Buffy bounded up the stairs of the Scoobies' house and headed directly for Willow's room. She paused just outside the door, rapping lightly on the wood and then shifted her weight from foot to foot impatiently. After a second or two had passed without response, the blonde frowned and opened the door slowly, peering inside.

Willow was still in bed, clad in a pair of red flannel pajamas. The covers were almost entirely ripped away from the empty side and bunched around Willow at odd angles. Even more amusing was that at some point, Willow had kicked half of them off, but still clutched a fistful of sheets and blanket possessively.

Grinning madly, Buffy crept fully into the room. Willow didn't move a muscle, deeply asleep and even snoring ever so lightly. The Slayer considered the bed with an appraising eye, then ran toward it. Launching herself into the air at the last second, Buffy landed solidly on the empty side, sending Willow bouncing into the air. The redhead squeaked in alarm, her eyes flying open. She very nearly rolled off the mattress entirely, but somehow managed to stay on. Wild-eyed and with a terrible case of bed-hair, Willow's head whipped around frantically for her attacker.

Only Buffy could be found, lying casually next to Willow, her head propped up by one elbow and huge cheesy grin plastered to her face despite, or perhaps because of, Willow's glower. "I wanted girl talk and got tired of waiting," the Slayer stated cheerfully without the slightest hint of remorse.

Willow groaned and flopped down again, pulling the nearest pillow over her head.

"Oh no you don't." The Slayer easily yanked the pillow away. Willow shot her the most fearsome glare she could manage at that moment, but Buffy was clearly, irritatingly, completely immune. "You have dirt and I wannit," she insisted.

"No dirt. This is a dirt-free zone, sterilized and hermetically sealed."

"And that's why you didn't come home until six in the morning?"

Buffy waggled her eyebrows suggestively. Willow bonked her in the head with a spare pillow.

"We were talking, you perv," the witch said with bottomless exasperation.

Still Buffy's mind was on a singular track and refused to be deterred by such silly and unimportant things like facts. "So that's what they're calling it now?" she asked with an innocence that could never hope to be genuine.

Willow rolled her eyes as she spoke to the ceiling. "God, someone in this room is in serious need of a good—"

"But enough about me," Buffy hastily interrupted before her face displayed extreme disappointment. "Seriously, nothing? Zippo on the best friend shareage front? No cuddles, no smoochies?"

Grinning indulgently, Willow rolled her head to the left and regarded her best friend. "Buff, what part'a 'gay now' was left open to interpretation?"

"Well, yeah, I know," she quickly defended, "but ... it's Oz."

"It is. And I love Oz, but I don't love love Oz, you know? I made my choice a long time ago."

"Oh." Buffy's disappointment in a failed reconciliation lasted only for the briefest of moments, and she soon brightened. "But the talking, that was good?"

Smiling happily, Willow nodded, although the gesture seemed awkward given that she was still sprawled on the bed. "It was. He's doing really well, with the 'grr' thing. Oh, an' his band? They actually have a couple of record companies asking for demo tapes." The redhead glowed with pride, as though this were somehow a personal achievement.

"That's really great," agreed Buffy wholeheartedly. "Good for him."

"And you can tell he's really excited about it, too, cuz when he told me?" She made a cutting motion in the air for emphasis. "His tone of voice actually changed."

Buffy's jaw dropped and she gaped at Willow, drawing on every ounce of power she possessed to exaggerate her shock to epic proportions. "Get out."

"Strange but true," the redhead confirmed solemnly, and then her expression and tone grew serious. "I admit, though – I'm kinda worried about him."

"In what way?" questioned Buffy with concern.

"Well ..." Willow pushed herself up from the bed, and she turned to face Buffy directly, tucking her legs beneath her. Buffy moved as well, shifting from her reclining position until she was in one that mirrored the redhead's. Willow sighed slightly before continuing. "We talked about pretty much everything last night, and ... I dunno, it seems like he's in sort of a ... a holding pattern? I mean, I don't think he's even had a date since Sunnydale." Willow's expression was suddenly profoundly sad. "I think he's lonely."

"Maybe he's just not ready," the blonde suggested.

"Maybe," agreed Willow, drawing the word out thoughtfully. "But it's not the wolf. He says he has complete control of it now, and I believe him. A–And I don't think it's his music, or his work with the others ..." She shook her head, unable to come up with any other possible deterrents. "I dunno."

Smirking, Buffy pointed out, "Well you are a pretty tough act to follow."

