Better Buffy Fiction Archive Entry

 

Inheritances


by Kita


RATING: Strong R for violence, torture, non-consensual, (not descriptive) sex


PAIRINGS: Giles, Angelus & Spike, set during "Becoming I & II", and present day. Definitely non-shippery.
WARNINGS: Rape & Non-con.




Inheritances

Dance to your Daddy,
My little baby,
Dance to your Daddy,
My little lamb.

***

Giles possesses a Watcher`s intellect. Whether it is the result of sound breeding or compulsory training, he isn`t certain, but his ability to recall facts and figures astounds even himself on occasion. He can recite the vital statistics of every British soccer player from 1960 to current day, he can name by rote all the elements of the Periodic Table, and if he cannot specifically call to mind the entire ritual for raising a Gavrol Demon, then he can certainly name the book, page, passage and paragraph in which it can be found.

A simple consequence of being mortal, and finite. Skewed perception. The mind rearranging itself to best suit it`s inner realities.

The fact that he has only the vaguest recollection of being tortured at the hands of Angelus is disconcerting. It has been over three years now, and still his brain continues to block out those hours with an almost desperate ferocity. Sometimes, on the edge of sleep, or one of his rare drunks, he can call to mind the music playing in the mansion. Hear the scratchy strains of some classical piece being played ad infinitum on a victrola likely as old as the vampire himself. He can conjure the indistinct shadow of hands and fists and steel and leather upon him. But when he twists in his bonds to see the face,
there is never anyone there.

The vampire calls him, sometimes. The phone will ring at an odd hour, his arms will tingle along the webbing of scar tissue and he will *know* that it is not Buffy, not his occasional and erstwhile lover, not one of the merry band of no-longer-children yet in his charge. And he will answer the phone in a voice raw from sleep and imaginings.

"Angel?"

The answer always soft, reticent, humble. "Giles. I need to talk to you."

The phone calls come on the average of every other month. Prophecies, resurrected Sires, warnings, omens. Giles listens in darkness, his glasses a useless appendage in the deep pitch of his bedroom.

Listens because it is his vocation. His duty. Not to the vampire on the other end, perhaps, but certainly to the human beings who live and work alongside him. Those who would never betray his trust should things suddenly...change again. This is a good way to keep tabs, he tells himself.

Listens out of duty to his Slayer. Angel, for all his faults, is her counterpart in the battle against evil, and a Watcher must not allow personal feelings to dictate his behavior when it comes to her safety. He would never forgive himself if he purposefully ignored useful information simply because he was uncomfortable with the source.

Listens out of duty to the rest of the godamn world.

That sacred oath has always come first, and this will be no different. And oh, truth be told, he is well practiced at it. No matter the offending emotions, no matter the sharp twist in his chest, he prides his ability to reign his emotion with reason.

An essential job skill. An occupational hazard.

So he listens. Listens, keeps his voice calm, and clenches his fists into the bedsheets.

Such nights Giles is grateful for the schism in him, for the silent cloak covering the long-ago twenty-four hour period from his view. He is grateful that Angel is in another town, and so he does not have to look upon the hands that killed his lover, the mouth which grinned while he bled.

After he is done listening, after he hangs up the phone, only the strange sensory memory will persist. Then he will need to slather half a bottle of lotion on his arms to ease the itch, the burn which has not faded
despite the passage of time. The need to wear long sleeved shirts, and the bitter taste of shame. He will spend the next hours sleepless, drinking whiskey and struggling to remember.

***

//A gaggle of geese//

"Ruuupert....c'mon now, Old man, I thought any Watcher of Buff`s would have more in him than that...wakey wakey...." Even his voice is different now...acerbic, lilting. A sing-song nursery rhyme of terror and endings. The cradle has fallen and there is a witch cutting the tails off all the mice.

//A school of fish//

He had found the old scars. And he had found them amusing. "Watcher! These from your days as Lord of Chaos? Sacrifices of flesh? Buffy mentioned you were quite the anti-Giles back in the day...I dunno how to thank you, man. Gives me a nice little pattern to work with. Look, Spike, it`s slice by numbers."

Sharpened silver on the frayed flesh of his arm. Peeling back pink-tinged tissue in slow, precise lines. In the beginning he found it vaguely reminiscent of a man shredding cheese. But it`s *his* skin, and he thinks it should at least make some noise of protest as the long strips are pared away. The moaning comes only from his mouth, wretchedly dry and sour behind the cotton gag.

