pt. 2

THE BRONZE
That night

The dance club was loud, but less smoky than Mulder had expected. Even with the strict no-smoking codes in California, places like this still tended to overlook the rules when it came to cigarettes. He knew too many fellow agents who were stuck with smoking detail in other cities, busting clubs for no other reason than their patrons addiction to nicotine, and for a moment he was utterly grateful to the man who had re-opened the X-Files for him and saved his sorry ass from that sort of drudgery.

He’d spent most of the day simply moving through the town on autopilot. In theory, of course, he’d been checking out leads, finding out more about this strange little town and the people in it. He hadn’t expected to simply find the killers out having a latte at one of the sidewalk coffee shops, although he made a point of buying strong coffee in most of them. He didn’t need to know more about the teenagers who were apparently also investigating his case, but he did charm the school secretary into giving him their names and, in the case of one Willow Rosenberg, a ringing endorsement on her academic achievements. And most of all, he didn’t need to be bringing old and painful memories to the case with him, but he found himself thinking more and more about John, and about Ethan, as he walked past Rupert Giles home several times. 

And now, just as the sun had been going down, he’d come to this place. To a typical club, albeit an all ages one, in a typical town. Looking for vampires.

Feeling self-conscious in his wrinkled suit, and briefly wishing he’d thought to pack something more casual in his kit, Mulder started wading through the throng, casing the place with what appeared to be a casual eye. But the same intuitive senses that had nailed him with the nickname “Spooky” were working overtime, and his eyes, tired though they may be, missed nothing. 

He saw boys and girls, men and women, all ages, all moving about, singly or in groups. All carried the blue stamp he’d last seen on John’s hand. Some of the more obvious underage ones had their other hands stamped in a green that glowed in the black light, and Mulder understood how the Bronze could get away with having high-schoolers rubbing shoulders (among other things) with older folks.

A rail thin woman with vacant eyes and too much eyeliner gave him an appraising glance as he passed her, dark gaze travelling over his body with enough heat to make him shiver. A moment later, though, she was looking at herself in a compact and reapplying blood red lipstick. As he passed, Mulder noticed that the compact held no mirror. He made a note to keep an eye on the woman and kept moving.

At the bar, he held up a hand to get the bartender’s attention, and then turned on the person next to him as his hand was yanked down.

“Two red wine,” said the woman Mulder had noticed earlier.

Mulder had no taste for red wine, and certainly hadn’t been planning on ordering alcohol at all, but he let the woman order anyway. There was something…not normal about her. He was an Oxford educated psychologist, and not one prone to making generalized statements about people without thorough research.

He thought the woman was whacko.

The wine came, and she handed a glass to Mulder. He peered into the dark red depths and his stomach did a slow roll. It looked a little too bodily-fluidish for his liking. He was reminded of the bible verse that the killers he was seeking used as a mantra. “He who drinks my blood…”

He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until the woman finished the verse for him; “…shall have eternal life.” Her tittering laugh was sweet like bells and simultaneously made Mulder think of nails on a chalkboard. He suddenly felt like he’d been chewing tin foil, and he lifted the wine to his lips to clear away the metallic taste.

“Come, pet, sit with me.” She led him to her table, moving his tall chair closer to her own just before he put his weight on it, thereby not only throwing him just a little off balance, but also bringing his body close to hers. 

“Who are you?” his voice was rough, like he hadn’t spoken in years.

“My name’s Dru. That’s a pretty name, don’t you think?”

“It’s unique,” Mulder set his glass of wine aside.

“We’re all unique,” Dru replied with another tinkle of dark laughter. Her eyes seemed to grow larger, and Mulder found himself held in her gaze. “You seem very…unique,” she seemed to purr over the word. “This is not your home. Not your normal setting, is it?”

Mulder found himself wanting to drink more of the wine, and curbed it with an effort, realizing he didn’t need alcohol to cloud his judgement—he seemed to be doing just fine on his own. “How do you define normal?” he asked conversationally, his dry tone in contrast with his hands, which were twining about themselves nervously. For the first time in years, he wanted a cigarette.