"Don't get me wrong, that's flattering as all heck," the witch admitted with a grin, "but I want him to find someone else. He's such a great guy, Buffy, he deserves to be happy. I just want him to be happy."

Buffy chewed over the puzzle for a minute before responding. "I guess when you think you've found The One – capital 'tee', capital 'oh' – moving on isn't as easy as it sounds. Even when you don't have any other choice," she lamented.

The words – and more importantly, the truth behind them – settled around the two friends, and they received a simultaneous flash of insight. The look they shared made it perfectly clear that they were each suddenly empathizing only too well with Oz's plight.

Anxious to not dwell on unpleasant topics so early in the day, Buffy bounced off the bed and to her feet. "But enough of this maudlin-ness," she announced with authority. "Xander's already gone to the Vortex to hang with Oz for a bit, and we are going to do the same." The blonde completely ignored Willow's pleading glance at the clock, happily displaying the time to be 9:37, heedless of tired little witches who stayed out too late. "The band's only in town for a few more days, and I say we milk 'em for all they're worth. If we hang around them enough now, we can maybe be on their VH-1 'Behind the Music' special when they get all big and famous."

"And if that isn't incentive for getting out of bed, I dunno what is," grumbled Willow, reluctantly swinging her legs off the bed.

On stage at the Vortex, Three Moon Tuesday roadies were conducting sound checks and fine-tuning audio equipment while the vocalist and keyboard player worked the kinks out of some new harmonies. On the podium, the drummer adjusted the set-up of his kit and then began to polish his cymbals to a brilliant shine. Perched upon a high stool near the drummer's podium, ankles curled around the legs of the chair, the bassist strummed absent-mindedly on her six-string and clutched the instrument tightly to her chest as though it were a security blanket. Her eyes were fixed firmly on a table in the center of the room, where Oz was engaged in conversation with Xander.

Just beyond the fringe of the stage, Dawn chattered in an animated fashion to a young boy lounging on the corner of the platform, the design on his oversized black sweatshirt ostensibly proclaiming him to be a Spider-Man enthusiast. With delicate features, tousled wheaten hair, and eyes an unusually striking shade of green, the kid was nodding politely and seemed to be listening to Dawn's babble, but his demeanor was one of distraction and his expression somewhat troubled. Obviously not particularly eager to be participating in chitchat, he swung his legs back-and-forth, heels striking the wooden base of the stage with a dull thud every other second. Seemingly oblivious to his lack of verbal enthusiasm, Dawn exuded more than enough for the both of them.

"... I find it leaves a real lasting impression," Xander stated with much conviction. "I'm talkin' serious, heavy duty, no holds barred, engrained in your head for the rest of your life effect, my friend."

"You're certainly passionate," replied Oz.

"Damned right I'm passionate!" exclaimed the carpenter. "I searched years for results like this! ...well okay, three weeks. But those were three long, arduous weeks, not to be scoffed at."

Oz nodded. "Absolutely. I'll also be abstaining from flouting or gibing."

Xander's head bobbed in a wholehearted fashion as he drove his point home. "So take it from a man who's been around – a man who knows. You need only remember these three simple words: Mop 'n' Glo. Mop. 'nnn'. Glo."

"I always pegged you for a Pine Sol man," commented Oz wryly.

The carpenter let out a sigh of utter contentment. "See this is what I've been missing. Real man-oh-ah-man-oh discussions. I mean don't get me wrong, Buffy an' Willow are great, but for the love of testosterone, huh?"

"I've always ranked it among my personal top three hormones," agreed the lead guitarist.

Balancing on the rim of a bar stool, a brightly smiling Dawn continued to effervesce at her preoccupied companion. The boy scuttled a little further back onto the floor of the stage and Dawn scooted her chair closer.

"So, Toby," she said, twisting her neck in order to catch his attention, "hangin' out with a band. That's gotta be cool."

Toby shrugged and stared at the design on his sweatshirt. "It's okay."

"Sounds exciting to me," Dawn virtually gushed. "Always going from place to place, new cities to see and explore ..."

"I guess," the boy conceded. "But it gets a little ... tedious? I mean, just when you think you've maybe found some place nice, it's time to run again."

A frown creased Dawn's forehead. "Run?"

Toby flashed her a nervous glance. "Move on," he clarified quickly. "Move on again. To the next gig. Stability's underrated."

Dawn wrinkled her nose. "I suppose. I dunno though, it can be boring. Sometimes I feel so stable, I think they should start modeling buildings in California on me!" She chuckled, but the giggle sounded lame and Toby simply stared. "You know," she added "cuz'a earthquakes and designing stable, shake-proof buildings, and okay, just forget I said anything."

