Title: Austin
Author: Rainne
Pairing: B/G
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimers: The usual. Song by Blake Shelton.
Spoilers: Post-Chosen
Feedback: Yeah!
Distribution: Ask first
Summary: He swore he'd never leave her again... what happens when he breaks that promise?
Warning: Some angst. (happy ending)

Then

The day was special - it was the fifth anniversary of the destruction of the Sunnydale Hellmouth. The four previous such anniversaries had been marked by feasting and imbibery on the part of the Sunnydale survivors - particularly those who had once called themselves Scoobies. For the latter two, the celebrations had been held in the joint home of Slayer and Watcher, who had become husband and wife in all but name. This time, though, there was no party. There were no celebrations, no laughter was heard. Today, the Giles-Summers home heard only tears.

He had left her.

The trouble had begun some months previously when he'd received a phone call from a Gregory Morton-Fletcher, an elderly and distinguished gentleman of the British persuasion who had the startling and somewhat unwelcome news that the New Council of Watchers had reached a level of functionality and that they requested Giles's help in locating, securing and training the new Slayers who had been awakened by Willow's spell. Since these tasks were already being accomplished by the Scoobies themselves and their own handpicked lieutenants, the suggestion that they ought to hand themselves over to the authority of the Council, which had done them so much damage in the past, was received with less than buoyant enthusiasm by all concerned.

It wasn't until a prophecy came to light out of that damned Codex - she cursed the day Angel had retrieved it for him - that he started to think seriously about rejoining forces with the Council. The prophecy was something about a Slayer's son, and Giles wanted to know more. Unfortunately, the only people who knew more were the Council, and they weren't willing to share information without concessions in return. His suggestion that perhaps they ought to work with the Council after all had not made her happy. They had in fact gotten into quite a row and a number of things had been said which under ordinary circumstances would be difficult - if not nearly impossible - to take back.

These, however, were not ordinary circumstances. After one too many unforgivable things had been said, she had hurled a vase at the wall in her anger and frustration, shattering it and spilling water and roses - the roses he'd just that day brought home for her as a birthday surprise - all over the floor. They had both stood there for a moment in stunned silence, staring at the shattered remains of the vase on the floor. She'd never done such a thing before during one of their fights; neither of them had. It was a mark of how close she was to losing control in her anger, and when he looked up at her face he saw her fear on it. "I need to get out of here," she said quietly. "I have to calm down. This discussion has gone too far." She had gone upstairs for a few minutes and he, lacking anything else to do, had begun cleaning up the mess. When she came back down he felt like all the wind had been knocked out of him. She was wearing clothes she hadn't worn in four years: patrol clothes. Since the establishment of the Slayer Academy, Buffy had retired from active Slaying, but here she was tonight dressed in her black leather pants, a black turtleneck, black boots and a black knit cap, with her tool-belt slung about her waist and its loops bearing stakes. Her face was shuttered to him and her eyes were flat. "I'll be late," she said quietly. "Don't wait up." She went out the door and the sound of it shutting behind her was like the sound of a coffin lid closing over his heart.

When she came home in the predawn light, battered and worse for wear but alive and calm and prepared to work things out with him, he was gone. He had cleaned up the water and glass, put her roses in a new vase, packed his things and left her a note.

My dearest Buffy,

As you needed time to think and clear your mind tonight, even so do I. I have decided to go to England to research this prophecy more fully in the Council archives - what's left of them, anyway. By the time you receive this note, I shall likely already be on a plane headed to Heathrow.

I ask that you not follow me to England. Stay here, do the things which need to be done here. Give me the time and space that I need to clear my mind and my heart. When I have done so, then I shall be prepared to talk to you more clearly.

As you said this evening before you left, the discussion went too far. That things could reach such an impasse between you and I troubles me. It is one of the things which I will need to consider, and I ask that you consider it as well in my absence.

Do take care, and I shall be in touch as soon as I feel that I am able to discuss things with you rationally.

I remain, as always,

Your

Giles.

She didn't cry that night. She didn't cry at any point in the next week when she explained things to Dawn, Willow and Xander separately. Her life went into a sort of holding pattern of training, eating, and sleeping, but she did not cry. She didn't cry on Valentine's Day when she didn't hear from him. Spring came and flowers bloomed and on tax day Dawn gave her a Boxer puppy that she named Chucky for his "wanna play?" attitude, and still she didn't cry.

