The Black Mare

Blood Oranges 1/1
Author: The Black Mare
Rating: FRT
Spoilers: up to “Hush” and AU from there
Distribution: just let me know where it’s going
Feedback: bigblackmare@yahoo.com
Author’s Notes: This story is a belated contribution to Antennapedia's "Rupertus Domesticus" ficathon, which is actually more like an anthology, because she is so merciful about deadlines. Thanks gobs to Antenna and M for beta help with this. Those who wish to refresh their memories of “Mowgli’s Brothers” by Rudyard Kipling can do so here, courtesy of the Guttenburg Project: http://www.xs4all.nl/~vangeijt/junglebook/mowglisbrothers.html
The EU declared the blood orange’s native terrain in Sicily a protected geographic area because until quite recently, it was the only place where these oranges grow. Blood oranges are now cultivated in California [the Moro variety] and Texas [the Tarocco variety]. These orchards are quite new, and didn’t exist during Giles’s time in Sunnydale.


As he set the last eerily beautiful orange down on his kitchen counter and tidied away the grocery bag, Giles thought about the volcano. The Sicilian farmers always credited Etna for these rare fruit, although if pressed they would admit that the juxtaposition of scorched white days and frigid blue nights helped, too, along with the brutal frugality of the long, dry summer. Ashes, sunlight, cold, and privation, these brought forth the wonder of the blood orange. Personally, Giles suspected that in this, as in so many small natural magics, it was all of these and something else, numinous and undeterminable.

Without hesitation, he’d paid an exorbitant price for these beauties when he’d spotted them tucked high in the back of the citrus section, ostracized from their mundane navel cousins, waxy tangelos, and bloated grapefruit, all rind and no flesh this late in the season. He could not leave such treasures there to wither, dismissed by the ignorant and unimaginative consumers who had entrenched their sense of the ordinary so deeply that they could live one day to the next on a Hellmouth.

It was baffling to Giles that Sunnydale, in the midst of an agricultural economy as rich as California’s, could tolerate produce selections based not on the seasons, or the finest local varieties, but on what looked most uniform, shipped with little damage, and kept well on the shelves for weeks after its arrival from the distant fields. So much bounty mere hours away, and the town did not even have a farmer’s market. All year round the shelves offered the same generic varieties, gleaming in their coats of fungicidal wax and wholly without character. This was a travesty to him.

Pears, for instance, belonged to late summer: buttery, fragile, and generous on the tongue. Strawberries belonged to spring, to the lengthening days just before the June solstice. They should be compact, yielding softly when pressed into cream by a spoon, their flavor bright and brief on the tongue: fragrant, transient, and precious in their short season. But not in Sunnydale. What passed for strawberries here bore as little resemblance to the real fruit as an American strip mall did to a Cotswold market day. They were utterly homogeneous, artificially huge, and had structural integrity he found perverse or even monstrous. What was the point to such picture-postcard, resilient fruit? Certainly not taste, as far as he could tell. He’d tried exactly two boxes of them when he’d first arrived, and avoided them after that. Strawberries needed maturity, needed mortality, to be truly sweet.

Why are we risking our lives to save these people from evil undead when they will all die of boredom anyway? His conscience winced, reminding him in his mother’s gentle voice that cynicism was unbecoming in a young man. What about in an old one, then?

The pads of his fingers stroked the rough skins of the fruit before him, this peculiar little gift of grace. How had this handsome clutch of Moro blood oranges traveled from their native Sicily to Sunnydale? He could only imagine it was by accident. Refugees. We can all be homesick together.

There were six. They were exactly ripe, their pocked and nubbly peels gleamed rich orange under a startling blush of deep red, the only citrus variety in the world that bore such dramatic pigmentation. Giles selected one, laid it on his battered wooden cutting board, and slipped his knife through it.

