there were larger issues calling for attention. “I’m told that, that medical scans seem to indicate that you’re physically in your forties now.”

“Mm-hm,” Imogen said. “I didn’t keep track of time while I was there, didn’t even know if their years were the same length as ours. I was away a good long while, though, and if somebody tells me now that was twenty-five years or so, I wouldn’t have much reason to doubt it.” She shot him a quick glance. “And they’re saying that, here, it was just five months.”

“Twenty-one weeks, four days,” Giles confirmed. “Beginning March 12th, and ending Thursday past.”

“Which has thrown everybody for a loop,” Imogen supplied.

“It has been … disconcerting,” Giles agreed.

She nodded, taking another swallow of beer and critically eyeing the level remaining. “I could tell. I had plenty of time to get used to my situation … but you guys didn’t, and now I’m back, and for all of you it was a recent loss and what you see as me being robbed of all those years.” She shook her head. “It was like you got the worst of both worlds … and, frankly, I needed a break.”

“Hence your expedition here.” Giles studied her. “How did you remember the intricacies of the British rail system, after so long away?”

“Didn’t exactly remember,” Imogen acknowledged. “But I built up plenty of experience at feeling my way through situations I didn’t completely understand.” She flashed another smile. “Also, with so many years speaking the common language Over There, my English apparently has a weird accent now, and Brits seem to understand foreigners needing some things explained to them.”

“I suppose,” Giles agreed. “But that adds another question: how did you retain your own language proficiency over all that time?”

Imogen’s expression went reminiscent, to memories that apparently brought her pleasure. “Oh, now and then I’d teach English to some of the people I hung with, a way for us to communicate just with each other; handy, in some of the activities I engaged in. I did enough of that, over enough time, that I think it was starting to turn into a private language among … well, certain less refined elements of that society.”

Giles nodded, thinking. “Well, then, you indicated that your former compatriots were having more difficulty than you in dealing with your unexpected return.” He considered her, eyes level and expression controlled. “Did that include Xander?”

Imogen’s reaction was the next thing to a flinch. “Oh, God, Xander was the worst.” She drew a long breath. “Giles, he was grieving. I was a brand-new Slayer, and I vanished while he was still showing me the ropes, and even though there was no body, most folks thought I was dead and he blamed himself … and all of a sudden I’m back, so much older, and now he blames himself for not knowing I was MIA extradimensionally, and for not finding a way to get me back before I ‘lost’ all those years.”

“Yes,” Giles said. “Yes, Xander has always felt a, a disproportionate measure of protectiveness for any young females in his vicinity.” And that continued to hold true even when said females had twenty times his strength, for that merely meant they were destined by fate to be matched against foes so formidable as to make such prowess extravagantly necessary … “He’s dealt with the actual deaths of Slayers, however. I wouldn’t expect him to take long to come to terms with one who didn’t die, even if he felt some responsibility for your having remained so long in your situation.”

“You’re right,” Imogen said. “He was adjusting, I could see it happening already. But it wasn’t just him who had a problem.”

“Others as well?” Giles wondered.

“Not what I meant,” Imogen said, shaking her head. “No, I was talking about myself. I … it was …” She clenched one fist on the tabletop. “You know how it is with Xander and the new Slayers, right? He built up this totally ridiculous reputation, and then he kept … keeps … getting away with crazy things and living up to it. When you look around at the people Slayers work with, Xander just shines.” Imogen sighed. “Back when I was working with him, well, I wasn’t in love with him, but I was ready to be if he’d ever looked like he might be okay with that.”

Giles smiled. “Yes, Xander is also determinedly conscientious about behaving responsibly in situations where he sees himself as having an adult caretaker role.” (A point on which Dawn had been known to expound bitterly and at length, albeit only to a carefully limited audience.) “But surely, now that you’re, er …”

“In early middle age?” she finished for him. “Giles, he’s a kid. I know he still deserves as much respect as he ever did — more, maybe, because now I’ve been through enough to give me context for realizing just how extraordinary his record is — but he’s so damn young I kept finding myself about to snap at him and put him in his place …” She shook her head. “I could see that wasn’t a good idea, so I decided to go walkabout for a bit, get myself some relief and straighten out my head.”

“Prudent,” Giles agreed.

Imogen had finished her drink, and he nearly so; he swallowed the last bit in his mug, went back to the bar, and returned with two freshly-opened bottles of dark ale. Imogen had been watching him throughout, and tilted her head inquiringly as he set one bottle in front of her. “Didn’t like the beer?” she asked.

