Buffy read up on the dignitaries that were to gather around her table as much as she could stand.  

The information was just too much sometimes; that, coupled with the limited sleep she got anymore, caused her to doze more than once. They had names she couldn’t even pretend to pronounce, and after a while they all ran together. Plus, she didn’t know of any of the places the texts talked about, and couldn’t imagine why it mattered. 

Angelus cared. 

He wanted her to learn as much on Acathla, his home dimension – now nearly destroyed – the nobility that graced her table, their politics – or the politics of those remaining – and what the future called for. She’d been right when she predicted the imminent demise of those who opposed Angelus. They hadn’t, according to Drusilla, survived the evening. Whether Angelus had taken care of those who sought to curb his power, or someone else, Buffy didn’t know. Nor did she care. She had enough to worry about. 

Nightmares for one.  

It’d been two days since Angelus had Giles brought from the dungeons, and her watcher had yet to find anything. Giles’ looks bothered Buffy, the covert glances, the disapproving glares. And she found she didn’t take as much comfort in him as she once had. No longer was he her father figure, consoling and helping her. Now he was condemning.  

She never talked about her arrangement with Angelus, even when she was certain they were alone, the one time that actually happened, and Giles hadn’t asked. But the looks he cast her during those few hours they were together, before Drusilla had collected her from her…studies. When he thought she wasn’t paying attention, when he thought she was engrossed in the books Angelus requested her to read, those looks unnerved her. Buffy knew that he wanted to say something, ask her about things; grill her...not only about Angelus, this new world, her place in it, but her nightmares, as well.  

Thankfully, he had yet to say anything along those lines. 

She’d stopped going to the library when she knew he was there. Angelus was surprised when she’d altered her routine, though she wondered if that was an act. If her time with her friends was limited, then she couldn’t imaging he’d want her to spend additional time with Giles.  

The watcher. The one who drilled the importance of her destiny over and over. And yet… 

“Buffy,” Angelus’ silky voice roused her from her light snooze, and she opened eyes heavy with sleep.  

That was another thing. Ever since the nightmares (dream/vision/memory), Buffy’s sleep had become anything but restful. The little sleep that wasn’t filled with the taste of fear, the scent of rage, the feel of hatred wasn’t enough to see her through her days. Not anymore. And, she was terrified that, somehow, all that would jump from her dreams to reality; consume her here, as it did there. She hated feeling like that, scared, violated, (strong/powerful/one). Tied. Helpless. Raped. 

“Wake up, my love.” 

His voice was soft; a gentle caress that sent shivers down her spine. She didn’t trust him (wanted him, hated him, trusted him to keep her friends and family below and to force her to stay with him, to be his…concubine (mate)) though she knew the nightmares – and both their reactions to them – caused her to confide in Angelus more and more…certainly more than she’d have ever expected. She didn’t like him, (liar! She didn’t hate him!) was close to hating him for what he did, and yet that required energy.  

Energy she just didn’t have any longer. She spent enough time racing around this new home of hers, pretending to be some kind of goddess, pretending she didn’t care the world was one giant ball of hell because of her. 

Literally. (I remade the world all for you, my love.) (I failed my duty, to You, to the world.) 

Pretending the (thought/fact/touch) of Angelus didn’t repulse her. Okay, that was one big lie, too. He didn’t repulse her, as much as she hated to admit that. Just the opposite. His touch aroused her, enflamed her – and when necessary, soothed her. His constant presence by her side reassured her in ways she didn’t understand, but didn’t want to analyze, either; terrified of the answers she’d be forced to accept. 

(She wanted him, she cared for him, she needed him. Just as he needed her. Just as he wanted her. Just as he loved her.) 

She couldn’t get away from him, and found that, sometimes, she didn’t want to. She hated herself more than she did Angelus. 

“What have I told you, my darling, about studying the history of Acathla’s world?” His hands were gentle on her shoulders, softly kneading the knots from her back. His voice was a caress all its own, and Buffy wanted to turn in his arms and touch him. She wanted to kiss him, let the passion that always simmered below the surface bubble to life, take away the afterimages of her nightmares, the constant stress she was under. 

She didn’t. Too afraid of herself to do so, too afraid of her reactions to him, of her responses, of her need. 

And still, the dreams plagued her. What did they mean? What did the words of that First Slayer mean? The actions of those men, the ones who unleashed the…whatever it was onto that poor girl? Those shamans who wanted…what? 