Turning away momentarily, Dawn gave a small self-conscious cough, took a deep breath and then plunged back into the conversation. "If you don't like it, why don't you stop?"

Swiveling, the boy earnestly regarded the band's bassist, still strumming the strings of her instrument with an inattentive air. His eyes grew clouded and sorrowful. "Sometimes you gotta do stuff. Even if you don't want to, y'know?"

Dawn nodded emphatically. "Boy, tell me about it! Just the other day Buffy – Buffy's my sister – anyway, Buffy was all like, 'No, you can't stay up until 2am on a school night!', and I'm all, 'But if I don't catch this show, I'm gonna be left out and ostracized by my peers', and then she's entirely unsympathetic and says ..."

Xander leaned across the table. "I still think this'd be a little freaktacular. I mean, how do you make sure everyone's in line and not sneaking off at night to trip the wolf fantastic?" he asked skeptically.

Oz rocked back in his chair and folded his arms. "Restraints, for those who can't control it yet," he supplied.

The carpenter was somewhat cynical. "And that's safe?"

Oz hesitated briefly before replying. "Safer than leaving behind someone who can't work through the urge."

"Huh," the carpenter mused. "Well, you have more patience than I. But then, we knew that. You know, it sucks that you'll be leaving again so soon. Nothing we can bribe you with to get you to stay?"

Before the lead guitarist could answer, the door to the club burst open and a sparkling stream of winter sun flooded the dimly lit interior. Buffy and Willow entered, arm-in-arm with heads together, alternately whispering and breaking into peals of delighted laughter. Oz squinted at the bright light but otherwise never took his eyes from the redhead as the pair approached his table and settled themselves down.

"Mornin' stranger," grinned Willow. Oz returned the enthusiastic greeting with one of his enigmatic smiles. "Gosh," she continued, "it's been so long since I saw ya last, I almost forgot whatcha look like!"

"Much like before," he admitted. "Only more so."

"How'd everything go last night?" queried the Slayer with a tiny frown.

Oz vacillated, but only for the fraction of a second and nobody appeared to notice his slight hesitation. "You know. Pretty much normal. Lots of howling."

"Because last night I–" Buffy stopped suddenly, noticing Dawn and Toby by the stage. "Is that Dawn?" she asked sharply.

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously at the chiming of Dawn's excessive laughter and then her face adopted a stern expression as her sister reached out to touch the boy's arm. Abruptly, the Slayer's jaw dropped.

"Is that Dawn flirting?" she demanded of nobody in particular. Nonetheless, all heads turned in the direction of the young couple.

"Reply hazy," reported Oz. "Try again."

Buffy stared aghast as Dawn flipped her hair over one shoulder and giggled loudly once more.

"Aaaand we have flirting confirmation," verified Willow with a broad grin.

"Yup," nodded Xander with authority. "She's definitely doin' her best to dazzle and enchant with her shiny hair."

The Slayer was totally astounded. "I can't believe she's flirting! Why is she flirting?"

Her challenge was directed at Xander, then Willow, then Oz. The three exchanged a look of stunned surprise.

"Cuz she's a seventeen an' doesn't have a boyfriend?" suggested the redhead with raised eyebrows.

"Exactly!" Buffy snorted with self-righteous indignation. "Seventeen! Half of which is less than nine! Too young for boyfriend!"

"Buff," prompted the carpenter, "I feel compelled to point out that at seventeen, not only did you have a boyfriend, but he was, like, fourteen times your age, and went all charmingly psychopathic when ya ... y'know ... gave him the grande muy mucho happy. Again – feelin' the need to point out – at seventeen."

Buffy's mouth jerked soundlessly for a moment, then she found her voice once more. "So ... she ... should ... learn from my example. Yes. And now I will go. To example-fy. And possibly threaten."

Without further ado, Buffy leapt to her feet and stomped purposefully toward Dawn and Toby. With much trepidation, the others watched her go.

"I forgot the frightening intensity," remarked a sardonic Oz.

Xander shrugged and grinned cheerfully, "That's our Buffy! She's so wacky."

"Like a sitcom next-door neighbor who becomes way more popular than the rest of the cast, and so they go and give him his own show," announced Willow. "Only it's never as funny as the real sitcom because whose house is he going to burst into unannounced now? And what's he gonna do, borrow his own lawnmower and not return it?" The redhead expelled a puff of air and waved her had, arbitrarily dismissing sitcom neighbor spin-offs everywhere.

