I really didn't intend to come here. Honestly, I didn't. I went out to pick up some milk and eggs at the Quik-E-Shop. Yet here I am, sitting in the Jeep staring at his front door. I'm an idiot. I'll leave now. If I don't get home soon, the milk will curdle for crying out loud. I'll leave now. Buffy will wonder where I've gone; I told her I'd be gone only a few minutes. It's been an hour. I'll leave now.

Apparently not. My feet seem to have a mind of their own. Instead of driving home like a sensible person, I find myself standing in front of his door. My heart is thundering in my chest. I wonder for a moment if this is how it feels to finish a marathon. I can't breathe; I can't think; my throat is closing up. I'll leave now. I can hear music from his apartment. He must be busy in there. He won't want to see me. My mouth is too dry to speak. My hands are trembling. I'll leave now.

Apparently not. That right hand obviously does not belong to me, even though I can clearly see it extending from my sleeve. I know this is the blouse I was wearing. Therefore, that must be my hand reaching for the doorbell. This can't be happening! I'll leave now. I haven't actually pressed the doorbell yet. He still doesn't know I'm here. I'll leave now. Oh, no, what have I done? I've pressed the doorbell! I hear it chime inside the apartment. If I run, I can get to the Jeep and make my escape before he answers the door. I don't care if it'll seem like an adolescent prank. I'll leave NOW!

Apparently not. The door opens and he stands there looking at me. He raises his eyebrows and blinks, removing his glasses. "Oh, um, Mrs. uh Summers, is there, is there something amiss? Is any, um, anything wrong with Buffy?" I open my mouth and the sound that emerges is nothing like my normal voice. It's nothing like human speech. His face reflecting growing alarm, Rup-I mean-Giles says, "Oh, um, do please come in, Joy-er-Mrs. Summers."

He steps back and I enter his apartment. I feel the blush starting. It begins at my toenails, I think, and works its way upwards. My ears are burning. I haven't felt this way since I was 16 and had the world's biggest crush on Jimmy Thomerson. My left foot goes numb and I stumble slightly. Giles catches me by the elbow and steadies me. It seems that he holds me a little closer and a little longer than absolutely necessary. "Clumsy. Me, that is, not you," I manage to stammer.

He smiles and murmurs, "Nonsense." My blood pressure is surely 350/295. I will have a stroke at any moment. I really think I should leave now.

Apparently not. Never releasing my arm, Giles guides me to his sofa. I sit, glancing up at him, then back to the floor. I wonder when my feet got so huge. For a moment, I am mesmerized by the sight of my size 19 and a half triple E running shoes. The cushions of the sofa shift slightly as Giles sits next to me. I take a deep breath and try to look him in the eye. Doesn't work. I find that the only part of his face I can look at safely is his left ear. So I focus on it as he begins to speak. "Mrs. Summers, is something the matter with Buffy?" His voice is low pitched and a trifle husky. As if by accident, he brushes my knee with his hand. Electricity and heat shoot through my body from that slight touch. I jerk my knee away from him. "Oh, I'm, I'm dreadfully sorry. I didn't, intend to, to offend." His left ear, formerly ear coloured, begins to redden.

"No, no, I'm not offended, Mr. Giles, just a bit jumpy tonight." My voice sounds much more like my own, definitely human anyway. "And, no, nothing is wrong with Buffy." I drag my gaze away from that safe left ear and force myself to look into his eyes. I am startled to find that his face is flushed. "I, I just needed to get out of the house and be with someone."

"Oh, ah. Right. Uh, would you like some tea?" He tips his head slightly to one side and chuckles ruefully. "I know, Brits and their tea. Such a cliche."

"I'd love some. Really." I feel myself relax a bit and when I smile this time, it feels like a normal human smile. "Want some help?"

"Not really, but I'd like some company. Well, that is, if you'd like ...um ...to" His voice trails off. "Ahem," Giles clears his throat. "The kitchen's this way." He leads the way into a small kitchen.

"It's nice, your kitchen. Homey." Wincing, I scold myself: Could I have said anything more lame? No, actually, I couldn't. Well, Giles doesn't seem to mind the lameness. He smiles at me as he puts water into the kettle. There is silence, but not an uncomfortable one, as he sets the kettle on the stove and reaches into a cupboard for two cups and saucers. He seems more at ease as he begins the ritual of tea making.

"You know, there is an art to making tea and most Americans, um, really don't, uh, comprehend it at all." His gentle smile takes any possible sting out of the words. He places a dark burgundy teapot on the counter next to my elbow. The kettle begins to whistle. Giles continues to explain each step of the tea making process. I barely listen, watching his hands deftly measuring the tea and adding water and letting his voice wash over me. ". . . then you make sure to add the salt and pepper at the last possible moment along with the vinegar and Tabasco sauce."

"H'm? What? What did you say?" Something a trifle odd penetrates what passes for my mind. "Did you say. . .?" I look up from his hands, startled. He is laughing quietly.

