PAX

PAX

Author: Jo
Feedback : Pretty please, whatever you thought of it. It will feed my muse for the next story – honestly. Send it to thelibrarian2003@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine. If they were, I’d look after them better. No money will ever be made from this fic.
Distribution: The Angel Texts http://octavesoftheheart.com/angeltexts/ ; Dark Star’s Blood Roses Forum; The Angel Elders Mansion http://tv.groups.yahoo.com/group/angel_elders_mansion/ Denial Haven
You want it? Really? Gosh. Just tell me where it’s going please.
Spoilers: None
Rating: NC17
Content: A discrete story spawned by ‘Solstice’, in ‘The Nature of the Beast’ cycle.
Summary: How will Giles be allowed to take retribution on Angelus, for Jenny’s death?

Author’s notes

1 For anyone who hasn’t read ‘The Nature of the Beast’ cycle, here’s a *very* short summary of around 300,000 words. After years of trials and tribulations, Angelus and Buffy are a recognised couple, and have just been united in a marriage/mating ceremony. Angelus and Giles had a difficult moment on the wedding day, and Angelus has decided to deal with Giles’ hostility. This starts on the day after the wedding. You don’t need any more back-story than that.


2 Pax
Latin for ‘peace’; British slang for calling a truce

3 Lethean
From Lethe, a river in Hades producing forgetfulness of the past.

4 Weregild
The price of a man's head; a compensation paid for a man killed, partly to the king for the loss of a subject, partly to the lord of a vassal, and partly to the next of kin. It was paid by the murderer.

5 Eyghon
The demon, of whom Giles was an initiate in his youth (‘The Dark Age’)

6 pace
(in stating a contrary opinion) with due deference to (the person named).

7 Pax vobis
Peace be unto you

N.B. I’d just like to remind readers of one difference between the reality that I have created, and the reality of Joss’s Buffyverse. In this series of stories, Angelus never got to torture Giles. Angelus killed Jenny, Angelus tormented the Scoobies, and Angelus acquired Acathla; but before he could look at activating the demon, Drusilla, obedient to the voices in her head, persuaded him to take the family on a last holiday. He was detained in Egypt, much against his will, as related in ‘Lionesses’, during which time Buffy and Giles destroyed Acathla.

Giles, therefore, has two main grudges against Angelus: Jenny’s murder, and Angelus’ ‘subversion’ of the Slayer. But he hasn’t physically suffered at Angelus’ hand.

PAX

I’m Giles, or Rupert, to most of the people I know. Just a few, though, call me Ripper, those few who remember me from my younger, darker days. Angelus calls me whatever fits his mood at the moment. At the wedding last night he called me Giles. ((The mating; how can a union with a monster ever be called a wedding? He mated her according to demonic ritual, despite the priest and the white gown, in that profanity of a marriage.)) Almost never does he call me Giles, and to do so, surely, was to remind me of my duty as The Watcher. He had me – and some of the others – stand guard over his marriage bed as he rutted with my charge, my Slayer, on a bed of rose petals, under the lustful gaze of the world’s most powerful demons.

I did it for her, because I thought she needed us there, but I hate him for it. It doesn’t help that he explained the need for the ritual. It doesn’t help that he did it to protect her in the future, to lay claim to her in a way that no others would challenge. He has dragged that bright, shining girl down into the depths of his own vices; he has corrupted humanity’s protector against his own kind. I hate him for that.

But my hatred is also more personal, and I have held it in my heart for years, nursing it to keep it warm. Not only has he corrupted the Slayer, the girl that I look on as my daughter, but he has also killed the woman I loved, when she tried to restore his soul. He broke her neck and left her in my bed, surrounded by rose petals.

And now I must let that hatred go.

Months ago, I told him that I would, yet it has been beyond me to keep that promise. Jenny came to me in what I believe to have been a true dream, and told me that I must let her go, that I must support the Slayer. Buffy has told me that, love him as much as she does, she also intends to use her demon, her mate, her *husband*, to make a wider peace for mankind than a slayer alone can accomplish. She wants me to be part of that.

To make things worse, I have been in his mind. Unknown to him, I was carried with him into the Underworld when he went to bring her back from death. I remember very little of that – I think I should remember nothing, that the spell of the Underworld should take back all memory – but I remember… something. Impressions. Almost like fragments of a dream, tiny remnants of colour surrounded by Lethean darkness. Perhaps it’s because I was a mind within a mind, or perhaps it’s because I haven’t completely fulfilled my trust here. I don’t know. I have seen the worst of him, the depraved monster that he truly is. But I have also seen how he loves her, and how he allows himself to be ruled by her. How he controls himself for her. I have seen him offer to sacrifice himself for her, and I know that the grand gesture was real, that he would have willingly taken on an eternity of agony in Hell, to buy the rest of her life for her.

And there is worse. We few here in Sunnydale may be fighting to save the lives of mankind, but we all have our petty weaknesses, our flaws. We all have feet of clay and we are all only human. It is a terrible thing for a human to be put to shame by such a monstrous demon as Angelus, to be made to feel ignoble and useless.

And yesterday, when I could not keep back the bile at the sight of rose petals to bed her on, he made a gesture so unexpected that I can hardly believe it has happened. I keep playing his words over and over in my mind, because I don’t think I can have correctly understood his meaning, and because his view of my future makes my blood run cold.

“The next time your bitterness manifests, I shall send you away. I cannot restore your lover, and we have agreed that we must make a fresh start, yes? I should have said this before. If there cannot be restitution, then before there can be a fresh start, there must be punishment. There is no time to deal with this now. Tomorrow, you will come to see me and we shall discuss an appropriate penalty. You are my creature, Giles, my servant, and I will brook no disobedience, no treachery, no rebellion and no resentment. For the only time, tomorrow, though, I will permit you to take retribution. That will bring an end to it. Are we clear?

“Buffy need never know about this, Giles. Neither does anyone else. That is part of the agreement.”

And now it is tomorrow. A servant of his, a demon who can go out in the sunlight, has just delivered a note to me. It is written in his own firm hand, and sealed with the winged lion, that old-fashioned seal of poppy-red wax ensuring the privacy of his message, even though it is too cryptic for others to understand.

“Giles

Come tomorrow at 10.00 am. You should expect to conclude our business then.”

A.”