Dru pressed herself to Mulder’ side and whispered in his ear, ”I don't. How do you?”

Mulder looked up the definition of normal in his mind’s dictionary, and found a picture of him and Scully, standing on the driveway of a handsome house in the suburbs, he in Dockers, she in Donna Karen; a mini van parked behind them, and a basketball hoop hung over the garage door. He shook his head, got a brief but intense vision of someone else considerably less ‘normal’, not to mention less female, in a far less suburban but infinitely more seductive pose, then shook that off too and said, ”I don't.  All I know is, uh...normal is not what I feel.”

Dru tittered at that and Mulder lost his war with the wine. He took a large mouthful, then almost spit it out when Dru ran a sharp-nailed hand through his hair. He reared back instinctively, but almost at once found himself leaning back into her touch as she tugged at hair already in disarray, then let her hand stray down the side of his face, the sound of her nails rasping across days old stubble sounding loud in his ears. 

“Oh, pet,” she exclaimed with a gasp. “I can see your ‘normal’. It’s a sad ‘normal’. A little thing. All alone.” Her eyes were closed but she was smiling—Mulder caught a glimpse of sharp white teeth hidden just behind the blood red lips. “You've lost someone.  Not a lover, a friend.” Her voice took on a singsong tone. “Ascending…ascending to the stars…”

Mulder gasped at her words, Dru opened her eyes and they sparkled with cruel good humour, and then both glasses of wine tipped over as another person broke the spell between them.

“Hey, Amway!”

It was Xander, the boy from the library. Cordelia and Willow were standing just behind him.

Mulder looked around in a daze and realized that Dru had disappeared. Red wine was pooling on the table and dripping slowly into his lap. Mulder mopped at the mess ineffectually with a small cocktail napkin, realized he wasn’t making anything better, and briefly wished there was some sort of mess he could make right. Even just a tiny one. He sighed in resignation and the teens joined him at his table without asking.

“Who was that woman?” Cordelia asked him, sipping at a soft drink, making sure she made the most of her straw-time while he watched. It might have been an impressive display if he’d been the least bit interested, but any desire he might have had for her—for Dru—for anyone at this point, seemed to have been abducted along with Scully, his appetite and his ability to sleep.

“A friend,” he muttered, remembering Dru’s last words and shuddering.

“Intense,” Willow muttered. She looked out somewhere past Mulder’s shoulder, and he turned in his seat to follow her gaze. He saw immediately that the boy she’d been with in the library was on stage with the band, playing guitar with a bored expression on his face. Muttered words and a giggle turned him back to the table, where Xander was whispering something to Cordelia. She gave him an appraising glance and giggled again.

‘I don’t need this,’ he thought, suddenly feeling very young and very put upon. He stood with a frown.

“Oh, leaving?” Cordelia pouted briefly.

“Well, you know,” Xander answered her for him, “the group home just has one suit for all the patients, and ‘Drooling Ted’ wants to wear it to the big colouring contest tomorrow.”

Only with the greatest effort did Mulder bite back the scalding retort that sprang to his lips. He wasn’t about to get into a chest-beating contest with some smart-ass teenager. Immediately the scholar in him suggested that Xander was trying to cover personal insecurities with his wit, and he almost felt sorry for him, but mostly recognized his own defense mechanisms hard at work within the boy. So he settled for a shrug and turned to go.

“Hey!” exclaimed Willow and he turned back to her with a curious expression. At his look she immediately seemed to shrink into herself a bit, sipped at her own soda, then muttered, “you probably shouldn’t be out walking at night…alone…you know, by yourself.”

“Thanks for the tip—Willow, isn’t it?” Mulder knew her name, but the recognition still made her smile, and he’d planned that. “But I’m pretty sure I’ll be fine.” He tipped open his jacket just enough for her to see his gun snug in its holster. “And I promise not to talk to strangers.” ‘Just old friends’ he added to himself.