“Didn’t want to chance that the barman might have thought of a way to dose us even with something fresh from the tap,” Giles clarified. “Adding a few drops to a couple of mugs set aside just for us, as an example.” He poured the contents of one bottle into his empty beer mug, then raised the latter in a grave mock-toast. “I’d have brought the bottles back still capped if I’d had an opener; as it is, I watched him closely when he broke the seals. No mischief, I assure you.”

There was noise from the door, and without prior arrangement they both looked to take in whatever this might be. Newcomers, with the boisterous conviviality of post-game Man-U fans; they were more human-appearing than most demons, but their actual nature was apparent to both watchers. Additionally, they were clearly all of the same species, where previously the occupants of the bar had been of varied populations, no more than two or three of any individual grouping. This, Giles knew, could potentially shift the overall interior mood, and he had no doubt the Slayer recognized it just as readily.

She showed no apprehension, however, merely awareness. Giles turned back to her, continuing to monitor the new group by background sound but trusting his companion to keep visual track of them. “So,” he said. “I would be interested in hearing your account of the things you did and experienced, er, ‘Over There’.”

Imogen leaned back slightly against the wall. “I got put through a pretty thorough debrief,” she mused. “I have to believe you’ve seen the reports.”

“I didn’t, actually.” Giles regarded her with cool, genial assessment. “I received the initial notification of your return, and the basic facts surrounding it, but by the time I’d finished my business in Bayreuth and made it back to our headquarters, you’d already begun your … walkabout. I had become more interested in your case in the meanwhile, so I made my own efforts to locate you.” He smiled. “I’m somewhat familiar with this area, and I know of a few minor magicks of my own, where a formal seeking spell would have been considered, er, inappropriate and even invasive in the circumstances. The combination, along with some informed guesswork, brought me here; this was only the third place I tried, so my luck was in.” He shrugged. “So, no, I’ve not seen the formal reports; but, even if I had, I would still wish to hear of your experiences in your own words.”

“Okay,” Imogen said. “Well, I was doing a quick, general sweep in —” She stopped, shook her head. “I can’t remember the name, that little village where Xander had four of us learning local folklore and how country people do what they do, so we’d know what was normal if we ever got a call to one of those places. Anyhow, I spotted something crossing one of the meadows, it didn’t really look right and so I went to check it out. He saw me and started running: runty little demon-guy, smaller than me, even. I chased him, we were going across fields and over low walls and then he cut over and dashed through this rough stone archway that was standing out by itself … I mean, not part of any other structure, it was just there. The little demon-thing dived straight through it, and I was right behind him so I went through, too …” She shrugged. “And just like that, Dorothy was no longer in Kansas.”

“Yes,” Giles said. “Somehow, we failed to note that arch in any of our scans or searches, weren’t even aware of it till your report. Some notice-me-not glamour, no doubt.”

“Makes sense,” Imogen said. “Now, the demon-thing may have just got lucky, but more likely he knew it was a gate and was hoping to use it as an escape … which worked, but only after I went through with him and got disoriented at finding myself in a different place with a couple of extra moons and a whole alien marketplace about fifty yards away. He dashed into the market while I was still adjusting, and honestly I hadn’t really confirmed that he was dangerous, I just chased him when he bolted. And I wasn’t exactly eager to charge into a big crowd of clearly-not-people staring at me like I was the weird one, so I lost him right off.” She shrugged. “The archway showed on their side, too. I tried walking back through it, going around to the other side and passing through that way, I tried to tune back in to my own world … I even took a shot at There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home. I felt stupid trying that, but Xander always said ‘If it’s dumb but it works, it isn’t dumb’.” A quick laugh. “This one was dumb and didn’t-work, but at least I didn’t skip a possibility from fear of looking ridiculous. So by this time I could see that getting home probably wouldn’t be happening right away, meaning it was time to shift priorities. I caught a whiff of something that smelled a lot like meat being roasted, and I didn’t know when I’d get another chance at food. So, I headed that direction, doing my best to look like I was ready for trouble but not hunting for it, and basically felt my way from there.”

Giles nodded understanding. “I’m told you were the only human in your new venue. What were the natives like?”