//A race of humans//

Single slap to the back of the head, brain sloshing forward and back inside his skull. Oh look, the Watcher gets another concussion. It must be some sort of cosmic theme...

"Ruuupert... I know you're in there...stop reciting rhymes in your head, or whatever it is you pitiful creatures do when you`re tortured. Pay attention, here, old man, we're just getting started."

Then the music again, and the popping sounds of his fingers breaking. Ten knuckles. Ten little Indians. His tears a chaos of salt inside his throat.

***

"For Chrissake, pet, are you *tryin* to piss him off?" A heavy object thrown at the ancient record player, the whine of vinyl and a shrill hiss. "Hate that poncy shit."

Fist in his hair, echo of breath on his face. Scent of whiskey, nicotine, and stale blood. "I'm tryin' to help you here, Watcher, but ya sure as hell ain't makin' it easy."

The blond vampire kneels in front of him, grins and runs a pale thumb down the purpling bruises of his broken cheekbone. Smirks at the soft moan. "Ya gotta tell him *somethin'*, mate. Anythin'. Make somethin' up for all I care. But stop playin games. He really. really hates that shit, and you ---" Spike grabs a shredded wrist, flips it over beneath the length of rope securing it to the wooden chair. Giles howls in protest from behind the filthy, blood covered gag. "----haven't got the stamina for it," the vampire finishes, with a satisfied grin.

Black tipped fingers toy with the dangling tears of flesh, petting his wounds in rapt fascination and eager reverence.

"Hell, you bleed alot." Almost an afterthought, delivered in a solemn whisper, as he bends to cover the ragged wrist with his mouth.

Soft tongue over the raw and raging skin, harsh whimper torn from behind the vile gag. Licking in long, slow strokes along the exposed lines of veins and muscle. Swallowing the gurgling blood in eager gulps. Shame, disgust, and the the flash of fury rapidly changing the taste of the feast, and the blond moans.

"Christ, but I do miss fresh blood."

//A flock of sheep//

Have you any wool? Yes sir, Yes sir...it is in a basket on the floor by his feet...twisted, shed skin and puddle of blood...and every so often Angelus throws some into the fire, and the smell of burnt flesh makes Giles retch, and the vampire is kind enough only to remove the gag.

"Spike! Haven't we discussed staying away from what is mine?"

Angelus.

He remembers. The Angelus is the story of the Archangel who appeared unto Mary to prophecies her son's birth. It was all rhetorical anyway. Thy Will Be Done. She never stood a chance either.

Spike smiles again. Bewitchment and treason. Death with a beautiful face. Carved from stone and ice and immortality. The vampire licks his lips clean, leans in and brushes his mouth over the Watcher's neck, nuzzling there like a kitten for the merest of moments.

And Giles cannot but quake beneath the most tender touch....Death comes on little cat feet. Or is that the night? He finds he can no longer recall.

//A pride of lions//

****

"I have to give credit where credit is due, my friend. You're not motivated by traditional means, and I'm impressed. So let's just move on to Plan B."

//A pack of wolves//

"And none of that skipping out on me, either. You're going to stay right here. With me."

The music unbearably loud, resounding off these stone walls the wails of violins and a smooth, Irish soprano. Ave Maria. Oh yes, send us a Blessed Virgin, and him not even a Catholic. But virginity seems goddamn important about now, doesn't it, 'cause if a certain Slayer had kept hers then Giles wouldn't have ten broken fingers, three cracked ribs, a shattered nose and fleshless arms...

"I just love this song, don't you?" Sharp nails roaming over the myriad of cuts and bruises.

No, no...*I* am not the sacrifice, I am just the Watcher and I don't die. Fathers never die in Fairytales, it's the Mothers..they are always evil...Why are there never any Good Mothers in Grimm? Mothers and daughters and witches with great burning ovens...

"I mean it's so...mournful." That beatific smile as the vampire licks the congealed blood from under his own fingernails. And in the Angelus, all the Angels sing Mary's praises. What rot.

" So...pathetic." Taking each one of the broken fingers into his mouth, and sucking on them, gently, oh gently. Cool wet comfort overlapping the grotesque pain. How odd that this mouth can do that. Curses and blessings from the same lips. Giles' toes dig into the carpet when the vampire finally pulls away.

