TITLE: The Fine Art of Blackmail
AUTHOR: JK Philips
RATING: PG
SUMMARY: After the events of The Family Business, Giles and Buffy have their daughter back and are running the Council, but will Wolfram and Hart use Giles’ past sins to destroy the life they’ve built?
SPOILERS: Everything up to “The Gift”
DISCLAIMER: I do not own these characters; they are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy & Fox. I simply am doing this for fun, and non-profit use.
EMAIL:
. Feedback always welcome.MY WEBSITE: www.jkphilips.com
--------------------------------------------------- Part 5: Reprise Day three of Giles’ five day countdown dawned not so brightly as the day before. Partly because thick curtains sealed away the morning light and shrouded him in darkness, partly because in waking, he discovered a pounding headache and an uncomfortable queasiness in the pit of his stomach, but mostly because waking on that third day confirmed that he was Angel’s prisoner, gagged and bound to a chair in the very same mansion, in the very same room in which he had been tortured nearly seven years before. A sense of dread settled over him as he concluded that he was about to endure a repeat performance. A cool touch stroked along the nape of his neck, and he shivered. “Good. You’re awake. I was beginning to get worried. And bored.” Angel swam into his blurry vision as he pulled up a chair in front of him and straddled it. He leaned forward, and Giles jerked back, reconsidering the sudden movement when it only increased the pounding in his skull and the miserable nausea. “Thought maybe I hit you too hard.” A finger tapped on his forehead, and he flinched back reflexively. “You got a thick skull, though. How many times is this for you?” Giles flexed his jaw, attempting to shift the gag in his mouth. It was tied too tight, biting into the corners of his mouth. Angel hooked a finger beneath the cloth and twisted once, increasing the tension across his jaw. “Yeah, I’m not so fond of the gag either. Ordinarily, I enjoy a good soundtrack with my torture, but I hear you got in touch with your inner sorcerer.” Angel twisted his finger a second rotation, pulling the gag even tighter. Giles squeezed his eyes shut and wondered if the vampire were going to start by dislocating his jaw. “Wouldn’t want you to turn me into a rat or something. Or even worse: curse me with a soul again.” He abruptly pulled his finger out from beneath the gag, and the cloth loosened until it was only moderately uncomfortable. Giles let his head fall forward in relief. “Yeah, the whole soul cursing thing never turns out well for me. First time: spent a hundred years skulking in shadows, eating rats. Second time: girlfriend sent me to hell. I’m thinking this time, just as a favor from you to me, you get the chance… just dust me. Leave the ensouling to Spike if you feel like neutering some vamp.” Angel rose from his chair, laughing. “Right… Spike already is neutered.” Giles glared daggers at Angel, trying to convey through his eyes the misery he would inflict before allowing Angel the mercy of dust. Flaming baseball bats were nothing compared to the spells he was imagining right now. The vampire began to pace the confines of the small room. “We got some time to kill, you and I. Sun just came up, so I’m stuck here ’til it goes down again. Aw shucks, I had them turn the cable off when I moved to LA. What, oh what, shall we do to pass the time?” Giles twisted his hands behind him, straining to loosen the ropes. He was tied more securely than he had been the last time, his wrists fastened tightly together and then lashed to the chair back. Angel had taken the precaution of binding his legs this time as well, his ankles strapped to the chair legs with rope knotted as tightly as that around his wrists. Angel was actually afraid of him this time, afraid of his magic, afraid of his power, as well he should be. Angel dragged the empty chair over to place it behind Giles. He could sense the vampire’s presence behind him, cold hands hovering over his own. The fingers. He knew the fingers would be the first. “You’ll let me know if I’m not doing this right, won’t you? You probably remember it better than I do. A few hundred years in a hell dimension can make a person forgetful.” Giles turned his head to study the thin crack of light that trespassed beneath the drapes. Angel had said the sun was up, but Giles guessed just barely. The light was still hazy, the shadows it cast too long. He judged it to be just past sunrise. He calculated the time until sunset, tried to remember how long he had suffered the last time, and found that he couldn’t remember. The whole experience had blurred together, nightmares and memory melding into a surreal mesh of pain and fear. Giles flinched as the