"It was just her and me. Me an' Will. The two musketeers."

Wood peered at Xander from over the top of his beer glass. "I don't think that's an actual expression."

The carpenter brushed away the comment. "Is now. Anyway, it's kinda funny how we almost weren't."

Andrew wriggled excitedly in his seat. "I smell a story!"

"Just a little one. See, way back, when Will was a precocious little tyke of four, her parents pulled a lot of strings to get her into kindergarten early. We'd had a babysitter in common and were already kinda friends, so we both sort of gravitated toward each other." He shrugged. "That part's history. Anyway, all was well for the first couple'a months. Paintings were made with fingers, Legos were put to much use." Xander's expression darkened. "Then one day, Will's parents told her the unthinkable."

"That Santa Claus wasn't real?" Andrew guessed. He shook his head sadly. "I wouldn't talk to my parents for two years when they told me."

Dragging himself away from the close examination of his beer glass, Giles regarded the blond with as much disdain as he could muster – which, it turned out, was quite a lot. "Willow is Jewish," he sighed in exasperation.

"She didn't know she was Jewish until kindergarten?" asked Andrew, obviously feeling a great deal of sympathy for poor, young, religiously-ignorant Willow.

For a long moment, everyone simply stared.

Then Xander continued his narrative as though he'd never been interrupted. "They told her they were movin' her to a private school. Turns out the teacher had been payin' real close attention to our Willow, an' noticed how ... you know—" He waggled his hands around his brain region. "—freakishly smart she is. So she told the Rosenbergs that Will'd probably do better in some accelerated private school thingie."

Nodding, Wood set his glass down. "I taught at one of those for a while. They make cram schools look like day care."

"'Course, in traditional Rosenberg style, they just told her they were switchin' her out, an' figured she'd just go along with it."

"I'm guessing they were in for a rude awakening?" Wood questioned with a wry grin.

"Oh yeah," replied Xander emphatically. "Apparently the first thing Will asked was if I was goin' too." He smiled affectionately at the thought, then shook his head. "'Course my parents only barely knew if I went to school at all, an' as for actually paying for the privilege?" The sharp exhalation of air said all he obviously felt needed be said to that idea.

"So what did our resident ex-dark mistress do next?" inquired Andrew, prodding the story along.

With a chuckle, Xander answered, "Screamed and cried, I think. A whole lot. The details are kinda fuzzy, since I wasn't there, an' apparently after an hour or so, Will finally passed out." The carpenter seemed to swell with pride for the redhead as he continued, "She wouldn't cave, though."

Pausing for a moment, he took a few swallows of his Coke, narrowly avoiding an ice avalanche as he tipped the glass all the way back. "They finally decided that her social development would probably suffer anyway, an' left her in regular school." He gave an exaggerated scoffing laugh. "Like that could ever happen. Willow? Socially deficient in some way? That's just crazy talk."

Xander grinned at the Watcher, who had fallen silent once more. "Still, just as well, eh Giles? Will in private school woulda meant no Will in Sunnydale High, an' that would've meant many more boring hours of research for us."

"Yes, I suppose," came the distracted, almost bored reply. It was followed by another sigh, and Giles looked up with a frown. "Why are we discussing this again?"

Giving the question due consideration, Xander eventually replied, "I was talking about how some stuff should be kept apart, like submarines and screen doors. You said—" The carpenter's adopted an embarrassingly horrific British accent. "—'Xander do shut up'."

Quick to help out, Andrew supplied, "Oh, and then I said—" His voice dropped a register. "—'A can of peaches. A Denebian slime devil. A wet nap. Which does not belong?'" Speaking normally, he continued, "And then you guys said—"

"Shut up, Andrew," Giles, Wood and Xander all chorused.

"Yes, exactly!" the blond affirmed with great enthusiasm. Enthusiasm that quickly began to taper off as reality reasserted itself. "Oh, you meant ... now." Andrew slurped some more of his drink and said nothing else.

"I'm very sorry I asked," announced Giles in a flat, almost aggravated tone before returning his attentions to studying the rapidly de-foaming beer before him.

Xander's concern at Giles' withdrawal evident to all but Giles himself, the carpenter glanced to Wood. Easily catching the hint, Wood got to his feet and began to move away from the table.

"Come on, Andrew. Let's go play darts," he said, motioning for the blond to join him. "I expect several lasting memories from the experience."