"I decided that you were off on a cloud somewhere. I think I was correct."

"Oh, dear! I'm sorry; I was just watching so closely, I guess. I've never seen anyone make tea with loose tea, just with tea bags, and it was just so. . .um. . .interesting." Even to me, that sounds stupid, not just lame but utterly crippled.

"Well, when I am, uh, constrained by. . . adverse circumstances . . . such as, uh, being at school, I find myself forced to rely on tea bags. Um, however, at home, I prefer loose tea as I can then, uh, taste the tea without the, um, aftertaste of, well, fabric." He chuckles. "Of course, I usually drink alone and, um, being the resident tea taster, it's my choice. I don't, um, have to accommodate anyone else."

"So it's the taster's choice?" I can't stop the giggles. Oh, let the earth open up and swallow me whole, but I can't stop laughing. "Taster's Choice? Oh, that's perfect! You even look like the Taster's Choice Guy!"

Giles looks offended. "Oh, come now! I never do. He was such a poof!" Then he begins to laugh, too. With me or at me? I don't know. My giggles degenerate into hiccups. Now it's official: I'll die of humiliation right now. "What do you take in your tea? Milk? Sugar?"

"No (hic), noth(hic)ing, please. I like it (hic) plain."

Giles offers me a cup of the fragrant, steaming tea in a delicate bone china cup. I accept it with a hand that suddenly feels like a catcher's mitt. As I lift the cup to my mouth, "HIC!" The catcher's mitt that used to be my hand shakes and tea slops onto my wrist. I barely have time to gasp. Giles has snatched the cup and its contents from me, thrust my scalded wrist under the tap and turned on the cold water before the nerve endings have a chance to register pain. He is holding my hand as the cold water cascades upon it.

I can feel his body heat, seemingly much hotter than the tea. I jerk my hand away, scattering water drops. "Oh, dear, I am most dreadfully sorry. Is your hand all right?" Giles' face and voice reflect his concern. I feel tears in my eyes. I quickly turn my back to him and walk rapidly across the kitchen to stand in front of the refrigerator. Some women cry beautifully; when I cry I tend to look like a deranged pumpkin. I take a deep breath and, looking steadfastly at the front of Giles' refrigerator, I finally confess the reason I am here.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come. I'm an idiot. But I couldn't help myself. You see, I haven't been able to forget the night we ate that cursed chocolate. I try not to, but I still feel your hands and I can still remember how you taste. And I can't sleep without dreaming about you. Buffy thinks nothing really happened between us, but you and I know the truth." By now the tears are running down my face and dripping off my chin and the end of my nose. I don't care anymore. I am burning bridges and I just don't care. "I want you; I want you so badly my teeth ache. Except for you, I haven't been with any man since Hank. Well, if you don't count Ted. . . and he was an android, for crying out loud. C3PO with hormones. . .and no charm. Oh, I've made such a fool of myself."

When he speaks, he is standing only inches behind me. When did he cross the room? I don't know. I can feel his breath on the back of my neck. I am burning with heat and freezing simultaneously. "Joyce," his voice is husky, "Joyce, I can't tell you how many times I've driven past your house, wanting to come in, needing to see you, to hold you again. But I thought. . .I thought. . ." He took my shoulders and turned me to face him. Gently he brushed away my tears. "You know something, Joyce? I'm bloody tired of thinking. I spend way too much time thinking and not nearly enough time feeling."

Slowly, he bends his head toward mine. This time when he kisses me, it's not because we are under the influence of a really-controlled substance. This time we are just under the influence of hormones. The kiss begins softly but quickly intensifies. Giles moans and I think I have forgotten how to breathe, much less that I need to. We cling tightly, lost in each other. My hands, once again, joyously, having a mind of their own, begin exploring. We do our best to violate that law of physics about two bodies occupying the same space at the same time.

"Hello! Giles? You home?" The shout from the living room shatters the mood.

"Xander," Giles mutters through clenched teeth. "I think I shall have to kill that boy." We separate reluctantly. "In here, Xander!" Giles calls. I turn off the water tap; we seem to have forgotten it.

"Just reporting in, Gi-- Oh, hi, Mrs. Summers. What are you doing here?" Xander lounges against the door frame. He'd have to be blind not to notice that both Giles and I are flushed and rumpled and breathing a bit oddly. He doesn't notice a thing. Of course, both Giles and I are of too advanced an age to be indulging in "interesting activities," at least from the perspective of a teenager. I breathe a sigh of gratitude for teenage myopia.

Giles herds Xander to the front door, murmuring something about getting a full report tomorrow. I hear Giles shoot home the deadbolt on the front door. I smile to myself. Tonight may not be a total loss after all. After all, I can always stop at the Quik-E-Shop again on the way home and replace the curdled milk and spoiled eggs. I'll have to practice saying his name: Rupert. Rupert. Rupert. And I think I'll stay.

******THE END******