first finger broke, biting down on the gag as he braced himself for the next. *** Buffy had searched for him all night. All twelve cemeteries. Crypts, woods, abandoned warehouses, alleys, demon lairs. Marianne stayed with the children while she did, looking after little Zoey as well so that Anya and Xander could do their part: stopping into Willy’s to see if any demons had stopped by to brag about bagging a watcher, making the rounds of the hospitals to see if he had been brought in. Buffy asked dispatch to send two patrol cars on a sweep of the city. By sunrise, Buffy was desperate, sleep-deprived, and convinced that Wolfram and Hart had something to do with her husband’s disappearance, but clueless on how to strike back at the law firm. Angel had been battling them for years without success. And they were human, so she couldn’t just charge in, guns blazing, not even for Giles. She banged the front door behind her and dropped onto the couch, exhausted. Alex climbed into her lap, sucking on his thumb. Robin loitered at the bottom of the stairs. “Find Daddy?” her son asked. Buffy threw Marianne a stern glare. “You told them?” “No, of course not. Alex just knew. He had a nightmare last night, and when he woke up, he said a bad man was hurting his father. I told him you were out looking, that you’d bring his father home. It was the only way I could get him back to sleep.” She closed her eyes and kissed her little boy on his forehead. She was remembering the prophetic dreams her son had on occasion: knowing his sister’s name, knowing about the fire that nearly killed her, warning Travers about his death, foreseeing the Mortog beast and the terrifying events of that night on the beach. Buffy understood about prophetic dreams. She had them quite often herself. The difference here was that Alex was only three, nearly four, and scary visions were too much to ask a child that age to cope with. If Giles was being hurt… If Alex had seen the details… She hugged her son closer to her chest. But there was also the possibility that Alex had dreamt something useful, something that would help her find Giles, and so she needed to ask their son the specifics of his nightmare. “Little Rabbit, can you tell me about your dream?” Alex snuggled closer into her embrace, as if he could burrow right back into the safety of her womb. Robin turned and ran upstairs, which was just as well. She didn’t need to hear this. “Bad man take Daddy.” Buffy rubbed his back gently, trying to soothe him. He was trembling, and she could hear in his voice that he was near tears. “What did the man look like, honey?” “Like Uncie Angel.” “You mean a vampire? Yellow eyes, bumpy head?” Alex nodded against her, and then started to cry. “Daddy hurt. Scared.” “Shhh,” Buffy murmured against the boy’s hair, holding him tight and rocking him. “Mommy’ll find him. Everything’s going to be fine.” A vampire. Vampires were easy. And she was allowed to kill vampires. In fact, it was kind of her job title. Vampire Slayer. *** It was different this time. Angelus was different. The first time, the vampire had tortured with words as well as hands, had enjoyed listening to the sound of his own lilting Irish as he taunted Giles with what he would do next. He had forced him to listen to graphic descriptions of Jenny’s murder, a vulgar account of Buffy’s virgin night, detailed promises of what torment he intended for the Slayer in the future if Acathla didn’t open and the world didn’t end. Better to give up the secret now and save her the pain. This time, Angel was more silent than not. Giles wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse. On the one hand, he didn’t have to endure endless verbal assaults as Angel poured salt into already raw emotional wounds. On the other hand, without the vampire’s constant mocking narrative, Giles couldn’t anticipate the pain, and that made it sharper when it came, meant he was always bracing himself for whatever might come next, meant that even if he were allowed a short respite between sessions of torture, he couldn’t seem to relax and rest, knowing that the pain would resume again without warning. His ribs were broken. It hurt to breathe, and so he tried not to do it too deeply. Short, shallow breaths, and even those stabbed. He tried not to look at the curtained window too often either, with its small sliver of light which was his only indication of the passage of time. A watched sun never sets. At last check, he had guessed midmorning, not even noon yet, not even half over yet. And that was only if Angel truly planned to end the torture when the sun set. Best case scenario. But there was nothing stopping him from continuing past then, or from going out to feed, to hunt, to drop in on Buffy unawares, incapacitate her, drag her back