With a final sip of his drink, Andrew happily went to join the other man. "Cool. Though I warn you, I downloaded a Java darts game once and got this close to the high score." He held up his thumb and forefinger, hovering scant millimeters apart.

"I'll bear that in mind." As the duo headed for the dart machines, Wood turned to Andrew. "By the way, you do know you're not supposed to change your voice like that when you're quoting yourself, right?"

Now alone at the table, Xander scooted closer to Giles, the carpenter's forehead creased with worry. "Giles, man – what's up? Not like you're usually a barrel of monkeys or anything, but this is pretty extreme, even for you."

For a long moment, a sigh was Giles' only response. "I don't ... I'm not altogether sure," he confessed, sounding weary.

"Is it stress?" questioned Xander, bringing forth Wood's hypothesis from earlier. "Cuz man, if it is, I gotta tell ya: we're gonna beat this thing. Sure, we don't know exactly what it is, or how to find it, or why it's so powerful, and it totally kicked our butts last time—"

"Ah, yes, thank you. I feel much better now," Giles interrupted.

Xander didn't belabor the point. "What I'm sayin' is, despite all that, we're gonna win. I know we are."

The Watcher looked at Xander – Xander in all his earnestness. The unshakable faith in his eye, the trusting and 'trust-me' smile. Giles found his own lips twitching upward, just a little.

"Yes. Yes, I expect we will," he replied, and Xander looked instantly relieved. "I'm sorry, I've just felt sort of ..." Giles searched desperately for the word. "...disconnected, and ..."

Trailing off, Giles again glanced at the other man. There was little doubt that Xander was more than willing to wait however long it took for Giles to figure out how to say what needed saying, but the Watcher shook his head. "It's nothing," he concluded.

Immediately, Xander's mouth opened in protest, but Giles raised a hand and cut him off. "Truly," he assured. "I apologize for my foul temper. I'll be more diligent in my enjoyment of the evening."

"Well, see, enjoyment's the sort of thing that just kinda, you know ... happens," rejoined the carpenter. "You shouldn't have to work at it. So c'mon." He nudged Giles with his elbow. "That grumpy, frowny Giles? He's got no place here." Xander unleashed the big charm guns and grinned widely. "He's on the block and being evicted. Let him go."

Having been backed against a nearby wall, Willow tried to jerk her arm from the vice-like grip. She frowned as the drunk refused to release her.

"Let me go," she snapped angrily.

The young man reached out to stroke her hair. "Aww, baby," he crooned. "Don't be like that."

"I'm not your 'baby', and I'm not impressed," replied the redhead sharply. "Is this what dating is these days? I don't think I'm missing much." She attempted once more to get free. "Now let go."

"I thought you might need help with the drinks," suggested a soft voice and Willow looked over the man's shoulder to see Tara standing behind him. "Though maybe it's just the 'help' part," the blonde added speculatively.

Willow shook her head. "Nah, I'm good." With a violent jolt, she broke his grasp and eyed the man scornfully. "We were just finishing up here." Brushing past, she joined Tara.

Tottering, the man turned and then blinked. "Two'a ya?" he grinned. "This just gets better'n better."

Folding her arms, Tara arched a dubious eyebrow. "For whom, exactly?"

"Never before has 'better' been so subjective," added Willow curtly.

He shambled toward them, scrutinizing Tara, openly leering as he eyed her up and down. "Mm, blondie, you jus' my type."

Tara chuckled quietly. "I really doubt it."

He lunged forward, hand outstretched as he made a grab. "Why don't you—"

But he never got to finish the proposal, his words cut short by an abrupt jerk backward. He lurched heavily into an empty table and sent it toppling to the floor. By some miracle, he managed to remain on his feet.

"Why don't you keep your hands to yourself?" suggested Kennedy, moving into position between the drunk and the objects of his amorous attention.

"Hell's this?" he muttered furiously. "One'a them coalitions?"

"Yeah, we've formed an alliance against stupid jerkfaces!" Willow informed him with an emphatic jab of her finger.

Tara threw the redhead a sideways glance. "'Stupid jerkfaces'?" she echoed.

Willow shrugged. "I still haven't mastered the art of the insult," she whispered in confidence.