"It makes me wanna...oh, I don't know. Feed. Fuck. Kill. Which you up for, Rupert?" Strong hand at his crotch then , grabbing, tugging cruelly. Dry scream ripped from his throat.

Fists pressed on the shattered hands secured to the arms of the chair, "I know! Let's do em all!"

//plague of locusts//

The dark vampire on his knees before him now, leaning in closer....golden rage, snare and take...steeplechase...all around the mullberry bush the monkey chased...Tongue traitorously soft against the frantic pulse in his neck. Puff of breath making the hairs rise on what remains of his ruined arms. Shirt torn open; hungry, open mouth over shoulderblade, earlobe, curve of neck and cheek. Blunt teeth over bumps and chills, veins and life.

We pray that this sacrifice will be acceptable to You... virgins into volcanoes, small children's skulls cracked open with rocks, and neat slices of flesh made with sanctified knives in the name of Chaos.

Bread and blood.

Dead cyberwitches.

//flock of gulls//

"Mmmmmm....you smell like fear. " A soft laugh.

I am not a sacrifice. I am not. I am not.

//flock of gulls//

"All those years as Watcher and you never got bit? Not even once?" Another chuckle, hands grasping his head, holding him still, studying the smooth skin for the telltale signs of trespass. "Virgin neck. So pretty." Breath warm, tingle of thorns. Snow White and Rose Red.

//flock of gulls//

The gag is torn away the same moment fangs meet artery, and the scream is louder than the violins, louder than the Irish soprano, louder than a flock of gulls.

****
"Rupert, sweetheart, it's Mummy. Open the door, darling." But he can't because he is so sick, sick and on his knees, clutching the sink and losing his lunch, crying and screaming and
then she is there, holding his forehead in her hands, and pressing on the small of his back and whispering to him the soft words of comfort and Mother while he fills the sink with the remnants of too much punch and birthday cake. "There, now, you'll be fine... you ---"

"You gettin off on this, mate? Is that the thing? This like some kinda tough guy Watcher ritual? Cause you are NOT helping your cause, Rupe. *Tutus*, for fuckssake? What the hell were you thinking? Now you went and got bit, and look at you! Bloody half conscious. You're worthless this way."

The vampire creeps toward him. Little cat feet. Pussycat pussycat, where have you been? I've been to London to...Slices his own wrist with a long fingernail, and shoves the blood under the Watcher's nose. "Just a touch, Rupe. Be enough to keep ya' goin' while Angelus tortures the living shit out of you."

No no no..won't do it, rather die, rather die..won't let you turn me, won't...Brain bouncing in his skull again, jolt and pain in his neck, teeth, sinuses. There is pain everywhere, and he cannot get small enough, cannot go far enough away anymore...There's nowhere left to go. He had a wife but couldn't keep her.

//A parliament of owls//

"Stop being a pussy. It won't make you a vampire, you haven't died. Look, let's share a little secret, all right, pet?" The vampire slides into his lap, muscle and lean marble against his chest.

The gag is taken away once more, and the first clean breath of air brings up the blood from his lungs. Crimson drops and streams upon his lips, licked away by a cold questing tongue, and this time when the wrist is pressed to his mouth, he can do nothing but hold his head still, and quench the thirst.

When he is done, he drops his head onto the slender shoulder. "There now. That's a good pet. Now, the *other* secret"....wriggling suggestively against his lap, and Giles' eyes widen almost comically. More laughter from the vampire. "Not *that* secret, Rupe. This one." Leans in against him, presses chest to chest, drops a mocking kiss on the salty forehead.

"I'm gonna save your sorry ass. Trade you in for my Dru, and the Slayer can do whatever the hell she wants to with Daddy Dearest."

//a murder of crows//

A small sob and he has forgotten the gag is no longer there. All he can smell is vomit and agony and the vision of his Mother flew away with the first taste of blood. No place to go. No place like home. I've been to London to visit the Queen.

"Speak of the Devil."

Empty lap, gag in his mouth again, and the rest is just pain.

***

These days Giles remembers only the pain, and if he desired to recall more, there is noone left for him to ask, noone left for him to pray to. They are all malevolent Fathers, gods of war and destruction, demanding absolute obedience lest the random smoting begin. They turn water to blood and they slay the first born and he can find no comfort any longer in those heavenly arms.