Chianti. Beetroot. Rare beef. But none of those kindred colors had this amazing fragrance, this particular crisp sweetness overlaid with a sharp tang. He cut a thin slice and let it sit on his tongue, the fierce, sweet Mediterranean sun and bitter longing dissolving together. One translucent, red slice at a time, Giles cut and ate the orange, lost in its brave potency. For those moments, he did not think of Olivia’s parting words, of her small, sad smile and the way fear had chased all fondness from her dark eyes. Then the rich flesh was gone and he was standing again in his kitchen staring at five ember-bright oranges and a neat pile of crescent peels, each one carefully cleaned by his teeth and tongue.

What shall I do with the rest of you, then, my lovelies? They were perfect right now, and having never been bred to serve anything as petty as the mass market, they would not hold. The scent of the zest gave him the idea. A quick check of his cupboards confirmed that he had the sugar and enough empty jars. A couple of lemons in the icebox. He would make marmalade. Not a travesty, exactly, to do this to the rarest of oranges. One did make strawberry jam, after all, because clotted cream – thank God – is not seasonal. Yes. There was this answering magic, a small domestic transformation that he’d learned from watching his mother. He could draw out this unexpected gift a little longer, many mornings from now, sweet, dark, fragrant power with each day’s first tea.

Giles washed two lemons and the remaining oranges meticulously, gently scrubbing away any residue from shipping. He put them in his largest pot, added water to cover, and set them to simmer. In the long hour it took them to cook to fork tenderness, his flat filled with a complex aroma, quite unlike the scent of common commercial oranges. He put on a CD of Segovia playing the Spanish masters, thinking that the brisk clip of classical flamenco fit well with the olfactory memory of summer on a very distant shoreline. Giles settled into his easy chair to listen, and was doing well until the first notes of Rodrigo’s poignant “Castles of Spain” twisted in his heart and his eyes burned.

She isn’t coming back. Ever.

Another thing torn from him, as surely as their voices had been for those desolate, frightening hours. Suddenly the flesh of blood oranges was the color of seven hearts cold in jars, stolen by the Gentlemen under cover of darkness and wicked silence. His gut lurched and he sat up abruptly, swallowing the bile rising in the back of his throat.

No. They will not take this from me, too. He made himself breathe in, breathe out. This is the scent of sunwarmed soil enriched by ancient ash; the scent of light glinting on the sea far below the groves. This is a power greater than theirs, older, without price or limit. Sweet, bitter, wet: this is one true scent of life, and they cannot ever own it.

His heart slowed, steadied, and he eased back down into the chair. Segovia’s clear notes paused and into that inviting space the whole string section of the orchestra surged to support the initial melodic line, strengthening and confirming it with a fierce joy fired out across time, refuting the stark loss etched against the Andalusian sky by the bones of fortresses broken and abandoned. The warriors had passed on but the stones remained, and the dry wind made music among them.

The timer he’d set in the kitchen dinged politely. Giles gathered himself and went to poke the fruit, finding it tender and already going slightly transparent in the heat. Carefully, he set the soft oranges and lemons on the cutting board to cool slightly. He kept the water simmering while he washed jars, sorted out lids for each one, and set them in their own pot to boil to sterility. He was measuring the eight cups of sugar when he heard a soft knock, and looked up to see his Slayer peering cautiously around the front door.

“Giles?” she asked, oddly tentative, “Do you have a few minutes?”

“Certainly.” He swept up another cup of sugar and smoothed it flat with the blade of a knife. He felt her cross the living room to settle herself on a stool by the pass through. It pleased him that he could not hear her move on the bare floor. Another scoop, and another, then he was done and looked up to find her sitting with her eyes closed, sniffing the air.

“What’re you making?” she asked quietly.

“Marmalade. You smell the oranges cooking.”

“They don’t smell like any oranges I’ve ever had. Something different. Sharper.” She took another deep breath. “Strong but not, like, nasty. Strong as in deep.”

“They’re blood oranges”

“Oh. These aren’t gonna attract vampires with scurvy, are they?”

“Ah, no, they’re called that because of their color. They’re from Sicily.”

“Like the Mob. Figures that they’d have that kind of orange,” she smiled at him. He thought it looked a bit strained.

“Would you like to stay while this cooks? The smell gets better, and then you can lick the spoons and the pan when it’s done.” Please stay.

