Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was inky black in his basement bedroom when John Strange awoke with a yelp in the middle of the night. His heart was hammering thunderously in his chest, the horrifying images of his most recent nightmare slowly receding from his mind’s eye.

Something wet and thick trickled into the hollow of his eye, and he didn’t have to see it to know it was blood. The tangled sheets around him were warm and damp, but he wasn’t sure how much of it was just sweat from his panicked tossing and turning and how much was blood—it wouldn’t be the first time he’d ruined a set of sheets after one of his nightmares.

John swung his legs over the side of the bed and groped blindly for the lighter he kept on his bedside table. Two flinty scrapes later and there was light. He lit the three candles on the little table and stood up to assess the damage.

It was blood, all right. More than ever before. There were spots and splashes of it all over the sheets, pooling in places where his back had been. His back was still bleeding from the scars that refused to heal; the night air cold against his damp skin. He’d never bled this much before—not since the night he first received his wounds. He didn’t want to think what that might mean, especially combined with his recent barrage of nightmares.

Four nights in a row, now, John had awoken trembling and terrified, knowing that something was coming but not being able to make sense of the jumbled images in his dreams. He was almost worried enough to tell Jude about them. But that wouldn’t be fair to her. It was bad enough she had to be involved at all—she had enough to deal with in her own life without adding his own problems.

Besides, he didn’t like the others to see him suffering. The wounds were a constant reminder of what he’d lost—he couldn’t bear the thought of Jude or Toby always casting him sympathetic looks.

By the light of the candles, John began stripping his bed. If he soaked the linens straight away he might be able to salvage them. He couldn’t afford to lose any more bedclothes. As it was, he was just thankful he’d scraped together enough cash to get the water turned back on.

Lighting candles as he went, John worked his way to the bathroom where he began filling the tub with water. Cold water. He had yet to pay his gas bill, so hot water was a thing of the past. Hateful thoughts permeated his mind as he remembered the sneering expression on Canon Black’s face as he taunted him with his overdue allowance cheque. John struggled to quell those thoughts—he may no longer be a man of the cloth, but he still had his own soul to account for.

The tub full, John gathered the sheets and dunked them in the water, which instantly turned pink with blood. He would need to soak them overnight to get the stains out, he decided.

In the flickering candlelight, John grabbed a sponge, soaked it in the chilly water, and began the awkward task of cleaning the blood off his back. The old claw marks burned deep inside him, but it was more like frost-burn…an icy heat. He dabbed carefully at the scars, trying not to open them any more than they already were.

That done, he turned to examine his face in the bathroom mirror. The dark, dried blood that was smeared around his left eye made him look ghoulish, and his wild, curly brown hair only added to his frightful visage. John filled the sink with water and ran wet hands through his hair, taming the unruly curls. A few splashes of water and a bit of soap later and he almost looked human again.

He wasn’t sure what time it was, but it had to be around three or four o’clock in the morning. There was no going back to sleep, though. Even if he had a clean set of sheets and a field of sheep to count, the cold water on his face had done a proper job of waking him up. And he didn’t fancy closing his eyes again just to be revisited by his nightmares. He supposed he could try reading, but he knew it was pointless—he was too restless to sit still. He needed to get out of his dreary flat and get some fresh air. A nice walk was exactly what he needed to revive his spirits. A nice walk outside in the middle of winter, in the dead of night... And if he happened to run across the demon that was haunting his dreams, all the better.

John went back to his room and pulled on a grey, heavy wool cardigan and some trousers and socks then headed for the door. He stopped long enough to slip on a pair of shoes and grab the baseball bat he kept by the door for security—just in case. Then he was gone; slipping out into the cold, damp night.

Not surprisingly, his aimless wanderings brought him purposefully back to the place where it all began. The place where his beloved Helen had met an end that had been meant for him. Where Asmoth had been reborn…the Cathedral.

Or, more specifically, the quaint and ancient graveyard in back of the old church.

A cottony mist clung low to the ground, and in the stillness of the night not a breath of wind stirred the air. John stopped, almost instinctively, on the exact spot he and his fiancée had been attacked. The icy pangs of his wounds went up a notch in intensity, making him grimace and shift uncomfortably under his heavy cardigan.

He clenched his hands tightly around the baseball bat and scanned the area for signs of movement. There was nothing nearby, but far off, near the cemetery’s high, stone wall, the thick mist licked upwards in wispy spurs, as if something had jumped into it and made a splash that hung motionless in the air. He couldn’t see what had caused the disturbance, however. Whatever it was had gone.

John’s nose twitched, catching a whiff of a sickly-sweet odour in the air. He recognized it only too well—he’d smelled it once before on this very spot.

Hot breath tickled the back of his neck and he gave an involuntary yelp, spinning around with his bat swinging wildly. But there was nothing there.

Somewhere behind him a disembodied laugh, deep and rattling, broke the silence. John spun around again, this time catching a glimpse of the creature before it dissolved into the mist as if it was made from it.

John’s breath came hard and fast, making his lungs ache and his heart pound. It had a human face…sort of. Its face was sickly pale; its mouth, framed in a gleaming wall of sharply pointed teeth, was stretched and slack, opening onto a black chasm of nothingness. It was from that pit of nothingness that the laughter arose. And its eyes were likewise empty and endless—cavernous sockets that had never housed mortal eyes. In that brief moment before it disappeared, John could feel the demon’s emptiness pulling at him, as if by just looking into that face, he could have been drawn, body and soul, into an eternal blackness.

John shuddered; the iciness in his bleeding wounds seemed to have spread, making his entire body quake with a deep-bone chill. Never before had he got a good look at the thing that had destroyed his life. And just like on that fateful night four years ago, John had been incapable of stopping it.

“Come back here!” he cried out, his voice startling a bird out of a nearby tree. The sound of its fluttering wings as it flew off to safety was the only answer he received.

“This isn’t over,” he called out again, desperation and rage playing equal parts in his boldness. “Show yourself!” he demanded.

Again, John smelled its rotting breath behind him. He spun around to confront it, swinging the bat with as much force as he could, but the demon snatched the bat out of his hands easily, snapping it in two like a matchstick in its enormous claws.

John’s nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed. Unarmed now, but filled with a vengeance too deep-seated for him to give a damn, he threw himself at the demon with everything he had. To a witness it might have appeared pitiable—an ant trying to budge a boulder—but John valiantly pummelled the creature with his fists and feet.

With another disembodied laugh, the demon backhanded John, sending him flying to land face down on a newly dug grave. John had a feeling the thing was going to pull another vanishing act and cheat him out of his chance to set things right. He couldn’t allow that.

Scrambling to his feet, John was charging at the demon before it even had time to turn and gloat. John flung himself onto the creature’s back, his arms cinched tightly around its thick, ropy neck.

Then there was a popping in his ears and everything went black. It was as if he’d been pulled into the darkest corner of the universe where there was nothing at all, just him and the demon and a stomach-lurching sense of great speed. He kept his death grip on the demon’s neck, and even though he knew he was screaming, he couldn’t hear a thing.

The pain came next. At first he wasn’t even sure it could be called pain. It was as if millions of bugs were crawling all over his skin, and one by one they started biting. It kept escalating until he felt as though every square inch of skin on his body had been stripped away, leaving his raw nerves fully exposed and screaming in pain.

And then, abruptly, it stopped.

From his vantage point high on the demon’s back, John witnessed miles and miles of flat, red wasteland, smouldering where the ground had baked and cracked open. His lungs began to burn from the acidity of the air, and he was starting to feel dizzy, but he refused to let go of his grip.

There was a popping in his ears again, and they were once more hurtling through non-space. Then the invisible bugs covered his skin and began tearing at his flesh. John was growing tired, and the pain and the screaming were quickly wearing away his resolve. He was mentally preparing himself for the inevitable—he wouldn’t be able to hold on much longer, and he would be lost in the void. But just as he was giving up hope, they came to a stop.

