Chapter Text
Prologue: Spiral
“We stay, we die! Show of hands for that option?”
The silence volleyed itself between them; each intimidated by the steel in Buffy’s voice. Giles shifted, casting a brief glance at the others and noted the sympathy cross Anya’s features the moment his gaze landed on her. It drove home the dire straits they found themselves in, even when he forced his pessimism to remain at bay. Perhaps their gathering at Xander’s flat, as opposed to their own home or the Magic Box, should’ve been the first indication. Anya’s lack of protest at closing the store before midday, the second.
His eyes slid to the teenager, who awkwardly tried to shrink in on herself as Buffy gave the final directive. They were to leave soon. Resentment festered before he could rationalise the events of the last twelve hours. It’s not her fault, he reminded himself—it had become a mantra in the last few days. In the other room, Grace whimpered; a high pitched, distressed noise that grated his frayed nerves. In his periphery, Buffy followed him through to the bedroom where their daughter wept softly into the plush fur of her teddy—a grey bear with glassy blue eyes and a red bow around its neck—a gift from Spike. He hated the bloody thing, but Grace clung to it like an only a child could.
“Gracie,” he hushed, “come on, sweetheart.”
She continued her insolence, fussing in his arms until Buffy stroked her hair and murmured soothing words in her ear. It did little for his irritation, but he swallowed his pride and mirrored Buffy’s gentle petting of their daughter’s hair. Grace settled into soft hiccups against his shoulder, thumb in mouth until her breathing grew shallow once more as she continued to sleep. Buffy eased the child’s thumb free and pressed a soft kiss to her temple. Giles studied her over their daughter’s head, disarmed of his earlier anger toward her. Their gazes locked.
“You think we should stay.”
It still unnerved him how transparent he was to her. “Our resources are here.”
“And Glory.” She interjected and drew away from them. “Jesus, Giles. Gracie was asleep in the training room when that demon snooped around.” Her eyes flashed with rage. “What if they thought Grace was the Key? If Glory had done to her what she did to Tara?” Both flashed a glance at the door leading back to the others.
Bile rose in his throat and his arms tightened around the small body cuddled to him. Giles didn’t allow himself to think in ‘what ifs’; not since the moment Grace was placed in his arms the night she was born. That way, madness lies. Buffy and Grace were the most precious things in his life, and the perils of their world were far too great for his sanity. Grace snuffled, free hand curling in his jumper, and settled once more. His heart lurched at Buffy’s last question.
“What did you have in mind?”
Buffy closed the bedroom door, offering them a semblance of privacy, so long they kept their voices down. He recalled a housewarming dinner when Xander and Anya had first moved in, and the resulting silence as they all listened to their argument bleed in from the bedroom. Grace had only been a few months old at the time. He could only hope they were preoccupied enough to not listen.
“Crowley.”
“Yes?” he prompted, dreading where she was headed.
“You, Grace, and Mom. I think you’ll be safer away from us. San Francisco’s a six-hour drive. If you leave now, you’ll be there by nightfall.”
“No, Buffy.” He snapped. Grace jolted in his arms, drawn from slumber by the ferocity in his voice. He flinched and soothed her back to sleep. At Buffy’s glare ,he looked away, contrite. “I’m not leaving you,” he hissed over Grace’s head.
“I almost lost my mom,” Buffy’s voice wavered with emotion, “I’m not losing you and Gracie, too.”
Giles drew his glasses from his face, folding them one-handed and stowing them in his jacket pocket. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Dear god, we need a break. Joyce’s sudden ill health had taken its toll on Buffy. In a matter of weeks, they found themselves dealing not only with a baby, but a moody teenager and the uncertainty of Joyce’s health. Despite Joyce’s occasional hostility toward him, they’d survived relatively unscathed—for the most part. Buffy’s shoulders stooped, eyes near sunken with fatigue, skin unnaturally pale with the dark traces of restlessness. He couldn’t recall the last time she’d had a good night’s rest. San Francisco perhaps? Patrols often lasted until the first light of day, and while he and Grace spent most of their time at the Magic Box, Buffy arrived a few hours after them for training and research. Rest had become a luxury.
“Buffy,” he cupped her cheek, “I am not leaving you to face Glory on your own.” And stroked his thumb along her mouth, kissing her gently. “Joyce and Grace will be safe with Bernard. I’ll make a few phone calls. Wesley’s been wanting to see him; perhaps he can accompany them.”
Buffy pressed her head to his other shoulder, and he held her close; his eyes shut at the feel of her other hand brushing over his to hold Grace. The spice of her perfume beckoned him to bury his nose in her hair, to breathe her in and assure himself both she and Grace were safe. For all he knew, this would be the last time the three of them would be together for a while. All his instincts were opposed to the idea. If there was anything in his power he could do to ensure both were safe, he would. The last thing he wanted was to let Grace out of his sight, but he trusted Buffy—and knew his rationality was impaired by his loyalty to her and their daughter.
“I can’t lose you.” Buffy whispered, a patch of moisture collecting at his throat where she rested. “Either of you.”
The despair in her voice was near impossible for him to stomach. He inhaled the spice of her perfume, but it did little to soothe his racing thoughts. At that very moment, he’d do anything to lighten her burden. “S-should we perhaps … send Dawn with them?” he felt her tense against him before she drew away.