We should both have known that his new bride would not let him out of her sight for long today. I wonder what makes him think that we can deal with matters tomorrow? Or does he expect to involve Buffy? That indeed would be the final humiliation for me – my Slayer judging me when I myself know that I have allowed my personal grief to sway my actions to the point where I put everyone in danger. So, I have another twenty-four hours to meditate upon my failings, and these must be multitude, or we wouldn’t be in this position to start with.

The next morning, I dress for the occasion; dark jeans, charcoal T-shirt, black leather jacket, and a long, sharp stake tucked behind my waistband. Funereal seems good, and precautionary seems even better. When I arrive at the mansion, promptly at ten, I am shown without delay to the small private study just off the main hall. He is lounging in an armchair, an open bottle of whiskey on a table beside him, and two half-full glasses. He gestures to me to sit in the other chair, and hands me a glass, all without a word. He’s barefoot, wearing his leather trousers, and a loose black linen shirt, completely unbuttoned. Nothing else.

Whiskey is not something I usually drink at this hour, but I suspect I might do better with a slug of this in my belly. I wonder whether it’s the same for him, but he shows absolutely no sign of being concerned in any way. As I lean to take the glass from him, I smell something over the smoky tang of the liquor. I can’t immediately identify it, but as he raises his arm to sip the whiskey, I get another waft of that elusive odour. It’s the cleanliness of skin still damp from bathing. I rather thought he might come to me redolent of the musk of the marriage bed, and I chastise myself for that thought. It’s typical of my cast of mind whenever I think of him. I think only the worst. I have no doubts that he will send me away if I cannot reconcile myself. For her sake, I must change.

I take a large mouthful of the fiery liquor, and then I break the silence.

“Buffy?”

He doesn’t seem to be aware that he has started to finger his wedding ring, turning it gently. His smile contains a hint of self-mockery.

“She’s gone to LA for the day. She’s taken Dawn and the rest of the gang. I think there was some unease in their ranks – some feeling that I might not be able to stop myself from doing something dastardly. Or something entirely natural, depending on your viewpoint. She’s taken them shopping for the day, to reassure them that she’s not…different. They’ll have dinner there. I don’t expect her back until late tonight.”

Ah. That would be Xander, I guess, sowing the seeds of uncertainty. Between us, we’ve managed to well and truly break up the honeymoon. I wonder briefly whether there is any significance in the fact that, largely, the women amongst us seem to accept what is happening, despite Willow’s real and bone-deep fear of him, and the men do not.

I also wonder why he is telling me this. Confiding in me. Angel and I used to talk for hours, but Angel had a different perspective of me than this creature. Angel never considered me to be his possession; rather, he gave the impression that he looked to me as an elder, an authority figure. Still, who else is there here that Angelus could confide in?

“Your guests?” The mansion seems oddly quiet.

“That is why I couldn’t see you earlier. We said goodbye to them yesterday. They’re being entertained for a day or two in Hylek. They’ll all be taken to their homes directly from there.”

Ah. Impress them with his holdings there, while getting them out of his hair.

“Aurelius?”

“Gone with them. I think he wants to be sure none of them makes off with the towels and bathrobes.”

That is said with a smile. Now I’ve run out of small talk.

He looks at me, a measuring look, over the top of his glass. It seems to me that he is waiting, although I’m not sure what for.

I take another nervous drink. I can’t seem to find the right words.

“Why have you asked me here?”

Stupid, stupid. I *know* why he’s asked me here, I just don’t know how we should proceed. He doesn’t seem fazed, though.

“You hate me, and I can’t change that. Nor can I restore to you what I’ve taken. But, I cannot accept ongoing bitterness, resentment or rebellion. If you are to remain, you do not have to like me, but I must have your respect and obedience, your submission to my authority. Therefore, we have got to resolve our differences, one way or another.”

He pauses for a moment, to let that sink in, but I know he has more to say, so I remain silent.

“The Watchers know rather less about vampires than they think. Most vampires that fall to a Slayer are loners, vampires that have no family, no clan, no social structure to which they belong. No….” He pauses, searching for the right word. “No…civilisation, if you like. The others, and certainly those of the four major clans, have rules and rituals, behavioural expectations.

“I’m the Master here, and I’m Aurelius’ beta male.”

He flashes me another self-mocking smile.

“If I don’t set an example, who will? You’re mine, through your association with my mate, and I have committed what you see as a mortal sin against you, in Jenny’s death. That takes no account of how you feel about Buffy being my wife. You agreed to the wedding, but it still rankles. Do you agree with me so far?”

I can only nod. From his point of view, he has summed it up perfectly. But my mind is racing with the other things he is telling me.

“I have three choices. I can kill you, and that is what most Masters would do, because that is the easiest solution, and the most final; or I can banish you, which would be almost as good in terms of bringing the problem to a clearly defined end.”

He pauses and refills his glass. At his gestured offer, I let him refill mine. I really hope that the remaining option is more in my favour.

“My third choice is to allow you to exact a price for that wrong, to take retribution. To permit the punishment that must come before there can be a fresh start. That is what I propose. You’re here so that we can determine an appropriate penalty and, since Buffy is out of town for a good few hours, we might as well conclude the whole business today. The sooner the better, don’t you think?”

I am astonished. I had no idea that vampire mores might involve such complexity, such levels of… accountability. In the shock of the moment, I almost forget to be uncomfortable that one of his calmly stated options involves my death. And four major clans? No. The Watchers don’t know nearly enough. The Council have shown themselves to be not nearly worthy of their slayers, and I’ve dreamed of a different way. Of different Watchers. I think I really do need to be here, for the sake of that dream as well as for Buffy’s sake. Even if it is as his ‘possession’, his ‘creature’, but oh, how that thought brings the bile rising in my throat. He doesn’t make it easy.

“What exactly do you mean, ‘exact a price’, and ‘take retribution’? What sort of ‘punishment’?”

I wonder for a moment if he means weregild, blood money. He’s certainly got enough now to make that a possibility. My gorge rises at the thought that Jenny’s death might be avenged by mere money.

He doesn’t answer me directly, simply drains his glass, then stands, cat-like in his agility.

“Come with me.”

I, too, drain my glass, and follow him, obediently.