“Besides, Will, you know Buffy’s patrolling,” said Xander. “Out keeping the streets safe for children, small pets and wayward G-men.”

“Buffy, huh? Well, I feel infinitely safer already.” Not giving any of them a chance to retort, Mulder steered himself away from the table and began working his way towards the exit. 

Passing the stairway to the catwalk above the dance floor, Mulder noticed Dru wrapped in the embrace of a young blonde man. The man’s long coat was draped over her shoulders, and her hands were digging into his back, pulling his dark red shirt askew. As Mulder watched, confused and feeling something like jealousy, Dru offered a finger to the blonde man. In the chancy strobing lights of the club, he couldn’t be sure, but he thought it might be bleeding. The man sucked at it willingly, and Mulder found himself more aroused by the sucking than by the woman. Dru looked up and seemed to catch Mulder’s eye, giving him an evil grin.

A moment later they were gone, lost in a swirl of bodies as the music changed and people left the dance floor.

Mulder sighed. He looked back at the table for his new—friends? Associates? Children? Whatever he called them, it seemed that they too were mostly gone. He thought he spotted Xander by the pool table, but couldn’t be sure through the crowd. He didn’t feel like finding out. Instead, he turned with another sigh and a frown, and walked out of the club. He told himself he was going to check into some crappy motel and try and get some sleep. He also told himself that there was nothing more he could do tonight. And he told himself to quit thinking the ‘not-so-normal’ thoughts that were invading his brain like worms, squirming in and out of his mind’s eye too fast for him to catch and kill.

He was so wrapped up in what he was doing and why he shouldn’t be doing it, that he didn’t see the three figures trailing silently through the dark behind him.

12:15 AM

Giles came down the steps to his door and stopped short. There, next to the dead potted plant, was Mulder, sitting in front of the door. His tie was gone, his shirt partially unbuttoned, and he looked exhausted.

“What are you doing here, Fox?”

“You’re all believers,” Mulder said, not looking at Giles. “But you—you’re the one they’ll come after. Your spirit—“

“Come inside.” Giles glanced around warily, but whether he feared for his life from the demons that walked the night in Sunnydale, or his reputation upon finding a handsome young man on his doorstep and taking him into his house, he couldn’t have said. He did know that he didn’t feel up to the task of analyzing at that moment, although he suspected that it might be a little of both.

Mulder shrugged complacently and took the hand that Giles held out to him. Pulling himself to his feet with a groan he was unable to completely smother, he followed the older man into the house. Immediately he was thrown into another pool of memory as everything about the place screamed England to him. From the furnishings and fixtures to the barely discernable scent of Summer Pudding tea, he felt himself nearly transported back to his years at Oxford. 

He wondered how long it had been since he’d slept.

Glancing around the room while Giles took off his coat and dropped files and books onto the desk, Mulder stopped at the bookshelf and gave the many tomes and volumes there a critical eye.

“So how long have you been playing den mother to Sunnydale High?” he asked, letting one hand trail with gentle reverence over the spines of the old texts.

“Sometimes it seems all my life. Other times, not nearly long enough.” Briefly, Giles wondered what Mulder must be thinking of the situation here, of himself, and Buffy…and then he wondered about Mulder himself. “Have you slept?”

“I don’t—I can’t—“ Mulder paced around the room in an oddly mechanical manner, almost seeming unaware of the other man’s presence. He’d put one hand to his chest as he walked, fingering something lying just under the material of his shirt. Giles watched him cautiously, growing transfixed by the movement of Mulder’s lean fingers as they rubbed and clutched and…

Mulder stopped and gave Giles a helpless look. “Do you have anything to drink?”

The parent (or the Watcher? Sometimes the two felt indistinguishable to him) in Giles thought that alcohol was probably the last thing Mulder needed. But rather than indulge in a matronly lecture (which Ethan would have no doubt called ‘nancy’ and which his own actions suggested would be hypocritical), he instead gave Mulder a wicked smile. Something in his dark eyes sparked so devilishly but with such good humour that, exhausted as he was, Mulder found himself unable to resist grinning back.