“Answer me, lover.” And now his words were harsher. More demanding than anything else. 

“That I should memorize everything about him,” she sighed, resigned. “That I need to know everything about him, his world, and what ours is now.” What you are…what we are now. 

“And was sleeping a part of that?” 

“No,” she shook her head, already knowing she was going to be…punished. Angelus’ punishments weren’t what she expected, not after that first time. His punishments were lessons in themselves, taught by a master. Much to her dismay, she shivered in anticipation for the next lesson he planned. 

Still, Buffy wanted to argue, wanted to tell him that she was exhausted, that she was drained from the dreams, but he knew that. He was the one to hold her every night before, during, and after the nightmares gripped her. That she was physically, mentally, and emotionally worn out from the swift changes in her life, and so very isolated in this new world. She didn’t.  

That would have been admitting weakness. That would have been admitting that she wasn’t the strong slayer she billed herself as. That would have given him power – more power – over her. 

Abruptly he jerked her around, hauling her up out of the seat and against his hard chest. “What was the price for disobeying me?” His voice was still a murmur, a caress, all the more deadly for that. But his fingers were gentle on her face, softly caressing the blue smudges exhaustion formed under her eyes – neither magick nor makeup could completely cover them. 

Not as heartless as he seemed? 

“Death,” she whispered, eyes wide with terror now. Oh, God… “Death for someone…below.” What had she done? What had she caused? 

She’d been so tired, so weary, that…guilt slammed into her. That she hadn’t thought about those below. Not about what her actions – or inactions – would cause them. Not about what she had to do to protect them. Not what the simple act of falling asleep would lead to. 

She’d caused this, whatever he was planning, it was her fault. She knew that. And knew that Angelus did as well. 

“I’m sorry, Angelus,” she said, a heartfelt apology. Hanging her head, letting the tiredness seep into her from the carefully controlled box she tried to keep it in, Buffy hung her head. In shame. In defeat. In subjugation. Whatever it took. 

“The nightmares,” she whispered, trying to justify something he already knew. “I’m just so tired.” Tears filled her eyes. She was scared, tired, and now, with this hanging over her, with Angelus threatening those below, “And Giles hasn’t found anything yet, and…” 

“I know, baby,” he said, but there was still a thread of violence in his tone. Was it because of her disobedience, or because no one knew the reasons for her dreams? 

“Please make them stop,” she begged, tears falling onto his fingertips. He brushed the moisture away, tasting her tears – what did he discover from them? 

With a sigh, he gathered her against him. “I want to, Buffy; you don’t know how much I want to. I’m looking into everything I can to stop them for you, love.” He sat in the chair she’d been using, gathering her onto his lap. The long dress she wore fell over their legs, making Buffy, despite her depression, tiredness, and fear, feel absurdly like a princess.  

A cherished, loved princess. 

“I can’t stay awake,” she admitted on a broken sob, “And when I do sleep, all I see is that black shadow, those three shamans.” 

Kissing the top of her head, Angelus forgot his anger, such as it was, over finding her asleep. At least she’d managed to get some rest. He wasn’t so worried over her knowing, memorizing, and reciting everything about Acathla as he was about her – her studying was simply a way to occupy her time so she wouldn’t become bored, restless, and find trouble, as it was wont to find her.  

He was losing her and didn’t know how to stop her from slipping away from him. 

“I’ll find a way,” he said as she rested against him, eyes closed. “But for now,” and he turned back to the table she’d used as a desk. “You have some reading to do.” 

Kissing her neck, blunt teeth clamping down on the artery that pulsed with life, he added with a wicked smile, “If you can recite to me everything you were to learn today,” his hands cupped her breasts, teasing her aching nipples. “We’ll work on your sexual education.” 