We walk through the magnificent tapestried main hall that he has created, his naked feet silent on the marble floor, and into the rear part of the mansion. I find that there is nothing mediaeval about these tasteful, modern accommodations. In the corridor behind the hall, he opens one of the pale oak doors, and I follow him downstairs to the basement. I hear someone shut the door behind us.

The basement seems to take up the whole area beneath the building. We pass a couple of storage areas, and through another oak door, which he locks behind us. The room is large and airy, and the comfortable armchairs and daybed are at contrast with the dangling chains and manacles, and other forms of restraint. The plastered walls here, painted in a warm and homely ochre, are covered with everything for the discerning masochist. There is an extensive range of…equipment… including whips, floggers, chains, clamps, clips, straps, and more…intimate…items. An open door in one corner reveals a shower room amply large enough for two. Or more.

“The play room.”

As I look around, I see that my first impression was misguided, and that he is right. There are things here that can cause serious discomfort, but none that are likely to cause lasting harm. These are toys. Well, in vampiric terms, anyway, and maybe in Slayer terms too. I really don’t want to think about that.

He doesn’t pause, but carries on to a heavy, dark oak door set into the far wall. This one has a serious lock on it, and as he opens it, I see that there are also bolts and bars on the inside. I can’t see any of his servitors ever intruding on him in despite of his specific command, but this door ensures that they won’t.

As I follow him through, though, he leaves the door ajar. This room, too, is large, but the bare stone walls make it seem cold and dungeon-like. The… décor… adds to that effect. Here, too, are chains and other restraints hanging from the ceiling and from the walls, although these are much heavier, more *serious* than in the previous room. There is furniture, including a couple of armchairs, but these are in dark leather. Easily cleaned. Like the other room, there is a display of equipment around the walls, none of which can surely be intended to produce feelings of pleasure, and a shower room in the corner, which looks large enough for one. The bare stone floor has a drain set to one side. Everything for the discriminating torturer.

“The work room.”

Yes. I can see that.

‘Overwhelmed’ is the only word I can use to describe how I feel, and it doesn’t even come close. The instruments of torture seem to skitter past my gaze, and I have trouble focusing on them. In sheer self-defence, I think, I spot a staircase running to a door in the wall to my right.

“Where does that lead?”

Heaven forbid that there should be a *worse* room. He’s silent for a moment, then takes the stairs three at a time. I follow him more slowly. It’s worse. There is no equipment, no instruments, weapons or anything of that nature. This is his trophy room. I recognise one or two of the skins on the walls. One, I think, belonged to a demon called Dukker, who tried to run Angelus out of town. I heard about that later, from Ezrafel. There are others, but there is still plenty of room for additions. Plinths hold other trophies. And there is a new-looking skin, alone on a wall, in seeming pride of place. It looks human, and when I walk closer, in morbid fascination, I see that there are carefully repaired areas of damage. When I look at Angelus, his expression is bland.

“Who was it?” I’m almost sure it’s a who, not a what. For a moment, I think that he doesn’t intend to answer, but he surprises me.

“Riley.”

Ah.

Riley, who tried to kill Buffy, even though he loved her; Riley, who was persuaded by Wolfram and Hart to believe he had a duty to cleanse the line of slayers from the corruption brought by this creature in front of me.

Suddenly, I can’t bear to be in this macabre place any longer, but not for the reasons you might expect. I can’t bear to be here because I felt a sudden dark exultation at the thought that Buffy’s would-be murderer has come to this end. That says more about me than I want to know. I turn abruptly and go back down the stairs. Angelus follows, and locks the door behind him.

When he joins me, I’m standing with my hands thrust into my pockets, trying to get over the feeling that I am, perhaps, no better than him after all. He seems to understand something of that, and makes no reference to what we have just seen. Instead, he goes to a cupboard, and brings out another bottle of Irish whiskey, pouring two generous glasses. He makes himself comfortable in one of the armchairs, legs stretched out in front of him, feet crossed at the ankles, sipping his drink, apparently completely at peace with himself. He gestures to me to sit, too, but although I take the drink he offers, I remain standing. I’m not nearly so comfortable in my own skin just now as he is.

“Giles. I could offer you blood money for Jenny…” He sees me bridle and instantly holds up his hand to stop me from speaking. “I could, but I rather think that would be to insult you. I have no intention of doing that. If you want the money, you are very welcome to it, and you only have to say so, but I want what is between us to stop, today. Buffy wants you here, and I prefer not to send you away. Besides, you’re one hell of an enemy, and I’d like to have that on my side.

“I think what you want is something much more personal than weregild. You want to take her death out on me in a very personal, physical way. And I think you need to be able to do that before we can move on. Catharsis.”

Catharsis. Purgation. To be able to cleanse myself of this putrefying hatred that has vitiated every thought, every deed relating to this demon, since that dreadful night. To be able to do what Jenny asked: to let her go and help my Slayer. If only that were possible. If only it had never been necessary.

He has waited for me, before continuing. His gesture encompasses everything in the room.

“You have complete freedom of choice. If you want something that isn’t here…”

As if that would be likely.

“…you have only to say. My restrictions are that you may not kill me, you may not permanently maim me, and I will not accept being put into restraints.”

He sees my expression at this last, and gives me a wolfish smirk.

“No, I won’t retaliate. Think of it as having the pleasure of watching me take whatever you dish out and having to hold *myself* in restraint. Anything, or everything. Choose, Ripper.”

That sudden dark exultation floods through me again. Ripper. To have this *creature* at my mercy. To be able to make him pay in blood and pain… He understands me too well. I look around the walls and try to focus on what is displayed there. More whips, canes, clamps, ball-crushers, chains, weights, gags; dildoes, some huge, some spiked, some – well, let’s just say I wouldn’t want one shoved up *my* arse. Knives, maces, cutting and slicing weapons of every kind. Things I’ve never even seen. The walls are full of ways of causing pain. A row of chests and cupboards run along one wall, and laid out on these are other, smaller items. Some of them might seem more at home in an operating theatre. All of them are ready for me, should I choose to use them.

Since Jenny died, I have had a lump in my chest. Something dead and leaden, weighing me down. That lump starts to grow, as I look around this room of pain, and I can feel a surge of heat from it. Anger. This isn’t what I want. These are mainly things that Angelus would use, not me. They are too cold and calculating. Too slow. I want something hot and fast, something to melt this lump in my heart.