“No, we can’t risk Glory following them. If she tracks us down and realises Dawn’s not with us, she’ll wig-out and go full Hell-bitch.” She gathered Grace’s knapsack. “I’ll figure something out. Let’s just get Gracie and Mom out of Sunnydale before Glory regroups.”
Plans made to meet in the alley behind the Magic Box within the hour; they drove across town in silence. In the backseat, Grace slept peacefully despite the growing tension between her parents. A call to San Francisco, Los Angeles, and a record stop at their newly purchased three-bedroom on Weatherly Drive, they rolled to a stop next to Joyce’s black Jeep, near identical to their own. Buffy was out the passenger door before the SUV’s engine was switched off. Giles bit his tongue and reminded himself there were more pressing matters. In the rear-view mirror, he watched their daughter sleep.
Sunlight peered through the window shade, casting golden light across her cherub face, dancing on her long lashes. It struck him then how much Grace had grown in the last month; her first birthday creeping ever closer. Paternal instinct, which he thought he had little of, told him to not let her out of his sight. Bernard and Wesley had promised to keep them safe, and in the event of Glory succeeding, a contingency plan had been made. His hands tightened on the steering wheel. They had to succeed—for their daughter’s sake.
The driver’s side door opened, making him jump in his seat. Giles shot Buffy a look before he was drawn to the murderous figure standing a few feet away on the porch. He slid out of the car and unbuckled Grace from her car seat, carrying her to where Buffy waited for them. Her hand slid in his. A wave of déjà vu swept through him; of them, here, overstrung and gut-shot of Joyce’s possible reaction to Buffy’s pregnancy. Resolved, he curled his hand around Buffy’s and met Joyce, where she waited with folded arms and a scowl that did little to intimidate him these days. Now wasn’t the time for a divided front, no matter how much he disagreed with Buffy’s decision to leave Sunnydale. On closer inspection, Joyce’s panic was well masked by her indifference, and for once he understood where her fear stemmed from.
“Rupert, please tell me my daughter is overreacting.” Joyce’s attention slid to her granddaughter.
He questioned how much Buffy had told her mother. She remained silent beside him; a test, he was sure, to see whether he truly agreed with her resolve to send them to San Francisco. “Buffy’s right, Joyce.” In turn Buffy squeezed his hand out of relief or thanks, at this point it could be either. His own anxiety to get Grace as far away from the potential fallout was mounting. “Glory will stop at nothing until she has the Key,” he faltered. “Tara was only the first casualty.”
“What if they follow us?” Joyce’s frustration teetered somewhere between hysteria and fear.
“They won’t,” Buffy began, “Glory knows, Mom. About Dawn—everything. It’s why you need to take Gracie and leave.”
“Oh, god.” The corners of Joyce’s mouth creased in a firm line. “There has to be something you can do? Buffy?”
“I am doing something!”
“What about Grace? She’s still a baby, and she needs you.”
“I can’t fight a hell-god and take care of a baby at the same time.”
“Well,” the next words were out of Joyce’s mouth before Giles could interject, “you should’ve thought about that before you got yourself pregnant!” Joyce blanched, a hand slapped over her mouth and her eyes darted to Grace, where she dozed on his shoulder. “I-I didn’t mean that. Buffy, I- What do you need me to do?”
In a flurry of activity, Joyce had packed, made a phone call to the gallery to inform the young curator not to expect her for a few days due to a family emergency, and postponed other engagements. Giles found himself loading two large suitcases into the back of their Jeep, next to Grace’s smaller duffle. Through the windshield, he spied Buffy rocking a fussy Grace back to sleep under the old oak tree’s dappled shade. She hadn’t said as much, but he knew the prospect of being away from their daughter for any length of time was eating away at her. Not for the first time since Grace’s birth did he resent their destiny and their duty to it.
Slamming the tailgate shut, he joined them under the old oak. Grace whimpered, face turned in her mother’s neck, small body racked with sobs. It tore at him, like a fist cracking open his ribs to play with his heart. Tightness curled in the pit of his stomach; a bitter aftertaste following in its wake. He recalled Dawn’s shrunken figure, eyes shielded by dark strands of hair, face innocent—yet the hate he dared not speak of flamed in his chest.
Buffy sighed, brows pinched. “Do you think she knows?”
Giles adjusted his glasses, stroking Grace’s hair and patting her back in time with Buffy’s rocking. “It’s possible.” He agreed. Grace had shown great sensitivity to her mother’s moods—something that made him fearful when he lay awake at night, wondering what the world held for his little girl—was it some preordained sign? But he suspected it was due to the utter disregard of her daily routine.
“Are we doing the right thing?”
“Glory has no remorse.” He frowned. “She’ll use Gracie to manipulate you—us. We can’t defeat her and worry about keeping our daughter safe. But you know this.” He cupped Buffy’s cheeks, titling her face towards him.
“I just wanted to hear you say it.”
Giles responded with a grim smile and leaned to press a kiss first to her forehead and then her lips. She returned it with unrestrained passion and a fierceness that terrified him. But not nearly as much as the realisation that he was prepared to do anything to keep them safe.