Imogen glanced around at a sudden burst of jabber from the new entries to the bar, but answered readily even so. “All the time I was there, I only saw four speaking, tool-using races, even though there were dozens of variations. One — this was most of the people in the market, but I saw other types, too, even before I learned how to identify them — looked like tree sloths, only taller and more spindly. Oh, and definitely not vegetarian. One race had scales and feathers, and looked like a cross between an iguana and a penguin; smaller than the sloths, usually five-foot-something. They generally wore the least amount of clothes, usually just a leather apron with pockets unless they were soldiers. Let’s see, Sloths, Penguanas … one of the races was covered with fuzzy fur, the same bright pink color as those marshmallow chicks and bunnies, what are those called —?”

“Peeps, I believe,” Giles supplied … then sat back in mingled astonishment and mortification that he’d actually known that. How had he known that, he had no truck with marshmallow bunnies —!

“Right,” Imogen said happily. “I never could remember that, so I called them Puffs. Anyhow, they were more sociable and more curious than the other races, but I’d been there for years before I saw one get good and wet, and with all that pink fur plastered flat, the thing had a skull like a bug-eyed Pekingese.” She frowned slightly. “Body more like a really rangy cat’s, though. Anyway, those three were pretty much alike, at least in comparison, because the last race was insectoid. Mantis head, beetle-ish body, usually about four feet tall … All the others spoke a common language — with lots of dialects, naturally — but the Bugs had their own language among themselves, only spoke the main tongue for doing business with other races. And they did a whole bunch of business, seemed like they were set up almost everywhere with one thing or another, even though they kept to themselves for most everything else.”

“Ah,” Giles said. “One presumes that, aside from the more cosmopolitan locales, each of the various races tended to predominate in a different area?”

“Just about,” Imogen confirmed. “There were three main continents — may have been more, but I never got any farther than that — and a few big islands and thousands of smaller ones, and the different races traveled and traded but you could get a general sense of original homelands by which ones had the bigger populations in one spot or another. I think the Bugs probably came from one of the larger islands, but after seeing a couple of their port cities I didn’t explore any further. There was just something unnerving about them, they never gave me any more trouble than anybody else but I couldn’t get comfortable around large numbers of them.”

Giles gave that some thought. “They were, somehow, more alien to you than were the other races?”

“Something like that,” Imogen agreed. “The Sloths came across like the old stereotype about Swedes, gruff and straightforward and solid. The Puffs were like the Irish stereotype, rowdy and aggressive and fun-loving and friendly, but they’d hold hard grudges if they thought they had reason. The Penguanas were like the portrayals of desert Arabs in Thirties and Forties movies, lots of convoluted manners, slick talk, always working an angle … I got along with ’em okay, but I always counted my fingers afterward to make sure I hadn’t lost any in a sharp deal.” She shook her head. “The Bugs, though? They were bugs, nothing at all like people. They hardly ever gave me any problems, but I was never easy with ’em.”

Giles nodded, and smiled. “Well, you returned alive after decades of absence, so clearly you weren’t irrecoverably mistaken about anything.” He took another drink of the ale. “But, um, what did you do, all that time in such an alien place?”

Imogen grinned at that. “Me? I was Conan.”

Giles blinked at her several times. “I’m sorry?” he said at last.

“The original Robert Howard stories, not the movies,” Imogen explained. “Although the Marvel comics in the Seventies caught a lot of the flavor.” She gestured emphatically. “The place was civilized, but not advanced civilized, lots of competing little principalities and merchant cities. I started out as a thief, then other thieves took me on as leader after I beat down their leaders — the bosses hadn’t liked the competition, but they’d have been better off pretending I wasn’t there — and as I learned the language and the social set-up, I branched out into other, um, direct-action occupations. Over the years I was a mercenary, a caravan guard, a bandit leader, a city watch captain, a pirate queen — privateers, actually, but ‘pirate queen’ just sounds cooler — a desert chieftain, head of a long-range scouting operation, the main muscle in a quick-strike force for one army or another … as long as it was about fighting, my services were in demand. I wasn’t really suited for anything else, so I stuck with what I was good at.”

“I see,” Giles said, taking it all in. “No problems with … loneliness? isolation? despair of ever being able to return home?”

Imogen mulled on that, then said, “I got hit with homesickness now and then, and I missed some of the people I’d known back here … the rest of it, though, I could see that would be an enemy, and I wasn’t about to let it get a good grip on me.” She shook away the thought like a bothersome gnat. “I had some good friends Over There, and some cordial enemies, and a hell of an active life, so I just stayed focused on what was in front of me.”