Giles went into the kitchen, made some cupboard-rummaging noises, then appeared in the pass-through, still smiling and holding up a teabag. “Something uncivilized?” he asked. Then holding up a dark blue tin of loose tea in the other hand, he offered another choice, “or something darker…fuller…the hard stuff?”

Mulder’s smile faltered for a moment as a memory of bruises and magicks forced its way into his mind, then resumed its tired brilliance as that memory was replaced with thoughts of tea times past, all bone china pots and chocolate wafer biscuits.

“Bring it on,” he murmured, nodding his head at the tin.
 
 

Giles poured out while Mulder lounged on the couch. Taking one of the delicate mint-coloured cups in his hands and giving it to Mulder, he reached for the other one, took a small sip, and said, “Tell me about John.”

For a long while Mulder simply contemplated the dark steaming contents of his cup, and Giles wondered if he’d pushed the tired young man too far. When the words finally came, they were slow and halting, quite unlike Mulder’s usual speech patterns. Giles remained patient, and let him speak his piece, not interrupting even when he paused to gulp down tea and painful memories.

“When I was a little boy, my father beat me,” said Mulder. "Abused" is too kind a word for it. He showed both his love and his disappointment for me by beating me. One night, he hit me so hard he knocked out two teeth, then locked me in my room. The blood poured from my mouth and I could taste it…and it was—it was the only way I knew I was alive.” The longest pause came then. Mulder set his cup on the table and put a hand over his eyes. Giles just had time to wonder if he’d fallen asleep when he resumed speaking. “You know how it was with Ethan and I. I was in awe of him—of the both of you really—“ Giles looked embarrassed, but Mulder didn’t seem to notice. “But Ethan, well, suffice to say I’d found a father figure—and not in that good way. You know the story. I never knew if he liked the blood more than the bruises, or…” Another quiet minute. Giles watched Mulder’s throat work briefly, and wondered if he could have done something different in that other life that might have taken some of the sadness from the man before him. And knew he couldn’t have.

“I didn’t think you’d make it through first year, let alone graduate with honours,” he said. Mulder gave him a sharp look, then a smile.

“Someone’s been doing his homework.”

Giles shrugged, acknowledging the unspoken compliment. Mulder’s shrug was less graceful, more resigned.

“I was inspired,” he said.

“To excel?”

“To get the hell out of England.”

Giles studied his teacup in embarrassment through an awkward silence.
Finally he broke it “You loved him.” It wasn’t a question.

“Whatever it was, I couldn’t have left him without the job as an excuse.”
Mulder shook his head, not to negate his words, but to ward off the thoughts that accompanied them.

“I met John in Washington.” Mulder finally continued, picking up his cup again and draining the contents quickly, hissing when the still hot liquid burned his mouth. “"The Son."” He laughed harshly at that. “He also beat me. 
I took the classes—I know that's the way it works sometimes.  He hit me once and cut open my lip.  The only time I can remember fighting back. I jumped on him and I bit him.  He tasted my blood.  And I tasted his.”

Giles listened, horrified. 

“After that, we were into blood sports.  But...  I never...  I lost him.
One night he came home with two others and what he wanted—he--I left him and he wound up here. And now he’s gone, and I don’t know what to believe. About him. About myself.”

“You poor thing,” Giles muttered, almost to himself. But Mulder heard the words, and he bristled.

“I didn’t come here for your pity.”

“Then tell me why you came here.” As he spoke, Giles stood up from his chair, took the empty cup from Mulder’s hand and set it aside on the coffee table as he sat down close beside the other man on the couch. “To what purpose? Revenge against past lovers? Or is this some kind of therapy for you?”

“I think they might come here. The Three. John’s gone now, and they’ve picked up another. And I think they’ll come for you.”

“Mulder,” Giles paused, took off his glasses. “About John…”

“Is he dead?”

“Yes.”