I walk over to the display of whips, and take down the one that looks like it would provide the most serious business. It’s a long, black bullwhip, braided through with a thin cord of twisted wire. Still with my back to him, I ask, “Have you ever been flogged?”

“Yes.”

There’s a surprise. I rather saw him on the giving, not the receiving, end.

“More than once?”

“Many times.”

Darla, I guess. I should have known.

“What was the worst flogging?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. I’m tempted to turn around, but I don’t. I wonder whether he can’t decide which was the worst flogging, or whether he doesn’t intend to answer. He surprises me again.

“Just before you and Buffy destroyed Acathla, Aurelius was having me flogged almost to death for killing Darla, for trying to kill the Master, and generally for having had a soul.”

What? *Aurelius*? But… Morbid curiosity holds my need for vengeance in check a little. Ever the Watcher.

“Tell me.”

He is silent again, for a few moments. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse with memory.

“He has a whip that looks not unlike that one, just not quite as long and thick. It’s different, though. It’s spelled to flog the spirit as well as the flesh, and to drag the spirit away from the body. It has things braided into it. Sharpened slivers of bone from some of the original saints. From the apostles. They can do a lot of… damage… too.”

“Sounds a killer.” It does indeed. I wish I had it here.

“Yes. No vampire had survived more than twelve hundred lashes with it.”

Hell’s teeth. What was good enough for Aurelius might be good enough for me, do you think?

“Do you know how many lashes he gave you?” How many lashes would Aurelius give his favourite, with a whip like that? A hundred? Fifty?

There’s that pause again.

“Every single one was counted off on a slate, so that there would be no mistake. Three thousand.”

I feel my grip tighten on the leather in my hands, as I try to envisage that terrible punishment. Three thousand lashes, with a whip that has destroyed all other comers after twelve hundred. The next words out of my mouth are stupid, because my brain is still reeling at the thought. Do not open mouth until brain engaged.

“I bet that wasn’t done without chains.”

“No chains. He just crucified me to a beam in the wall, and gave me three days to free myself.”

Dear god. I can’t help but turn round. His eyes, always dark, are now black, his expression shuttered.

“How did you survive?”

I think I see why he has had moments of silence before answering. His glass is empty. I’m not surprised that he would need a drink while recalling this. He leans over and refills the glass, taking a long swallow.

“Buffy came and saved me.”

Buffy…? And then I remember.

“She had dreams. She woke with blood on her hands, and phantom fang marks on her neck. And cat hair, from a large… Sekhmet. It must have been Aurelius’ Sekhmet. Buffy thought she had been dreaming of Angel in torment.”

He sits forward, all attention. This is something he didn’t know. If he didn’t know, then…

“You haven’t discussed this with Buffy, have you?”

“Giles, there are a lot of things we haven’t had chance to discuss. There are lots of things she hasn’t told me, either, I’m sure. I intend to take Buffy on a proper honeymoon, and we’ll be away long enough to give us chance to talk. It’ll take years to catch up properly, I guess, but we can make a start. And after you and I are through here, you’ll tell me about these dreams she had.”

I’m brazen.

“Only if you tell me the rest, from your point of view.”

He frowns, but nods.

“Very well.” He looks at the long braid of black leather in my hands. He doesn’t seem overly troubled. “Is that what you’ve chosen to start with? Have you used a bullwhip before?”

“No, but how hard can it be?” Start with? He’s giving me carte blanche, almost, isn’t he? His smile is one of genuine amusement, as he stands up, holding out his hand for the whip.

“If you don’t know what you’re doing, it’s very easy to take out your own eye with that – or mine! Mine would heal, yours wouldn’t, so you’d better let me show you.”

He wants to show his torturer how to use the equipment. This is surreal. But I shake my head. Nothing I could do with this whip would come close to Aurelius’ punishment of him. And I’m a man, not a demon. I make my mind up to opt for a very human punishment, one that I’ve felt myself, in my youth. I still carry one or two scars, in fact. I hang the coiled whip back on the wall.

“No. Strip. Now.”

He doesn’t even look surprised. He walks over to the door, closes and locks it, then goes to the row of chests and cupboards, and shrugs out of his shirt, laying it on one of the chests. Then he unfastens his belt and strips off the trousers, placing them next to the shirt. I gesture to a pair of chains hanging from the ceiling in the centre of the room, knotted up high so as not to be a nuisance.

“Unfasten those and grab hold of them.”

He doesn’t argue, simply does as I have instructed. On my part, I walk over first to the table that stands a little way from the chains, a wooden, refectory style table, with attachments. You could still use it for eating, but you’d need to beware of the added iron and leatherwork. It’s scrubbed quite clean, though, like a butcher’s block. I lay my jacket and sweatshirt on the far end – this is going to be warm work. Then I take off my shoes and socks – bare feet give you a really good grip – leaving just my jeans. They might well need washing when I’ve finished. That’s OK.

His voice comes behind me, unexpected.

‘There’s an old pair of leathers in one of those chests if you want to borrow them. Save you getting yours… messy.”

I don’t know how he can be so detached. I shake my head, and then go to inspect his discarded clothing. I’ve seen his belt. I know how to use that. I pull it out of the carrier loops, and assess it. It’s thick black leather, very heavy. The buckle is silver, and a complicated design of a dragon. It’s the weight and the edges of the buckle that interest me. It’s at least a pound of metal, if I’m any judge, far heavier than anything ever used on me, and the design has resulted in edges that have a number of sharp points. My guess is that this wasn’t simply chosen as something to hold his trousers up. This can do a great deal of damage, if properly applied. I’ve always been good at cricket. I was a very good fast bowler, with a strong right arm and a good eye for placement of the ball. This is not going to be a lot different. Once I get a feel for the swing of this buckle, I can properly apply it. I wrap the end of the belt around my fist, leaving as long a piece of leather as possible, to give momentum and force to that pound of spiked metal. The buckle sits exactly right. Oh, yes, this was never meant to be just a piece of accessorised clothing. Angelus clearly believes in carrying his own instruments of punishment around. Or perhaps it’s been offered as another choice for me. Whatever, this will do.

I turn round to face him, expecting to have to tell him what I want, but he has understood. He has assumed the position. The chains have been hooked up so that he has to spread his arms wide and high to reach them, and so that they do not hang low enough to get in my way. He has taken a stance that spreads his feet wide apart. His body is taut with the effort of reaching the chains, and maintaining his stance. So taut that everything I do will simply hurt more on those stretched muscles. Perfect.