“Yes,” Giles said. “And made periodic attempts to return home, you said? through the archway?”

“Uh-huh.” Imogen half-turned to make a quick glance around the bar’s interior, apparently to fix or confirm the position and orientation of the active customers, then looked back to Giles. “As far as I could tell, there wasn’t any real magic over there; lots of beliefs in different kinds of magic, and a few things that might have been occasional psychic abilities, but no consistent verifiable magic I was ever able to find.” She shook her head. “I took a shot at anything that might have offered a possibility, though, and tried different combinations of methods and timing and chants and star alignments and whatever I could think of, I kept lists of things I’d tried and made other lists of things I hadn’t tried yet. Anytime I was back in the territory that had the archway, I’d swing by and make another set of attempts. It got to where the merchants would make an event of it, set up temporary stalls at the site and sell treats and souvenirs whenever I came back to take another stab at it.” She smiled to herself. “Then, on the last one, I got an opening, and what I saw on the other side looked like the English countryside I remembered, and I dived through before I lost the gate or talked myself out of it … and twenty minutes later I found a road, and another ten minutes got me to somebody who’d let me use their phone. Couple of calls, and the new Council sent somebody to pick me up, and I think you know the rest from there.”

Giles nodded, thinking. “Mm. And how long was it before you realized that time here had passed more slowly than … Over There?”

Like Giles, Imogen had poured the ale into her emptied beer mug, and now she turned it in front of her. “I think I’d been picking up something without really noticing it, because I realized later I’d been half-wondering why the car designs were basically the same as I remembered. But mainly, the smartphone they let me use showed the date on its opening screen, and I could tell it wasn’t even a year later.” She shrugged. “Hey, less past history to have to get caught up on.”

Something changed, some alteration in the volume or tone of background chatter in the bar, and Imogen turned again even as Giles shifted his own position to get a better angle. Some of the bar’s patrons looked away, others glared back at Giles and Imogen with truculent defiance. “I believe the internal tolerance here may have diminished,” Giles said matter-of-factly, leaning on the walking stick from his position on the chair. “Particularly from the, er, obstreperous lot who arrived as a group.”

“I’m getting that, yeah.” Imogen spoke without looking back at him. “Those guys, I marked them as soon as they came in the door. I don’t like them.”

“I believe those are Kraintor-kich,” Giles observed. “They can more readily pass as human than most other demons, so they’re fairly popular as intermediaries in dealing with human suppliers and service providers.” He took a drink from the mug of ale. “They do seem to make an occasion out of congregating back with their own kind, to relax and, er, ‘decompress’.”

“Long as they don’t forget their manners,” Imogen said sourly. “I don’t trust ’em, though. Shifty bastards.”

“Why do you say so?” Giles asked. “Not questioning your judgment on this, but I do wonder as to the reasons for it. In case you’ve seen, or are sensing, anything that might have escaped me.”

Imogen maintained her watch, mouth crimped in disapproval. “I don’t know,” she said. “Bad vibes in general … but they look too close to human, it trips all kinds of alarms.”

Giles studied the demon grouping, considering what the Slayer had said and weighing his own feelings. “I’ll agree there’s something vaguely unsettling about their appearance; any one of them appears simply to be an oddly proportioned human, but with several of them together, the effect is to accentuate their underlying … unnatural-ness. I wonder why that is?”

“I think I remember something about that,” Imogen said. She still hadn’t turned back to face him. “Back when videogame graphics had got advanced enough that people started trying to adapt them to use in movies, they learned that the audience got weirded out by almost-convincing. So the ‘human’ characters in the Polar Express struck viewers as creepy, but the more stylized characters in the Incredibles — deliberately LESS realistic — were unthreatening and entertaining.” She gestured at the bar’s denizens. “The obvious demons, we know they’re dangerous but we accept that because we understand it. The new guys, all we know is that a little voice is telling us, This isn’t right.”

“That … might explain it,” Giles acknowledged. “At the least, it’s plausible, and might account for some of our unease even if there’s more to it.” He calmly finished the remainder of his ale. “Was anything like that in operation in the locale where you spent so many years?” Imogen finally glanced back his way, and Giles elaborated. “You seemed to have no particular problems with three of the otherdimensional races there, but you several times evinced distaste and distrust in regard to the insectoid ones.”