"You're drunk," Kennedy sneered at Mr. Grabby Hands, "you're not particularly bright, and you're way out of your league. Go home and sleep it off." She half-turned and then regarded him scathingly. "Well the drunk part, anyway. No amount of sleep is gonna help the other two."

The young man's face turned a deep shade of purple as he clenched his fists. "You bi—"

His eyes narrowed as the intended affront trailed away. Apparently deciding to abandon verbal abuse in favor of the more satisfying physical variety, he took a threatening stride forward and then his step faltered. In confusion, he tilted his head, noting the sudden arrival of Buffy. With arms crossed, she stood beside Tara and simply stared at him. The challenging gaze seemed to make him nervous and he glanced in the other direction. There, next to Willow, legs astride and cigarette dangling from her lips, was Faith. He scowled at her amused expression.

"Go on," encouraged Buffy. "Complete that thought. It'll be funny."

His hands dropped to his sides as he surveyed the wall of women. He took note of the cool and calm exteriors, but also couldn't fail to notice the air of total confidence each exuded – the postures of self-assurance that clearly indicated they were of the opinion he could be taken out without any of them breaking so much as a sweat. He took an involuntary step backward, ostensibly fearing that his suspicions might be right on the money.

"Bunch'a freakin' dykes!" he snarled defensively.

"Dude, look at 'em," laughed Faith. "They're way too pretty." She pondered her statement for a moment. "Well maybe not Kenn," she added.

Kennedy shot Faith a quick look that was, nonetheless, loaded with deadly daggers. She was rewarded with a charming smile.

"Don't let us interrupt your not being here," advised a cheerful Buffy.

With baleful expression, the young man staggered toward the exit. Faith watched him briefly before taking the last drag of her cigarette and flicking the still-smoldering butt at his left ear with expert precision. He howled as it inflicted a nasty burn on the flesh. Ruefully fingering the injured earlobe, he lumbered out of the Vortex with as much dignity as inebriation and humiliation would allow.

Tara sighed. "Those kinds of guys are still around, huh? Nice."

Faith threw a friendly grin in the blonde's direction. "You were only gone two years, Glinda. Takes longer'n that to cure assholes."

Buffy regarded the small group seriously. "You guys okay?"

Willow nodded. "Yeah. Wish he'd just let me buy him some cheese sticks, though." She gave everyone a grateful smile. "Thanks for the backup."

Faith shrugged nonchalantly. "Hey, you know me, any possible chance for violence, I'm there." She looked down in surprise as Buffy grabbed her arm.

"We'll get the drinks," the blonde Slayer told the others as she dragged Faith to the bar.

Left alone, the atmosphere between Willow, Tara and Kennedy immediately grew tense.

Willow smiled at both of them. "Thanks," she repeated.

"My pleasure," assured Kennedy as Tara nodded in agreement.

"How did you ...?" asked the redhead, her eyes fixed on Tara's face.

The blonde frowned. "I could sort of ... I dunno, feel it? You getting upset. Like this itch I couldn't scratch."

Kennedy executed a not-so-subtle eye-roll at the unintentional euphemism, but neither Willow nor Tara noticed.

"We should probably mention it to Giles," pondered the redhead.

"Yeah, probably," replied Tara quietly.

Willow nodded. "Yeah."

Looking from Willow to Tara, Kennedy delivered another blatant roll of the eyes and grumbling under her breath, stalked off, leaving the pair on their own. Her departure didn't seem to register.

"You wanna ... talk?" suggested Willow.

"Yes?" Tara confirmed. "No?" Less sure now, she gave a deep sigh. "Yes and no?"

Willow seemed to be in accord with the uncertainty. "I know what you mean."

A tiny smile crept across Tara's lips.

At the bar, Buffy leaned over the counter in search of a tray while Faith gathered up as many drinks as she could safely carry in two hands. She smirked to see Kennedy walking toward them.

"Aww," she commented, jerking her head toward Willow and Tara. "They're so cute, don't you think?"

"Faith? Shut the hell up," counseled a tight-lipped Kennedy.

Grinning broadly, Faith stepped to one side, allowing Kennedy access to the counter. She immediately grabbed a drink – which may or may not have been the one intended for her consumption – and instantly drained the contents in one swallow. Slamming the empty glass onto the bar, she thrust her hands into the her pockets of her leather jacket and shouldered her way through the crowd. Faith watched her stomp up the staircase to the second level with no little amusement.