“You, um, wouldn’t mind? It’s kinda late, after all,” she said.

“Of course I wouldn’t mind. And since when have we kept banker’s hours?”

She glanced around the apartment, her eyes nervous. He saw her nostrils flaring again as though she were trying to catch another scent through the clamor of the citrus. Oh. That’s what she’s trying to determine.

“Buffy,” he said gently, “Olivia left this afternoon. You aren’t interrupting anything now, and I don’t think she’ll be back again.”

Her shoulders stiffened. He saw her concentrate, then release the tension, exhale and settle the way she would after a false alarm on patrol. To his surprise, she reached across the counter between them and brushed his hand for a moment.

“I’m sorry, Giles. Was it the Gentlemen?”

Partly, but not entirely.

“Yes,” he answered, “they were a bit much, considering that she finally admitted that she’d never believed anything I’d ever told her about the things that go bump in the night.”

“She knew you were a Watcher?”

“Not exactly. She knew my work was occasionally dangerous, but I gather she thought it was more in the Indiana Jones line, as it were.”

“Heroic archaeologist. Hmm. That isn’t too far from the truth, actually.”

“Except for the part where I violate all manner of sacred sites for personal gain, run roughshod over academic formalities, and leave a trail of destruction you could see from orbit. Otherwise, quite similar,” he smiled at her, saw the tension still hadn’t completely left her posture. She’s hurting about something else, something very personal.

“And let’s not forget that bullwhip,” Buffy quipped, her tone light but brittle. “Wait – you aren’t holding out on me, are you?” That slightly crooked smile flickered along one side of her mouth, but the bleakness in her eyes flattened it.

“Ah no, no bullwhip. Besides, most of what I know, you know, too.”

“So you are holding out on me.”

“Well, I do have to save something special for my stunningly beautiful romantic interest, even though she has yet to appear in the script so far.” His voice got tight on that last bit. Not that she’d notice. On the other hand, she was worried about my privacy, and my feelings. The fact that she’s here at all is an improvement, actually.

Buffy changed the subject abruptly.

“Is there something I can do to help you with the evil oranges?”

“Blood oranges. They’re rare, but they aren’t evil, at least not that I’ve ever heard.” He tapped the cooked fruit tentatively and found it cool enough to handle. “I have to slice these first, then you can have the dubious pleasure of stirring while they boil. And stirring. And then stirring some more. It, uh, takes a while to get them to the right temperature and you don’t want them to scorch.”

“Okay. Just let me know when, and I’m Miss Spatula.”

Giles cut each fruit from pole to pole, then laid down the hemispheres and shaved them into fragile latitudinal slices, carefully capturing the pips and setting them to one side. The scent swirled up around them both, giving the silence between them a reassuring structure. He could still sense Buffy’s unease, and his own grief skittered rudely along the corridors of his heart, leaping up at unexpected intervals to sneer at him. When the fruit was all sliced, he scraped the pips into the simmering water and turned up the heat, boiling the fruity broth hard for a full ten minutes. Senor Segovia concluded his final track and the only sound was the lively water. As Giles was straining the pips from the water with a slotted spoon Buffy asked

“Why did you do that with the seeds?”

“For flavor. Marmalade is traditionally made from very bitter Seville oranges. When you use some other variety, you boil the pips in the water for a while, and that adds the necessary bite, as it were.”

”You make it bitter on purpose?”

“Marmalade isn’t meant to be entirely sweet.” Giles scraped the sliced fruit into the pot. “Although most of the brands sold here are very sweet. More like orange jam than real marmalade.

“It’s your shift now,” he said, handing her his biggest wooden spoon. “Just keep it moving a bit. I’ll add the sugar when it’s at a rolling boil. That’s a boil you can’t stir down,” he said, anticipating her question.
Buffy gave him a considering look.

“What?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“When you’re ready, then.”

She nodded, not looking up from the swish and twirl of the simmering red liquid. Every so often a bright yellow streak of lemon peel would surface, only to vanish quickly among the longer strands of deep orange. He studied her for a bit, then asked

“Have you ever read Jungle Book?”