***

Angel puts the phone back into the cradle, runs a hand over his face.

Giles. He is Giles now, not Rupert. Years ago, before the rebirth of Angelus, before Angel's ill fated tryst with Buffy, he was Rupert. And Angel and Rupert would spend evenings together, drinking whiskey and discussing mythology. Sometimes art, politics. Sometimes even women. But that was in the before time, and Rupert is no longer someone that Angel has any right to know.

Angel struggled for a long time with what to call him, after returning from Hell, after spending an evening staring down the bad side of the human's crossbow. "Watcher", Spike always referred to him. Watcher. As if name and title were interchangeable. As if all the man was could be summed up in his calling. And maybe upon casual glance, that would be so, but Angel knows better. Angel knows the man.

He knows that Rupert drinks Crown Royal , the bottle kept under his sink, not on the bar with the beverages he offers most of his guests. Angel drank from that bottle on numerous occasions. He knows that Rupert misses his father, and speaks with his mother every Tuesday night at 11:00. He knows that he regrets having never told Buffy that he loves her.

But that man, his plans and his admissions, his intensity and his fallibility, are no longer Angel's to hold sacred. So it is Giles now. Like the rest of them. One of the children, one of those who need his council.

The one who needs his forgiveness.

The days and nights of the rebirthed Angelus, muddied fields in Angel's mind, an unstable landscape which shifts with every footfall. But he can remember, can *taste,* the feeling of those weeks. The frenzy and wrath. The desperate compulsion to make up for a century lost.

And although it has never been spoken of, not in word or glance, although it has been shrouded by the overwhelming stench of guilt, by confusion and fear, by five-hundred years in Hell, he remembers what he did.

He remembers raping Rupert Giles.

***
He tasted of fear at first. Fear and quaking and the split in the Earth where the demons arise. The bubbling beneath the surface of dirt and cinder. Sharp tang of panic peppered with resistance.

Head filled with childhood jingles. And Angelus could hear them all as he fed. Fee Fi Fo Fum, into the haunted forest, little boy, and forgot your breadcrumbs.

He screamed like windchimes and he broke like glass bells. Festive symphony of pain and defeat.

In the beginning, there was chaos, and it was good.

Angelus remembers seeing an owl take a rabbit once. The wee thing screamed in protest as the peaked talons tore into its skin, ripped away the downy pelt. When the bird flew into the night, its prize still in its keeping, the rabbit was still howling. Angelus was human at the time. And although some part of him felt compassion, pity for the small creature ensnared in the claws of its predator, another, more secret, murky place inside of him felt the thrill. Witness to the execution.

Felt it in the sweat on his hands, in the tightening in his chest, and in his groin. Felt it that night, and has not forgotten it since. Even as The Soul.

As a general rule he is quite fond of foreplay, but at the moment he finds less patience for it than that stupid owl. Not simply killing this man in a grotesque and conclusive fashion is grinding Angelus' nerves together into a fine talc. Particularly since the human has begun to stink.

The vampire is having a difficult time placing the odor, but it is cloyingly familiar. Reminiscent of textiles, wig powder, and newly minted coins. And the eyes, even blood-filled and swollen, they are... howling. A resonance of judgment.

Bound on the altar now, a naked, bloodied sacrifice. As he regains awareness, his thoughts unmuddled by terror, replaced by disgust and a brilliant rage. The vampire can hear them. Can *smell* them.

//Drinking and whoring, I smell the stink of it on you!
And a good morning to you, Father.//

Oh yes, the space in the Watcher's head where nursery rhymes had just fluttered about, filled now with a clear and acrid fury, with the tide of death and ashes, and all he has never whispered of even to himself. Hush, Angelus can hear them... 'Cursed Slayers andtheir bastard consorts, foolish teenage choices, inconsiderate, selfish passions and fucking moments of perfect fucking happiness that curse the entire world in their wake. Was it worth it Buffy? Was it? Was he that godamn good? I certainly hope you bloody well got off.'

//Everyone gets corrupted Father, but I find certain methods of corruption are more pleasurable than others//

Laughter through the stench of fury, the siren song of blood and hate. "What do I have to do to convince you, hmmm? What is it going to take, Watcher? I'm thinking there's not much left to try."