Except… I can’t explain it, after all this time, but what I see is Angel standing there, not Angelus. This has nothing to do with the body, which is, perforce, the same. This is more spiritual than that, although without his habitual mocking sneer even his expression is one that Angel might wear. No, it isn’t the body. It’s that same tranquillity. That same stoicism. Just now, there looks to be no difference between the two disparate occupants of that single body. I suddenly believe that the generally held view that the vampire has nothing in common with the host is plainly wrong. This demon is not the one who first appeared to Buffy. This demon may now be even more dangerous than that one, but he has changed in other ways, too. All those years as Angel have left something behind. Not Angel’s goodness. Never that. But something. The old Angelus would never have offered himself like this. I don’t want to punish Angel. I want to punish the demon. Almost, almost, I want to toss the belt down, and find some other way, although I’ve no idea what that might be, and I feel my grip on the leather start to slacken. Almost. But a small voice creeps through my tangled thoughts. The question is out of my mouth before I realise it.

“Has Buffy ever been in here?”

At the thought of my Slayer, my delicate, golden Slayer, chained in the stance he has adopted, I feel the heat bursting from that lump in my chest. He smirks at me.

“Not yet, Ripper.”

The dam bursts. My next order is barked at him.

“Change.”

He looks confused.

“Show me what you really are.”

Understanding floods his face, for a moment, and then I’m looking at the face of the demon. Judging my distance carefully, I take a tighter grip on the belt, swing my arm back, feel the proper rotation in my shoulder, and land the blow overarm, and with all my power.

The buckle has caught him on the chest, just above his left nipple, and has bitten deep into the flesh. Blood, dark and sluggish, seeps a little from the wound. I doubt if he’s fed recently, or the blood would be redder, fresher. He looks down at the wound. His voice, when it comes, lisps a little from the fangs.

“Is that all you’ve got, Ripper, ‘cos I really thought you packed more of a punch than that.”

And suddenly, all the anger and hate and the *waiting* explode into a white heat of rage, fuelling my muscles with adrenaline, sending me strength to match my will. I tighten my grip again, and set to work.

He doesn’t flinch, or not much. He makes not a sound until one point on the buckle sinks deep into his right nipple, and then it’s only a slight grunt. Bruises, welts and deeper wounds have blossomed from neck to knee. Still the fire inside me fuels the strength of my arm, and the bruises continue to grow and flourish. There is no sound except the whisper of the belt through the air, the tiny jingle and thwack as it hits his flesh, and my hoarse, ragged breathing. Then he gives a groan of pain, silenced almost before I hear it. The buckle has bitten deep into his erect penis, drawing blood. I’ve avoided this area, with careful placement of the belt, a small, still rational, part of me screaming that Buffy will be exceedingly displeased if her bridegroom is damaged there. I push down the thought of how displeased she will be at the rest of it. He must have considered that before we started.

I stop to draw breath. He’s covered in wounds, literally. I didn’t think I’d got that many in me. I wonder for a moment why he’s so aroused, whether he simply gets off on pain, and whether this is truly any punishment at all for him. Then I look at that demon face and, even masked by those ridges and planes, and by his own impassiveness, I see the shadow of pain etched onto his features. Through my anger, and my ferocious satisfaction that *I* am the cause of that pain, I think I understand what’s going on. He’s always said that torture hurts more if the victim is in a state of arousal – that’s to do with the sensitivity of the nerves. I’ve hurt him, and he has been silent, accepting whatever I choose to hand out, wanting me to do my worst, the architect of my catharsis. But, he’s been thinking of something to keep himself silent, to keep himself still, to keep himself vulnerable for me. Something I can’t fail to notice. Buffy. For that instant, he seems more human, and yet more inhuman, than I want to know.

“Too tired to go on, old man?”

His voice is not quite as steady as he would like me to believe, and the tiny trail of blood on his chin tells me he’s bitten through his lip. There are small trails of blood on his wrists, too, from where his nails have dug into his palms. His fists are clenched around the chains, white-knuckled.

“You swing like a girl, you know. I’m a vampire, not a man. You couldn’t even damage Buffy, if she were here instead of me.”

The white-hot lump of flame lashes out again. I point to the table.

“Brace yourself on that.”

I walk back to the armchairs and their little table, and pour a good stiff shot of liquor. It goes down in one. The muscles of my right arm are burning, and I rotate my shoulder to ease it a little, thankful for the anaesthetic effect of the good Irish whiskey. I’ll show him. My hold on the belt has started to slip, and I rewrap it around my fist. Only then do I see that the buckle, and the adjoining leather, is liberally spattered with red. When I turn back to him, he is positioned at the end of the table, leaning a little over it to hold the sides, his arms braced. His feet are apart, but as I move around behind him, I kick the inside of one ankle.

“Further apart.”

He complies.

“You’ve got no stamina, you know.” His tone is conversational. “You’d have been no good for that young, pretty gypsy. Do you think I should have given her a go before I broke her neck? You know, let her go out with a bang?”

A wave of pure hate and anger crashes through me, and the violence of it seems to shatter my spirit, leaving only my darkness. Ripper. I hardly recognise the voice as mine.

“I’ll give you yours, you bastard…”

As I put the force of that anger into the lash of the belt, I give it a small flick of the wrist. The tongue of the buckle buries itself in his shoulder. I had not aimed so precisely, but it has hit the eye of the lion. As I yank it out, roughly, a small runnel of blood springs from the eye, a blood tear for my lover. The second blow is angled round to catch him in the ribs, and then there is only the sigh of the leather cutting through the air, and the soft smack of the metal on flesh. It goes on for a very long time. My arm seems not to belong to me. I feel no pain, no fatigue, just this need to rend and hurt and make him suffer. And I do.

I remember very little else until I hear a muffled cry of pain. He hasn’t moved, but I don’t know how he could not have. His back is a mess, from the nape of his neck to the back of his knees. My arm is on fire, testament to what looks to be hundreds of gouges, weals and bruises. There is hardly an inch of space between any of them. He has kept silent, though, until my aim faltered, landing a blow I had not intended, and there is now blood running down his balls, from a long vertical gash at the back of the sac. I’m panting with exertion, my rib cage heaving, struggling to fill my lungs. And mine isn’t the only harsh breathing. Old habits obviously die hard with vampires, and he is panting, with short ragged breaths. I think he’s trying to control the pain.