“No,” Imogen said, half-turning in her chair to partly face Giles while still keeping an eye on the other side of the bar. “Nobody over there looked anything like human, that was never an issue. I didn’t like the Bugs because I just don’t like bugs.”

“Very well.” Giles stook up from his chair. “I believe we’ve both detected an unpleasant tenor growing in the atmosphere. I would think this would be a good time for a strategic departure.”

Imogen’s smile was a mirthless baring of teeth. “I’ve fought my way out of bigger odds than this … but you’re right, leaving is more sensible. Even if I don’t particularly feel very sensible.”

She stood as well, and Giles could see (with an inapt pang of regret at the waste) that she had left her ale unfinished. Ah, well. Together they started for the door and, without needing to plan it, each turned slightly away from the other to watch their respective sides.

There was never any possibility, then, that the charge might have taken them by surprise.

Giles crashed the end of the walking stick down on the hard-tiled floor with a crack like a gunshot, and a flare of pale fire burst from his other hand and streaked into the ranks of the demon attackers: mostly Kraintor-kich, but other customers had apparently decided to participate as well. They faltered and stumbled, the flare had been mostly flashy and disconcerting but it carried some actual force as well, and Giles pounded the stick down three more times, readying his free hand for follow-up bolts. Imogen struck in a sweeping arc around her, she’d yanked off her belt and swung the heavy bronze buckle at the end of the leather strap in an impromptu flail, and her left hand held a knife with an eleven-inch blade up and ready for anyone unwise enough to venture too close.

The two of them pressed for the door as the attackers hesitated, unnerved by the instant, devastating response … then, with growling shouts of anger, the mixed-demon throng drew together and threw themselves into another rush.

Imogen was everywhere, kicking and slashing and laying about with the flail, but always darting back to stay close to Giles; he supported her with a volley of force-bolts and stun-bolts, twice smashing the walking stick itself down on the skulls of lunging demons with an impact as of an iron staff. He’d been feeling his age the last few years in Sunnydale, and especially following the near-death during Dark Willow’s rampage; now, however, adrenaline surged through him and hard training moved him without thought, he was both the battle-honed Watcher and Ripper pitching into a joyous brawl, and — more important than anything else — he was once more fighting alongside a superbly skilled Slayer.

He’d been sleepwalking for months. Now, he was alive again.

It was when he began laughing that the charge broke, with their assailants fighting to get away rather than pushing to close with them. Giles and Imogen reached the door and forced through it, and moments later they were running together down the outside sidewalk, and Imogen was laughing along with him.

*               *               *

Several blocks later, they came to a stop outside a little café. “Damn, that was fun!” Imogen exulted, while Giles worked to regain his wind. Then she looked to the walking stick he still carried, and asked, “Spells pre-loaded into that?”

“Yes.” Giles leaned onto the implement, took a few more breaths. “I wasn’t seeking combat, but past history has shown that we don’t always get to choose. Some advance preparation was clearly advisable.”

“It was definitely something to see,” Imogen laughed, and gave Giles’s hip a solid bump with her own. “I think we both needed something like that.”

Giles had no immediate answer, though his expression was troubled. They went into the café and ordered: tea (of course) for him, while she chose a brutally potent espresso. Again, they seated themselves at a small table. Different place, different lighting, entirely different atmosphere, and yet the sense of echo was strong. Which naturally prompted a reflexive process of analysis …

“Penny for ’em,” Imogen said.

Giles nodded. “I was realizing, actually, that the incident just past was … a severe lapse of judgment, for both of us.” He looked to her. “Despite how readily we fared, the fact is that going there, and then remaining, was a ridiculously unnecessary risk.”

“Everything is a risk,” Imogen countered. “And, for us, it wasn’t unusually dangerous, or even unusual at all.”

“It was an unconscionable self-indulgence,” Giles replied. “I would be distinctly critical of any Watcher-Slayer team who did such a thing without some very good reason to justify it.”

Imogen grinned at him. “Good thing we’re neither of us on a team, then.”

Giles’s tone and expression were forebodingly mild. “You feel we’re exempted from any consequences, then?”

Imogen sighed. “Don’t be like that. We had a good time back there, and you know it.”

“That is another part of the point,” Giles insisted. “Why should we take such pleasure in something so irresponsible?”

Imogen set her cup down, studying him. “You’ll have to answer for yourself,” she told him. “But I know why I did.”

“Yes?” he prompted.