“Was he…?” Now that the truth was staring him right in the face, it seemed unbelievable. He turned to face Giles, and his right hand found a resting place on the other man’s thigh. Neither of them seemed to notice. “Was he something other than alive?” There was a catch in Mulder’s voice that seemed to have nothing to do with his words.

Giles took a moment to process the feel of Mulder’s hand on his leg. To notice the long, loose fingers, the press of warm skin that he could feel through the material of his pants.

“He was a demon. A vampire. And he was killed by a vampire slayer.”
Knowing even as he said it just how it would sound, he added quietly, “By Buffy the vampire slayer.” He put his hand over Mulder’s and squeezed it firmly.

Mulder gave him a sharp look, but didn’t pull his hand away. His voice was colder though, when he said, “I didn’t come here to be made fun of.”

“I know.”

Mulder looked down at their clasped hands. “And I didn’t come here for this, either.”

Giles let go of Mulder’s hand, slipped out from under the press of his palm, and stood abruptly. Mulder followed him up jerkily, feeling like a puppet being pulled by invisible strings attached to the older man.

“You came here alone to protect me? You believe I’m in danger for my life, and yet here you are. No police.” As he spoke, Giles was moving slowly away from the couch, and Mulder was stepping forward with each step that Giles took back. “No, as they say on those dreadful New York crime shows, backup.”

“Well, I could have brought your pep squad with me. They seem to be working this case more than the police.”

Giles ignored his sarcastic tone, recognizing it for the defense mechanism that it was, and wondered if he was making a mistake. He thought he knew why Mulder was here. And a part of him he’d thought was left back in England was glad of it. He stepped forward again, and slowly circled Mulder, leading the younger man in a dance older than the Hellmouth. If he was wrong, he’d know soon enough.

“If you’re certain that these vampires are going to choose me as their next victim, then perhaps you should take me into protective custody.”

Mulder could hear something sly, almost seductive in the other man’s tone. He wondered what Giles would do if he simply agreed with him and took him downtown to the police station. And in that moment he knew that the man was right. He wasn’t here just to play good cop. 

“I could,” he said. “Or—“

“Fox,” Giles said, now sliding closer to the young man. “I never knew you as well as I might have liked back then. But what I saw then was a young man who wasn’t afraid of much. A young man with an open mind who was always looking for more than what was simply in front of his eyes.”

Mulder watched Giles take his hand. Strong calloused fingers stroked over the back of his hand, circled his wrist, traced patterns on his palm. His sigh was a forlorn admission. 

Giles kept talking. “I think you’re here alone because you’re not afraid. I think you’re here because you need to know. You need to know what they are. If they are what you believe them to be.”

“What you know them to be.”

“But I think there’s something else you want to know. That you need to believe in.” He squeezed Mulder’s hand tighter, leaned forward. 

Mulder closed his eyes and felt the warmth of the other man’s lips on his own. Opening his own mouth and deepening the kiss was as close to admitting that Giles was right as he could come. In a moment, all thoughts of vampires, teenagers, even his own life, confusing as it was, were lost to a more basic need. He let Giles in—into his mouth, into his body, into himself. 

When he felt the other man’s hands roaming up his chest, he groaned into the space their mouths were sharing. And when those rough fingers he’d been admiring just a moment before snagged on something under his shirt, he pulled away with another soft needy sound. He opened his eyes and saw Giles reaching into his shirt, fingering Scully’s cross and looking amused.

“Well, you seem to have the warding off bit down pat,” he said.

“That’s from someone I lost,” Mulder confessed unexpectedly.

Giles returned the serious tone. “Well, I hope you find him.”

“Her.”

“Her.” He let the gold chain slip through his fingers and traced a vein up Mulder’s throat, making them both shiver. Mulder caught his hand and held it tight.

“Maybe I *should* take you to the police station,” he said, but the words sounded forced, even to himself. He could feel the heat radiating off the other man, and it felt good. It felt safe. It felt like truth.

“I’m quite sure anyone who attempts any sort of foul play around here will find my home more than amply secure…I won't go.”

