“Uh…” Tara whispered, “what just happened?” 

Doyle shook his head, knuckles tight on the sword he was grateful not to have used. “Faith got her ass kicked.” 

But Tara was already kneeling beside their fallen friend, brushing her blood-matted hair off her forehead. “Faith,” she whispered, “Faith.” 

He knelt beside her, dropping the sword with a loud clatter in the empty and now silent room. He swallowed the stab of fear at the sound; he wasn’t used to this silence. Tara still hadn’t moved, and he wasn’t sure Faith was alive. 

“Should we move her?” The room was deserted of living bodies save for the three of them. He assumed there were others who had survived Angelus’ assault, but they were nowhere to be found. 

“No,” she shook her head, eyes raised to his. Tears tracked silvery creases down her face. She still hovered over the fallen Slayer. 

It hit Doyle then. Tara was in love with Faith. Jumbled with that knowledge was his own love for Faith. And his unswerving affection for Tara. 

“I’ll get the first aid kit,” he choked. 

“I don’t think that’ll be enough,” she murmured. 

No, but there was nothing else to do. And he needed more time to unravel this tangled mess of emotion he suddenly realized he carried.
~~~~~~~~~~
Drusilla curled into Spike’s side, content to be back in her lover’s arms. His cool chest lay still and perfect under her fingertips, the faint sounds of his vampire’s body lulling her to sleep. 

“How’s my Black Knight?” she wondered.

“Xander?” She hummed and felt his sigh. “Still alive.” 

She giggled, but didn’t move. And didn’t check on the boy. He was alive, she could hear his breathing as he slept. 

“What did you do today?” she asked instead. 

“Watched Buffy.” 

Something in his tone caught her attention, and she raised her head. It wasn’t that he called her precious Star ‘Buffy’ instead of ‘goddess’. It was the actual tone. 

“Is that all?” she inquired. 

No matter how she tried, or how desperately she wanted to, Dru couldn’t see beyond the surface of his words. He hid something – what? 

“Ate lunch with her,” he amended. “Talked. Walked.” 

“Spike, my sweet,” she cajoled, fingernails lightly scratching down his face. “Is that all?” 

He looked at her then, but his pretty blue eyes were impenetrable, face immobile. His hands flexed on her body, but only once. 

“Yes.” 

Nodding, she dropped it. Whatever had truly happened between them this day, it was more than words could adequately express. They were closer now, she could sense it – not see it, but sense it. He wouldn’t break those confidences shared today, and while that filled her with jealously, Dru was thrilled her Star had someone to talk to. 

“I’m thinking Xander needs a reminder lesson,” he changed the subject. 

She nodded, allowing him. There was plenty of time to realize the future and learn this new Spike. All the time in the world. 

“Ooh, what kind?” she purred. 

“He needs a tortuous lesson,” he clarified, and she giggled, swinging a leg over his hips. “One,” he continued, settling her atop him, “that’s as painful as you can manage.” 

Her grin widened. “I love it when you talk this way, my Spike,” she sighed, riding him. 

He matched her grin, eyes flashing a deeper blue at her. His hands gripped her hips, and she hoped he bruised her, and then he moved harder, growling as he changed into his even more beautiful vampiric face. 

“We’ll begin work on him this eve,” she sighed, the first tingles of orgasm racing through her.
~~~~~~~~~~
For once, Buffy woke before Angelus. He lay sprawled across their massive bed, one arm tossed about her waist, the other in a strangely boyish angle under his pillow. She took a moment to draw in the sight, but needed to put her plan into motion. 

Throughout her long day, she’d thought about what she was going to do and say to the vampire who marked her without her knowledge or consent. It was one thing to claim her as his mate, and she recalled going quite willingly along with that. 

It was another to force her to sleep through a tattooing. Of a very large and very obvious rendering of his own tattoo. 

Slipping from their bed – not that she recalled how they’d made it from the balcony to the bed – Buffy focused on what she wanted. 

She hadn’t forgotten her cross-the-world trip, nor had she fully stamped out the terror knowing she could do that. One thing at a time. This was first. It wasn’t nearly as scary or as soul-searching. And it had answers she could easily deal with. 

“Come on,” she muttered, careful not to wake him. 

Nothing happened. No chains, no ropes, nothing. 

How had she done it before? She distinctly recalled doing so. Sure, there’d been that whole odd communion with the First Slayer. Okay, her memory was a bit fuzzy with the hows and wherefores.

Still! 

Ah, there they were. Secure and panty-wetting as they held him in place. Not that she was wearing panties. She was as naked as he. But it was the power tying him down gave her, and Buffy couldn’t deny she got a thrill from that. 

Oops. 

Of course it was always easier to fuck one’s lover when his delicious cock was facing one, and not growing harder and larger by the heartbeat against the bed. 

“Sigh,” she sighed, and mentally flipped him. 

Naturally, he was awake by now. 

“Hmm,” he licked his lips, beautiful eyes trailing down her body. “I love your games.” 

Buffy shivered. She wanted to leap onto the bed, impale herself on his cock, and ride him until she passed out. Again. And again, and again, and again. 

Was she supposed to want this much sex for the rest of her life? Geez. 

“Actually, lover,” she retorted, undeterred. “You and I need to have a little talk.” 

An eyebrow raised. 

“In this position?” 

Buffy ignored him. “Tattoo?” 

“I think it looks good on you,” he drawled, not bothering to pretend misunderstanding. “Rather…” he paused, head tilted. “Clarifying.” 

“Why?” Buffy fumed, not sure why she was so angry. 