“I spent twenty, twenty-five years making my own way,” she said. “I had to, because I was the only human on that planet, but I got good at it and I got used to it. Now I’m here again, and I’m supposed to fall back in line with the program … and I’m okay with that, I can see the need and I can see the benefits, but it’s still an adjustment.” Her face went grim for a moment. “And it won’t happen overnight. So, till I get used to it again, I’ll need to break out a little every now and then.”

Giles frowned slightly. “You are not … resistant to the process, then, only perhaps uncomfortable with the speed of it?”

“Not … not exactly.” Imogen shook her head. “My situation is kind of a new thing, and I’m not the only one still working on how to handle it.”

“How so?” Giles asked. “Again, I don’t mean there’s any need for you to justify yourself, but your perceptions of this matter are of interest to me.”

“It’s not complicated,” Imogen told him. “Basically, I don’t fit, and they’re having to figure out how to fit me in regardless.”

“You made a place for yourself in a world where you were literally the only one of your kind,” Giles observed. “I wouldn’t expect that resuming your place in your old life would be … prohibitively difficult.”

Imogen regarded him with a rueful twist to her mouth. “You mean, aside from explaining to my parents that I’m not only back from missing-without-a‑trace, but now roughly their age?”

“Ah,” Giles said. “Yes, there is that.”

Imogen waved that away. “I’ll deal. We’ll work something out. I really shouldn’t have mentioned it, because it’s not what I was thinking about.” She leaned toward him. “Look at my situation. I’m probably the most experienced Slayer who’s ever lived … but almost none of that experience was here, I’m totally out of practice with demons and wizards and even vampires. They can’t treat me as a newbie, because that stopped being true a long time ago, but I can see myself that I’m not exactly a veteran, either, not in Slayer terms. Just the way those characters in the bar weren’t routine humans OR obvious demons, I’m stuck between categories. Something’s going to have to be worked out and, well, we’re still working on it.”

“I don’t doubt some accommodation can be reached,” Giles said musingly. “Your situation is unusual, yes, but then ‘unusual’ is rather our stock in trade. You’re currently chafing somewhat at the process, but I would venture that you yourself recognize that the necessary adjustment won’t be impossible or even especially arduous, merely … cumbersome and annoying.”

“I know,” Imogen said. “I know. This is just me letting off steam, same as I was doing back at the bar.” She tilted her head to one side, studying him with a new expression. “All this time we’ve spent talking about me, though, I’ve started to wonder something.” Giles raised an eyebrow, waiting, and she said, “What are you doing here?”

“Hm.” Giles stirred his tea, regarding her with some perplexity. “I thought we had already established that.”

“Looking for me, yeah, got that.” Imogen shook her head. “But why? You’re the head of the new Council, you oversee the training programs and the supply programs and the logistics programs, you direct the research and read the after-action reports and write the guidelines … you’ve gone way beyond what any other Watcher ever has as his normal duties, so why are you out tracking down a forty-something Slayer who decided to take a holiday weekend?”

Giles smiled at that. “Perhaps one tires occasionally of piloting a desk. Perhaps I felt like having a holiday of my own.”

“I guess, maybe.” Imogen shrugged. “If that’s the case, you might want to wait till you’re done playing hooky before you start beating yourself up too much for getting into a perfectly ordinary bar brawl.”

Giles found himself startled into a laugh. “You regard that as ordinary?”

“For us, yes.” She gestured toward him, then herself. “See any blood? did we kill anybody back there? The way Slayers live, that wouldn’t rate two lines in a report … if we reported it at all, because nothing really happened, just a few minutes of ruckus.”

Giles worked at keeping his expression unrevealing. “Yes, well. I, er, I can see that, as you said, integrating you back into our standard operations will not be a, a seamless prospect.”

She studied him from beneath lowered brows, then grinned suddenly. “You big faker! You’re trying to put on the stuffy-Watcher armor, but you were having the time of your life back there.”

“I might perhaps have got somewhat caught up in the rush of excitement,” he told her with over-exaggerated primness. “Still, one has an image to maintain.”

Imogen laughed, took another sip of her espresso. “Suddenly, all those stories I heard out of Sunnydale are taking on a whole new meaning.”

Nodding, Giles said, “Be that as may, there’s still the present issue to be settled. Will you be continuing your, er, unscheduled sabbatical? Or can we expect you to return and resume the process of re-integrating?”