"Right," agreed the carpenter with a hint of sarcasm. "Just like that. Only without the laugh track or the painfully hollow morals or the actually being a neighbor." He gaped at Willow incredulously. "Where do you come up with this stuff?"

Willow tossed her head with a high and mighty gesture. "You cannot hope to understand the secret depths of my mind," she told him haughtily.

"And believe me," retorted Xander, "both I and my sanity are eternally grateful for that fact."

Wrinkling her nose, the redhead stuck out her tongue at the carpenter, who quickly mimicked the sentiment. Oz shook his head slightly at the apparent regression and then looked over in Buffy's direction. The Slayer and the boy were standing nose-to-nose. Indeed, although Buffy was on tiptoe in order to do so, she actually appeared to be looming over the youngster although Toby was a good foot taller, albeit that he was cowering from the confrontation.

On the other hand, Dawn had visibly shrunk at least a foot-and-a-half since Buffy's arrival. She seemed to be wishing that she could die, or that Buffy would die, or that maybe they could both die, that would be good too.

"The Dawn thing's still got me," Oz reflected. "It's, like, I met her years ago, but until yesterday, I hadn't met her at all." He lapsed into contemplative silence before summing up the situation with an introspected "Huh."

"Yeah, best not to dwell on it. It's sorta brain melty material," Willow commiserated.

The trio at the table continued to watch Buffy's intimidation for a few seconds more and then the redhead's attention diverted to the petite bassist still perched on the stool. The girl's eyes continued to be transfixed upon Oz, but when she noticed Willow's gaze, she ducked her head shyly and looked away. The witch frowned.

"Who's that?" she asked Oz, unable to stifle her curiosity.

Oz glanced over his shoulder. "Oh," he replied with a fond smile. "That's Jemma. She's the bass guitarist."

Xander swiveled in his seat searching out the object of their conversation. "She can strum my bass any–," he began appreciatively and then took note of the stares being directed at him from Oz and Willow. Oz quirked an eyebrow while Willow gawked, eyes wide and unbelieving.

Xander was suitably abashed. "I'm doing that 'talking' thing again," muttered the carpenter. "I thought I broke that habit. Bad Xander. Xander quiet now." He sipped on his drink and averted his gaze toward the ceiling.

"She looks a little freaked," remarked the redhead as she appraised Jemma from a distance.

Oz tilted his head. "Might have something to do with Buffy swinging a chair at her brother," he deadpanned.

Willow grinned and leapt to her feet. "I think it's time for me to network!" she announced as she cheerfully bounded over to the bass guitarist. With confounded expressions, Oz and Xander watched her leave.

"Behold the secret depths of her mind," stated a mystified Xander.

By the time the witch had reached Jemma, the performer's attention was riveted upon the exchange taking place between her brother and Buffy. The Slayer was still ranting and raving, hands placed resolutely on hips in a threatening stance. Toby, however, appeared completely at a loss for words as he shrank further and further back onto the stage, apparently hoping that a deep chasm would materialize into which he could plunge headfirst.

Willow positioned herself between Jemma and the ongoing drama. "Hey," she beamed brightly.

Startled, the guitarist instinctively responded with a shrill, "Hey!" She blinked timidly for a moment and then seemed to calm down. "Hey," she repeated softly.

"Nice guitar," complimented the redhead. "Is it a, uhm ... a–a Bender?"

Jemma frowned. "A ... bender?" she queried.

"Yeah," confirmed the witch. "Bender. No, wait, that's the robot on 'Futurama'." She frowned.

Jemma smiled bashfully. "You mean Fender," she corrected nervously.

Willow nodded with enthusiasm and Jemma's smile grew a shade less reserved.

"It's not," she said quietly, "but thanks for thinking so. You've given it quite an ego-boost."

"And if you can't make a musical instrument feel better about itself, then you're just a lousy stinkin' sorry excuse for a human being," the redhead stated with certainty.

Jemma chuckled and the eyes which regarded the witch timorously grew a little more friendly.

Taking this to be a good sign, Willow hopped up onto the stage and tracked down a vacant stool. She dragged it over next to the guitarist and grinned. After a few moments of silence, during which Jemma returned to gazing at Oz and Willow closely observed Jemma's expression, the witch smirked knowingly.

"So, part'a the band ... You're a wolf too, huh?" she asked of Jemma, her face beaming once more.

Jemma's eyes grew wide and wary. "Me? N–No! No, not me. Toby. My brother," she told Willow, gesturing with her head.