Then the sun came up on the fifth anniversary of the destruction of Sunnydale, and the phone did not ring. The mail carrier came and left the light bill, but there was no card or letter from Giles. Giles did not come to the door. On this day of all days, which they had always, even before they had begun a romantic relationship, spent together, she did not hear from him, and as the sun went down that night and she sat on the deck watching the first star come out, she knew that he was not coming back.

Finally, there, all alone on a chaise lounge with only Chucky to see, she broke down. The tears came at first silently, and then as great, gulping sobs which wracked her body. Concerned for her, Chucky abandoned his chew toy and came to her side to comfort her, and she cried into his fur. She cried until she was too tired to cry any more and then, with her faithful puppy snuggled up to her, she fell asleep in her chair.

The sun and Chucky's insistent nose-nudges woke her the next morning. He wanted his breakfast, and her stomach wanted hers, too. She rolled off the lounge chair, sandy-eyed and stiff, and looked out over the woods behind the house at the sun, which was just starting to peep over the tops of the pine trees. He wasn't coming back. She ran the notion through her mind and, while it still hurt - hurt like hell, in fact - it wasn't the debilitating pain it had been last night. It wasn't the blank numbness of the past several months which had kept her in a holding pattern and which had her friends sending worried glances at her and at one another when they thought she couldn't see. It was a soreness in her heart, a throb down deep in her soul that she knew wasn't going to go away any time soon, but she also knew that it was time for her to resume her life.

She took a deep breath. "All right," she said softly to the sun. "Alone, then." With those words, she turned and went inside to get her whining puppy his breakfast.

While she was cooking her own breakfast the telephone rang. She wasn't in the mood to speak to anyone yet, so she let the machine get it, and winced at the sound of Giles's voice on the recorder. That was going to have to go first thing. And then Dawn's voice came on the line, leaving a message. "Buffy? It's Dawn. Listen, Rick and I are going camping down on the river this weekend. If you want to go with us, we'd really like you to come. Call me back and - "

Buffy snatched up the phone. "Dawn?"

"Buffy! I thought you weren't there." Dawn's voice was faintly accusatory.

"Sorry," Buffy apologized. "I was outside on the deck. What about the river?"

Dawn repeated her invitation. "Camping. Rick and I and another of his friends. Leaving today."

"Dawn, this isn't a setup, is it?"

Dawn laughed. "No, Buffy, I swear. His friend's name is Kimmie. Everything's on the up-and-up. Will you come?"

Buffy thought about it for a moment. This was something she'd never dared do before. Stray so far from the house, when at any moment Giles might call or come home? Never. She looked out at the sun. "Can I bring Chucky?" she asked. "I don't know if I could find anyone to watch him on this short notice."

Dawn took the phone away from her mouth for a moment to ask Rick, and then returned with an affirmative answer. "Sure. Rick likes Chucky, and Kimmie likes dogs too. You'll come, then?" Dawn sounded thrilled.

"Yeah," Buffy said. "I'll come."

"Awesome!" Dawn squealed. "We'll pick you up in an hour and a half, okay?"

"Okay," Buffy replied and hung up. She went into a flurry of activity, wolfing down her breakfast before racing upstairs to throw some weekend necessities into a couple of bags. She ran back downstairs to get Chucky's leash from the laundry room, as well as to fill a small bucket with dog food for him. By the time she was ready to go, she only had about fifteen minutes to spare. And then she thought of the answering machine.

She stood before it in the kitchen, pondering what to say. She reached for the 'record' button perhaps ten times, stopping herself each time, knowing that it needed to change and yet at the same time some part of her almost desperate to keep his voice on the tape, the soft English accent informing callers that they'd reached the Giles-Summers residence. Finally she made up her mind what to say and she reached for the machine.

"Hi, you've reached Buffy Summers and I'm not here. I've actually gone camping for the weekend with my sister. If you're selling anything, don't bother, because I already have everything I need. If it's an emergency, Dawn has her cell phone. Anybody else, do your thing after the beep. And... if this is Giles... I still love you."

She released the button a split second before hearing Rick's truck pull into her driveway and set the machine back on the kitchen counter with a satisfied smile.

---

Now

"Would you just call her?"

"Would you kindly shut up?"

Two men glared at each other across a table in a London pub. Edmund Morton-Fletcher, current Head of Security for the Council of Watchers and son of the eminent Gregory Morton-Fletcher, whose phone call had started all the trouble, glared at Rupert Giles, unfazed by the latter's most ferocious expression. "Really, Rupert, you've been moping around here for over a year. You still love her- that much is clear to anyone and everyone. Why don't you just call her and have done?"