The vampire turns up the music on the ancient record player. Spike apparently shattered the last vinyl disc, but no matter. He has half a dozen copies. 'Panis Angelicus' swirls to life in the stale air.

"You know what, Angel? I'm tired of this nonsense. You want to kill me, just bloody well get on with it!"

//Liam! In my house you do as I say, boy//

Angelus grasps his ankles, slides the limp body down along the cold, stone wall.

"As you wish, Giles. But there are a few things we need to try *first*."

Ah, the benefits of having alert prey. They can hear every double entendre in the lilting Irish. Can feel every ache and scratch and pain. Kerosene and paper matches.

And this destruction will abide. This victory will not take mere moments; it will endure lifetimes, it will sing in his memory as long as he reigns in Hell. More precious than Slayer blood, more immaculate than the sacred space where his soul once resided. He will fill that empty place now with blood and fear and the tears wept in vain, because this time, *this* time, *this* old man will not die before he gives up what Angelus needs.

He grasps the Watcher's face in his hands, thumb to nose, index finger crushing the fragile bones of the forehead. Oh but, gently, gently now this time...to last..to last... Softly like the music...

Panis Angelicus
Bread of the Angels

Turns the head toward the wall, feels the thrill of horror reverberate through the flesh. And it's almost like having a heartbeat again. It's almost like being God.

Tilts his face toward the proffered neck, where the pulse thumps erratically. Listens to the muffled sobs beneath his strong hand. So easy. It would be so easy to take....Sheaths his fangs and instead, runs a long, soft, chilly tongue over the vibration.

Fit panis hominum
That becomes the bread of all mankind

More flutter of wings, of heart, of broken bone and shattered illusions. Crashing to the floor, spilling their fury and leaving this in their wake. The air purrs with it. Feathers and quills and soft fur alighting on his skin.

Ah, it is hard, it is so hard not to simply smash the back of his head into the stones, but yes... yes, this is finer. Oh, the struggles that will not quiet, the whimpers of supplication, and the knowledge, the understanding in those eyes. That this is going to *be*.

Dat panis coelicus
Bread from the Heavenly Host


Yes, look at me, look at me. Inhuman grip around the smashed wrist, thumb forcing the muscles of his jaw

Open.

Wonders if the man will remind himself to breathe before the taste of blood and salt and cock nudge the back of his throat. Whispers, "breathe," because to last..to last..this must last.

Figuris terminum
That is the end of all beginnings

Groans from his chest and a flurry of lace and finery behind his eyes. Yes, take it all, all of which I have become, the something I have made of myself. You see? You see? You thought it could not be done. But you were taller then, taller when I was alive, when I was souled. So much taller.

Is this what The Soul feared? This broken human lying beneath him, sucking and swallowing and frantically wondering ... how he will do it, after this. How he will look at them with the smell of bile and decay in his nostrils and the taste of cold, dead seed on his tongue.

And he is tiny, and he is trembling, and it should be enough. This divine moment, this tangible conquest, but damnit! It's not.... not enough, never fucking enough... Howls as the voices return. Fists and feet and rage and terror at this man, refusing to surrender, refusing to give him what he wants, this man ever *in his way*.

//I was never in your way, boy//

Shout over the goddamn music, the cacophony of children and bells and that which is not forgotten. "How many times do I have to kill you?!?"

Ores mirabellis!
O miraculous thing!


Pulls away, spilling himself onto the Watcher's lips, chin and neck. And the sight.... oh..precious thing... wants to lose himself inside...

Leans in and nuzzles into the wet neck, the bruised and bloodied lips, runs his tongue over spilled blood and offerings of gods. And now the fight, the struggles against his inhuman grip, because a kiss...oh a kiss would be too dear...and he can taste that in the blood, the Watcher's righteous indignation.

Mandurat Dominum
This body of god will nourish


Closer to those lips, the teeth gritted and the eyes of storm and squall. Have this, have this, Dominum...father...God..have this..for I will.. I will... I will have the village, I will have the girl, and I will have you.

Slides his hand down between the parted legs, smiles as his tongue forces its way inside the wet, bloodied warmth of human mouth. Feels the jump and twitch as cold palms meet mortal skin and bone. Blessings and curses from those hands, he knows. Incubus and Pan.