Willow's gaze wandered to where the confrontation had been taking place. Ostensibly done with her ranting and raving, at least for the time being, the Slayer was sitting with arms crossed over her chest in an authoritative manner, glowering at Dawn, whose face was the approximate color of a newly boiled lobster.

"He's a wolf? queried Willow. Jemma nodded. "Oh, good," sighed the witch sarcastically, "because Buffy didn't have enough ammo. Poor Dawnie."

"Toby's a good kid," insisted his sister. "Just kinda on edge right now. It's a hard time for him. For all of us."

Willow nodded with understanding. "He's new, then?" Jemma confirmed with a slight inclination of her head. "It's hard, I know," continued the witch. "When someone you love has to go through that. The feeling that there's not a whole heck of a lot you can do for them."

Jemma propped her guitar against the stool and twisted her hands in her lap, a guilty expression creeping over her face.

Willow wrinkled her nose. "Tip?" she suggested gently. "Don't read Call of the Wild – not quite the soothing fare you're looking for. Oo! Maybe Clifford books instead! Never tried that one."

Jemma chuckled, her self-imposed blame lifting a little. "You're Willow, right?" she queried.

"Right," verified the witch. "Gah, sorry. My manners stayed in bed this morning." She beamed anew before adding, "And you're Jemma."

The bass guitarist appeared astounded that Willow should be in possession of such knowledge. "Oz mentioned," divulged the redhead in a whisper.

"Yeah, that's how I knew," Jemma returned. "Oz. He ... He talks about you. A lot." She paused and a tiny frown creased her forehead. "Or, well not a lot," she quickly explained. "He doesn't really talk a lot. But comparatively speaking."

Willow rolled her eyes in agreement. "Great guy, that Oz," she said simply, casting a glance sideways in order to make note of the younger girl's reaction.

Jemma blushed. The pinkish tinge lent a glow to her cheeks, enhancing the pale blue shimmer of her eyes as she absent-mindedly ruffled her layered cap of hair.

"Yeah," she sighed, her blush deepening. "He sure is."

Reaction received and duly processed, Willow's smile widened as her attention focused first on Jemma and then on Oz. With a visible twinkle, the witch wrapped her arms around herself and hugged.

Kennedy's room remained almost entirely spartan. A punching bag hung from the far right corner of the room and a rowing machine occupied the space across from it in the opposite corner. The only other adornment in the room was a cheap calendar, currently depicting a tree well within the grips of autumn. It was the sort of calendar that everyone seemed to have, but nobody ever paid for, and such was likely the case here as well. Regardless of how she had come across it, however, Kennedy had made full use of it and the boxes of days underneath the picture were scrawled with notes and times for her various classes and sessions at Slayer Central. Practically no box remained untouched; Kennedy's time was filled near to capacity with Slaying duties of one kind or another.

The bed and a bookcase bearing only three random books that appeared to have been tossed inside took up the remainder of the room's space. The bed was still unmade, but Dawn didn't mind. She'd claimed one of the corners and was perched on it, seething in righteous anger. Kennedy, working out on the rowing machine, was bearing the brunt of Dawn's venting.

"And then she – oh my god, get this – and then she says, 'I break five two-by-fours as easily as you'd snap a toothpick. Imagine what that would do to guys who got grabby with my sister.'"

The Slayer chuckled appreciatively. "That's good, I'll have to remember that one." Dawn glared furiously but Kennedy only shrugged, unwilling to apologize or retract the comment.

This did little to soothe Dawn's fury. "I just don't get it! When she was my age, she'd been Slaying for two years! She'd already saved the world! She died. Why can't I talk to a boy without her getting all butch ..." She cast a wary eye at the Slayer. "... Cassidy about it?" she added lamely.

Kennedy didn't seem to notice. As she spoke, her workout never faltered once, and her breathing was steady and even. "Well you're her sister. It's a sister-thing."

"No," the teenager argued, "a sister-thing is to steal my clothes without asking. This is an insane-out-of-control-parental thing. She's like every over-protective TV dad ever created, all rolled into one short blonde package and I hate it."

"I don't think she does it to piss you off." The Slayer considered that statement carefully. "I mean, she might ... but I don't think so." Shrugging, she continued, "The whole monk thing you were telling me about? Sounds like they scrambled her brains, kinda hardwired her into 'Protect Dawn' mode. Though I don't think that's all it is. I think she just loves you and wants you to be safe."