Imogen grimaced. “You heard what I said, they’re still working out what to do with me. I know we’ll get there, and I know it has to be done, but it’s just so damn tedious.”

“I might be able to offer a few suggestions on that,” Giles said. “Partnering you with Faith, for instance; she certainly doesn’t lack for current experience, and you might even be a moderating influence on her.”

Imogen laughed. “That’s definitely an original thought. Not sure how it would work out, though.”

“Faith’s reputation is, is exaggerated,” Giles said. “She remains a quite forceful personality, but I can assure you she wouldn’t be an active danger to any partner.”

“Not what I meant.” Imogen’s smile was relaxed, amused. “I remember the first time I ever met Faith. She looked me over, and I could tell exactly what was behind it: Yeah, I could take you. Later, I could see she did the same with everybody she met.”

“I’m aware,” Giles said. “Yet she never actually initiates violence. Not with other Slayers, at any rate.”

“I know,” Imogen said. “Thing is, she came through four days ago on some business of her own … and I could see the moment she realized I was giving her that exact same look.” Her smile broadened. “I meant it, too.”

“That is certainly … foreboding,” Giles said. “How did she react?”

Imogen thought about it. “I’d have to say she looked interested. If I had to guess, I’d guess she was looking forward to it, but, like, saving it for a treat.”

Giles most assuredly did not shudder. Still, he said, “We’ll set aside that idea for the moment, then.”

“Fine by me,” Imogen said. “And … I’m in no hurry, but I can go back to HQ right now if you think I should. I just needed a little time to myself, and I got that. The main thing was to be on my own today.”

“Very good, then.” Giles stopped, frowned. “Today? Why today?”

“Mile marker,” Imogen supplied. “Today’s my one-week anniversary of making it back from Over There.” Then, as Giles winced and looked away, she said, “What?”

“ ‘Anniversary’,” Giles told her, his expression pained. “The word literally means ‘turning of the year’. To speak of a one-week anniversary is like … like speaking of a foot in kilometers, a definitional self-contradiction.”

Imogen stared at him, and then burst into laughter. “Oh, my God, you haven’t changed one bit!”

Giles fought not to smile. “Well, it’s only been a few months.”

“I know,” she acknowledged, still giggling. “But I’ve been remembering you like this for a long time.”

“Yes. I serve not only to protect mankind, but as a staunch defender of the English language. Sacred duties, both.”

He had spoken lightly, and Imogen continued to smile, but then her face settled into something pensive. “Lot more to it than that,” she said.

Giles quirked an eyebrow. “How do you mean?”

“All the years I was away, memory was my only link to home, and I put a lot of thought into, well, weighing those memories. Thinking about what things meant. I was a Slayer for less than a year, but those times were intense, and they made a strong impression on me.” Her gaze went distant. “Buffy was an inspiration, she was what it was all about. Willow was scary smart, and plain scary, and kind of nerdy in a nice way. Xander … I can’t say what Xander was — still is — I can feel it but I don’t know the words.” She looked to Giles. “You, though: you were the foundation. Buffy was what we believed in; you were what made that work.”

Giles wasn’t embarrassed, but neither was he entirely comfortable. “If I, er, if I projected an image that gave people confidence in our shared endeavor, I am willing to call that a success.”

“Not changed a bit,” Imogen repeated, nodding.

They sat in the brief silence, following out their own thoughts. At length, Imogen said, “And your holiday?”

“I shall draw pleasure from having taken one,” Giles responded. “But the main duties still remain.”

Imogen let out a breath. After a minute, she said, “I might have an alternative suggestion.” Giles looked up, his gaze sharp, and she went on. “I’m still working through the idea in my head, but … how about if I teamed up with you? You’d get out from behind a desk, I’d have somebody I know can bring me up to speed. Or, if you feel like you have to stay in control of the main offices, make me your right hand — enforcer, muscle, sergeant-at-arms, whatever — and meanwhile you’re still catching me back up on how to be a Slayer again instead of Conan.” She eyed him critically. “If the way you broke out back in the bar means anything, though, I’ll bet you’d love to get back into the field, at least sometimes.”

Giles drummed his fingers on the café table, eyes narrowed slightly. “And what would be the … the source of this extraordinary proposal?”

She laughed suddenly. “Well, let’s see: I’ve been away for decades, no human companionship at all. Working relationships, sure, warrior camaraderie, shared goals, stuff like that, but I was the only woman in that world and there was no getting away from that at all.” She grinned at his nonplussed expression, and said, “Do you still not get it? Giles, I haven’t had sex in something like twenty-five years.”