“Then I won't go.” And Mulder knew he was staying for more than just safety’s sake. Or at least, more than just police work.

Giles smiled easily and gave Mulder an appraising glance, one that held more kindness and concern than lust.

“You need to get cleaned up.”

Mulder sighed and gave him a sheepish grin.
 

Shirtless, Mulder splashed cold water on his face, leaning over the sink and relishing the feel of the liquid seeping into his pores. He felt like a desert receiving its annual rains. He sluiced more water over his skin, and then groped blindly for a towel.

He encountered warm flesh, then soft, thick terrycloth as Giles held a towel out to him. Mopping water off his face, he tried to ignore the fact that his shirt was hanging on the bathroom door. He was successful only because the other man’s shirt was currently out of the equation as well.

The chest before him was broad and well defined, though not chiselled; furred, but not overly so; wide shoulders tapered softly to the waist. Again, he noticed there was no spare fat on the man; simply a well cared for, well-nourished body.

A desirable body.

Mulder rubbed his face briskly with the towel to hide the blush and wondered dully what his problem was. It wasn’t like he had never tricked before. Maybe it had been a while, but it should have been like riding a bicycle. 

Instead, he felt like someone had just dropped him into the cockpit of a jet with no instructions and no parachute.

Giles took the towel from him and moved to hang it back up on the hook by the sink. Rather than reaching around Mulder, he insinuated himself between the younger man and the sink. Their chests brushed briefly and Mulder glanced down. 

He let one hand wander across the small space between them and touched the simple milky-rose stone wrapped in silver that hung neatly from a leather thong over Giles’ breastbone. A quizzical look from him received a dark flash of pain over the other man’s face. Then his expression settled back into something more or less neutral, although Mulder couldn’t ignore the spark of desire burning in those dark eyes.

“From someone *I* lost,” said Giles.

Rather than reply, Mulder closed the space between the two of them, fitting his body neatly to the older man’s and putting one arm around Giles’ neck. He touched a cheekbone almost reverently, with the other hand, and then reached further up and carefully removed Giles’ glasses.

Like their first kiss, this one started out tentatively, each man taking the measure of the other, tasting carefully, moving lips over lips, tongues over teeth, nuzzling and licking and nipping. Each step was greeted by a quickening of breaths; a speeding up of heartbeats; a groan of desire; a moan of abandon. As the kiss deepened, Giles let his hands slip through Mulder’s short hair, enjoying the way the soft spikes were just long enough to get trapped in-between his fingers, teasing them with their silky texture.

Meanwhile, Mulder’s hands settled on the older man’s waist, stroked their way around to his back to play a scale up and down his spine, then came forward again to work at zipper and buttons.

Giles pulled his mouth off of Mulder’s with a gasp. Holding Mulder’s face close to his, he smiled crookedly and tried to ignore the desire ripping through his body, making his breathing ragged, making his pants feel tight.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” he said.

Mulder thought he was more likely trying to prove something to himself than to Giles. Or, if not prove something, maybe discover something. Something lost, like Scully. Or maybe just not found yet, like—like—“

He reclaimed Giles’ mouth with more intensity, managed to gasp out the word “bedroom”, and then let his body do the rest of the speaking.

Even if they’d been at the kitchen door rather than the bedroom door, it’s doubtful that either man would have noticed the scratching sounds coming from outside.
 
 

5:47 AM

The vampire loomed over Mulder, all fangs and yellow eyes, its breath the stench of corpses, its smile a mockery of good humour.

“Kill him,” the demon growled, its voice a mixture of lust and hatred. “Kill him and we’ll be together. You’ve got to drink the blood of his spirit.”

“But—but he’s not—“ Mulder struggled as the vampire wrapped cold arms around him.  

“He is.  As you are. A spirit is one who believes.” 

Mulder felt the first hot prick of John’s teeth on his neck. 