"I can be safe!" Dawn protested, throwing her hands in the air. "I can have a life and be safe! I've gotta make her see that, because this?" Her wave encompassed years of sibling unfairness. "I can't take this any more! The choices are very simple: she stops, or I kill her!"

The rowing machine slowed and then stopped. Kennedy considered Dawn thoughtfully, biting her bottom lip as her gaze narrowed. "I think I can help you out with that ..."

Initially, Dawn looked extremely hopeful and expectant, then a different, more sinister, possibility wormed its way into her head and her eyes widened. "I–I don't mean really ... kill her. I mean, yeah, sure, she's irritating, but I kinda like having her around." Dawn brushed the suggestion aside. "Besides, if you kill her, she just comes back."

Rolling her eyes, Kennedy resumed rowing. "Not with the killing. The stopping. I think part of the problem is that Buffy still has this image of you, and she's having trouble shaking it. So what we need to do is give her a new image. Show her you can take care of yourself, and maybe she'll let the leash slack a bit."

"Take care of myself?" Dawn repeated in an interesting tone that clearly said she was liking this idea already.

The Slayer nodded. "Yeah. You know, self-defense, learn a few moves. I know you're not too bad with a sword, but I'm thinking more hand-to-hand stuff, since you can't really carry a sword around all the time. Or, well, you can, but the long coats get really hot in summer."

"You'd teach me?" The teenager's eyes were bright and shining.

"Sure."

"Oh my god, that's so awesome!" enthused Dawn, bouncing in place on the bed.

"Fills up more time in my day," Kennedy replied off-handedly.

Realizing now that Kennedy's offer wasn't entirely altruistic, Dawn's exuberance became more subdued. "You know you really should talk to her," she encouraged gently.

"You know you really should let it go, or I become Slayer-exclusive," was the counter.

Unwilling to lose this opportunity, Dawn grinned and let the matter drop. "Deal."

Kennedy nodded, short and final, keeping her rowing smooth and constant. "Okay then. Oh, and ... don't tell Buffy. It'll make it that much better when you can surprise her, right?

Smirking, the teenager added, "Plus she can't tell us not to if she doesn't know."

"There's that," agreed Kennedy.

Dawn leaned forward excitedly. "Think you can teach me how to do the pinch, like Xena?"

'Are you nuts?' was unspoken, but very clearly implied. Kennedy decided to halt that little train of thought before it started. "So some ground rules ..."

"No aside comments. No sarcasm," cautioned Giles.

Buffy rolled her eyes.

"No rolling your eyes," he quickly added. "And above all else, no questions about my shirt."

Standing in the center of the private training room, the Watcher was wearing a pair of jogging pants and a gray t-shirt which read "/(bb|[^b]{2})/". The Slayer, also decked in workout gear, leaned on the hilt of a large and heavy broadsword.

She tilted her head. "But what does it mean?"

"That would be a question," was the tart response. "Now come on."

Hefting his sword with both hands, Giles launched an attack. Buffy, balancing her weapon in one fist, easily parried. She shuffled to one side, a bemused smile on her face as she continued to fixate upon the gray shirt bearing the mysterious message.

"Slash, bracket, bee, bee," she read wrinkling her nose. "Little line thingie, bracket—"

"You're still on about the shirt," accused the Watcher.

"I'm reading," Buffy countered. "You didn't say no reading, you said no questions. That wasn't a question."

"Yes, all right," Giles conceded with an irritated sigh.

"This is a question: Why are you wearing it?" asked Buffy brightly.

Giles lowered his sword and then swiftly raised it again as the Slayer charged. "Because my other workout clothes are currently in need of laundering, and I haven't yet taken the time."

Halting in mid-assault, Buffy regarded her Watcher with extreme amusement. "Why Giles, are you actually acting like a bachelor?"

"The moment I begin subsisting on inferior American beers and tins of canned meat, then by all means, point out whatever you like," snapped an aggravated Giles. "Until then, keep your arm straight and remember to watch my eyes." He thrust forward but the Slayer simply dodged out of harm's way and then cocked her head at the shirt's enigmatic content.

"Why'd you even buy a shirt if you don't know what it says?" she asked. "It could say anything. It could say 'I'm a hunka hunka British-guy love'."

"I doubt that very much," came the sardonic reply.

The Slayer shrugged, "Me too, actually. Nothing there looks like 'hunka'."

"And I didn't buy it. It was a gift," Giles hastened to add.

Buffy was instantaneously intrigued. "A gift? Ooo, from your estranged sweetie-honey? Maybe it does say 'I'm a hunka—'"

"It does not, and no. Willow gave it to me. She seemed to think it ... charming in some fashion," he protested firmly.