Giles kept his expression controlled; this statement had been unexpected, but not precisely shocking. “I can see how that could, could have become unwelcome over time,” he ventured cautiously.

“Couldn’t do anything about it, so I got used to it.” Imogen shrugged. “But now I’m back … and, not exactly panting here, but it would be really nice if I could keep that streak from stretching out too much longer.”

It was said firmly but without urgency, and Giles found himself easing back into objective assessment; this was information, not demand or entreaty. “I can’t quite decide whether I should be flattered or alarmed,” he observed with dry humor.

“Don’t let it make you crazy,” Imogen told him. “It is what it is. I’m not looking for a quick romp, but anything more than a one-nighter would have to be with somebody who knows the score, which is pretty much limited to guys in the Watcher organization. In that group, you automatically top the list, and that’s a fact. Why waste time pretending otherwise?”

Giles nodded, showing the barest trace of a smile. “There would be obvious complications attendant to any such course of action,” he pointed out.

“And you’re already thinking through them,” Imogen said, “and realizing that most of the usual objections don’t apply.” She leaned toward him. “I’m not dependent on you, so you wouldn’t be misusing your authority. I’m not even part of your organization unless I choose to be. I’m free and independent, and I think we can take it as a given that I know my own mind by now.” She arched an eyebrow. “And for damn sure I’m not too young for you.”

“Not for propriety, perhaps,” Giles said, the smile a bit more pronounced now. “You might very well, however, be too young for me to keep up with you.”

Imogen waved that away. “Any Slayer would be too much for any man unless she scales back, that’s just how it is.” She eyed him speculatively. “And you know it. You’re not even arguing with me. You’ll think it over, and you’ll make up your mind when you’re ready … but you will think about it, you’re not just rejecting it automatically.” She sat back in her chair. “Cool beans.”

Giles relaxed as well. “I’m afraid the thought of my returning to fieldwork is a non-starter, however. I have too many responsibilities, I can’t simply shrug them away.”

“Dude,” Imogen shot back, “if you’re indispensable, that means you have to set things up where the organization can get by without you, so it won’t fall apart if you’re gone. Pick a good deputy, and dump everything on him every now and then. That way you’ll have somebody ready to take over if you ever can’t do the job anymore, and meanwhile you get to take some time off here and there.”

Giles frowned, not especially liking the idea but seeing the sense of it. It was true, if no-one else could do his job at his level, it meant he strongly needed to train up someone to fill the gap. “And I’m sure you’ll have suggestions as to what use I should make of this copious new free time.”

“Your call,” Imogen answered. “You proved back there that you’re not too old for that kind of thing … but it won’t be too long before you are, just like I can’t keep up the Slayer gig forever. So why not enjoy it while we can? The point isn’t that we should be living the wild life, but that we still can if we want to. It’s just a matter of deciding if we still want to … and if so, when and how often.”

“Quite so, quite so.” Giles studied her. “And … do you?”

“Like I said, I know I can’t stay an active Slayer for that much longer; I figure ten years max, probably less. When it comes time to retire, I won’t cry about it, I’ve already had a long, lively career.” She shot him a mischievous grin. “It’s just not over yet. And the plain fact is, the most fun part back in the bar wasn’t cutting loose, it was doing it with somebody. With you.”

Well. Giles realized he couldn’t quite say the same; for him the pleasure and exhilaration had sprung from finding — proving — that he wasn’t over the hill yet. Still, it had made a difference to be paired with a near-contemporary, not some adolescent girl (or barely older) who, despite her physical prowess, needed to be militantly guarded from rash overconfidence. He’d had no such concerns with Imogen … nor, he found, did he now.

A Slayer not ridiculously distant from his own age, who was solid in her own sense of self but — vitally — whose self-knowledge had been leavened with more than two decades of experience. Quite simply, a Slayer who was not heartbreakingly young and all too likely to die young.

He chided himself to be cautious, to avoid getting caught up in reckless excitement, but the prospect before him was … possible. An entirely unprecedented possibility, in fact, a heady, unexplored territory between what-had-always-been and what-had-never-been. A field rich with danger, promise, and a wealth of potential new discovery.

Against all his natural reserve, Giles found his pulse quickening at the thought; and the woman sitting across from him at the small table waited, and watched, and smiled.

– end –

---

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