This time the surroundings looked somewhat familiar, and the air was breathable. John quickly released his grip, afraid the demon might pull him back into the void. He fell with a soft thump to the ground.

The demon towered over him, a single word issuing from its slack, howling mouth: “Alive.” With a sound like skittering cockroaches, it clicked its ragged claws together and disappeared.

John Strange sat up, his breathing slowly returning to normal as he took in his new surroundings. He was in a graveyard, just not the graveyard he’d been in earlier that night. This one was modern, with shiny marble markers and neatly trimmed lawns. It was much larger than any cemetery he’d ever seen, too.

Other things, like the warmer temperature and the drier air, instinctively told him he was much farther away from home than should have been possible. But, having seen the barren red desert that had been the other alternative, he was just thankful to be on Earth at all.

He stood, staggered a bit as fireworks exploded behind his eyes, and started walking. His back was wet and sticky, and blood stung his eye, but he knew he had to keep moving. Just keep moving, and somehow everything would be all right.

In the east, the sun was rising on this strange, new world.

The store was really coming along, Giles thought proudly. He’d had plenty to feel proud about lately, it seemed. Not the least of which was his Slayer’s newfound interest in her calling and her desire to have him play a role in it.

He felt useful. He felt needed. He felt his ears bleed at the sound of Xander’s infernal hammering. Giles rummaged through his pockets for his ever-present bottle of aspirin and popped two into his mouth, washing them down with his lukewarm tea. He wasn’t about to complain, though—it was good to see Xander finding his feet. He truly had a gift for carpentry, and Giles made sure to tell him so. The boy was riddled with insecurities—offering well-deserved praise and encouragement from time to time was the least he could do.

He turned his attention back to his accounts. The group had really pulled together to get this place going. There were only two orders pending, the rest of the shipments had arrived earlier in the week, and with the help of his young friends the store would be ready to open on schedule. For the first time in a long time, Giles felt at home in Sunnydale. And to think, only a few weeks before he’d been ready to pack up and head back to England. Sometimes fate had a way of dropping exactly what you need right into your lap.

“Jesus!” said Xander, stopping his hammering to gawk out the shop window at the street beyond.

“What is it?” asked Giles, instantly alert. He couldn’t see anything from where he was standing.

Xander didn’t answer. Instead, he ran out the door. There was a loud squealing of tires and the blaring of a car horn, followed by a yelled string of obscenities and more squealing of tires.

Giles dropped his paperwork and ran to the door. He arrived just in time to see Xander half-carrying a man across the street towards him. The man looked like he’d been in an accident—his face was bloody and his clothes were torn and muddy and stained crimson with blood. Giles held the door open for them, and then helped Xander guide the stranger into a chair at the round table.

“Xander, would you get our guest a glass of water?” Giles said quietly. Xander took a look at the zoned-out expression on the stranger’s face and nodded. The guy obviously needed more than just a glass of water, but it was a start.

When Xander had gone, Giles pulled up a chair next to the wild-haired young man and spoke to him reassuringly: “You’re safe now. Whatever happened, it’s over—there’s no need to be frightened.”

Xander returned with a glass of cold water and placed it on the table in front of the man. It sat untouched, unnoticed, and Xander raised a questioning eyebrow at Giles. Giles shrugged minutely in response. The man seemed oblivious to his surroundings. He was most likely in shock, he thought.

“Can you tell us your name?” asked Giles. When the man didn’t reply, Giles gently shook his shoulder. The man looked up at him with a start, and his glazed expression fell away. A large smile cracked the caked dirt and blood on his face, and his blue eyes gleamed with recognition.

“Rupert!” he said, and he threw his arms around Giles, pulling him into a tight hug. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you!”

Giles cautiously extricated himself from the stranger’s grip and held him at arm’s length, trying desperately to place his face. The accent was British, so that should have given him a clue, but Giles was drawing a complete blank.

“Let me guess,” whispered Xander, “a friend of yours from that rugby team you secretly joined?” Giles gave him a look before turning his attention back to the stranger.

“I’m terribly sorry,” said Giles, “but I’m afraid I can’t quite remember your name.”

Xander was impressed. If it had been him, he’d have said something more along the lines of ‘who the hell are you, and how much liquor did I have to consume for me to forget you?’ But, of course, that was him. Tact and diplomacy were Giles’ realm, in which Xander was but a lowly peon.

“It’s me—John Strange,” the man said, still grinning. Xander very wisely held his tongue.

Giles frowned. He knew the name, but he still couldn’t place the face. And he was usually so good at remembering people.

John noticed the confusion in Giles’ expression and it occurred to him that he must look a lot different now than he used to. “It was a long time ago, at Oxford,” he explained. “I was in first year history, you were working on your P.H.D. We met at that Myth and Mythology lecture…remember? We hung out a lot…or, if we’re going to be honest, it was more like me following you everywhere—you were like my guru.”

Giles’ eyes widened: “John Strange? How could I forget? But-but weren’t you…?”

“Bald?” John finished for him, a little twist of a smile on his face. “I was going through a bit of a sketchy period, identity-wise…couldn’t decide if I was a Goth or a skin-head.”

“Yes, that’s right! You were all black clothes and make-up back then…no wonder I didn’t recognise you.”

“Yeh, well…we all have to grow up eventually,” said John, feeling the weight of his grief settling once more on his shoulders. He seized the glass of water in front of him like a lifeline. “Thank-you,” he said to Xander, peeking almost shyly at the young man who’d just saved his life.

“No problem,” Xander replied. “Any friend of Giles is a friend of mine.”

“You’re American,” said John, a little surprised.

“Yep. Me and pretty much everyone else in the country,” Xander said, thinking this guy must have been knocked around a bit harder than they’d thought.

“Where am I?” John asked, his forehead creased with worry.

“You’re in Sunnydale, California,” answered Giles. “John—what happened?”

“Sunnydale? You’re joking, right?” John had followed the news of the little town’s destruction with great interest. He was convinced that its tragic end had been otherworldly, and not the result of a meteor strike as the media claimed. And it hadn’t been that long ago—only a few months. The details were still fresh in his mind.

“What year is it?” he asked, his mouth two steps ahead of his brain.

“John, I think I should take you to the hospital,” said Giles, soothingly.

“No, I don’t need a hospital. Just…what year is it?” John persisted, an edge of panic in his voice.

“It’s the year two thousand,” Xander supplied. “And they said the world would end with all the computers crashing and stuff. Please! They wouldn’t know an apocalypse if it came up an pinched them on their…”

“Yes—thank-you, Xander,” said Giles, cutting him off.

“Two thousand!?” John said and laughed like he’d completely come unhinged. “One year! One year too late!” He had to laugh at the irony of it—thrown back in time, but not far enough to make a difference.

“Is he always like this?” asked Xander.

“John, if you won’t let me take you to a hospital, will you at least allow me to drive you home? You’re hurt—you shouldn’t be wandering around.”

“You can’t take me home—I don’t live there yet,” said John offhandedly. The look of concern on Giles’ face sobered him a bit. “I’m sorry, Rupert. You must think I’m stark raving. To be honest, I’m not entirely sure you’d be wrong. It’s been quite a couple of days.”

“What happened to you?” asked Giles. Xander took a seat, eager to hear this guy’s story.

“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me,” replied Giles. “You’d be surprised at how open-minded I can be.”

John looked at him sceptically, but sensed that Giles was not about to back down on the matter. He gave an almost imperceptible nod and said: “Alright. But it’s a long story, and if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to freshen up a bit first.”

“Of course. You can come back to my place,” said Giles, standing. John got to his feet, too, but a wave of dizziness washed over him and his knees gave out. Luckily, Xander and Giles were close enough to catch him before he could smash headlong into the table.