“As in ‘Look for the bear necessities?’ That one?”

“No, that is a travesty by Disney. I meant the real thing: Rudyard Kipling.”

“Then no, I haven’t.”

“How about I read you a bit of it while you slave over the hot stove?”

Buffy looked up at him, slightly startled. He caught the pain in her eyes just before she slammed it back into one of the many boxes he knew she used to keep some small order in her life.

“I’d like that,” she said quietly. “Very much. Thank you.”

He pulled the volume from the shelf nearest the stairs, fondly petting the russet morocco binding. This was the edition his grandmother had read to him when he was seven, knowing that he wouldn’t sit still for the ponderous Dickens she was reading to his older cousins. Giles poured the bowl of sugar into the pot, and wordlessly showed Buffy how to pull the spoon occasionally across the bottom to turn the fruit just enough. Then he moved a chair into the kitchen so he wouldn’t have to raise his voice, opened to “Mowgli’s Brothers”, and began:

“Now Rann the Kite brings home the night
That Mang the Bat sets free --
The herds are shut in byre and hut
For loosed till dawn are we.”

“Is this about vampires?” Buffy interrupted.

“No, it’s about family,” Giles answered patiently, then continued:

“This is the hour of pride and power,
Talon and tush and claw.
Oh, hear the call! -- Good hunting all
That keep the Jungle Law!”

And so Giles led Buffy into the vivid realm of the Seeonee wolf pack, under the rule of wise Akela, where Bagheera the panther bought the life of a foundling and that child grew up wild and strong, taught by a bear, loved by the wolves, and stalked relentlessly by the great tiger whose prey he had once been. Just at the part where Mowgli learned he could stare down any member of his pack, Giles stood to check the temperature of the boiling mixture.

“The peely bits have gone all clear and freckled,” Buffy observed.

“That’s what we want. This last part of the cooking is when it’s most likely to burn, because it’s getting thicker.”

“It smells different, too,” she said, “more complicated. Darker.”

“That’s what happens when oranges become marmalade.” He sat down and continued, doing a soft, growly voice for Bagheera as the panther gives the boy his first lesson in politics, explaining that there are those who hate him because he is different, because he is a man and they are not. Buffy’s stirring got very slow when Mowgli snuck into the village and stole fire, then confronted the pack and challenged those who would deliver him to Shere Khan in violation of their oath. By the end, as Mowgli walked alone across the fields to enter the world of men, Buffy was not stirring at all, but staring deeply into the steam that twisted over the gleaming hills of clear bubbles swelling across the surface of the mixture.

Giles stepped up behind her and wrapped his hand gently over hers to save the thickening fruit from her distraction. She squeaked and reclaimed the spoon, mumbling a soft apology. Mowgli’s exile had taken Giles hard the first time he’d heard it, too, but there was some other, fiercer shadow crossing her heart, something new and immediate resonating with the conclusion of the story. The set of her shoulders told him she would not share it yet, but just then the fruit and sugar slipped over that wonderful threshold and became something else entirely and he had to turn his attention to the final steps in the cooking process.

Without speaking, Giles set the book safely on top of the fridge, nudged his silent Slayer gently to one side, and ladled the fragrant, scalding preserves into the hot jars. He screwed down the lids and put them back into the boiling water for a few minutes while he mopped up the stray gooey drips. Buffy moved easily alongside him, gathering the sticky implements and washing them in sudsy water while Giles set out the jars of beautifully colored marmalade to cool on the counter.

Then he took out the toaster and made a tall stack of golden, generously buttered slices, grabbed the bowl of marmalade that had not fit in the last jar, and went out to the table. Buffy followed him, carrying the chair he’d been sitting in. Giles rewarded her with warm orange alchemy slathered on crisp toast.

She took a bite and paused, her eyes startled. He watched her eat the entire piece, bite by reflective bite.

“You’ve never had marmalade before, have you?”