Pauper, pauper
Even the poorest


Kisses deep, drinks deep, strokes with a gentle and unyielding rhythm until the mortal shout is muffled by the resounding chorus of hymns and praises. Watches the blood seep into the stones as the Watcher bangs his own head into the floor.

Rises with the blameless smile of the innocent, and slowly licks his cool palms clean. Tastes human essence. Human shame.

Serves et humilis
The most humblest of servants


And for a moment, the voices are silenced. In its place only deadened sobs and the winsome, coveted sound of the whirlwind.

***

Angel remembers it all with bright colors distorted by lust, the eyes of blue and gray shadow, the ivory of bone, the spilt red of blood and rage. The certainty that there is noone to beg forgiveness of, not anymore. Rupert is lost to him, and the gods do not heed his cries.

London Bridges, falling

Falling.

And maybe that is just.

Because he remembers the night in the hotel attic, with Bethanye and her Father. And the moment when it ceased to be just about *them*, when he thought to himself, Come on, come on, clean and quick, who will know or care? 'Not enough yuck', Cordelia had said, and Wesley, Under-The-Stairs Wesley, would he judge? No, no, none of them would, so just kill him, and kill him again, kill them all and let god sort them out. Finish it, Bethanye, just finish it.

And because he remembers the taste of his disappointment when the rapid swoosh of air stopped suddenly without the satisfying crunch, or the coveted smell of fresh blood.

He tasted it for two days afterward.

And because when he remembers the colors of raping Giles, they stain his skin with shame and craving in equal measure.

***

Spike remembers everything more clearly. He has always remembered. All one-hundred and forty some years of his mortal and immortal existence live on in invariant and unflinching detail. The passions and the ecstasies, every 'good day' alongside every abominably bad.

That must be his own personal curse, more hateful than loving only those who would never return his affections, more insulting than the blasted microchip in his platinum skull. The curse of never forgetting a single crushing indignity, a single sharp clawed slap to the face, or a single moment of carefully hidden, shameful tears.

In the end, his demon changed nothing. It just gave him prettier ammunition with which to take on the world. It never did stop the world from taking back.

So he stands in the cold rain of the Watcher's front porch, instead of being inside where it is warm and dry. He is ritually tied to chairs at their little gatherings. He receives gibes and contempt in fair amounts to bribes of cash and beer and blood. And the irony of it is so pathetic, it makes him want to retch in the Watcher's pretty plant box.

Angel nearly killed them all, nearly ended the whole sodding world in a hellish fiery ball. But Angel was welcomed back the conquering hero, Angel's advice and assistance was sought, Angel was trusted with weaponry and the entire band of Scooby virgin flesh.

Angel walked out and deserted them all with a flurry of coat and a turn of cheek. And *still*, from three-hundred miles south, Angel is on the phone now, chatting casually with the man whose arms he gutted like so much fish. Hell, if Angel had a permanent soul, the Slayer's Captain Cardboard would be tossed to the side so fast his lunkhead would fall off his insanely broad shoulders.

But Spike has risked life, limb and hard earned reputation to assist the Slayer and her pack of mortal idiots again and again, and if his motives weren't entirely pure, so fucking what? He is who he is and he still deserves more than the scorn and disregard heaped upon him so heavily, that he is certain now he can no longer feel the muscles in his arms.

He is who he is. And since when has anything been any different?

It has never mattered who gave him that Eternal Kiss in 1880. What matters is that Angelus always stood *in his fucking way*. Always taking what he wanted, always having what *Spike* wanted. Reputation, women, a place to call home. Angelus wandered around eating rats for over a century and still, the title "Scourge of Europe" is known throughout the mortal and immortal world as somewhere between Genghis Khan and Lethario. Spike bagged two fucking Slayers and he can't get the time of day round here from demon or mortal alike.

Angelus took everything Druscilla was and broke it into the teeniest of bits. Danced on them with glee and spit them out when he was well and finished. Spike coddled her insanity, cosseted her madness, and killed in her name, and still when Daddy Dearest walked into a room, souled or unsouled, it was as if Spike was not even standing there.

You'd think at a century and a half he would be too damned old for Oedipal Complexes. But apparantly, nothing changes.

Nothing changes, and damn it to Hell, he remembers it all.

***

"Oh for fuckssake, Watcher! Quit that shit!"