here, and force Giles to watch her die before beginning all over again. He didn’t need Angel’s mocking narrative. Giles’ imagination painted enough horrible possibilities all on its own. Giles stiffened suddenly in his chair as a sharp jolt spiraled up his arms. Angel had returned from wherever he had disappeared to, and the break was over. Cold hands were twisting his broken fingers, sending relentless waves of agony pulsing up his arms. Giles fought to control his breathing, to maintain the slow, steady rate that would save him the added pain of his broken ribs. But then Angel laid one hand on his shoulder as the other continued toying with his broken digits, and with one swift movement of that preternaturally strong hand, Angel dislocated Giles’ shoulder. Giles screamed. No longer able to control his breathing, he sucked in great gulps of air, his ribs protesting each inhalation. “Don’t know about you, but I find Southern California can get a little chilly in the winter time. Whadya say we warm things up a bit, huh?” Angel entered his field of vision, dragging something behind him. Giles turned his head to see what it was. A small brazier of hot coals was warming various metal instruments in its fire. Groaning, he averted his gaze. His eyes sought out the sliver of light beneath the drapes, trying to guess at the time. He felt the vampire’s fingers brush across his skin as the undead hands carefully unbuttoned the front of his shirt. Angel whistled appreciatively as he spread the fabric to either side, reaching out to trace his fingers across the patchwork pattern of old scars. “Souvenirs of our time together.” Giles shuddered beneath the vampire’s reverent touch. “Makes me a bit nostalgic.” Angel spread Giles’ shirtfront further open, sliding the fabric down over his shoulders and as far down his arms as the watcher’s bonds would allow. He tugged the hem from his trousers and tucked the fabric behind him, out of the way. “Ever wonder what it feels like to be a vampire?” Giles felt himself panic as he hadn’t in all the hours leading up to now, and he struggled violently against the ropes holding him. As a vampire, freed from human feeling or conscience, but still possessing a watcher’s knowledge and training, Giles knew he would finish what Joseph and Sabrina had started. He would kill Faith and Buffy. He would kill his own daughter. No more slayers. His son and Wesley would die next. No more watchers. He writhed his hands behind him, mindless of his broken fingers, and twisted his feet desperately against the rope that held his ankles firm. Angel laughed at his frantic struggles, leaning over him, nuzzling against his neck. Giles squeezed his eyes shut and tipped his head to the side, trying to evade Angel’s fangs, but in doing so, he only bared his neck more. He heard his heart hammering in his ears. He’d rather die than drink, rather die than be turned, but he knew Angel could force the blood down his throat. There was nothing Giles could do except pray that Angel would remove the gag first, that he would inadvertently give the watcher an opportunity to use magic. Angel pulled away, laughing. “That’s not what I meant, but it’s a good idea. I’ll have to keep it in mind for later.” He turned and pulled something from the coals with a pair of pliers. He held it up for Giles’ inspection: a large metal cross, the size of a man’s hand. It glowed red from the heat of the fire. “Ever wonder what it feels like to be a vampire?” he asked again. *** Ethan’s pacing was beginning to drive Willow nuts. Two guards at the door, magical wards in place, they weren’t going anywhere. He might as well have a seat. Except he was having a nic fit, dying for a cigarette, and Lilah had forbidden him from smoking in her office. Willow could almost feel sorry for him. Almost. It would have been a good excuse to get him outside, past the wards where he might cast a little bat signal spell or something, but the guards weren’t that stupid. Lilah came in and out. Willow watched her when she came in, watched her fingers over her keyboard, intently watched every keystroke. People underestimated her now, thought she was powerless with her magic all locked away. Lilah certainly seemed to think so. Plain, mousy Willow, who couldn’t float a pencil with 10 feet of fishing line. People forgot that she could work magic with computers. And she was fairly certain she had figured out Lilah’s passwords. When the lawyer left again, Willow kicked Ethan in the shin as he walked past her. “Ow! What the hell was that for?” “Sit down already. You’re making me dizzy.” His chin jutted out, and he defiantly continued his pacing, purposefully avoiding passing within kicking distance again. Willow rolled her eyes. Stealth was lost on Ethan. He needed an anvil dropped