She shook her head. He made up another slice for her and one for himself. It was very, very good. As much as he’d regretting using the blood oranges this way instead of savoring them fresh, he realized that their unique flavor transcended even this radical treatment. This was unlike any marmalade he’d ever tasted. Superb. Rich. Layers of flavor, top notes and bottom notes, caramel balancing sharpness, and so very aromatic.
Buffy made herself a third slice. She was still chewing slowly, thoughtfully. When they reached the bottom of the pile, they sat back, drowsy and sated. Maybe now she can say what she came to say. He realized he had braced himself against it, as though he expected it to hurt. How did we get here? How can I make this right again?

“I learned something last night,” she started. “And I wasn’t sure what to do with it.”

“Do you want to discuss it or try to sort it out on your own?”

“I think you need to know this. But…” then she looked directly at him and he saw that this knowledge had come at a price. He waited, open to her while she searched his eyes. Apparently she found what she needed to find.
“It’s about the commandos. The ones who’ve been taking down demons and vamps all over town for the past couple of months.”

He hadn’t known what to expect, but it wasn’t this.

“Oh? Have you found out what they’re trying to do?”

“No, but I found out who they are. And it’s beyond weird. It’s actually ridiculous. They’ve got no idea at all what they’re doing, but they think they know everything.” This last came out in a hoarse whisper. Giles stayed very still.

“Riley. This guy I’d started dating, he’s one of them.”

Oh bloody hell, that’s just what she needs, a sodding dilettante vigilante interfering with her patrols.

“He is?” Buffy recoiled at his tone of voice. “Sorry,” he said, “please continue.”

“They’re some secret military organization, all government authorized and everything. Tons of geeky technology but clueless, totally,” she looked up at him and this time her voice did crack, “Giles, they’re idiots! I’ve been watching them and they’re capturing everything we fight and taking them somewhere. And these guys get hurt, a lot. I’ve tried to help them, but I didn’t want to be seen. And some of the stuff they’re doing, it would get me killed to be so stupid.”

“People who think they are invincible have short life spans, especially in battle.”

“But Riley’s one of them! And I was getting interested in him, and then the Gentlemen came, and we crashed into each other trying to get at the monsters, and I thought, great, now I have another person I care about to protect out there at night.” She paused. “Not that he didn’t try hard there at the end, but he has no knowledge, no, uh –“

“Imagination?”

“Yeah. It’s all force with him. All weapons and stealth. Completely useless against the Gentlemen. There’s no room at all in his tactics for magic, for stuff other than the dumbest kind of demon. I don’t think the commandos even know that there’re prophecies and ancient writings describing all these creatures, and powerful artifacts, and other dimensions – all the basic stuff you’ve known since you were a kid.”

She so tense that she was trembling. He reached over and laid his hand on hers, startled when she flipped it over and interlaced their fingers. There were tears in her eyes now.

“What happened, Buffy? What did he say to you?” She blinked at him, gave him a shaky smile that she couldn’t sustain.

“I’m sorry. Here you are missing Olivia and I come in all wrecked about something that never really had a chance to get started before it was over.”

“Buffy, it’s okay. Things between Liv and myself weren’t, well, they weren’t as serious as you might expect, given how long she and I have known each other.”

“But you were so, um, --“

“Territorial? Blatant?”

“Well, yeah. But you two seemed really cozy that time, and then she came again and you were happy. And I was trying to be happy for you, even if I didn’t know how we were going to handle having, y’know, someone here who didn’t seem to understand what we do.”

“Someone who would place significant demands on my time and attention.”

“Yeah. That, too.” She studied their hands intently. “I’m sorry about what I said that first time. It really threw me when I walked in on you two. I had so many bizarre things happening already, and here was one more. A big one. I really needed help and there just wasn’t any. Not from you, or Wills, or Xander. No more Scooby backup. I was mad, and scared, and I took it out on you. I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

Giles sat stunned. Who are you becoming, my little Slayer? Little still, but maybe not so young anymore. He studied her eyes. No: you were never young. But ignorant in this, oh yes.