Now that I have stopped, my arm is too exhausted to do more, but the white heat of anger is still powering through me, drumming through my blood. This time he doesn’t taunt me. As I drag the air into my burning lungs, I look around for something, anything, to continue his punishment. Then I realise that I have done this the human way, but there is a vampire way, one that he has made no secret of. It’s appropriate.

He misinterprets my silence, and starts to straighten. My voice is a snarl.

“Stay down!”

He does. I’ve never had much truck with what I’m about to do, but it really does seem appropriate. I stand closer behind him and take a fistful of hair.

“Down, I said,” and I push down hard. I feel his cheek crunch into the table, and he bends his arms to accommodate the new position. I unzip my jeans, and I feel him stiffen, realising what I am about to do. For the space of a single breath, we are both completely still. Dimly, I wonder whether I’ve pushed him too far. If I have, he might just kill me now. Then his muscles ease, and the moment of danger recedes just a little. I shove both thumbs hard into his anus and drag him open. And in one savage thrust, I’m in. I can’t imagine this vampire letting anyone do this to him, but somehow he’s learned to relax when he needs to. Then I remember Aurelius.

I’ve wondered before how he feels to Buffy, but my mind has no space for that now. I’m too full of rage to have any rational thought left at all. I know that the weight of his body – and mine – is crushing his very erect and bruised penis into the table, no doubt causing him excruciating pain, but it seems that he can get off on pain so I should care less. I keep thrusting, as savagely as I can, and I wrap my left fist in his hair again, to keep his head down.

“If you were a vampire, Ripper, you’d have licked the blood off my back by now. Or even if you were the Slayer…”

I don’t recognise the roar, but it isn’t him, so it must be me, and I redouble my efforts to pound him into the table. My jeans start to slip, and before they puddle around my ankles, I pull out what was in the back of my waistband. The muscles of his back clench and relax as he tries to move with me, to accommodate me, and the torn and bruised skin slides gently over them, emphasising just how much damage I have done. That, and this vampire’s submission to me, must be the cause of the fierce, triumphant joy that swells within me, as I survey the punishment I have handed out.

And, as my balls start to tighten, I see Jenny in front of my mind’s eye. She blows me a kiss, and then she’s gone. And the lump in my chest, the one I have carried for so long, flares into a sunburst of white-hot heat, as my climax erupts from me. As these two things coincide, I slam the stake in my hand down into his right lung, just below the tattoo on his shoulder blade. I brought a long one, very sharp, and I feel the point splinter against the table as the stake completely transfixes his chest. That roar is definitely his, and he bucks beneath me, briefly, before stilling again. Then, I feel his anal muscles clench around me, as he milks me for another climax, a climax that comes fuelled by testosterone, and the sight and smell of his blood, and the knowledge that I could have killed him.

It takes a long time for me to finish, and when I am, I can only stand there, my knees weak, my lungs and muscles burning, my breathing harsh and laboured. I really don’t think he’s in much better shape. I can do nothing for a minute or two other than lean on that excoriated back, and try to recover some strength.

As I slip out of him, I stagger backwards out of the puddle of my jeans, and stand doubled over, my hands on my knees, waiting for the little white lights to disappear, just as the lump in my chest has disappeared.

“You can get up now,” I manage.

When he straightens, and turns around, I can see that he is still in demon face. He stands, looking at me, expectant, his hands on his hips. He doesn’t know it’s finished. I wave vaguely at him from my doubled-over position.

“You can change back. I’m done,” I gasp.

His voice seems strained.

“You’ve done everything you want to do?”

“Yes.”

“Have you satisfied your need to be revenged?”

Strangely, I really do think I have.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

I don’t think he meant me to see the grimace of pain as his face changes, but I have done so. He turns his back to me and leans on the table.

“You’ve got a hell of a fast bowler’s arm there, Giles.”

I can only grunt in reply.

“Now, will you get this fucking stake out of my back?”

As I approach to do so, I see something that I missed before. I’m not the only one who came on that table. He will hate that I made that happen, and that I have seen it. It will be a humiliation to him, that lack of control whilst being punishment-raped by a human. That may be the worst possible thing I could have done to him. He sees that I have seen, and a shadow passes over his face. Neither of us says anything, though.

The stake is jammed between two ribs, and it takes me several attempts to pull it out. I try to distract him by talking.

“You didn’t need to goad me like that, you know.” My tone is peevish.

“Oh, I really think I did. There, at the beginning, you almost didn’t have the balls for it. If you had dropped that belt, nothing would have changed. Worked, too, didn’t it? You really did give me everything you’d got.”

He’s right, of course. He growls as I wrestle with the stake, trying to free the hold his flesh and bone has on it, then he surprises me again.

“You’re thinking I might goad you with Jenny in the future, use her death to get under your skin. No, I won’t. I might feel like it at times, but then I’d have to go through something like this again. So, no.”

I’m not sure what to say, so I say nothing.

When at last the stake breaks free, it does so to a string of curses from him. It takes him a few moments to regain command of himself, and during that hiatus, I suggest that we should get cleaned up.

“No. There’s something to do first.”

I eye him warily. I’m afraid of what he’s going to say next, and I try to pre-empt him.

“You want to punish me for the way I have behaved to you and Buffy.”

He looks tired.

“No. If we are making a fresh start, then that applies to both of us. No, what must be done is something quite different. You are part of my household now, Giles. You need to carry my mark.”

“What?” I can’t believe this. Marked? “I won’t be made into your slave!”

“No. You won’t. I’ll talk to you about it, but not now. For now, I want you to trust me. Do you think I didn’t know about the stake? For the last two hours, I’ve trusted you with my life. I need to know that you can trust me with yours. Will you do that?”