on his head. Literally. “Dissimŭlāre.” It was the beginning incantation to a cloaking spell, which wouldn’t have done a bit of good in the warded office, even if she did have her powers, except that maybe now Ethan would catch a clue. He eyed her skeptically before dropping down on the couch beside her. He picked up the television remote from a side table and flicked on the TV that was built into the office bookcase across from them. “Nothing else to do. Maybe there’s something on the telly.” He turned the volume up, not enough to be obnoxious or obvious, but enough that they could whisper without the guards overhearing. Willow feigned interest in the television program, even as she mumbled out the side of her mouth to Ethan. “I think I can get into Lilah’s computer if you distract the guards.” “What’s that going to do?” “I don’t know. But it’s worth a shot, right?” *** Angel had found a new game. Giles was exhausted and beyond caring if he lived or died. He just wanted it over. The marks left by the cross on his chest, his stomach, his shoulders still burned almost unbearably. The thirst was beginning to take a toll now, too. The cloth gag had long since sucked dry every last drop of moisture from his mouth, and its cotton fibers tasted of the bile he barely kept down when the pain was at its worst. His broken fingers still ached, and his ribs seemed to progressively hurt more with each shaking breath. His shoulder was barely returned to its socket, and it screamed bloody murder if he strained against his bonds too fiercely. All of that paled in comparison to Angel’s new game. It had started when Angel had again brought the searing cross towards his chest in slow motion, enjoying Giles’ desperate attempts to avoid the burning metal for as long as possible. Angel had dragged the moment out, only gradually moving the cross closer and closer, until Giles could feel the heat scorching his chest by its mere proximity. He already knew from experience that the actual touch of that fiery cross would be infinitely worse. Giles had pushed himself as far back in the chair as he could, his spine pressed flush to the high wood back, and still Angel moved the cross forward at a snail’s pace. Giles had continued to writhe his hands in their bonds, trying to squirm out of them or somehow loosen the knots. His fingers were already slick with sweat or blood from his efforts, but his struggles accomplished nothing. He had exhaled in an attempt to buy himself even one more second before the inevitable agony. Angel had stopped and held the cross right there. Giles was spared for as long as he could hold his breath, but he knew the first inhalation would expand his chest enough to bring him into contact with the waiting cross. He had held his breath for as long as he could, his face turning red, sweat beading his forehead, his whole body shaking with the effort. But when he had reached his limit, his body forced him to draw that next breath. Intense and excruciating and beyond bearing. He had exhaled as quickly as he could, holding his breath once more. And that was Angel’s new game. Giles was uncertain how long they had remained like this, Angel holding the burning cross a single breath away, and Giles staving off every breath for as long as he could, but it seemed like an eternity. He was afraid to turn his head and seek out the light beneath the drapes, afraid that it would tell him that it had only been minutes. Sometimes he teetered on the edge of passing out, and he wished he would, but that damnable instinct for self-preservation would always force the next breath into his lungs. Sometimes another and another, three or four gasping, agonizing breaths until he had enough oxygen to hold it again. Angel pulled the cross away finally, and Giles went limp, sucking in air like a drowning man. The vampire was only heating the metal in the coals again, but for the moment that meant Giles could catch his breath, could release the tension coiled in his body, could close his eyes and rest for even a moment. “You do realize this has nothing to do with you, don’t you?” Giles cracked an eye open slightly. Angel was stirring the fire with the pliers, digging out a nest of white hot coals to bury the cross in. “It’s always been about Buffy. You think I cared what it did to you, finding her broken body in your bed? No. I waited outside Buffy’s house until you called her. It was her grief I wanted to witness. I hurt you because it hurt her. And when she’s hurt, she’s sloppy. Rattle her, and she loses her edge. Rage, anger, and defiance fuel the fire, give her strength. But grief, despair, and guilt give her doubt, make her hesitate. How many times could she have killed me in those months? Perhaps your Jenny would still be alive. But she was