“And I didn’t have a right to say what I said, either,” he said, squeezing her hand gently. “Independently of our working relationship, it was simply rude to confront you that way. But so much had changed so quickly that summer. I didn’t have any idea what I was supposed to be or do anymore. I guess it never occurred to me how you would feel about finding Olivia here. I’ve known her for so many years, just these brief visits and then she’s gone. But you had no way of knowing that. No wonder you were wigged, as you say.”He waited, and when she didn’t offer more, he nudged, stroking her knuckles with his thumb.

“Please continue. You were speaking about Riley. Something he said.”

“After I got through to him about breaking that box, and got my voice back to scream, the Gentlemen’s heads exploded. Totally disgusting. The usual flying green goo, and oh, boy, what a stink. Way worse than those horny blue things that gargle raw sewage, and then hurl –

“Three-spined Denethos.”

“Yeah, so quite the reek, but without the chunks. Then after the popping and splats, and y’know, gagging, I could hear the whole town screaming, people yelling to each other and sobs. Kind of a wonderful sound all the same. It was this huge relief, and Riley and I sort of lunged at each other, and we – “ she looked away shyly.

“I get the general idea. This is a common reaction after a pitched battle, you know.”

“Hmm. Well, after a while, we finally started talking, and got it clear that he was one of the commando guys, but he couldn’t figure out what I was doing there, or how I had fought the creepy-whitecoats or how I knew that a scream would kill the Gentlemen. I know I shouldn’t have, but I told him that I was the Slayer. It just seemed like the right thing, since we’re sorta on the same side.” She stopped. Giles could tell this was it, and knew enough not to push now. Then, very softly, she continued,

“He said, ‘The Slayer is a myth. You can’t be the Slayer, she doesn’t exist. Who are you really?’ I told him again. He said I was lying, and that it was dangerous, and I was going to get myself killed if I kept believing such bullshit. That having a little martial arts training was not enough to protect me from the real dangers out there, and I should leave this kind of work to the professionals. He was insisting that he should see me home because there was no way I would be safe out there alone. I ditched him. He’s not very fast with all that gear they make him carry.” She paused for a time, adding her other hand to their small embrace on the table. Then she said,

“It wasn’t just that he called me a liar, even with pretty clear evidence that I can do what I said I can do. I’ll bet he even thought I screamed because it was a girly thing, not because I knew it would kill the Gentlemen. But it was his tone as much as anything he said, all condescending, with the ‘don’t try this at home’ attitude and the super-secret union card. Giles, he was so convinced that he was right and I was just wrong, so wrong I might even be sick and should be taken care of until I could be fixed.” She didn’t so much stop as simply wind down, the fight gone right out of her, leaving her desolate. “I felt all fourteen again, when Mom and Dad stuck me in that pscyh ward for saying there are vampires.”

“They did what?!?” Giles choked out. The hollow sorrow in her eyes when she looked up told him volumes. No wonder the pack’s betrayal of Mowgli hurt her so badly. Oh my dear, if I had known I would have chosen a very different story. Without letting go of her hand, Giles shifted his chair around to her side of the table, put his other arm around her shoulders and pulled her in to rest against his chest.

“Oh Buffy, I’m so sorry. You aren’t the first Slayer whose family has panicked when they were called. It’s one reason the Council tries to identify Potentials young, to spare them that rejection.” She nodded against him, her breathing shallow against his shirt. She was still shaking.

“As for Riley, envy makes people say the damnedest things. Embarrassment makes that worse. And, if he’s been trained the way you say, he’s got all kinds of prejudices against even the possibility of others more skilled in this war than he is.” He felt dampness on his shirt. He held her a little tighter.

“Buffy, dearest, please listen to me. You are not broken, or wrong. You are not one of the monsters, even though he made it sound that way. You are a brilliant, gifted warrior, though, and that does set you apart from the mere wolves. Or, rather, the jackals, in this case. This boy behaved more like Tabacqui than Akela, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. Guess he can afford to be brave when he’s working for a great big tiger.” she said. Giles pulled back just enough to be able to lift her chin and smile at her.

“That’s it exactly. And you can bring down your own buck, thank you very much.” He tucked her back against him. “My brave hunter.”

“Does that make you my Bagheera, then?” she mumbled into his shirt.