"Yes, indeed," Giles returned tightly. "Call her up to be told, 'Sorry, old chap, but you missed your chance. You've acted the prat and now I've found someone more my age with washboard abs and a toothpaste-advert smile, and I don't think I'll be needing your services any longer, but it's been nice knowing you. Ta.' Not bloody likely." He tipped up his pint and drained it, then waved at the waitress to bring another.

Edmund gave Giles a disgusted look. "You know, the Rupert Giles I went through Watcher training with wouldn't have given up so easily. Not on training, not on a demon, and certainly not on a bird as gorgeous as the one you've got."

"Had."

"Whatever." Edmund stood up. "You need to decide for yourself if you're willing to fight for what you want or if you've grown too spineless and weak to face the consequences of your actions."

Giles stood as well, defiantly. "You'll not speak so to me, Edmund, no matter how long you've known me."

"I'll speak any way I choose. You acted the prat before, when you left her, but you're acting the utter fool now. You've been hanging about London for eight months with nearly nothing to do simply because you weren't willing to swallow your pride and call your bird up and talk things out with her. Meanwhile she languishes across the pond, perhaps in the arms of another man, but perhaps waiting on you to get off your lazy arse and come back to her and work things out. But you'll never know, because you're too cowardly to find out. You'd rather sit around in a dingy pub on Portobello Road and whinge about mistakes that you haven't taken any effort to correct. Well, tonight's it, Rupert. You'll either take steps or you'll stop whinging and move on. Either way, I shan't listen to it any longer. I'm done, d'you hear?" With that, Edmund threw a ten-pound note on the table to cover his part of the drinks and stalked out of the pub.

Giles watched him go with an open-mouthed expression of amazement, then sat back down and dazedly waved at the waitress for another round. He had the feeling he was going to need it.

When Buffy had thrown that vase at the wall fourteen months ago he had been startled out of a dangerous complacency regarding their relationship. He had forgotten that just because things were going so well didn't mean they were going to continue to do so. That she had been driven to such a physical expression of her emotions was indicative to him of her feeling that he was not taking her spoken opinions into account; that he was discounting the words that she said as unimportant, or at least as less important than his own opinions. And after she had gone out on patrol that night, as he cleaned up the broken glass and replaced the roses in a new vase, he had been stunned by the realization that in fact this was true: he had in some measure taken her opinion as less important than his own. Upon further examination of this concept, he had discovered that this was because the topic under discussion - the prophecy - was in his mind "Watcher business" and therefore not something that a Slayer had a say in.

The fact that he himself could still hold such opinions, even in his subconscious and especially towards Buffy, had badly startled him. He knew that he needed to get away and think, and he knew that it was going to take some time, and he also knew that by the time Buffy got back, she would be ready to talk. He, however, would be far from ready. Therefore, he had hastily packed his bags, called a taxi and had driven away from the house that had been their home as quickly as was safe, praying that he would not cross her path as she patrolled. He went immediately to the airport in the next town and was on a flight to London before the sun came up.

He knew it was wrong to run from her so; he knew that it was craven and likely unforgivable; but it was the only thing he could think of to do. He only hoped that someday she would understand and forgive him.

He pulled himself out of his maudlin memories and betook himself home to his empty furnished flat. The answering machine's red light beamed steadily in the darkness, indicating that no one had called him during the day. Not that anyone would. Since he had finished researching the prophecy which had started the last big fight - and which had turned out to refer to Robin Wood and have already come to pass - no one but Edmund had rung him up. Just as well.

He flung himself onto the small sofa and stared sullenly at the red numbers on his clock radio. 11:42. It would just be 4:42 where Buffy was, then, he automatically converted in his mind. She would certainly be at home. Perhaps she would be preparing supper for herself. Suddenly he was filled with an overpowering need to hear her voice. Even if she laughed at him, even if she told him she was already married to some other man now and she was happy without him, he had to speak to her. He had to know.

He lifted the telephone and he began to dial. After a few moments, the international connection went through, and the line rang. Then it rang again. There was a third ring, and then a fourth, and then, just as he began to despair, there was a click and a connection. His heard raced for a moment, before he heard the telltale hiss of the tape on the answering machine.

"Hi," said her cheerful voice, "this is Buffy's answering machine, which you're getting because Buffy isn't here. If you're calling about the puppies, they're all gone. If it's Wednesday night, we've all gone to mock the new vampire movie and I probably won't be back until really late. I don't need vinyl siding or health insurance, and I like the long distance plan I have, thanks. Anybody else, do your thing after the beepy noise. And... if this is Giles... I still love you."