Lust pooled low in her belly, and her blood raced at the thought. Buffy nodded, already envisioning what he planned to teach her that night. If she could stay awake for her next sexual lesson.
~~~~~~~~~~
Angelus held her close to his body, mouth fused with hers as they wrestled for dominance. Her legs were wrapped tightly around him, her heat warming even his coolness, and he wondered he didn’t combust from it. Delicious. More. He needed her with a ferocity that concerned him – would it always be like this? Would it taper off, die down once he’d had his fill of her? 

No. 

He knew that with a certainty that worried him as much as his need of her. Buffy was his, and he’d never tire of her. 

Laying her on their bed, Angelus pulled back, eyes dark with color and power. “Are you ready?” He asked, voice husky, hands caressing her through the thin gown she wore. 

“For what?” Buffy blinked, arched into his hands, “Angelus,” she sighed. “Yes.” 

Apparently, Angelus smirked to himself, she didn’t care. Ready for whatever he wanted. Perfect. Another kiss, soft and gentle, in praise for her answers, responses. One of these days, he silently mused, pulling back from her all-too-tempting mouth, she was either going to completely capitulate to him, or rebel, finally learning to control her primal urges when it came to him...to them. Learn to tease and torment him as he did her.  

But not today. She was still too new at this, unused to the sensations, to the passion. Angelus planned on using that to his advantage for as long as he could. 

Stretching one arm over her head, Angelus grabbed the silk scarf waiting for just this. Looping it around her wrist, not too tight, he kissed down her arm, teasing the sensitive inside of her elbow, sucking briefly on the side of her neck. 

“Beautiful,” he whispered. Moving her other arm, he repeated the process, tasting her soft skin, the scent of her need. 

And was wholly unprepared for her reaction. 

“NO!” 

(She was chained to the Earth.) (They tied her to the Earth so she wouldn’t move, so she couldn’t escape. So she couldn’t fight.) 

“NO!” She shouted again, a growl escaping her lips as she tore free from the bindings, soft as they were. With another growl, she flung herself at her captor, ready to rend and tear and avenge. Snarling in anger, predator hunting her prey. 

Arching up, turning the tables on him before he could blink, Angelus suddenly found himself underneath Buffy. Trapped, pinned to their bed as she looked at him. Silver eyes flashing blindly at him, a constant snarl on her beautiful lips. 

But she didn’t do anything. Wary, he watched her, eyes locked with hers, predator to predator. Nothing. She simply stared at him, head cocked to the side as if contemplating just what to do next. Except this wasn’t foreplay, this wasn’t her taking charge of their couplings. This was serious. This was Buffy out of control, primal and vicious, ready to destroy. And Angelus was afraid neither knew what had happened. 

Leaning into the crock of his neck, Angelus tensed as she slowly lowered herself to the most sensitive spot on a vampire’s – even a former one – neck. He didn’t move, didn’t look away; forced himself to relax beneath her. Waited to see what he did next. His arms lay prone beneath her hands, the viselike grip surprising even him. Sniffing, catching his scent and savoring it, Angelus felt her finally, finally relax. She licked the side of his neck, the place his pulse point should be, blunt teeth clamping down with another growl. 

This time in arousal.

Mate. 

“Mine,” she rasped, the guttural word making the moment more than he’d expected. She hadn’t spoken English, but the long-forgotten language she often shouted as she was caught in the grips of her nightmares. 

And yet the meaning was unmistakable. 

Taking charge with a growl, Angelus moved to flip them over again, not entirely certain what had happened, but completely turned on by it. But Buffy growled back, refusing to relinquish her claim. Her position. Eyes swirling with silver, red, blue, power, lust, dominance, her muscled tensed again, legs clamping around his waist, nails digging into his wrists.  

Watching her with an expectant gaze, his own red and blue, power, lust, need, Angelus waited. What was she going to do next? What was this that had suddenly taken over? What was it that triggered whatever had…the scarves? 

Was that it? Was it the scarves, or no…was it the fact that he was going to tie her down? This assertive Buffy intrigued him, caught him off guard and in a good way. Oh, he was worried about what this meant, what whatever it was within her that breathed its first breath would to do her, but he also couldn’t help but he aroused by it. Dominant Buffy. A definite turn on.

He was aching hard, the wet heat of her tantalizing him with its nearness. And yet…and yet, he couldn’t help but wonder. Why? Why now? What had happened? Worse, what was happening to her?

The purr startled him.  