“John…” Giles started.

“No. No hospitals,” John said, anticipating what he was about to say. “I’ll be fine.”

“Then at least let me feed you. You look like you haven’t had a decent meal in days.”

At the mention of food, John’s stomach gave an involuntary growl. Normally he would have protested, but right now his hunger outweighed his pride. “I’d like that,” he admitted.

“Good, it’s settled then,” said Giles, and led his old friend out the door with Xander close on their heels.

Chapter Text

John luxuriated in the steaming hot spray of Giles’ shower. It sluiced over him, leaving a grimy trail of water running into the drain as he soaped up.

Hot water. How long had it been since he’d enjoyed such a simple pleasure? It felt so good he thought he might just stay in the shower forever. Then he caught a whiff of roasting chicken coming from the kitchen and he thought he couldn’t possibly get out fast enough.

John poured a healthy dollop of Giles’ shampoo into his palm and quickly lathered up. He felt a wave of guilt pass over him. It wasn’t because he thought Giles would object to him using his shampoo. It wasn’t that…it was more the long-buried memories the familiar scent had awakened in him. Funny, that after all these years he still used the same shampoo. Despite the connotations (or, perhaps, because of them), John found the fragrance soothing.

He wondered if Giles remembered him now. Really remembered…

“So…since when did history students warrant the stalker treatment?” asked Xander. He was in the kitchen, ‘helping’ Giles. In truth, he was just standing around toying with various condiments, hoping to squeeze a morsel of juicy insight out of Giles on the subject of his past. The man had as many dark secrets as the FBI, and he was much better at keeping a lid on them.

“John was not a stalker,” said Giles. “He was just an innocent and impressionable young man, and I fear I was a bad influence on him.”

Damn—again with the red tape, thought Xander. “So what did you do, peer pressure him into illegally photocopying textbooks?” he asked, prying a little further.

“It was all a very long time ago, and definitely none of your business,” Giles replied, unwittingly throwing more fuel on the fire.

The chicken was cooking, and Giles had somehow managed to prepare a fresh salad and uncork a bottle of white wine, even with Xander persistently underfoot. And the boy kept looking at him expectantly, as if he might accidentally let slip some sordid detail from his past. But Giles was resolute—there were some things that needed to stay buried.

“Xander, I know you’re anxious to hear what John has to say, but given his current state of mind, I think it might be best if we were alone for now.”

“Are you sure you’ll be safe? I mean, he’s not gonna go all American Psycho on you, is he?” asked Xander.

“I think it highly unlikely,” Giles replied. “But thank-you for your concern.” And with that, Giles prodded Xander out of the kitchen and shooed him out the front door.

“Okay, fine. But if you need my help…” Xander said as the door shut in his face.

“I won’t hesitate to call,” said Giles to the closed door.

Giles was starting to worry. Dinner was prepared and the table set, but John had yet to appear. He’d been holed up in the bathroom since their arrival almost an hour ago. Giles had no idea of the extent of his friend’s injuries, and images of John sprawled bleeding to death on his tiled floor nagged at him until he could no longer ignore them. At last, Giles worked up the nerve to go and knock on the door.

“John…? John, are you alright?” he asked. “Dinner’s ready.”

There was a long pause during which Giles could hear the muffled sounds of hurried activity from the other side of the door.

Finally the door opened a crack, and John’s face, scrubbed clean and framed by a curly, wet mop of hair, appeared in the gap. “Sorry, Rupert. I seem to be in a bit of a predicament,” he said.

“Are you alright? Do you need a hand?” asked Giles.

John seemed to think for a moment before opening the door all the way to let Giles inside.

Giles stepped into the steamy, soap-scented room and immediately saw what John’s ‘predicament’ was. In a heap on the floor were John’s clothes, filthy and torn, and definitely not fit to wear. John stood before him, wrapped in a towel from the waist down and pink with embarrassment.

“Of course, you need something to wear,” said Giles. “You’re more than welcome to borrow something of mine.”

“Thank-you,” said John, turning a deeper shade of pink. “But I don’t want to ruin any of your clothes.”

“I don’t see how…” said Giles, but he was silenced as soon as John turned around to expose his back. Deep gouges—which looked unmistakably like claw marks—stood out angry red and bleeding against the pale skin of his back.

“Good Lord, John—what did this to you?” asked Giles, his mind already going into analytical research mode.

“They’re old wounds, but they’ve never really healed,” John said. He expected Giles to insist on taking him to the hospital, but instead, his old friend got up close and began inspecting the wounds. John would have felt tremendously self-conscious had it been anyone else. But there was something about Giles that instilled a sense of trust in him, despite the amount of water under the bridge.

Gentle fingers prodded the inflamed skin around the scars, making John flinch.

“Sorry,” said Giles, hastily pulling his hands away.

“No, it’s alright,” said John. “It doesn’t hurt much.”

Giles resumed his inspection, prodding even more gently than before. “You haven’t answered my question, John. What did this to you?”

“Well, that’s part of the long story I was telling you about,” answered John.

“The one you think I won’t believe?”

“Yes, that one.”

“Was it a demon, then?” asked Giles. His mouth curled up in a smile at John’s astonished, sputtering reaction.

“You—you know about demons?” said John, but it came out as more of an accusation than a question. “I mean real demons? All that talk at Oxford…all those things you said you did…that was all true?”

Giles nodded, but his smile slipped; “You’re not the only one with a long story to tell.”

“I don’t believe it!” John laughed. “I always thought you were just making those stories up to impress me.” He was grinning as though he’d just been told that Santa Claus was real.

At Oxford, Giles had been known as quite the storyteller, especially when plied with enough alcohol and given a receptive enough audience. It was his trademark method of seduction—many a girl had fallen prey to his outrageous accounts of the witchcraft and wild living of his ‘Ripper’ days.

John had hung on every word, especially on those nights when the liquor had had a stronger pull than the girls. On those nights, when it was just the two of them holed up in a dark corner of the pub until closing time, his tales would become darker. His stories of witchcraft would lose the veneer of humour, and his voice would become taut with the telling of them. John had chalked it up to showmanship. He’d even fooled himself into thinking Giles had saved these stories for him because he was somehow special…that he meant more to him than the casual acquaintances that peopled Giles’ world. No one ever really got close to Rupert. It just wasn’t done.

John had made the mistake of thinking he was the exception.

“Oh, I was definitely trying to impress you,” said Giles, snapping John out of his thoughts. “But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t telling the truth. Hang on a minute…” Giles slipped out of the bathroom and returned a couple of minutes later, his arms laden with first aid supplies.

“Now I’m really impressed,” said John. “What did you do, knock over a chemist’s? You’ve got enough supplies to start a field hospital here.”

“It may not look it, but Sunnydale is a dangerous place to live,” said Giles, spreading the collection of bandages and salves on the tiny counter. “Sadly, I’ve needed these provisions more often than I’d care to admit.”

“Have you thought about moving?” asked John. It seemed the logical solution, especially given what he knew of the town’s future. “I keep a close eye on demonic activity, and no offense, Rupert, but you picked a real hell-hole to live in.”

Giles laughed. “You’re more right than you know. But it’s not as simple as that. I can’t just leave Sunnydale. I’m needed here.”

“You’d stay even though it’s clearly hazardous to your health?”

“That’s part of my long story,” Giles answered, and picked out an antibacterial cream he thought might do the trick.

“Salt works better,” said John, nodding at the tube of ointment in Giles’ hand.

“Salt?”

“I find if I pack the wounds with salt and then bandage them, it staunches the bleeding for a while,” John explained.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” asked Giles.

“Like a bugger,” he replied, then felt his face flush hot—he hadn’t used language like that in years. Giles seemed not to notice, though, so he continued. “I’ve tried everything else; salt’s the only thing that works half decently.”