blind to what I’d become, blinded by emotion, and it made her hesitate. Made her weak.” Angel dragged his chair back over in front of Giles and casually flipped it, straddled it, and rested his arms over the back. He studied his prey for several moments before reaching out to gently remove the glasses from Giles’ face. He patted the watcher’s trouser pockets until he’d found the ever present handkerchief and whipped it out. Angel breathed on the glass and carefully polished Giles’ sweat from the lenses. He held the frames up to the light to check they were clean before replacing them on his captive’s face. One finger on the nosepiece pushed the glasses up to their proper place, and Giles flinched back at the memory that evoked. Past and present were all melding together. Angel smiled. “Her feelings for you run a little deeper this time, huh, Rupe? Must admit, I still haven’t puzzled that one out. I mean, let’s be honest with each other here. You’re looking your age. You’re tired, worn out.” Angel smirked and leaned forward to brush his fingers across the many burn marks now beginning to blister Giles’ skin. “Marked up. Plus, there’s that whole mentor thing. Don’t you feel like you’re taking advantage of your young charge? I always figured you’d be walking her down the aisle, not standing on the other end of it.” Angel shook his head. “Can’t imagine what Buffy sees in an old fool like you. Doesn’t matter, I guess. Whatever the reason, you mean the world to her.” He paused. “I’m going to shatter that world. I’m going to shatter you. Until she can’t see straight, until she can’t fight straight.” Angel abandoned his chair in favor of pacing circles around his captive. Giles tensed, bracing himself for the next onslaught. Angel stopped just behind him, and he felt the vampire’s hands curl over his shoulders. He tried to make himself relax. If Angel wanted to rip his shoulders from their sockets again, then it would hurt much less if he didn’t try to fight it. But the basic flight or fight response is a difficult one to overcome, entrenched deep in the human psyche, and Giles found he couldn’t relax, his whole body trembling beneath Angel’s hands. “I’m just trying to figure out what would really mess Buffy up. What could I do to you that would send her over the edge?” He leaned forward and whispered it in Giles’ ear as his hand snaked down the watcher’s burned chest, reaching lower. “What could I do to her husband-” He spat the word like a curse. “-that would shake her to the core? That would make her careless?” Angel’s hand found its mark, stopping between Giles’ legs, inhuman grip grabbing at his crotch, squeezing cruelly until he couldn’t breathe, even if he wanted to. Angel laughed at Giles’ misery. “So, you’ve had a taste of being a vampire: why we really hate crosses. Ever wonder what it’s like to be a vampire with a perfect happiness clause, my friend? I know. Let’s castrate you, and you can find out.” Giles mercifully blacked out. *** “You won’t find him if you black out for lack of food either, Buffy. You haven’t eaten all day, have you? Come on, ten minutes. We’ll go through the drive-thru, and you can eat in the car.” April didn’t wait for Buffy’s response before steering their patrol car towards the McDonald’s entrance. If she was honest with herself, Buffy was in no shape to be patrolling. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days. Worse than that, she seemed permanently stuck in the role of “bad cop” to April’s “good cop,” so much so that April actually felt sorry for the questionable characters they stopped to interrogate. She shouted their order at the drive-thru speaker, understood nothing of what was repeated back, and pulled up to the first window. Buffy had claimed she wasn’t hungry. April had simply ordered for her. She studied her partner as they waited for their food: sullen, brooding, face devoid of the usual spark that signified Buffy, eyes glazed over with fatigue and despair, hair haphazardly pulled back in a ponytail, dark circles beneath her eyes. April had seen her partner after sleepless nights, she had seen her upset and emotional, but she had never seen her like this. She wondered if this was the face John had seen so many months ago, when both she and Giles had lain unconscious, lost to those who loved them best. “You look like shit,” she told Buffy. A partner was nothing, if not brutally honest. “You need a break. You need some sleep.” “Not ’til I find Giles.” “You know, there’s a reason you’re not the only cop on the force. You can’t do everything by yourself. They’ve given us as many men as they could spare. That means you nap, and they keep looking. Then they sleep while we look. It’s this whole rotation thing the chief came up with. I think he’s calling it a work