“A spirit is one who believes,” he groaned as he felt thick blood run hot and painfully down his neck. “I want to believe…”

Mulder gasped and sat up abruptly, torn from the nightmare with a brutal jerk. He just had time to notice Giles sleeping beside him, one arm thrown possessively over his stomach, and then there was a crash from downstairs. He jerked and Giles woke up.

For a moment the two of them stared owlishly at one another. Then another furniture-breaking sound drifted up the stairs, and Mulder reached for his pants where they were laying on the floor, and Giles was pawing at the nightstand for his glasses.

“It’s them,” Mulder declared, scrambling into his pants, searching for his shirt. Only after he’d thrust his arms through sleeves and done up one button did he realize it wasn’t his white dress shirt that he’d found. But it didn’t seem to matter.

“You have to go.” Giles had found pants and a t-shirt, and he clutched Mulder’s arm, jerking him upright from where he had bent to slip on his shoes. There was no sign of socks, and he felt no urge to hunt for them. Instead he gave Giles a confused frown.

“What are you talking about?”

They both heard the slam of what could only be the heavy front door, and Mulder flinched, pulling out of Giles’ grip and heading for the doorway. Giles caught him easily and pulled him kissing close. His expression was fierce but with an underlying compassion that gave Mulder pause.

“We’re going down those stairs, and you’re going right out that front door. I’ll keep them away from you long enough to—“

“No.” Mulder shook his head. “I’m here to—“

“There’s nothing more for you to do.”

“Giles!” It was Buffy’s voice, calling shrilly from somewhere below them. Another crash followed the sound. Giles squeezed his arm in a death grip.

“Listen to me. The playground down the street, around the corner—do you know the one I mean?”

Mulder nodded mutely. A savage grunt and a howl from downstairs and he groaned as Giles tightened his hold even more.

“I’ll come as quick as I can. But you’ve got to let this go. I won’t have you put yourself in unnecessary danger.” A pause, a hard look. “Fox, you’ve got to trust me.”

The hell of it was, he wanted to trust Giles. Wanted it desperately. But how could he? Just how many times was he going to let the big trust-rug be pulled out from under him?  Trust no one—he’d pounded that one fact into Scully’s head over and over when they were partners. Not that it had done either of them any good, really. And now—

“I’ll be fine, Fox. Just go.” And then Giles was pushing him towards the door. He braced himself and turned to face the other man, halting their progress momentarily. He searched for the words to reveal everything he was feeling, about what had happened between them, about what was happening now, about what he believed.

“This sucks,” he complained, gripping the other man’s arm.

“Yes, well, it’s not the only thing in Sunnydale that’s ever done that.” Giles suddenly pulled Mulder close and delivered a hot hungry kiss to his open mouth. 

When Giles pulled away he tried to protest again. “I—“

Something crashed in the living room, sounding suspiciously like a coffee table trying to mate with a bookshelf. Then Giles shoved him so hard he stumbled and nearly fell. Their eyes locked, and in the far distance outside, Mulder could hear sirens.

“All right, then, that’s done it,” said Giles. “Let’s go. And don’t stop for anything.”

Mulder turned and they ran for the stairs.

It was a close thing. At first, Mulder found himself slowing on the bottom stair, eyes growing wide at the tableaux presented before him.

Buffy was just completing a high kick that caught one of the vampires on the chin, knocking him into the wall just under the pass-through to the kitchen. He slid down to the floor, revealing a large dent in the wall behind him. In a flash he was back on his feet again, charging Buffy as she readied herself in a traditional fighter’s stance.

Mulder’s first reaction was to rush to her, to protect her. Only one step in her direction later, he was thrown roughly towards the door by another vampire, and he just had time to recognize the female demon as Dru from the club, and then Giles was between him and her as he staggered to his feet. 

Giles held a large wooden cross in front of him, and Dru, her features distorted and evil, hissed violently and turned away.

“GO!” Giles yelled.

Mulder gave him an anguished look, then as Buffy grappled with her own foe and Dru tried to come at him from around Giles, he leapt for the front door.

He fled.
 