“Well then, if you’re sure…” said Giles. He gave John’s shoulder a quick squeeze and left him to get some salt from the kitchen.

As soon as he was alone, John slumped against the sink and rubbed his face in his hands. He was weary to the bone and totally unprepared to deal with the emotional upheaval caused by being around this man. He’d thought he’d moved on—thought those feelings were long dead. Obviously he was wrong.

Giles reappeared a few minutes later with a box of table salt in one hand and a small spice jar of sea salt in the other.

“I wasn’t sure what kind you’d prefer, so I brought both,” he said, holding the choices out for John to see.

John eyed the coarse salt uneasily, the thought of packing such large and jagged looking stuff into the wounds made him cringe inwardly. “I think I’ll just stick with good old-fashioned table salt,” he said. “You know, you don’t have to do this,” he added. “I’ve done it by myself many times.”

“Don’t be silly, it’ll be much easier if I help,” Giles answered. “You might want to sit down, though.”

Giles waited for John to get comfortable, or at least as comfortable as one could get, perched on the edge of a bathtub. He saw John’s hands grip the porcelain, as he mentally prepared himself for what was coming.

Giles took a deep breath and shook some salt into one of the wounds. John made no sound, but the muscles in his shoulders and jaw bunched and his knuckles were turning white with the strain of his grip. Giles worked quickly, knowing there was nothing he could do to make the experience less painful. When he was done, and the last bandage had been taped into place, Giles put his hand on John’s shoulder and gave it a pat.

“We’re done,” he said.

“That wasn’t so bad,” John lied bravely. He pried his fingers off the tub and stood, swaying slightly as the blood rushed from his head. Giles caught his arm and guided him out into the hall and through the apartment to his bedroom loft.

As John stood by and watched, Giles rummaged through his dresser and closet to find something suitable for him to wear. At last he seemed satisfied with his selection and he laid the clothes out on his bed.

“Take your time. I’ll be downstairs in the kitchen if you need anything.” Giles smiled warmly at him, and then headed off to reheat their dinner.

Giles had just placed the steaming plates of food back on the dinner table when he heard footsteps coming down the stairs. John appeared, looking just a bit waifish in the oversized clothes. Giles looked him over appraisingly, thinking that the blue pullover and black trousers suited the younger man better, even if they were a size or two too large.

“Are you feeling any better?” asked Giles, pulling a chair out for his friend.

“Much better, thanks,” he answered. But before he took his seat, he stopped right in front of Giles, took him by the arm and looked him straight in the eyes: “I really appreciate all your help, Rupert. You’ve been more than generous, and I want you to know how much that means to me, especially considering how long it’s been. And considering…well…all things considered,” he said, sputtering to a halt.

Giles looked away from John’s intense blue eyes and smiled a shaky little smile. He hadn’t forgotten how things had ended between them. It was not something he was proud of. But it seemed that John, at least, was willing to forgive, if not to forget.

“It’s the very least I can do,” answered Giles, and he began pouring out two glasses of wine. “You’re more than welcome to stay here with me…”

John sat down, his stomach grouching audibly as his senses were assailed by the delicious smells of a real, home-cooked meal.

“…if-if you need a place to stay, that is,” Giles added in a near-mumble.

“Sorry, Rupert, I forgot my manners what with the food and all. Are you sure you wouldn’t mind putting me up? I’d hate to impose…”

“Not at all. I could do with a bit of adult company,” said Giles, getting a raised eyebrow from John in response. “It’s part of that long story. Please, help yourself—you must be starving.”

Giles proceeded to grab a bun from the basket and butter it when he noticed that John wasn’t eating. With his head slightly bowed, John was giving thanks for his meal. Giles put his bun back down and waited for him to finish.

“Don’t tell me you’ve found religion,” said Giles with a chuckle—it seemed absurd, considering how unholy they’d been at University.

“That’s a bit of an understatement, actually,” replied John with a twinkle in his eye. “I went into the C of E. Became a priest.” John delighted in the shocked look on Giles’ face at the news.

“You’re a priest?” asked Giles, clearly doubtful.

“Was a priest. Past tense. I was defrocked a few years ago after…” he choked up, unable to speak Helen’s name out loud. “Well, that’s also part of the long story.”

“Then I suggest you start at the beginning now, or we’ll be up all night,” said Giles.

“You first. How did you get caught up in all this demon business?” asked John before shovelling a huge forkful of chicken into his mouth.

“Have you heard of the Council of Watchers?”

John nodded and swallowed his food. “Yeah, I’ve heard some stories—rumours mostly. Some sort of secret society of demon hunters, set up to watch over the Vampire Slayer. Course, no one really believes they exist. And the Slayer? ‘One girl in all the world with the power to fight the vampires’? No one actually believes in vampires anymore, let alone the Vampire Slayer.” It was his turn to chuckle.

“Don’t laugh, it’s all true,” said Giles, taking a bit of offence at the slur on his profession.

“Vampires—real?” John scoffed. “I suppose you’ll be telling me you’ve met Dracula, next.”

“Well, actually…”

John was openly laughing now. “Okay, now I know you’re joking,” he said, but Giles just looked back at him, stony-faced with seriousness. “You are joking, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not,” answered Giles.

“So you belong to this Council, then?” he asked, barely controlling his giggles.

Giles shifted uncomfortably in his seat before answering. “Well, not any more. I was…fired.”

That got John giggling again. He felt bad—he knew it was rude—but he’d had so little sleep, and it was pretty funny.

“We’re a right pair, aren’t we,” Giles said with a smile.

“I’m sorry, Rupert, I didn’t mean to laugh at you.”

“It’s quite alright. I imagine from your point of view it would sound almost as ridiculous as me saying I was a fairy godmother, but I’m no longer allowed to grant wishes.”

“So, this Council is real? And the Slayer?” asked John, taking a renewed interest in his dinner.

“She lives here in Sunnydale. I’m her Watcher—unofficially, at least. The young man you met earlier is a friend of hers.”

“Do you think I’ll get a chance to meet her?”

“Undoubtedly. I imagine Xander’s already spread the news of your mysterious arrival. The whole lot of them will probably show up on my doorstep in the morning to pry into your business.”

Giles spent the rest of the meal filling John in on the events of his life leading up to this point. He carefully edited his account, avoiding the whole Angelus incident and some of the sadder aspects of his life. Mostly he talked about Buffy and the others—the triumphs they’d shared and the demon’s they’d faced. John made him go into great detail when he told him the story about being turned into a Fyarl demon. And just like in times past, John hung on every word.

Leaving the dishes for later, John and Giles retired to the living room. It was John’s turn to fill in the gaps. Giles brought the half-empty bottle of wine with him and began refilling their glasses.

“None for me, thanks,” said John before Giles got to his glass. “I really don’t drink much these days.”

“Things have changed, haven’t they?” said Giles, taking a seat next to him on the couch. “The priesthood was one thing, but you not drinking? It’s unthinkable.”

“I only drank that much to keep up with you,” John argued. “Besides, I didn’t want to become a drunken priest—it’s such a cliché.”

“I still can’t believe you became a priest at all,” said Giles. “No offense, but you were so heavy into the occult—that’s quite the leap of faith, so to speak.”

“Not so big a leap as you might think, actually,” John answered. “Anyway, it’s all your fault.”

“Oh? How so?” asked Giles.

“Do you remember that night when we…when I asked you to teach me magic? Do you remember what you said to me?”

Giles shook his head, but he remembered that night perfectly well.

“You told me I was too young and too stupid to dabble in witchcraft. You said that if I kept hanging out with people like you, I’d either lose my life or my soul, and you wanted no part of it.”

Giles hung his head, his eyes fixed on the golden liquid in his glass. “I never should have said those things. I’m so sorry, John.”

“Don’t be. I’ll admit, at the time I was fairly crushed; my world pretty much revolved around you, and you knew it. But you were right—I was heading into a very dark place, and if you hadn’t pushed me away, I probably would have fallen off the edge. In a way, you’re responsible for straightening me out.”