shift.” Her sarcasm failed to get a rise out of Buffy. She merely turned weary, but determined eyes in April’s direction and asked, “Could you stop? If it was John?” Well, she had her there. April sighed and handed over her money to the teen at the first window. She pulled up to the second and waited for their food. She handed over the warm bags to Buffy’s lap, stuck the sodas in the cup holders, and stole a french fry off the top as she pulled into a parking space. She waited until Buffy had started eating before saying anything. “John went missing once, five or six years ago. I was heading the investigation of a particularly gruesome serial killer. He liked to remove his victims’ brains.” “Brain sucking demon,” Buffy muttered, and then stole a guilty glance in her partner’s direction, as if she had let something slip. “Yeah, there are some pretty sick people in the world,” April agreed. “I guess you could call them demons. Anyway, I got home after getting a good look at the latest crime scene, and John wasn’t there. I flipped. He was gone the whole day, and I fully expected to find him at another crime scene, outlined in chalk. By the end of the day, I was so distraught, that night on patrol I actually thought I saw a pair of werewolves.” April giggled sheepishly. “Silly, huh? Can you say ‘sleep-deprivation-induced hallucinations?’ “My point is this: John wasn’t being tortured by some sadistic killer. He was fine. He had gone to LA with a friend for the day, knowing that I would be tied up at work, and he forgot to leave a note. He got home before the ten o’clock news, bearing a fresh carton of milk and laundry detergent, and without the slightest clue that half the Sunnydale Police Department was looking for him.” “Giles didn’t wander off for the day. He was home, and then he was gone. For the whole night. And now most of the day, too.” April patted Buffy on the knee. “I know. I’m just saying… Don’t assume the worst. He’s probably fine. And when this is all over, he’ll owe you flowers and chocolate for worrying you so.” *** “So they pay you pretty good?” “Ethan!” Willow scolded. “What? Don’t act all surprised. You already knew that I’ve no qualms about auctioning off my services to the highest bidder.” He sidled up to the two guards at the door. “So Wolfram and Hart… they pay pretty good?” They each shrugged and nodded gamely. One guard tacked on, “My wife complains about the long hours sometimes, but the Firm gives us stock options, great health insurance, 401K, the whole nine yards.” Ethan nodded thoughtfully and leaned against the wall. Whether this was his attempt to distract the guards or whether he really was contemplating joining up with Wolfram and Hart, Willow couldn’t be sure. But the guards had both turned to face Ethan, leaving Willow unwatched for the moment. They were still standing between their prisoners and the door, so they probably felt little need to watch Willow that closely. What could she do in Lilah’s little office after all? Actually, quite a lot. “So… Any idea if they’re looking to hire on another sorcerer? My particular specialties run to chaos and mischief, something I think Wolfram and Hart might appreciate.” “You could check with Human/Demon Resources after they let you go. There’s a job posting board outside the main office.” Willow typed quietly and quickly. She could feel the adrenaline pumping through her, her heart rate increasing, and she was getting all sweaty. She had to hurry before security noticed what she was up to. “Now would you suggest signing on full time, or doing freelance work? Because I’ve found that working in a team is really not my strong suit.” “They generally start you off as a contractor anyway before offering you a job. I freelanced for them maybe three years, mostly security for parties, dark rituals, that sort of thing, before I got hired on permanent. Chuck here, he only worked as an assassin for… what?” “Six months.” “Six months before they gave him a job.” Lilah’s passwords were good, and Willow had successfully breached all her security measures. Now all that was left was to find something in her files that could prove useful. “Assassin?” Ethan sounded distinctly uncomfortable. “Former assassin,” he was corrected. The other guard laughed. “Chuck here’s like the pit bull you keep in the shadows. The doberman’s to scare off the crooks, but the pit bull… you won’t hear him coming, and he’ll take you down before you know he’s there.” Willow had found everything she needed. She compressed it, emailed it to herself, then erased every trace of her snooping from Lilah’s computer. Come on, Ethan, she mentally prayed. Give me just one more minute. “So be straight with me now. Who around here do I want to avoid working for? Biggest pain for a boss?” *** Cold water