I thought that, as both a Watcher and a man, I had sunk beneath reproach when I had agreed to ally myself with this demon, to accept his authority. Now he wants to mark me as his possession, perhaps as his slave. And he asks me to trust him. I could say no. I’m almost sure that he won’t kill me, that he will simply send me away. But if I say yes, I will be here for my charges, who have all decided to stay with Buffy, despite that some of them have grave misgivings. They may be men and women grown now, but they are still my charges. And I will learn. I will know things that no other Watcher before me has known. I suspect that this alone would keep me here, this thirst for knowledge, this need to understand as much as I can of the universe, even at peril of my life. Perhaps at peril of my soul. I may be an old fool, but I’ll never change now. Ripper. The time between us stretches on, and still he is standing there, naked; bruised and bloody from the wounds that I have inflicted; sticky with my semen – and his own; and yet, he is complete master of this situation. I make my decision, for better or worse, and I tilt my head.

“Do your worst, bloodsucker.”

He chuckles a little.

“Oh, you definitely don’t want my worst.”

He crosses the distance between us, stiffer than I am used to seeing him, holding his right arm pressed into his side, against the pain of the staking. I can see some splinters of wood in the wound on his front, light against the dark red clots of blood; these are the remnants of the point of my stake, and I stop him, and pull them out. Then he is behind me, his hands on my shoulders.

“Pleasure or pain, Giles?”

“I’m sorry?”

He sighs.

“I do have limitations. For this, I can do it in pain or in pleasure, no other way. Most people don’t get the choice.”

I remember Lilah, when he marked her. Would pain be better? More symbolic that I do this reluctantly? ((Oh, but think of what I can learn here! How reluctant am I? Truly? Remember Eyghon?)) And what answer does he expect of me? I start as I probably won’t go on.

“As it pleases you, I suppose.”

“Good choice.”

He reaches down and takes my hands in his, then, still holding my hands, wraps his arms around my chest, pulling me firmly against him. I have never been so close to a vampire, not even a few minutes ago, with his entire body now pressed against my naked back. He is cool, but not unpleasantly so. Ambient temperature, I suppose. And I’m rambling in my head, trying not to think about what is going to happen.

I feel the brush of his mouth on my jaw, as he lowers his head.

“Good choices get rewarded. You want to learn, Giles, don’t you?”

He knows me too well. His mouth slips down past my jaw to that soft skin beneath.

“We are predators, with humans as our prey. We camouflage ourselves to live amongst you, to hunt amongst you. We choose the most beautiful bodies for very real reasons – to attract you.”

He suckles lightly around the pulse point, and I can feel the throb of blood quicken and intensify. Faster. Harder.

“Earthly predators all have their own style of hunting, but most of them hunt prey that is ambushed or has to be chased. Only a few do something different. But weasels dance for rabbits.”

The very tip of his tongue brushes against the pounding pulse point. Now. Do it now. In me. Now.

“A hunting vampire has something to offer, something humans want, in exchange for what we want. A promise of pleasure in their nasty, brutish lives, and in the end, they can’t stop us, don’t want to stop us. This is the true kiss of the vampire, Giles, and humans will walk into our arms to get it. Man or woman, it really makes no difference. You all want it.”

His lips, silken and soft, move over my coarse human throat, and I feel the insistent nudge at my back as his body responds to what he is doing. Mine already has. And then there is a slight sting as his fangs sink gently into that pulse, a moment of pain as he starts to draw on the blood, and then more ecstasy than I can ever remember.

His grip on me tightens, but there is no need for that. If he continued feeding until every drop of my blood was gone, I should not move from his embrace. This is where I should be, forever. Then, much too soon, he withdraws his fangs, and it stops. I am bereft. He does not move, does not slacken his hold on me, and if he did, I would simply fall to the ground. My legs have no strength. I am ashamed to see the mess that I have made on the floor.

“Ssh… Don’t worry, it’s natural. That’s how it happens.”

His voice is soothing, as one might coax a reluctant pet. He waits until he is sure that I can stand, before he moves away, and he has judged it to a nicety.

“We’ll talk more later, Giles. Just now, let’s get cleaned up.”

He points me towards the shower in the ‘play’ room. I think uneasily of how it’s amply big enough for two, but he turns towards the shower room here. He no longer hides his pain; his gait as he walks is stiff and awkward. His back is one solid purpling bruise, decorated by red welts and redder lacerations. A thin rivulet of blood still flows sluggishly from the wound below his shoulder blade. I know that he looks almost as bad from the front.

As he turns on the water of the shower, he stands under it, hands and forehead pressed against the white tiles, as if the wall is the only thing holding him up. After what seems like a long time, he picks up the soap, and even from this distance, I can see his grimaces of pain as he starts to soap himself down. Does he know that I am still here, watching? Does he care? And for the first time, I allow myself to wonder what he will tell Buffy.

It doesn’t take me long to get through my own ablutions. When I get back, he is still in the shower, so I clear up the mess. By the time I’ve done that, and washed his belt, he’s dressed. This time, he wears his shirt tucked in and fully buttoned as far as the collar. A few lacerations are still visible at his throat. He doesn’t put the belt on, simply pads into the other room, and I see that the cupboards in there conceal a refrigerator and a microwave. When he comes back, he has a jug of warm blood. It won’t be enough, though.

“Those wounds won’t be gone by the time Buffy gets back, will they?”

He shakes his head and drinks a glassful. I pour myself another whiskey, although I doubt whether I should do so on an empty stomach.

“What do you intend to tell her?”

He shrugs, and turns to look at me, his face enigmatic.

“What would you like her to know?”

I can’t answer that. My only answer would be too cowardly, and I’m sure he correctly interprets my silence.

“Every action has consequences, and I’ll just have to deal with these. I’ll probably go out hunting before she gets home, not get back until dawn. With some fresh blood, most of this will be faded by the time she sees it.” He pauses for another sip of blood. “I intend to be as honest with her as I can, but there are some things that I can’t tell her and she must learn to accept that.”

“Like she’ll accept Riley’s skin in your trophy room?”

His grin is boyish.

“She doesn’t have a key to that room.”

“Neither did Bluebeard’s wife.”

He eases down into the other armchair, gingerly.

“Well, I’ll just enjoy it while I can, and hide it when I must. I thought you would give me more grief over that.”

“He tried to murder Buffy.”

He nods. He does, indeed, understand Ripper. I’ve got a lot of questions, but I come back to this first one. Ever the Watcher.

“Why don’t you want her to know about this?”

He takes several swallows of blood before he answers, and I realise I’m trying not to think of him going out hunting later, or of what he will hunt.

“When Aurelius had me flogged at the clan gathering…”

I have to interrupt.