John leaned back on the couch, digging himself into the cushions until he was comfortable. Giles followed suit, and waited for him to speak. John had put it off long enough; it was time to bare his soul.

Chapter Text

John took a deep breath and started from the beginning. He’d never told anyone the whole story before: certain people knew certain things, and that suited him fine. But he needed help—he was in way over his head on this one—and if Giles was who he said he was, then he’d be foolish to keep anything from him.

It was difficult at first, talking about Helen. But once he’d resigned himself to it, he found he was enjoying reliving the happier days of their time together. He told Giles how he’d met her and fallen madly in love, and how she’d stood by him when his life did a complete turnabout. She’d nurtured him through the uncertainties of his faith and humoured him when it came to his fascination with the supernatural. It felt good to finally give voice to her name, almost as if saying it out loud was enough to bring her to life in his mind once more. But that only made it much harder to tell Giles what had happened to her.

Giles listened in silence, knowing from his own experience with such things that John needed to get it all out. He knew what it was like to keep painful secrets, how it kept you isolated from those around you like a wall being built, brick by brick around your heart. Giles had his secrets. And he’d built his walls. But maybe it wasn’t too late for John.

As he came to the most difficult part of his story, John paused and eyed the nearly empty bottle of wine on the table.

“Would you like me to pour you another glass?” offered Giles, understanding the need for ‘Dutch courage’.

“Have you got anything stronger?” John asked, looking sheepishly at Giles.

“Certainly,” he said with a kind smile, and he went to his liquor cabinet to fetch a bottle of single malt. He poured three fingers into a tumbler and brought it to him. He knew better than to ask if he wanted ice or soda. This occasion warranted an undiluted scotch.

John thanked him and took the drink. The amber coloured liquor, with its peculiar wet, woollen sock smell, was a strong reminder of the times they’d spent together in Giles’ dilapidated flat in college. He took a gulp, the liquor scorching a path down his throat and sending warm tendrils throughout his body.

“It was October, 1999,” he began.

“John please…let it go,” said Helen, exasperated by her fiancé’s stubbornness. John was already donning his coat, and she could tell he was determined to go through with it despite the Canon’s threats and her pleading. She couldn’t understand where his obsession with demons had come from, and it was starting to put a strain on their relationship.

He was convinced that demons were real—he’d come across books, ancient books, locked away in Canon Black’s study, that were filled with proof of their existence. And although he’d only had one chance to browse through them before they were snatched away and summarily locked up, he’d seen enough to know, without a doubt, that the writings in those books were much more than the fanciful imaginings of long-dead monks. Why else would the Canon keep them so carefully guarded? Why else would he lie about their existence when John pressed him about them? And why was it only now that he’d pulled them out from their hiding place and blown the dust off them?

John suspected it had something to do with the string of grave robberies that had started up a few weeks earlier. The incidents were increasing in regularity, and although the police had been tight-lipped on the subject, there were rumours spreading that it was the work of some demented necrophiliac or budding serial killer.

Tonight John intended to get some answers. There had been a burial that afternoon, and he was betting that this creature would find the temptation of a freshly dug grave too much to pass up. The fact that Canon Black had expressly forbidden him to look into the matter only made him more determined to see it through. As for Helen…she would come around once he’d shown her irrefutable proof that he was right.

John checked his camera again, testing the battery and making sure there was enough film. One good shot of this demon at work and Canon Black would have to admit he knew more than he was letting on. Just one picture and he’d be closer to the truth than all his years in the Church and his dabblings in the occult had brought him. He would finally have proof where there had only ever been suspicion.

“I won’t be long. If Black calls, tell him I’ve gone visiting poor old Mrs. Marshland. He’ll like that one.” Helen’s mood was dark, and he caught the glint of anger in her eyes. “Please, Helen, don’t give me that look—I need to do this. You know it as much as I do.” He waited until she granted him a reluctant smile, then he ducked out into the brisk autumn evening.

Time seemed to slow down for John as he waited impatiently for the demon to make an appearance. He’d been waiting, crouched in the bushes, for well over an hour. He was about to admit defeat when he heard the sound of gravel crunching underfoot along the path. The narrow beam of light from a torch lit the ground in sweeping arcs, as if searching for something. John remained still, holding his breath in the hopes of avoiding detection. He figured it was probably Black out patrolling his territory, trying to flush him out to give him a proper reprimand. But the figure that appeared around the bend was not that of the old man—it was Helen. She looked agitated, like something had scared her.

John stood, revealing himself to beckon her over to him, but he was suddenly pierced with an excruciating pain. His cry caught in his throat, lodged there by his paralysing fear. The nerves in his back were on fire, and every time he dragged in a hitching breath he was assailed by a cloyingly sweet smell that nearly made him gag. Whatever it was that had impaled him from behind was breathing hotly down his neck. The demon laid its enormous hand on top of John’s head, and he saw a slick, talon-like claw flash before his eye before embedding itself in his forehead. The world swam sickeningly around him, his body growing heavier, and just before he blacked out, he heard Helen screaming.

He was nudged awake some time early the next morning. He grunted, not wanting to wake up and have to face the pain that was pressing in on him. The nudging grew harder until he had no choice but to open his eyes. It was a moment he fervently wished he could erase from his memory.

A heavy weight was being lifted off of him, leaving him cold and exposed. He stirred enough to raise his head and saw that the weight had been Helen. He didn’t understand, at first. Why had they been sleeping outside? Why wasn’t Helen waking up? Who were all these people?

Pieces of the puzzle started falling into place. The people were policemen, and they were watching him—talking to him, asking him questions that he couldn’t comprehend. And he hadn’t been sleeping outside—he’d been unconscious. He tried to sit up, but the pain in his back made it impossible.

He noticed the redness next. The deep crimson redness seemed to be covering him from head to toe. And as the policemen laid Helen down on the ground beside him, he saw that she, too, was covered in red.

And he knew she wasn’t sleeping. Her eyes were open, but they were staring into an emptiness that only she could see. John cried out then, his cracking voice a mere echo of the scream of agony he felt welling up inside of him.

Blood. There was so much blood.

The rest was lost in a haze of shock and pain. There were hospitals and detectives asking him questions he didn’t know how to answer. There were accusations and reporters, and friends who were too ashamed to look him in the eye.

In the end, with no motive, no weapon, and with wounds that couldn’t possibly have been self-inflicted, he was released from custody, and the charges were dropped. But the damage was done. Canon Black had him defrocked the moment he was released from custody, and it was only out of pity that the Bishop had granted him a stipend and a place to live. He sank into a depression borne of guilt and anger, and he would have stayed buried in that bleakness forever if it weren’t for the dreams.

He was a marked man—literally tagged by the demon that had killed his future—and because of it, every demon that got near enough could sense his presence. And he, in turn, could sense them through his dreams. John grasped onto this knowledge and used it to his advantage. He would learn everything he could about the evil that preyed on the innocent, and he would fight back. Along the way, he’d come across others like him who were sensitive to the presence of demons, and together they were starting to turn the tide.

Jude, Toby and Kevin all fought because it was the only way they knew how to survive. But not John. He fought so he could get revenge. He fought in the hopes that one day he would come face to face with the creature that took his Helen away from him, and he would rid the world of it’s presence or die trying.

But when he’d finally got the chance, he’d blown it. He’d literally had the demon by the throat, and he’d let it go.

A salty tear streaked down his face and into the crack of his lips, and John swiped it away. He fought to hold back the tears, ashamed that it had taken him so many years to cry for her. He’d held back for so long.

Giles plucked the empty glass from John’s fingers and set it down on the table. Then he gathered his old friend into his arms, holding his head against his chest until the tears came. Giles hugged him tight, feeling some of his own grief rising to the surface, begging to be recognised, but he refused acknowledge it. There were too many ghosts in his past, and right now, John’s ghost was the one he needed to deal with.