across his face forced him abruptly to consciousness. For a moment, he could allow himself to believe that it had simply been another nightmare, but the pain awakened as he did. He moaned softly as the last of the fog lifted from his head. He hurt everywhere. “Thought I went a little too far there.” Angel’s soft voice drifted to his ears from somewhere behind him, each word imbued with the slightest hint of an Irish brogue which only rose to the surface in the incarnation of Angelus. Souled, he had no accent, as if time and regret had stripped him of both the man and the monster he had been. Angel was neither, a lesson Giles had apparently not learned well enough the first time. He had treated Angel as a man, and as a consequence, now found himself reintroduced to the monster. Giles shifted in his chair. Remembering the last moment before unconsciousness, his eyes dropped to his lap. There would be blood, surely, if Angel had… And more pain than just the dull ache. Or perhaps Angel had merely wanted alert prey for the big finale and had waited for him to regain consciousness. His fears seemed confirmed when Angel circled around to the front and dropped to his knees before Giles. Angel walked two fingers up the length of one leg, pausing over the zipper of Giles’ trousers as he savored the sight of his captive’s weak, panicked struggles. In the end, Angel’s hand fell away as the vampire collapsed in a fit of laughter, his head dropping to rest against Giles’ knee. “Not that I wouldn’t love to, my friend, but you’d only pass out again, and I need you awake enough to tell Buffy exactly who has been your host today. The girl lives in the land of denial sometimes, and I’m afraid she’s gonna need to hear it from you before she believes what’s right in front of her eyes.” Angel lifted his head and grinned wickedly. “Doesn’t mean there aren’t other games we can play for the next few hours. Plenty of games that’ll still keep you right here. With me.” He sat up on his knees, leaning forward until they were nearly nose to nose. “There’s more than one way to break a man,” he assured Giles. *** Cordelia stumbled in the front door, not bothering to close it behind her, and unsteadily made her way to the couch, sinking down onto its cushions gratefully. “Dennis, can you get the door?” She cradled her head in her hands, as if that could help slow the pounding. “Dennis?” She blew out an irritated breath and pulled herself up off the couch. “Fine. I’ll shut the door myself.” She slammed it a little too hard and flinched as the loud noise only increased her headache. “Okay, Dennis, I know you’re mad at me about the other night. We were supposed to watch Thursday night TV, and I ditched you for Wesley, and I’m sorry already. But this silent treatment is really getting old.” She crawled back on the couch, pulling an afghan over her. “Vision Girl just wants a little pampering tonight. Is that too much to ask for? I mean, I selflessly suffer through these skull-splitting techno-color visions so people I don’t even know can avoid having their livers served with fava beans and a nice bottle of chianti. Can’t you just be not mad at me long enough to bring me like a whole bottle of Tylenol? Or maybe some of that migraine stuff the doctor prescribed?” Only silence answered her. She sighed. Maybe she deserved his anger. It was pretty easy to take someone for granted when you couldn’t even see them. But would it kill him to float her out something from her medicine cabinet? “Dennis? Come on, roomie, I need you. Wesley’s still out with Angel and the gang, saving those kids from my vision. And I think if I try to stand up again, I’m gonna puke.” She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. Light was not her friend at the moment. “I’ll even settle for a couple Mydol, if you feel like being a smart ass again.” Nothing. If your invisible roommate chooses to ignore you, you can be fairly certain that you’ve achieved a whole new level of bitca. “I really am sorry, Dennis.” Everything flashed bright, and the pain exploded in her skull once more. “Angel!” she screamed. Rapid fire images assailed her: Angel in game face, Wesley thrown across the room, Gunn and Fred not fast enough to reach him before… She sat bolt upright. “Buffy!” Oh, God, this couldn’t be good. *** Buffy saw it before she’d reached the front porch: a single, long stemmed red rose balanced between the doorknob and jamb. Her step faltered, and April followed her gaze. “See? I told you everything would be fine. He was probably just out, planning some romantic surprise.” She nudged her partner playfully. “Lucky girl. I can’t remember the last time John bought me flowers.” Buffy ignored her and marched up to the front door. She took the rose stem gingerly between two fingers, as