“More like Baloo. Teaching you the Law of the Jungle.”

“But Baloo didn’t fight, and you do.”

Giles thought about this for a moment.

“Kaa, then,” he said. “I will be your Kaa. He watches the whole jungle, and knows the lore of all of its people, and he fights when he has to.”

“I don’t remember a Kaa in the story.”

“He’s in a different story in the same book, one that comes later, after Mowgli returns to the Seeonee hills.”

Buffy sat back enough to look up at him.

“They let him come back?” The hope in her voice made his heart twitch with sympathy for her loneliness.

“Oh yes,” he smiled down at her, “he comes back and lives a very good life there. Lots of adventures. Although there is one very bad moment involving the Bandar-log, the monkeys. But then, that’s when his friendship with Kaa really begins.”

Buffy ducked back down, and he caught a glint of embarrassment in her eyes.

“What?” he asked gently.

“Um, could you maybe read them to me sometime?” He could barely hear her.

Yes, oh yes, dearest, of course I would.

“I would be honored to do so,” he said softly. She responded with a squeeze of his hand and then pulled herself away, just enough to be upright but not enough to leave the circle of his arm.

“I would like that. Maybe after training sometimes, you could read to me, and we could, y’know, eat marmalade toast.”

“You want to start training with me again?” Hope almost broke his voice, he was so startled.

“I need to. Now that these commando guys are poking the Hellmouth with a big stick, I need some serious tactical support as well as keeping the basics up to speed. Sooner or later they’re gonna stir up something they can’t handle.”

“True. I think for now it would be wise to avoid them if you can until we find out more. You seem to have managed that part quite well until now.”

“Well, for all their night camo and sneaky gear, they all use enough aftershave to pickle a horse. I can smell them blocks away. I’m sure that most of their targets will be getting wise to that soon, too.” Buffy hesitated, remembering something. “And under all that macho cologne, Riley smelled strange. Tasted weird too, now that I think about it. Not like in bad toothpaste weird -- almost musky, but not exactly.” Suddenly she blushed when she realized what she’d said. Veering quickly back to the main topic, she said brightly,

“Okay. If they’re the jackals, we need to find out who the tiger is. Just knowing it’s the military isn’t enough. And why in the world are they capturing things instead of just eliminating them? That’s where I’ll start.”

“Given your class schedule, should we set a specific time to meet each week?”

“Thursdays are good. I have Psych in the morning, but the rest of the day is clear.” She gulped. “Oh god, Riley’s the TA for that course. I’m gonna to have to see him again. Maybe I should drop the class.”

“But Willow says you enjoy the subject, and you’re doing well in it. Besides, you should keep your friends close, --“

“—but your enemies closer,” she finished for him with a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. I’ll finish the term.” She made a sour face.

“It’s a pretty mild way to go undercover, all in all.”

“You’re right, of course.” She narrowed her eyes, calculating something. “I think I should get a bonus for putting up with such a bigoted asshole, though.”

“But you don’t get paid as it is, so adding extra to zero doesn’t amount to much.” He should have been more alarmed by her grin.

“You have something I want.”

“I do?”

“Marmalade, mister. One jar a week until we crack the case.”

“One a month. I don’t have that much.”

“Two a month, and that’s my final offer.”

“Two a month, but we share and you eat it here.”

“Done.”

“We might run out before this is resolved.”

“Can’t we make more?”

“I’ll see what I can do to get some Seville oranges.”

“But I like the blood oranges.”

“As do I, but they’re very scarce here. This is the first time I’ve ever found them.”

“No connections in the secret citrus underground, then, Mr. Heroic Archaeologist?”

He tried to glare at her, but he was too happy to pull it off. And she was grinning, which ruined his concentration.

“Fine,” he huffed, “I will pull in favors to keep you supplied with your drug of choice. What is it about the marmalade, anyway? You’ve never reacted this strongly to anything else I’ve fed you over the years.”

Buffy’s expression sobered slightly as she considered her answer. Then she had it:

“Because it’s like us, y’know, this destiny thing: bittersweet.”