Slowly the shuddering sobs ceased, but John didn’t move. With his head pressed against Giles’ chest, he listened to the steady thump of his heartbeat. He’d forgotten how comforting that sound could be, and he didn’t want to pull away just yet. He felt Giles’ fingers gently combing through his hair and he closed his tired eyes—just for a minute.

He awoke gasping for air, nausea making the room around him spin. He sat up and took a deep breath, trying to push back the flood of saliva that kept rising at the back of his throat. The nightmare was fading fast, but the sickly-sweet smell of the demon lingered in his memory, unshakable.

A hot, thick drop of blood rolled down his nose and fell to the floor with a tiny splat. John brought his fingers up to his forehead and they came away wet. He looked around the shadowy room, momentarily disoriented. He knew where he was—he was on the couch in Giles’ living room—but he couldn’t remember actually going to sleep. John rubbed his eyes as they strained to see in the darkness. His eyes ached dully and his lids were heavy—it hurt to blink. Then he remembered why they were so sore. He remembered the tears and how he’d fallen asleep on Giles. John groaned. As if things weren’t complicated enough between them, he’d added pity comfort into the mix.

Taking it slowly, John got up and padded his way into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. His hands were still shaking as he went to reach for a glass in the cupboard, and the glasses clinked together loudly in the dead silence of the night. John winced and strained his ears to hear if he’d woken up Giles. To his relief, all remained silent, and he ran the tap, filling his glass with icy water. He drank it down in one gulp and poured himself another. The nausea subsided at last and he pressed the cold glass against his hot forehead, forgetting about the wound that had started bleeding again.

John swore softly under his breath as he felt a hot trickle of blood escape from under the bandages on his back. He quickly stripped out of the sweater Giles had loaned him and cursed again. Even in the dim light he could see dark blood stains setting in. He filled the sink with water and soaked it, rubbing at the stains until he was sure it was clean, then spread it out on the counter to dry.

Hoping to curl up on the couch for a few more hours of sleep, John wandered back into the living room. But halfway across the room the air turned chilly and he stopped dead in his tracks. The hair on his arms prickled—he could smell the demon.

“He’s next,” came the hateful, disembodied voice, followed by the clicking sound of its claws. The sound had come from the shadows near the staircase.

John’s heart raced as he flew up the stairs two at a time. Entering the loft, he saw the demon perched on the bed, its mask-like face hovering menacingly over the sleeping form of Rupert Giles. Moonlight glanced off the demon’s claws, which were poised over Giles’ chest and head, about to rip into his flesh.

“No!” John shouted at the top of his voice.

Giles sprang awake, eyes darting in every direction to find the source of the danger. But the demon was gone. All he saw was John, standing shirtless and out of breath at the foot of his bed.

“John, what is it?” he asked. To say John looked spooked would be a massive understatement. “Come here, have a seat,” he offered, shuffling over to make room for him on the bed.

“He was here,” said John, ignoring the offer. “Asmoth was here in your bedroom, standing right over you!”

Giles didn’t know how to respond. John was clearly shaken, but he found it hard to believe a bloody great demon had been standing right over him without him knowing. Then again, if what John had said about its ability to appear out of thin air was true, then he was lucky to have escaped with his life.

John paced back and forth at the foot of the bed, his eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of movement. Giles was getting edgy, too, and he clicked on his bedside lamp, casting out the darkness.

“He’s gone now, John,” Giles said. “I promise you we’ll get to the bottom of this tomorrow, but it’s late, and you should really try to get some sleep.”

“I’m not some child who’s had a bad dream,” snapped John. “I can’t just go back to bed and forget that that…thing…nearly got to you. How can you even think about sleeping after what just happened?”

Giles studied his young friend and saw the determination in his eyes. He sighed. There was no sense trying to get any more sleep tonight, he thought. So he climbed out of bed and pulled on his housecoat.

“Come on, then,” he said. “If we’re to spend the rest of the night awake, we might as well make ourselves useful. How good are you at research?” he asked.

“I’m a few PhD’s shy of your skills, but I think I can hold my own,” John replied with a smile, glad to have something to do.

After redressing John’s wounds and finding him a fresh t-shirt to wear, they headed back downstairs where Giles introduced him to his impressive collection of demon texts. Most of them were unavailable to the general public, and some of them represented the only copies in existence. John whistled appreciatively. In his four years of diligent research, he’d never seen so many books on demons.

John filled Giles in on the sketchy information he’d managed to collect in his studies, as well as every detail of his encounter with the demon, so they’d have some idea where to begin. He’d surmised that its name was Asmoth, and that it fed off of human flesh—at first only from the recently deceased, then from the living as it neared its time of hibernation.

John spied a familiar book on one of the shelves and he pulled it out. ‘The Encyclopaedia Daemonica’. He handed it to Giles.

“This is where I found most of my information, if that helps,” he said.

Giles smirked. “Ah yes, ‘The Encyclopaedia’. I’m afraid using this book to track down a demon would be as futile an exercise as trying to win the Tour de France on a tricycle.”

“Not enough to go by?” John asked.

“Not nearly. And it’s highly inaccurate in the information it does possess. Still, the fact that your demon warranted mention in ‘The Encyclopaedia’ suggests that it’s powerful and most likely ancient. That’s good news for us.”

“It is?”

“Well, at least as far as research is concerned, yes. There’s likely to be a great deal of information on him. The more we know, the better equipped we’ll be to destroy it.”

The two of them delved into the research, going through book after book, jotting down notes, which they compiled in the centre of the coffee table. There seemed to be plenty of information on Asmoth, some of it under the names ‘Astaroth’ and ‘Asmodeus’. The problem was that the accounts of this demon tended to disagree with each other on certain key factors. According to some texts, Asmoth was the ‘Eater of Souls’, and the consumption of human flesh wasn’t even mentioned, while most texts made no mention of the eating of souls at all, focusing instead on the flesh-eating business.

The sun rose without a second glance from either of them, and it wasn’t until there was a knock at the door that they realised they’d been at it for hours. Giles looked at his watch. It was nearly ten-thirty, and they’d been so caught up they hadn’t even stopped for breakfast. Giles got up to answer the door just as the knocking started up again, more insistently.

The entire Scooby gang was waiting outside with Buffy heading the pack, a big smile on her face. Willow had her wide-eyed curious expression fixed firmly in place, while Tara smiled shyly at him, as if apologizing for their intrusion. Xander and Anya were close behind and in the back, jumping up and down in a blatant attempt to get a better look at Giles’ guest, was Dawn.

John joined Giles at the door. “You were right—news travels fast in these parts.”

Buffy and the others filed past them into the apartment, and Giles introduced them all one by one. John smiled and nodded politely at all of them until Dawn bounced her way inside. He couldn’t help but stare at her—she was glowing with a radiant green energy that was at once beautiful and frightening. Only when he realised that Xander was asking him a question was he able to pry his attention away from the girl.

“Sorry, what?” he asked, not having caught most of the question.

“I said I hope you haven’t been playing in traffic again. They’ve got really strict penalties for jay-walking here in Sunnydale,” Xander said.

“Don’t worry, Rupert’s been keeping a close eye on me,” he answered.

“So, you knew Giles from way back, huh?” asked Buffy, quickly assessing Giles’ new houseguest. “Was that before or after his Easy Rider days?”

“You’ll have to excuse Buffy,” Giles interceded, “she’s under the misconception that my entire youth was nothing more than a series of nefarious acts.”

“It wasn’t?” John teased, winning a smile from Buffy. “The way you described it…”

“This really isn’t the sort of thing we should be discussing right now,” Giles said, jumping in quickly. “We have serious work ahead of us and we need to stay focused.”