Angelus stretched, angling his hips towards her in invitation. His cock was hard and throbbing, and Buffy was sorely tempted to give in. She needed answers. If this day acted as nothing else, it showed her that she couldn’t go on as she had been. Answers, answers to so very many things. 

“Why did you do it?” 

“To show everyone you’re mine.” His eyes changed, twirling with energy and colors and power. His voice was no longer light but harsh, firm. 

“It’s not like it’s a secret,” she mumbled. “And it’s not a good enough answer. You purposely forced me – forced me – to sleep through this!” Her voice rose, but she had no delusion anyone heard her. “Then you didn’t even have the decency to show me! Tell me!” 

Angelus didn’t answer and her temper flashed hot and red. Instantly, she was atop him, not allowing him into her body, but pounding his chest.

“Why?” 

Nothing. She continued to pound, to bruise and tear. Blood ran down his chest. Still tied to the bed, he couldn’t, and made no attempt to, protect himself. 

“WHY?” 

“I don’t know.” 

The quiet admission took a moment to break through her fury. When it did, she brought her fists back to his chest one last time, and looked up at him. He looked puzzled, confused. Angry with that, which she wasn’t surprised to see, and strangely…sorry? 

Buffy shook her head. No, she must be wrong about that. 

“You don’t know?”

“You’re mine, Buffy.” 

“Yes, yes, I know that. You know that. This entire planet knows that.” 

“I mean,” he repeated, temper coloring his voice. “You’re mine. I had to…I had to mark you.” 

Unappeased, she yanked her hair off her neck and pointed to the mark that clearly showed ownership. Who would’ve thought she’d ever be comfortable with that? Yet she was. For the simple fact that… 

Angelus was hers. 

“You marked me!” She shouted. “It’s unmistakable! It’s undeniable! And unremovable!” 

“I know.” Testy now, his voice retained a measure of calmness she hated. “This was different.” 

“HOW?” 

“It just is,” he snarled. Finally. This was the man she knew, the emotion she expected. “This isn’t part of some ritual. It’s not expected, it’s not…not. Not me.” 

“It is you. It’s part of you.” 

“An extension,” he corrected. “Just as you are an extension of me.” 

“I am me. I’m my own person.” 

“You’re mine.” Angelus snapped, rearing forward. The chains held, adding to his explosive temper. He couldn’t get at her, shake her as he wanted. 

Buffy offered a grim grin. “And you are mine.” 

Angelus stared at her. This wasn’t a new argument. He hadn’t changed and wouldn’t. She had to accept that. 

“Why force me to sleep through it?” 

“Because I wanted to,” he said lazily, mercurial in his temper.

“Hmm,” she nodded. 

Scooting lower on his body, she slowly took him into her. As Buffy rocked over him, eyes closed against such intense sensations, against the truth lying before her, she wondered just what had happened. 

Later, when they’d climaxed, ravished each other, climaxed again, and Angelus was unchained and standing at the balcony gazing across his lands, Buffy knew what it was. She knew what had happened, what had changed. 

Angelus. Her lover, her mate. He’d changed, and she hadn’t even realized it. Or had she? 

When all this had first happened, he’d laid out rules, threatened and tortured, teased and tormented. There was that whip she had no idea how he truly wielded without killing her. There was that spear she never saw anymore. There were so many things, some she understood, many she hadn’t a clue as to their use. 

Gone. 

All that remained was him. Angelus with his temper and his affection. Angelus with his possessiveness and his caring. With his understanding and his compassion. 

It’d been he who held her during the terrifying nightmares of the First Slayer. It’d been he who soothed her fears. Who offered to fight for her. With her. It’d been he, Angelus, not Angel, who loved her. 

Loved her. 

She was a fool.

Not that she was going to forgive him anytime soon for the ridiculously large tattoo on her back, but she understood now. 

He didn't wake her because he knew she’d be pissed. She’d never agree to that. The Mating Mark was one thing. The tattoo was entirely different. He knew she’d be pissed, knew he should’ve but what? 

He’d done it because he wanted to. 

Or was it because he needed to show the world one more indication of their bond? 

“Why match yours?” she whispered into the silence, confident he heard her. 

“Because,” he said after a long silence, “it was the only one that would work. The only one that could work.” 

“It’s huge.” 

“I didn’t want there to be any mistaking its intent,” he smirked over his shoulder. 

She scowled at him from the bed, then swung her legs over the side and joined him on the balcony. The view wasn’t one she ever thought she’d get used to, but it was growing on her. Like this planet. Like her role in this world. Like Angelus. 

“Make it smaller.” When he continued to look at her, she huffed a breath. “Just do it. It’s not like there could be any confusion. Or that you’d let there be.” 

“Turn around,” he commanded softly. 

She did so, and felt his soft breath on her back. Buffy didn’t ask, and frankly didn't want to know, what he did or how he did it. But when he commanded her to look in the mirror, the tattoo had shrunk to her shoulder blade only. 

It was something. Rather it was a start. If she could get the tattoo Ethan stuck on her to save his own ass removed, she could find someone to get this one removed. After all, she owned this world. Or at least was respected and feared enough to get her way with this. 

“I wish we could watch the sun set,” she murmured when she rejoined Angelus on the gallery. 

“There is no more sun,” he said, equally quiet. 

He came up behind her, rested his chin on her shoulder and leaned against his hands, trapping her between his body and the low wall. Buffy snuggled back, eyes half closed. 

“Yeah, but it’d be nice to watch together. Wouldn’t it.”

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