The Slayer pouted. "Willow, huh? I didn't get a strange, indecipherable pressie for no good reason. I'm jealous."

"I'd give you mine if you meant you'd pay more attention to this lesson," stated Giles with conviction. "Now stop just automatically blocking my blows. It's very annoying."

Sighing the sigh of the supremely put-upon, Buffy widened her eyes until they were mockingly large and began to pay far too much obvious attention to the Watcher's onslaught. To his chagrin, she continued to block and counter-swing with an ease that was somewhat eerie.

Several minutes of swinging and parrying continued until Giles cleared his throat. "Buffy ..." he began nervously.

The Slayer huffed. "What, now I can't even think about the shirt?"

The Watcher peered through his glasses. "What? No. Not that ... I have something to tell you."

Buffy slowed down the arc of her hefty sweeps until the sword came to a stop. "Sounds serious."

"Hopefully not," intimated Giles, "but ... just in case ..."

"Okay," the Slayer replied cautiously, trying to make light of things but obviously fearing the worse. "What is it? Are they changing my conditioner formula?"

"It's the Hellmouth." He carefully rested his sword against the wall and waited for a reaction.

"You mean Tri-Mouth," Buffy censured sharply.

Giles ran his fingers through his hair and then crossed his arms. "No, I mean Hellmouth. The Sunnydale Hellmouth." He frowned at himself, trying to find the best way to explain things. "Or, well, perhaps not the Hellmouth itself, but- but Sunnydale."

Her eyes widening for a split second, Buffy rested her sword next to Giles' weapon and crossed her arms. "Okay, you've got my attention ..."

"I received a call from the Coven last night," the Watcher explained. "Last month some time they noticed a surge of mystical energies over the Hellmouth. They've been trying since then to- to somehow get a reading on- on what exactly is happening."

"And ...?" queried a wary Buffy.

"Well, they can't really tell. The energies used there were extraordinarily potent. Their seers haven't been able to get a fix on anything specific," Giles admitted regretfully.

"They can't just ..." The Slayer paused to flick her fingers into the air. "... bamf on over and check it out?"

A pensive expression crossed Giles' face. "Unfortunately not. Again, the mystical forces are far too disruptive. By the same token, they can't risk sending anyone in a more conventional sense to investigate. Not without some idea of what could be happening there."

Buffy's voice became strained. "So what're we talking ... Nasty tentacled beasties? Dimensional barriers coming down? Hell on Earth? Cuz we've so been there."

The Watcher reached out a consoling hand. "Buffy ..."

She shrugged away the comforting gesture. "I thought we were done with Sunnydale, Giles. The Hellmouth is closed. Remember you telling me that?" She struggled to summon a reasonable facsimile of his accent. It was very poor. "'The Hellmouth is closed'."

Despite the seriousness of the issue, the Watcher couldn't help but flash an amused smile. "It is closed. I'm certain of it," he reiterated. "I don't know what this is, but it's not the Hellmouth."

Buffy rubbed the back of neck, wincing at the tension she found there. "I hope you're right, cuz that thing's killed me twice already, and I'm not anxious to give it a shot at best of three."

"It would be best of five, actually," the Watcher corrected automatically, quickly dropping the issue under Buffy's glare. "I understand. I just thought you should know. I'll keep you and everyone appraised of the Coven's findings. In the meantime, please, don't let it worry you too much. There's far too much here at home that needs your attention."

The silence which ensued, as Buffy glared sulkily at Giles and Giles attempted to smile reassuringly at his Slayer, was broken by Xander bursting through the door with a loud declaration of "Buffy!"

Both Buffy and Giles turned toward him. Sensing his urgency, the Slayer asked quickly, "What is it?"

"It was just on the news. Last night," panted the carpenter. "An attack. This kid – they found his body in the park, near Holton Street." He paused for a moment and grimaced as his complexion took on a vaguely green tinge. "It was ... ugh. They said he was mauled, some kind of wild animal."

"Animal attack," confirmed the Slayer. Spinning on her heel, she faced Giles. "I knew you shouldn't have said that thing about trouble here at home."

"I'm thinkin' maybe lions and tigers ...?" pondered Xander.

"And wolves," added Buffy, her tone flat and angry.

Giles removed his glasses and began to polish them with the hem of his shirt. "Oh, my."

"Oz," spat the Slayer. The name sounded almost like a curse. Her eyes narrowed as she looked from Giles to Xander. "I knew there were wolves here, wolves they couldn't control." She shook her head and balled her hands into fists. "And I didn't do anything."