“I think you should tell us more about your nefarious acts. In detail, please,” said Anya. The others nodded in agreement.

“No,” he said firmly. “Now please, there’s a very powerful demon at large who fancies me as its next meal. So if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to figure out how to defeat it before I become its dinner.”

“Ooh, research party!” said Willow.

“Is it too early for pizza? Or should I go get some donuts?” asked Xander.

“Oh! Donuts!” said Dawn, casting her vote.

Giles sighed. It was clear they were going to have company whether they wanted it or not. “Fine,” he said. “Go get donuts. Just make sure you order enough jellies this time.”

Chapter Text

As Xander returned from his mission to procure donuts for the studious masses, John pulled Giles aside so he could talk to him in private. Giles eyed the donuts, which were rapidly disappearing, and hoped they’d save at least a couple for him and John.

“Rupert…there’s something else I think I should tell you. I would have mentioned it earlier, only I thought you might think I was, you know, a bit loony.”

“What? More loony than riding the back of an ancient demon across different dimensions?” asked Giles playfully.

“Oh yeah—way more loony,” said John. “What would you say if I told you that I didn’t just travel through different dimensions, but that I also travelled back in time?”

“I’d say that although such occurrences are rare, they’re hardly unprecedented,” Giles said. “There are an infinite number of dimensions, John. It’s very likely that you’re not in the same one you started from. It could be that the only difference between our two dimensions is the rate at which time travels.”

“Then you believe me?”

“It actually explains a lot about our first conversation in The Magic Box. You kept asking what year it was—I thought it was the trauma talking, but I should have realized there was more to it than that.”

“It’s like he’s toying with me,” said John darkly. “Like he left me here on purpose, taking me back almost far enough to save Helen, but not quite. And he chose Sunnydale of all places. I think he knew you were here and that you’d find me. I think he knows you’re the only other person I’ve ever…” John stammered to a stop and looked over his shoulder at the group of kids gathered in the living room behind them. Anya waved at him. “He knows you’re special to me,” he corrected quietly, “and he wants to take you away from me like he did with Helen.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Giles assured him, steering clear of the awkward confession John had accidentally let slip.

“I know you said Buffy was strong, but you haven’t seen Asmoth. I don’t think anyone’s strong enough to kill him,” said John.

“Asmoth?” asked Anya from the other end of the room.

“She heard that?” John asked, flushing at the realization that she must also have heard the rest of their conversation.

“So it would seem,” Giles replied with equal embarrassment.

Anya walked boldly up to them and Willow, Xander, Tara and Buffy followed, all of them eager to find any excuse to avoid doing actual research. Dawn had already lost interest in their new guest, and was happily flipping through texts that Buffy would normally have kept away from her.

“It’s Astaroth you’re looking for?” Anya asked; her brow furrowed.

“Yes, Astaroth,” Giles said hopefully. “You’ve heard of him?”

“Know him—can’t stand him. He’s the most depressing being I’ve ever met. Once I went to a party he was at and I swear a third of the guests killed themselves from the sheer misery of being in his presence.”

“As interesting as that may be, we want to kill him, not invite him round for tea,” said Giles.

“You can’t kill Astaroth,” Anya stated flatly.

“I thought you said you couldn’t stand him,” Buffy piped up.

“Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against him being dead,” said Anya. “I only meant that he can’t be killed. It’s pretty much impossible. The only time he’s vulnerable is when his power source is dead. And that means you’d have to find whoever it is first—which is no easy task, seeing as Astartoth could have chosen anyone from any dimension to supply his power. So long as his power source lives, he’s completely impossible to kill. It made for some nauseatingly boring conversations, I can tell you. It was always ‘I’m impervious’ this, and ‘I’m indestructible’ that.”

“Okay. So we find the power source and kill it. Is there any way you can narrow down the list from ‘anyone in any dimension’?” asked Buffy.

“I don’t know if it helps any, but he once bragged that he preferred to tap religious people, and then only the ones who were truly happy. He said their life force was purer, and their suffering more intense. Which, I guess, is a good thing if you’re into soul-sucking.”

“And how does Asmoth go about ‘tapping’ his power supply?” asked John, fearing he already knew the answer.

“The power source is a victim he’s wounded but kept alive—whenever he needs a fix he opens the wounds he inflicted and the power flows. And the more miserable the victim, the more potent the power.”

John and Giles exchanged anxious glances.

“Well, on the plus side, we don’t have to go far to find his power source,” said John. He hiked up his borrowed t-shirt to show the young group the bandages on his back. “Courtesy of Asmoth,” he explained soberly. There was a moment of silence as the meaning of his announcement sank in.

“Hang on,” said Xander, his face a mask of confusion. “Does that mean you’re like a priest or something?”

“Way to cling to the relevant point, Xan,” said Buffy sarcastically.

“Anya, are you absolutely certain?” asked Giles. “Is there any possibility your information could be wrong?”

“Sorry,” she said, looking genuinely apologetic, “I looked into it several centuries ago when Asmoth was really starting to piss me off. Thought I’d do the universe a favour and get rid of him. Not so easy, as it turned out.”

“What do you mean, ‘several centuries ago’?” asked John. “And for that matter, what do you mean you were at parties with him?”

“Anya used to be a vengeance demon,” Xander answered.

“A demon? I thought you said she was your girlfriend,” said John.

“Don’t worry, I’ve been human for over a year now—I haven’t cursed anyone in ages,” Anya said proudly.

“Anya’s been a valuable resource,” said Giles.

“And a productive member of society,” Anya prompted.

“…And a productive member of society,” Giles agreed. “She’s not a threat, I promise you.”

“And Dawn?” John asked, nodding at the green-glowing girl flipping through books on the couch.

“What about her?” asked Buffy defensively, rearing up like a cobra about to strike.

John knew when to back down. “Nothing. Sweet girl,” he said. “I just thought, with a sister who’s a slayer…she might be, erm, different.”

“She’s just a normal, ordinary kid,” said Buffy as if daring him to argue.

John peeked over his shoulder at the glowing girl in question and answered, “of course—I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“We still have a serious problem,” Giles said, diverting the conversation back to the important issue. “We need to find some other way to kill Asmoth; one that doesn’t involve killing John as well.”

“Maybe we could make Asmoth think he’s dead…fool him somehow,” Willow suggested.

“Fool him?” asked Xander. “What? You think if John lies really still for a while this ancient, multi-dimensional, soul-sucking demon will shrug its shoulders and move on?”

“There are spells,” Tara added softly, “that can mask a person’s life signs. W-we could create a shield around him.”

“That won’t work,” said Anya, dashing their first fragile hope to the ground and stomping on it. “You may fool Asmoth into thinking he’s dead, but unless John actually dies, Asmoth will remain invulnerable to attack.”

The room fell silent as they collectively wracked their brains for another alternative.

“What about that voodoo thing?” asked Xander. “You know—the thing where a guy gets shot with a poison dart and everyone thinks he’s dead. Then they bury him, only he’s not a hundred per cent dead and he wakes up two days later in his own coffin, buried under six feet of dirt, and…dear sweet Jesus, I just gave myself the willies.”

“It’s true, there are poisons which, when administered properly, can mimic the physical aspects of death,” said Giles. “But as you said yourself, he wouldn’t really be dead, and I’m fairly sure Asmoth would know the difference.”

“Oh! Oh!” Willow exclaimed with a little bounce, and Giles thought she’d only just managed to stop herself from jutting her hand up in the air like an eager student. “I know! We could do what they did in ‘Flatliners’. We kill him, under careful supervision, of course, then we bring him back with heating pads and those jolty things…and a bunch of other stuff we don’t have access to…and with the help of a bunch of genius medical students we’d have to kidnap. Okay—I’m seeing the flaws in my theory now.”

“But hey! If one Kiefer movie doesn’t work we could try another one. We could always pull a ‘Lost Boys’,” Buffy said.