 

When he came to the playground, he was almost lurching, holding his hand to a stitch in his side and panting raggedly.

“That’s it,” he muttered to himself, “no more steak fries at Phil’s…workouts twice a day…”

He slowed his pace and moved through the kiddie rides, lit now only by moonlight and a single frosted streetlamp. The slide loomed up in front of him and he stumbled around it, passed the empty seesaws that seemed to be anticipating children’s laughter, and found the swing set at the far side of the well-groomed park.

His grown-up’s ass was nearly too wide for the wooden swing, but he sat anyway, a sigh of relief issuing from his mouth. He took several deep breaths and thought he might still be hearing the police sirens. It might have been his imagination, though. 

Gently rocking himself back and forth, scarcely aware of the movement, he let his mind wander back to Giles. He saw again the look of hate and hunger on Dru’s face, and was almost ready to go back to the house, guns blazing, when a rustling sound from the bushes to his left made him yelp.

“Oh, that was butch. The FBI teaching ‘girly-scream 101’ now?” Buffy emerged from the trees, looking a bit dishevelled, but unharmed.

“Where’s Giles?” Mulder demanded. Buffy rolled her eyes and sat in the swing next to him.

“Why yes, I did save your ass back there, thanks for your overwhelming gratitude.”

Mulder looked properly abashed. 

“I don’t think I quite know what happened there, but, yes, you were quite the-uh-force to be reckoned with.”

“I know. It’s what I do.” She paused and pulled something out of the pocket of her leather jacket. “Here.” She thrust the something at him and he flinched. Her force, her—the power that he had seen her demonstrating back at the house, was radiating off of her with such intensity that he could almost feel it like a physical thing—it was like standing pressed against a hot oven. He couldn’t imagine having that power against him. Or in him. And for one brief moment he was simultaneously afraid of her, and for her. She felt dangerous.

“Giles is talking to the police,” she said. “And here’s your lovely parting gift.”

“He’s not coming?” If he hadn’t known that he sounded like a crushing teenage girl, Buffy’s exasperated look would have easily confirmed it.

“Is he all right?” Mulder took the item without seeing it. “He’s okay, isn’t he?”

“Uh, hello! Actually-the-one-in-danger Girl here!” Buffy replied impatiently, and Mulder had the good grace to blush, although here in the dark he doubted that she’d noticed.

“Deal’s this,” she continued. “I do the slaying, Giles does the ‘splaining.”

“Good deal,” Mulder muttered. He looked into his hand and saw the glimmer of silver and just a hint of rose in the moonlight—Giles’ rose quartz…

“Well, he is my Watcher,” Buffy said, sounding less irritated now, more sincere. 

“Watcher?”

“Yeah, you know.” When it became apparent that Mulder didn’t know, Buffy tried to explain. “Your Watcher is like—I mean—well, imagine if a Girl Guide Den Mother and a Football Coach had a baby, made it watch every episode of Coronation Street, and then taught it kung fu.”

Mulder laughed softly.

“Sounds good,” he murmured. Buffy smiled.

“Yeah, everyone should have one.” Her expression was kind, but something in her tone suggested that while everyone should have a Watcher, no one else but her should have Giles. Mulder stood up from the picnic table and slipped the necklace she’d given him into his pocket. 

“It’s probably safe to go back now,” said Buffy. Another smile, this one knowing enough to make Mulder blush. “I suspect Sunnydale’s finest have had enough of Giles’ bemused librarian act.”

Mulder’s first thought was that he could probably use a little more bemused librarian in his life. It was a passing thought though, not so much sad as resigned. He knew what he had to do now, and it wasn’t going to be another round of hide the scone with Giles. He suddenly reached out and shook Buffy’s hand, startling her. At her confused smile, he grinned back. Thoughts of Scully and what she might have made of all this quickly turned to thoughts of a certain department-opening, back-watching, growling Assistant Director, and he said to Buffy. “I need to go. I have to get back to *my* Watcher.

As he walked away into the darkness, he touched the cross around his neck.

The End