"You are so evil," Buffy told her, admonishingly waving the tray she'd eventually located behind the counter.

"Nah, did that scene, B," retorted Faith. "I'm reformed now. You miss that memo?" She grinned as she loaded the glasses she'd been holding onto the tray in Buffy's hands.

With a smirk, the blonde followed Kennedy, leaving Faith to attract the attention of the bartender, who scuttled toward her with amazing promptness as she shook the empty glass drained by Kennedy.

"Need another one'a these," Faith informed him. She thought for a second. "Better make it three."

Upon arriving upstairs, Buffy made her way to the table where Hannah, Dawn and Hazel had been hanging out. Kennedy had now joined the party, but she didn't look particularly pleased with the entire world as a general rule.

"Everything okay?" queried Dawn, helping her sister to unload the drinks.

Buffy nodded confidently. "Yup. No trouble."

Dawn smiled. "Cool. Hannah was getting ready to tell us more stuff about Giles."

"Oo!" enthused Buffy. "Just in time, then. I could use something to take my mind off the jerkiness of the men of today."

Sympathetically, Hannah patted the blonde's hand. "Unfortunately, it's been my experience that men have the capacity to be unpleasant creatures, regardless of time or place ..."

London – July 1973

Ethan closed the door to the flat he shared with Giles as Hannah made her way to the bathroom to seek out medicinal aids. She soon returned bearing a bottle of iodine and a wad of cotton in a plastic bag.

"Be still," she ordered severely, dabbing at Giles' cheek.

"Stings," he winced.

"Oh, don't be such a baby," chided Hannah. "It's your own damn fault." She peered at the cut. "Don't believe it's deep enough to warrant stitches." She patted him on the head as though he were a small boy. "Think you're good to go, Ziggy."

"More than can be said for the other burk," commented Ethan, nodding his approval. "Right on, Ripper."

Giles grinned as Hannah flopped into an overstuffed chair and threw one leg over the arm. "I always suspected you had something of a temper, but ..." She waved a hand in disbelief.

"Always been a bit of a tearaway, has our Ripper," smirked Ethan. "I remember back when we were ... what would it be now ... eight or so, when Chalky White broke his prize marble in two with his shooter. Do you remember? Had these really lovely orange and blue swirls. He was really quite fond of it," he added to Hannah with a note of sympathy in his voice that didn't sound entirely genuine. "Still, you got him back for it." He turned to Hannah. "He damn near cracked old Chalky's skull wide open on the concrete."

Grimacing, Giles shook his head at Ethan and then cautiously probed the cut on his cheek, which had split open again and was beginning to ooze blood once more. Hannah tossed him the bag of cotton. "You can treat it yourself this time, 'Ripper'!"

Perching on the arm of Hannah's chair, Ethan encouraged, "Don't be too hard on him. Got to protect what's his, don't he?"

"I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself," Hannah told him huffily.

Ethan shrugged. "I'm sure you are, love, but still. A bloke can't look like a pansy in front of his bird." He grinned as Hannah visibly bristled.

"You know I hate that terminology," she snapped.

He patted her shoulder. "Now, now. Don't get your feathers all ruffled." His tone made the gesture all the more condescending.

As Hannah glowered in Giles' direction, he quickly stifled the laugh that threatened to erupt and turned it into a cough.

"It's not funny," she informed him curtly. "You could have really hurt that young man." She tutted and shook her head in reprimand. "And what good did it do anyone to smash that bottle on the counter? The glass flew everywhere and you ended up by getting a cut on your own stupid face because of it. Glad you dropped it before you could do any real damage."

"He was bothering you," mumbled Giles. "And I didn't much like the way he was eying you up and down either."

"He was drunk for Christ's sake!" exploded Hannah. "You of all people should understand what it's like to be blotto and do silly things. Not like it would be a new experience for you."

"He really prefers to go at it bare-fisted anyway," confided Ethan in a voice loud enough to easily reach Giles. "More satisfying if you wanna know the truth. He probably only used the bottle as he had it in his hand already. Anyway," he continued, "the bloke won't be eying much of anything for a while ... not with both mince pies swelled shut." He treated Rupert to another approving grin.

Giles sank further into his chair and prodded the cut gingerly.

"Not with your fingers," chastised Hannah, getting up to retrieve the iodine and wad of cotton. "Here, better let me do it."