Buffy ground against him, mouth once more on his neck, teeth clamping down. His own growl – need, power, lust (love, passion, mate, mine) – rumbled low in his chest, and Angelus swore she smiled. Attacking his lips with hers, Buffy never let him go, never released her hold on his wrists, and yet never ceased her tormenting movements against his cock. 

“Yes, baby,” he hissed, satisfaction and desire. “Come for me, my love.” 

He didn’t know how she did it, could have sworn she never released him, but suddenly his zipper was open, his throbbing cock released from its confines, and Buffy hovered over him.  

She slammed down on him, keening in triumph. Riding him hard and fast, lips on his, breasts rubbing his smooth, cool chest, Buffy never surrendered her dominant position. Her legs gripped his hips, squeezing tightly, eyes locked with his, breath coming in pants of need. 

Again she growled, not as a predator, no, and Angelus recognized that. It was as a mate. 

With a roar, she came. Her hot inner walls clamped down around him, milking him of everything he had to give. Her teeth bit onto his neck, drawing a single line of blood. As she calmed, still joined with him, Buffy lazily licked Angelus’ blood. Purring lightly, she sprawled over his chest, finally releasing his wrists.  

“Angelus,” she murmured, kissing his chest.  

His arms came around her, holding her tightly to him. Kissing the top of her head, he held her as she relaxed against him. Warm. Soft. Loving…even with so primal a coupling. Closer, he was getting closer to having her with him – physically, mentally, spiritually. She was close to capitulating, and yet… 

And yet. 

“Buffy?” No answer, just a shudder. Of what? Revulsion? No, it wasn’t that. “Baby?” 

“Angelus,” she whispered again, tightening around him. A soft sob broke free, and Angelus tilted her chin up.  

“Look at me, lover.” He waited, patient, gently. “Baby, please.” Now there was a thread of desperation. What was happening to her? 

“What’s happening to me?” She asked, shaking now. Crying openly, anguish in her tone, in every line of her body.  

“I don’t know, muirneach,” he admitted. There was no way he was letting her go. Not now, not when she was so vulnerable. Oh, it worked to his advantage, but this…it was something more. It wasn’t Buffy vulnerable that Angelus wanted, so much as vulnerable with him. To him. Not to outside forces. Not to something he couldn’t protect her from.  

“What’s happening?” She was crying harder, now, and still he had no answers. “I can feel it,” she confessed in a desperate voice. 

“Feel what? What can you feel, baby, what’s there?” 

“It’s…inside. Poking, prodding, always testing me. It wants me to do or be or something. I don’t know. I don’t know what it wants,” she cried. “I don’t know what it wants.” 

“What is it?” He asked, holding her face between his hands, gentle even as he refused to let her go. “What, baby?” 

“I don’t know,” Buffy admitted, snuggling her head on his shoulder, on her spot. Just under his chin, in the hollow of his shoulder. Yawning, she kissed him again, drowsily on the neck. 

“I don’t know what it is. What it wants. Or why. I can almost see…” 

“See?” Angelus demanded. “Buffy? See what? Or who?” 

But she was asleep. Peacefully sleeping in his arms, exhausted, sated. And safe.
~~~~~~~~~~
            ‘What’s happening to her?’ he demanded of his storyteller.
            ‘Don’t worry,’ the other man reassured his nephew, calming him as best he could, given the obvious agitation of the younger. ‘It all has a happy ending.’
            ‘How can it? She’s being ripped apart by something, what? What is it?’
            ‘I don’t know,’ the storyteller sighed, his eyes looking old and tired right then.
            ‘You mean you still don’t know, Uncle? But…’
            ‘Let me get on with the story, and maybe we’ll both learn something, eh?’
~~~~~~~~~~
He hadn’t wanted to leave her.  

She was scared, tired, and peacefully sleeping. But for how long? The nightmares came, no matter what he did; they caught her, trapped her, and held her in them, and there was no way he could think of to help her. The times he had, trying to see into her mind, hadn’t worked.  

No matter how desperate he was to understand, to merge with her, to save her, nothing had worked.  

Drusilla was currently with her, with strict instructions to see that Buffy slept. And if the nightmares should come before he retuned, to comfort her as best she could. Angelus wasn’t sure if Buffy would allow Dru to console her, to hold her as whatever demons – real and imagined – ensnared her, but this task couldn’t be put off any longer. Nor could it be delegated to anyone else. 

So now, Angelus stalked through his corridors. It was his home, his palace, and yet it was infested with vermin.  

Demons from everywhere lived here, residing in the lower levels, thinking they had some kind of power in his world. Those with well-established retinues continued to play the odds, continued to order others, connive to gain more power, take out their enemies. It was a power play, always a power play. Whoever lasted longest on top, won; and they were betting that they’d win, never knowing that they still lived because he wished it so. 