The vampire grabs the half-conscious man off the floor by his arms, preventing him from smashing his head once more into the cold, gray stones.

"Whatever happened you'll bloody well live through it. Isn't that what you humans do? Keep going day after stinking day? Hell, it's what I fucking do. And you're damn sure not going to kill yourself before I get the chance to get out of this hellhole, along with Drusilla."

Angelus is nowhere to be seen, and the blond gets out of his wheelchair to clean the human, re-dress him, and re-tie him in the wooden seat. Take good care. Don't damage the chattel. Gentle now.

"You have to look pretty for the Slayer, pet, eh?" He sighs and sits back in the cursed contraption. "There now, much better."

Once more, the dark head drops onto the vampire's leather clad shoulder, silent tears and small sighs. Trusting.

He grasps a handful of sweat slicked hair, and pulls back, willing his baser features to shed the mask of angled cheeks and slate blue eyes.

"Damnit, are you fucking daft? Just because an animal chooses not to eat you, doesn't mean he actually *likes* you." Words whispered smoothly now over the risen goose-flesh on the Watcher's neck. "It just means he got himself a better offer."

Long, cool tongue over the quickening. Scent of fear. Scent of resignation. Scent of Angelus.

He releases his prize with a sharp twist. "Sloppy seconds. Not my style."

Moments later, Drusilla will accomplish what neither man could. With her soft hands and baby's breath, the Watcher will trade the world, will trade all of Eden for a kiss.

Typical really, for how many times has Spike done the same?

Hell, haven't they all.

Kisses as bait, kisses as punishment, kisses as distraction later, while Spike bides his time in wait for the Slayer. Kisses to keep Angelus busy enough so he will put off ending the stupid world.

Hot, bloodied kisses that taste of pride and sweat and betrayal. So many years of it, that he knows Angelus will never sort through them all to divine the recent meaning. Curses and blessings from those lips. And oh, damnit, things we will never have. It shouldn't matter anymore; Spike has made his heart's choice, and he would make the same again.

So that is his second curse, finally. Knowing, *knowing*... it's impossible to hate someone you do not love.

***

He tosses open the door to the Watcher's house, strolls to the fridge, grabs a blood and a beer. "Thanks for keepin it fresh for me, Ol' man," he shouts in the general direction of the bedroom.

Giles emerges from the shadows, his fists clenched at his sides. Spike wonders idly if his fingers sometimes still hurt. He doesn't ask, of course, just grins and settles into the couch, feet up, remote in hand.

"What do you want, Spike?" Oooh...faint timbre of the olde in there, badass, Ripper. Where was that alternate when Angelus was breaking your bones, eh? But no, humans have to *reach* for their weapons.

"Just this. Blood. Warm couch. Telly. Saw the light on, knew you were awake. Talkin to me Sire again, ain't ya? Right arrogant of him to call here, innit? Seein as what he did to you and all."

And Giles has *reached*, and in an instant is upon the couch, grabbing Spike up by his arms, and dragging him roughly toward the door. "Get the fuck out, Spike. Get out and don't come back."

"Right, right. Til you need me next time, eh pet? To save your ass, or one of the merry band's? Then I'm all well and invited. Well you know what, fuck you too, Watcher, fuck you too."

No intent to physically harm, and so he can squeeze those hands squeezing his own shoulders. Can lean in closer to that mouth which he knows, has trespassed, has seen bloody and open and tasting of his Sire's spent seed.

Smashes his lips upon it, and lingers...lingers..tastes..just a moment..just one...

Taste of chamomile tea and cannibis, Crown Royal and rage. And ooh... deeper..deeper..beneath the layers of parchment paper and Indian Ink, majiks and control, *there*

a decaying strongbox filled with salt-covered Nursery Rhymes.

Oooh, Watcher. You buried it so deep, didn't you? Ain't noone gonna put Humpty back together.

Smiles into that mocking kiss until Giles pulls away gasping. Wiping his mouth with the backs of his hands, bent over double and struggling to breathe through the thick smoke of fury and memories.

Spike walks to the door. "Better offers, mate. Better offers," he tosses over his shoulder.

He will be in LA before sunrise. He will arrive with the taste of Watcher on his tongue. And then he reckons, well, then, he and Daddy will have themselves another nice little dance.

~Finis