There was a beep then, but his pulse was roaring so loudly in his ears that he couldn't speak. The portable telephone dropped from his nerveless fingers and the battery came out when it hit the floor, effectively disconnecting the call. He couldn't stop hearing her voice over and over again in his mind, the way it had softened over those last words. If this is Giles, I still love you. What kind of fool had he been, to walk away from someone who would love him so strongly, even after so long apart? Edmund's words in the pub earlier came back to him and he cursed himself roundly. Prat, indeed. That would be putting it mildly.

He stood up in his tiny flat and began to pace.

A few thousand miles away and several hours later, Buffy checked the answering machine when she got in from the movie. There were two messages. The first was a hang-up, and she winced away from the loud sound of the phone on the other end of the call being slammed down. Some people were terribly rude. The second was from one of the new Slayers with a question about a demon she'd run across on patrol. She called the new Slayer back, briefly wished she had caller ID so she could call the first caller back and rant at them about their manners, and went to bed, snickering over the gross inconsistencies in the vampire movie.

It took him until Friday to work his nerve up to call again. He spent all day in Edmund's office, talking the situation over with his trusted friend and actually listening to the other man's advice this time. He wanted to fix things, to set things right. This time, he wanted there to be no mistakes. Even at that, it still took him until Saturday to actually make the call. When he lifted the handset that evening, he fervently prayed for strength and a silver tongue. He dialed and waited as the international connection was made, and listened to the first ring, and then the second, third and fourth. His heart sank a little when the answering machine picked up again.

"Hey, it's Casa de Summers, and you have missed la Buffster. If it's Friday I'm out with Willow and Xander and on Saturday I'm going camping with Dawn and Rick again. So while you're leaving your message after the beep, why don't you explain to me how I let myself get roped into spending perfectly good sleeping days out in the woods in a tent? Oh, and... if this is Giles... I still love you." There was a beep, but this time he was ready, and in a voice choked with emotion, he softly left his number, knowing that even after all this time, she would have no trouble knowing his voice.

The next day he was a wreck. He didn't leave the flat at all for fear of missing her call, but when it hadn't come by midnight, he began to fear that he'd dreamt the last line of both those messages he'd heard.

It was nearly four o'clock on Monday morning when his telephone rang, startling him out of a fitful doze on the couch. He grabbed for the handset, took a couple of steadying breaths, and pressed the button.

"Hello?" he said softly.

"Hello, Giles," she replied.

"Buffy," he choked out around the tears that suddenly welled up within him. "Buffy, I..."

"I know, Giles," she said softly. "It's over. Will you come home?"

"Oh, God," he whispered, tears spilling out of his eyes at the love in her voice. "I love you, Buffy. I am sorry. I've been a fool, Buffy, I've been - "

"Giles," she interrupted him, and her voice was still soft but there was a hint of steel behind it. "Are you coming home?"

"Yes," he said finally. "Yes, Buffy, I want to come home. I want to come home to you."

"Then come home," she told him. "We can work out the rest of it later. Just come home to me."

"I'll be there as quickly as I can," he replied. "Buffy... I love you."

And for the first time in fourteen months, over the staticky international phone line, he heard the tinkling joy of her laughter. "I know, Giles," she told him softly. "I love you, too."

---
The End

* * * * *

She left without leaving a number
Said she needed to clear her mind
He figured she'd gone back to Austin
'Cause she talked about it all the time
It was almost a year before she called him up
Three rings and an answering machine is what she got

If you're calling 'bout the car, I sold it
If this is Tuesday night I'm bowling
If you got something to sell you're wasting your time
I'm not buying
If it's anybody else, wait for the tone, you know what to do
And P.S. if this is Austin, I still love you

The telephone fell to the counter
She heard but she couldn't believe
What kind of man would hang on that long
What kind of love that must be
She waited three days and then she tried again
She didn't know what she'd say but she heard three rings and then

If it's Friday night I'm at the ball game
And first thing Saturday if it don't rain
I'm headed out to the lake and I'll be gone
All weekend long
but I'll call you back when I get home on Sunday afternoon
And P.S. if this is Austin, I still love you

Well this time she left her number but not another word
And then she waited by the phone on Sunday evening
And this is what he heard

If you're calling 'bout my heart, it's still yours
I shoulda listened to it a little more
And it wouldn't have taken me so long to know where I belong
And by the way boy this is no machine you're talking to
Can't ya tell this is Austin and I still love you
I still love you

* * * * *