"Never known him to get into a fight over a bir—" Ethan paused and corrected himself with a placating glance toward Hannah. "... a young lady before. He must be really fond of you." He shook his head at Giles in mock reprobation. "'Jealousy and love are sisters.'"

"Who said that?" interrupted Hazel. "That's pretty clever. Makes a lot of sense."

Hannah took a sip of her drink before answering. "It's an old Russian proverb."

"Smart guys, those Russians," remarked Faith. She turned to her fellow Slayer and grinned. "Don't you think, Kenn?"

But Kennedy's attentions were focused elsewhere. Specifically, on Willow and Tara, who were seated several yards away at their own table. They were clearly talking, although with the noise and distance, it was impossible to tell what they were saying. Still though, Kennedy's gaze remained locked and she completely ignored Faith's question.

"At any rate," Hannah continued, "it was my first real look at the other side of Rupert. Unfortunately, I'm ashamed to admit, I initially found it more compelling than was likely healthy. And when I discovered more about the true nature of the world ..."

London – September 1973

Propped against the pillow, Giles glanced at Hannah lying in the crook of his elbow. She reached toward the nightstand and lit two cigarettes, placing one between his lips. He inhaled deeply and blew a chain of smoke rings.

She nudged his ribs. "You promised to show me how to do that."

"It's an acquired art," he laughed. Then, his tone grew serious. "You shouldn't have followed us last night, you know."

Hannah pouted. "Then you shouldn't have left me to my own devices. Skulking out like that without a word. You didn't think I'd just let it slide, surely?"

"No, I suppose not," Giles sighed. "Still, I'd rather you hadn't put yourself in that kind of danger."

"On the contrary," she insisted, sitting up. "I found the whole thing thoroughly fascinating. Sure beats the study of Economics in terms of intrigue, let me tell you. The conquest of demons from the bowels of hell or whatever they were. Well, words fail me and, as you should be aware by now, that doesn't happen very often." She regarded him from the corner of her eye. "Not the first time, was it?"

Giles shifted position uncomfortably. "I'd really rather not talk about it."

Hannah wriggled closer. "Forbidden goings-on and dabblings in the darkside are right up my alley." Turning, she nibbled on his earlobe and whispered, "Maybe I could help. I've been looking for something to relieve the boredom."

Giles frowned.

"Which is not to say that you're not the most exciting ..."

He chuckled and gently clasped his hand across her mouth. "Alright, alright. 'Nuff said."

"So," urged Hannah, "time to spill the beans, Ziggy." She threw her arms wide. "Bare your soul."

"It's kind of my heritage in a way," Giles began reluctantly. "The old man, he's a member of what's known as the Watcher's Council. You wouldn't have heard of it. It's very ancient and rather complicated to explain."

Hannah reached for another cigarette and settled herself against the pillow. "Believe me, for this, I've got all the time in the world."

Buffy's eyes widened as she took a sip of her drink. "He told you? I can't believe he told you. He's usually so secretive about all that stuff. He used to be, anyway." She frowned. "Or, well, he obviously wasn't, then he was, then he wasn't again ..."

Reaching out, Hannah patted Buffy's hand. "Don't strain yourself, dear. I had ways of making him talk."

"I just bet you did," chuckled Faith. "I like your style, Mrs. G. You're alright."

Hannah smiled at the compliment. "I try."

"You said you'd try."

Giles' head jerked up at Xander's words, and he immediately found himself confronted with the carpenter's intent stare. Giles frowned in confusion. "What?"

Xander didn't hesitate. "Excuse us one moment," he said to the others as he rose to his feet and gently tugged Giles out of his chair. Giles didn't protest, appearing for the most part to be confused and surprised by Xander's actions, and allowed himself to be led away.

The area near the entrance to the bar was relatively secluded, occupied only by a row of vacant pinball machines. Here Xander stopped and turned toward the Watcher. "Okay, what's goin' on?" he gently demanded. "I'm gettin' serious 'be worried' vibes here. An' don't just tell me you got a lot on your mind. There's something goin' on. Something I'm pretty sure is you-specific. And I can't just keep sitting there and pretending you're okay when you're so obviously not."

There was no immediate response. Giles absorbed Xander's words, then nodded his head sharply, just once. "You're absolutely right," he agreed. "You shouldn't have to pretend. And neither should I."

Without another word, Giles turned away and walked out of the bar.