if it might contaminate her, and tossed it aside. Giles never bought roses. Giles hated roses. She threw open the door and gasped. The lighting was dim, romantic. Puccini played over the stereo, an opera Buffy didn’t recognize by name, only by Giles’ reaction when he happened past it once on the radio. Wine was chilling in an ice bucket sitting on the foyer table, two champagne flutes waiting beside it and a folded piece of paper leaning against the bottle. Buffy didn’t need to look at it to know what it would say. Upstairs. The stairs were littered with more roses, votive candles lighting the path. April moved to leave, still believing that she was intruding on a romantic setup, but Buffy grabbed her hand before she could go. She must have finally taken in the stricken expression on Buffy’s face, because her voice quickly filled with concern. “Buffy? Are you okay?” “Turn off the music,” Buffy demanded sharply before starting up the stairs. One step at a time. Her hands were shaking, her knees felt weak. She was torn between wanting to run up the flight of stairs and wanting never to go up them at all. She seemed to be moving in slow motion, and yet she was standing in the hallway before she knew it. Their bedroom door was open, candlelight flickering against the walls. Buffy hesitated in the doorway, her hand darting out to steady herself against the wall. Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh please, God, no. She took a deep breath, braced herself, and crossed the threshold. Giles was laid out on their bed, unmoving and still, so pale, so fragile in the candlelight. She couldn’t tell if he was breathing or if he was… She shook herself out of her daze and rushed to his side, clasping one of his hands in hers. He cried out as she touched him, his head arching back into the pillow. He was alive at least. She placed his hand back down on his chest, as gently as she could. She noticed then the unnatural bent of his fingers in repose and remembered watching from a distance, all those years ago, as his splinted fingers removed his glasses, as he limped to join the friends she had planned to abandon. His eyes blinked half open, glassy with exhaustion and pain. “Giles?” she whispered softly, leaning over him, as close as she could get without actually touching him. She didn’t know where else he was hurt. She noticed the angry, red burns peeking out from beneath his open collar, and she stifled a sob. He rolled his head slightly to the side as his eyes sought her out. His voice was hoarse. “Buffy?” “Right here.” She blinked back tears and dared a tender caress across his brow, her fingers lingering at his temple. She could hear April in the background, radioing dispatch for an ambulance. He closed his eyes again, mumbling, “Tired.” She knew it was a redundant question. She didn’t even know why she asked. Except that she had to know for certain. “Giles, did… did he do this? Did…?” She didn’t need to finish her question. He knew what she was trying to ask. His eyes were still closed, but she heard the rage in his answer, one word filled with the memory of a bed of roses and death, fire and smoke, pain and fear, loss and betrayal. “Angelus.” *** The front door stood open. Long gone paramedics had trampled the roses on the stairs. Most of the votive candles had burned out. A few guttered their last moments. April had thankfully shut off the stereo. The house was silent. Buffy made not a sound as she strode down the stairs, past the untouched wine, weapons bag in hand, a grim mask of determination set on her face. She unlocked the front closet and flung it open, reaching in for more weapons, her movements steady and calm as she was not. She closed the bag and hefted it over her shoulder in one fluid movement, as she swept out of the house without bothering to close the door behind her. She had ridden in the ambulance. Giles had faded in and out of consciousness, helped into a merciful daze by the drugs they gave him. She had waited at the hospital only long enough to know that he would survive before taking off again. With any luck, April wouldn’t notice her disappearance until she was halfway to LA. Buffy had returned to their defiled home with a singular purpose, and within minutes had changed out of her officer’s uniform and traded in her gun for an arsenal of more appropriate weaponry. There would be people enough to sit with Giles. Their children, too, would be cared for. For this mission, she had to go alone. This blood was hers and no one else’s. This time, she was no lovesick teenager. She was a woman. A mother. A wife. But Slayer, first, foremost, and always. Tonight she had a past to face, a duty to fulfill, a wrong to put right. An ex to slay. ***
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