"Buffy, you couldn't have known," Giles told her softly. "Oz assured you—"

The Slayer agreed, but her tone was cold and harsh. "That's right. Oz assured me. Let's see how assuring he can be now."

vXander and Giles stood motionless as Buffy stormed out of the room.

"Wouldn't wanna be Mr. Stoicism right now," remarked the carpenter. The Watcher replaced his glasses and shook his head in soundless but absolute agreement.

"So," said Xander, his eye fixed firmly on Giles' chest. "What's up with the shirt?"

Buffy rounded the corner of the Vortex, heading toward the side lot where bands could park to easily load and unload their equipment on stage. Oz's van was parked just outside. The vehicle's exterior paintwork was plastered with stickers of all shapes, sizes, colors and designs – mementos of the places he'd visited. A curtain of multi-colored beads was suspended from the ceiling, separating the back from the front. It was obvious that the rear of the van had served as a lodging for more than one night. There were rolled-up sleeping bags stacked in a corner, together with a few piles of assorted clothing scattered about the floor and a box of various musical paraphernalia, such as picks, extra guitar strings and a few spare drumsticks.

What immediately drew Buffy's attention, however, were the van's owner and his visitor. The side door had been rolled back and Oz was perched at the entrance, his legs dangling over the cement below. Standing nearby, leaning against the vehicle's side was Toby. The boy's head was lowered with his eyes cast to the ground, and they were talking in low voices.

At the Slayer's appearance, the conversation came to an abrupt halt. A momentary flash of fear and something else appeared in Toby's eyes. He looked to Oz for guidance and the guitarist simply nodded his head. It was all the encouragement Toby needed, and he quickly jogged away, casting a final glance at Buffy over his shoulder before he rounded the corner out of sight.

"Buffy," called Oz to the figure that was rapidly approaching. "Hey."

Buffy's eyes narrowed as she stared after Toby. "We need to talk," she told Oz crisply.

"Okay," he easily agreed, giving her his complete attention.

Buffy folded her arms across her chest. "Last night. A boy was attacked." She scrutinized Oz's face but although his eyes widened slightly, it was otherwise as enigmatic as ever. "Killed," she stated matter-of-factly. "The police think it was some sort of wild animal attack, a bear or bobcat."

"A wolf," suggested Oz.

Buffy nodded her agreement. "I think so. Full moon last night, and knowing what you can do—"

Oz held up his hand, effectively halting the current flow. "I didn't do this. I wouldn't."

Rounding the corner of the Vortex, Jemma froze as she saw Buffy and Oz deeply embroiled in their exchange. Quickly, she ducked back out of sight and pressed herself fully against the side of the building. Her expression was apprehensive but she strained to hear as much as the conversation as possible without moving closer.

"I don't think it was you," Buffy continued. Her tone had softened considerably. "But Oz, you've got a whole pack of unknowns here. People you yourself admit can't control what happens to them."

Oz remained stoic. "We restrain whoever needs it. We don't let them just run around."

Buffy sighed. "I'm sure you don't let them, but ... Did anyone get out last night? Get free?"

Pressing a tight fist to her mouth, Jemma inhaled sharply. An expression of intense worry crept into her eyes.

"No," maintained a confident Oz.

Buffy pressed further. "No one."

She frowned at Oz's negative shake of the head and studied him intently. Her entire stance screamed of disbelief, and she couldn't stop herself from glancing again in the direction that Toby had taken minutes before.

"You know I'll stop whoever's doing this," she told him.

He paused, but only for a heartbeat. "I know."

The Slayer's face was stony in its determination. "I will not let one more innocent person die."

"You're the Slayer," conceded Oz. "Protecting the innocent's what you do."

Behind the wall, Jemma bit her lip and wrung her hands. Turning to leave, Buffy looked back over her shoulder at Oz, but his expression was unreadable.

Cautiously, Jemma peeked around the wall and then darted back when she realized that Buffy would very soon be heading in her direction. Flattening herself against the bricks, she felt her way along until she found the side door to the Vortex and hopefully turned the handle. With a sigh of relief, she crept inside just in time to avoid the retreating Buffy.

Oz watched Buffy's departure with a thinly disguised frown. Her stride was decisive, her posture regulated and her spine straight. He nodded thoughtfully to himself, seeming to acknowledge the personal recognition of full Slayer mode when he saw it. He blew out a deep puff of repressed air as she disappeared around the corner.