“It was public? A public flogging?”

His eyebrows arch up in surprise.

“Of course it was public. What would be the point, otherwise? He gave me the penalty that he did, so that the clan could see for themselves that justice had been done for my perceived crimes, even though they were committed by the Soul. The clan master must put the affairs of the clan in order.

“I needed to put matters between ourselves in order, but what do you think would happen if I did it publicly? Jenny, unlike Darla and Nest, had no standing in the clan or in this household. Rather, she was a clear enemy of mine. What would her death have been worth in a public judgement? Blood money at best, and not much of that. Would you have been satisfied? Of course not. Better this way. As for Buffy, do you want her to see the darkness in you? I thought you hid it from her as much as you could.”

He is, of course, right, but I don’t like the picture of my lover that he has painted here. And Buffy. I see that the need for secrecy from her is my need, not his. It would be wrong for the rest of the household to know how he has submitted to me, but not necessarily her. At least, I don’t think so. She would think no less of him, but as far as I am concerned? I don’t need it spelled out. That consequence is mine, and he is paying it for me. What happened to this demon whilst I wasn’t looking? Whilst I was blinded by my prejudice?

These are things to unravel later. Now that I know he is in a mood to answer my questions – and to answer honestly – I ask the one that is hammering around my skull. I finger the still-seeping mark on my neck.

“Will you tell me what I’ve done here?”

He refills his empty glass, and sits silently for a moment. If it were Angel, I should say that he was brooding.

“Angel’s mission was saving souls. Buffy’s mission is saving lives, but she wants to create a wider peace for mankind than a single slayer can ever hope to do. She wants to use me for that.”

He looks askance at my expression, which must be a little like that of a schoolboy caught with his hand in the sweet jar.

“What? You thought I didn’t know? What do you take me for?”

A lot less intelligent than he is, obviously. He doesn’t need a reply to that, and he continues.

“Well, it seems that someone else has a use for me, too; a use that suits me very well. I have what you might call a mission. Why should I be left out of our happy little trio’s penchant for missions, after all? I’m to bring down Wolfram and Hart; not the law firm – the senior partners behind the law firm, the Wolf, the Ram and the Hart. I mustn’t kill them, but I have to bring them down. It’s going to be desperate work, Giles, with a lot of different creatures taking part; creatures with very different agendas. If we’re very, very lucky, it will be a long and bloody conflict, and a lot of us will die.”

“Don’t you mean, if we’re very unlucky?”

“No. If we’re very unlucky, we’ll all die and the Earth will go to Hell.” He considers for a moment. “Or perhaps you’re right. Perhaps that’s the lucky choice… No, no it isn’t. Buffy would give me no peace. She’d come and find me in Hell and make me put it right.”

His grin is wolfish. Then he lapses into silence for a moment, looking more and more like the brooding Angel.

“That mark identifies you as mine. No one on our side will harm you, even if they don’t know you, and they will accept you as my messenger if necessary. It will make you a target for my enemies, but you’re probably that already. It will let me know if you are in trouble. If I’ve done it right, it might just let you know if I’m in trouble, and I certainly expect to be that. It shows my ownership of you, but it wasn’t just for my ego, or to bond you to me. It’s for your protection, too.”

He falls silent then, sipping his blood. I really don’t know what to say, so I, too, fall silent and sip my whiskey. Then I remember Lilah, again.

“Would you be able to call on this, to make me your slave, as you threatened to do with Lilah?”

“No. You would also need a few drops of my blood if I wanted to do that.”

I remember the blood on Lilah’s mouth.

“Will you ever do that?”

“No.”

He turns to me, his smile tired.

“No. If I had meant to ever do that, I shouldn’t have gone through with this. You have my word.”

I do believe him.

“So, how are we to take this new war forward?”

“I’m going to start by having a honeymoon. Buffy and I deserve one. Day after tomorrow, I’m taking her around the world, show her some sights. The Taj Mahal by moonlight…”

He puts his hand into his pocket and pulls out an old-fashioned ring. It’s the Gem of Amarra. Oh, my. I wondered what had happened to that.

“… Macchu Picchu by sunlight. Who knows? While we are away, I’d like you and Wesley and Ezrafel to get to work.”

He points out a drawer in one of the cupboards, and asks me to fetch some papers in there. I find a slim folder, which I hand to him. He opens it and takes out some handwritten sheets.

“You were there, so you know most of it, but this is everything else I can tell you about the Wolf’s brother and the Ram’s son. There’s more about how I was given this task. It’s also everything I can remember from Angel’s battles with them.”

He lays rather more sheets of paper on the table.

“This is everything that Lindsay can recollect that might be useful from his time at Wolfram and Hart. Talk to him, get him to remember more. Do the same with me when you’ve had chance to read these, and before I go away. Don’t ever let Lindsay near LA; he’s never going to be safe from the Senior Partners and the law firm until the job is done. Don’t tell him anything that you find out. If he’s taken, they’ll make him tell. He understands this. When you hook up with Wesley, do it quietly, and never give anything away on the phone or by computer. Hand write everything. Don’t trust the mail, though. Don’t go to Lilah. We’ll decide how to handle her when I get back.

“And use Ixolon and the Norags. Remember that they can find things. I doubt there’s much limit to what they can find, if I understand them right. When we get back, I want to have as much information as possible before we go to war.

“Buffy’s trip to LA isn’t entirely innocent. She’s taking some instructions for Faith and Wesley, but you’ll be the one in charge of the research.

“You and I might be in a state of pax pace Ripper, but the overall peace isn’t going to last much longer. If we don’t get them first, I really do think they’ll come looking for us. If we win, though, at least Buffy will get her wish for a wider peace. I hope.”

And so do I. If anyone can do it, I now believe that it will be him. I don’t know whether I can ever like him, ever be his friend as I used to be Angel’s, but in light of what he’s said about having a mission – and I am still trying to assimilate the shock of that – perhaps it will be easier if I think of him, too, as one of my charges, incongruous as that sounds.

Will he want to mark the others? Will they let him? Time will tell.

And I think I’ve let Jenny go. I hope.

“We’ve got a few hours before I need to make myself scarce. Want to talk? Could you eat some lunch?”

I do, and I could. And I need paper and a pencil.

Pax vobis, Angelus. You’re going to need it.


THE END
21 November 2004