He allowed it, the posturing, the playing, for now. 

Because for now, his world was inhabited by too many of them. He didn’t care, it could be inhabited by twice that many, and he’d still be the most powerful being here. But he simply didn’t have the inclination to take them all out. Let them do it for him.  

The library loomed ahead; tall, thick wooden doors closed to prying eyes, a pair of guards, reluctantly taken from Buffy’s team, stood on either side, barring both those that wished to enter, and the lone being who wished to leave. Pausing outside the doors, he thought briefly back to Buffy.  

He didn’t like leaving her, especially when she was having nightmares, but this had to be done. Rupert already spent the better part of two days searching for information on her dreams. Either there was nothing to find – which Angelus didn’t believe – or he was stalling. Which Angelus did believe.  

“Report.” he barked to the looming demons, muscular and slightly scaly. Their hands were twice the size of his head, their eyes constantly moving to detect any threat, as they surveyed the corridor from their seven-foot height. They’d been handpicked to guard his lover, and now, were handpicked to watch over her former mentor. 

“He’s asked only for a class of water,” Guius rumbled in his low baritone. “Otherwise, nothing.” 

“Nor,” his partner, Donato, snarled, “Has he requested to see you, milord.” 

Angelus nodded, carefully keeping his rage concealed. Rupert would see the full scope of his wrath soon enough. Opening the doors, anger pumping through his veins, he moved gracefully into the dim library. 

It was a two-story structure, books going from bottom to top, so it looked like it was never-ending. A second balcony, wide enough for one person at a time, circled the second level, and tall rolling ladders waited to be used. 

Rupert was on the second level, leaning against the rail with a heavy book in his hand. 

“Find anything interesting, Rupert?” Angelus asked, his voice smooth and easy. He walked to the stairs, climbing them slowly, almost lazily, eyes never leaving the watcher’s. 

“Not yet,” he answered. But his heart was pounding, and his breathing accelerated. What was Rupert hiding? Easy enough to find out.  

“No? Two days, and you’ve found nothing?” Angelus laughed. “I find that hard to believe, Rupert,” he watched as the human shivered. Partly in fear – he was well acquainted with Angelus’ methods of torture – and partly in something else. Revulsion? Yes, Rupert reviled Angelus – the deaths he caused, ah, dear Jenny, the position he now had. It always came back to Buffy, and Angelus knew it – the uptight watcher hated that a demon touched his slayer…the rebellious Ripper hated that the vampire was even alive.

 If he had stayed true to form, as Rupert so eloquently put it, she’d be dead or, at the very least, free someplace out there to fight him. Rupert could’ve appeased his conscious then; sure, hell would still have come to Earth, but his beloved slayer wouldn’t be an integral part of it. She wouldn’t be goddess; she wouldn’t be sharing Angelus’ bed.  

Too bad Angelus wasn’t playing by the old rules – or anyone else’s but his own. 

“I find it hard to believe,” he continued, standing several feet from the other man, “That in all this time, you found nothing that could help Buffy. Your slayer, your daughter.” His eyes glittered with power and anger. “You’ve seen what the nightmares do to her, and yet noting?” 

“It’s a vague memory,” Rupert snapped. “And you’ve a thousand books. I’m searching the best I can, but with no index, and no help, it’s slow going.” 

Angelus shook his head. “No, I just don’t believe that.” Without warning, his arm shot out, fingers curling around Rupert’s neck, squeezing only slightly. “Now. Tell me what you’ve found.” His fingers tightened. 

“Nothing, you pompous ass,” Rupert snarled, breath short.  

His fingers tightened a little more. “Rupert,” Angelus warned, “Don’t make me hurt you. Buffy still cares for you, though I’ll never know why. And I know,” he spat, “You know something. What. Is. It?” 

“As soon as I find it,” Rupert gasped, but his eyes still sparked with defiance and fire. “I’ll be sure to let your royalness know.” 

Abruptly letting go of his neck, Angelus laughed as the human stumbled backwards, catching himself against the railing, hand automatically going to his injured throat. Rupert eyed him warily, but said nothing. “I’m sure you will, Rupert,” Angelus agreed, but his voice still carried the anger he felt over this, and his eyes still swirled with reds and blues. 

“You have until the end of the day. And then,” he promised, “I’ll start killing someone below.” 

Without waiting to see Rupert’s reactions, Angelus left. He knew what the watcher would do; miraculously find the answers needed to help Buffy. Try to be nice, Angelus sighed to himself. And this was what you get. 

He had one more meeting to attend before finding Buffy once more. Oh, and he should probably check up on the human ambassadors from Wolfram & Hart, too…just for amusement’s sake.

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