“Actually, that would work,” said Anya. “If we could somehow get Spike or Angel to turn him he would, essentially, be dead. Then we could take out Asmoth easy-peasey.”

“And we could do with John what we did with Angel,” Willow added. “Keep his soul all safe and locked up until this Asmoth creep is dead, then restore it.”

“He’d still be a vampire, though,” Xander argued. “Sure, he’d get to be all immortal and eternally young and have super powers…and the girls really seem to dig the whole dark broodiness thing…and… Hey! Can I be a vampire?”

“Xander, you’re not helping,” said Giles. “We are not going to turn John. It’s—it’s…obscene.”

“It might be our only option,” said Anya. Once again there was a lengthy silence as they all struggled to come up with a better idea.

John was not encouraged by the continued silence. It was becoming clear that the only way to kill Asmoth was to become the one thing he hated most—a demon. “Would I still be me?” he asked Giles at last. “If I became a vampire, would I keep my memories, my personality?”

“They’d be incorporated into the demon that would take over your body, yes,” Giles acceded. “And once we’d restored your soul, you’d have far greater control over your demon side…but you would still be fighting it constantly. For as long as you live, you’d be fighting for control, and the demon’s will is strong—it would crave human blood.”

“But it could be done? It has been done before?” asked John.

“Yes, but I will not have you condemned to an eternity of spiritual torment,” said Giles.

“It’s not your decision to make,” said John hotly. “Asmoth has to be stopped, and I’m willing to do anything to stop him.”

“What if there’s another way?” Tara timidly spoke up.

“We’re all ears,” said Buffy. “But not in a literal, freaky kind of way, of course.”

“What if, instead of a vampire, we got a different kind of demon to inhabit John’s body? Willow told me about Eyghon…how Giles and his friends raised a demon that took possession of them while they were unconscious. Would something like that work?”

Giles felt the blood rush from his head, leaving him feeling slightly off-balance. She obviously had no clue what she was suggesting. She couldn’t possibly realize she’d just requested him to relive the worst experience of his life.

“Only one problem,” said Buffy, and at that moment, Giles could have kissed her. “Eyghon is dead—saw to it myself.”

“That’s not a problem,” said Anya. “There’s plenty more where he came from.” Giles glared at her, but he knew she was right. He and Ethan had chosen Eyghon from a veritable yellow pages of possession demons. He remembered the final decision hinged on which demon called for the coolest tattoo.

“It’s a great idea!” exclaimed Willow. “We knock out John, the demon takes possession, and Buffy kills Asmoth, and then when John comes to, no more demon.”

“Yeah, but dial-a-demon won’t stay gone forever, will he?” asked Xander. “He’ll turn up again when you least expect him and wreak havoc. And I don’t know about you guys, but my havoc’s been wreaked enough for one lifetime.”

“So…okay, we get Spike to help us out,” said Buffy. “Once Asmoth’s gone I’ll put a chokehold on John. Don’t worry,” she added when John’s eyes widened fearfully, “we’ve done this before; I won’t do any damage, I promise. But the demon will think its host is dying and it will jump to another dead or unconscious host. That’s where Spike comes in.”

“Spike?” asked John.

“A vampire friend…or whatever…of ours,” she explained.

“It sounds crazy,” said John. “But it’s the best plan we’re likely to get. Count me in,” said John eagerly.

Giles couldn’t handle it any more. John still seemed so innocent…so vulnerable. He had no idea what he was in for. And the rest of them were acting so flippant about the whole thing it made him want to run screaming from the room. He didn’t scream, but he did run from the room, bolting up the stairs to his loft with no word of explanation to anyone. Sadly, with no door to slam behind him, all he could do was throw himself onto his bed and pretend he couldn’t still hear what everyone downstairs was saying.

“What was all that about?” he heard John ask.

It was Buffy who answered: “Giles gets a little wigged when it comes to Eyghon. Did he ever tell you about it?” she asked.

“No,” John’s answered.

“It was in his Ripper days,” she explained. “Giles and his buddies were getting their jollies using magick to summon this demon, Eyghon. But things got out of hand and one of his friends died. I think he still blames himself for it.”

Upstairs in his bedroom, Giles closed his eyes as Buffy’s words filtered up to him, bringing with them the still-vivid images of his friend’s tragic death. She hadn’t bothered to lower her voice, and Giles wondered if that was on purpose. They’d spoken about it on a couple of occasions, and she’d tried to convince him that although what he’d done had been stupid, it didn’t make him solely responsible for everything that happened. But then, she didn’t know the whole story, and she never would.

Downstairs, there was much shuffling about and mumbling, and eventually he heard the front door open and close. Giles knew better than to think he was alone, though. He sat up on his bed and waited, and a few minutes later when he heard footsteps on the stairs, his suspicions were confirmed.

Giles watched as John’s mane of brown, curly hair crested the loft’s landing. As he climbed the last few steps, Giles could also see that he was holding out a nearly empty box of donuts like it was some sort of sacrificial offering.

“I come bearing gifts,” said John. Despite himself, Giles smiled. “I managed to salvage one of the jellies, but it was a near thing—I had to beat Xander off with a pointy stick.”

John waited at the top of the stairs until Giles motioned for him to come in, and once he received his invitation, he deposited the offering at the foot of the bed and sat down. “So, are you going to tell me?” he asked, peering at his old friend knowingly.

“Buffy already told you,” said Giles, shifting uncomfortably on the bed.

“No. She told me the watered-down version that you told her. I’m guessing there’s a lot more to it than that.”

For a split second Giles thought how much easier his life would have been if John had never run out into traffic in front of his shop. He sighed, took off his glasses and gave them a brutal wiping.

“You’re stalling,” said John. “Let me make this a little easier… Does it have anything to do with Randall?”

Giles’ eyes snapped up to meet John’s. “Did Buffy tell you about him?”

“No, you did yourself, one night back in college when you got seriously inebriated. I’d never seen you so drunk before—you had me scared. When I tried to get you to stop drinking you said it was five years to the day, and you were drinking to forget. And when I asked you what you were trying to forget, all you said was ‘Randall’.”

“All these years later, and you still remember something I said on one of my benders?” asked Giles in disbelief.

“Like I said, you had me really scared. It looked to me like you were trying to drink yourself into an early grave. Whatever business you had with this ‘Randall’, I knew it was bad enough to make you want to drown yourself in a bottle. The name stuck; I always wondered why you’d never mentioned him before of after. So when Buffy said that one of your friends was killed, I put two and two together.”

Giles lay his glasses down on the bedside table before his overzealous ministrations led to their inevitable destruction. For a while he just stared down at his empty hands as if they might give him some clue how to tell John something he’d never admitted to anyone else.

“I lied,” he started. “When I told you I didn’t remember the night we…went our separate ways—I lied. Of course I remembered that night. Did you think you meant nothing to me?”

“That was the impression I got at the time, yes,” John admitted.

“Well you were wrong. You meant a great deal to me—more than anyone I’d ever known. But you were drawn to my darkness; attracted to the power and the danger I’d been through. It was my own fault—I bragged about my dealings with dark magicks, flattered by the attention it got me. Especially from you, John. You reminded me so much of him, you see.”

“Randall, you mean?” asked John.

Giles nodded, wishing he had a stiff drink to help him along. “I was well into witchcraft when I first met him. He was a sprite of a boy, dropped out of school and living on the streets. He took a shine to me, started tagging along everywhere I went until I eventually had to take him in. At first it was just the two of us—the rest of the world didn’t exist as far as we were concerned. After a while, though, I began to get restless, missing the magicks. He wouldn’t have anything to do with my friends, though; he said all that magick stuff made him twitchy. But I kept pushing him, and he trusted me enough that I eventually won him over.

“I was the one who tattooed the mark of Eyghon on his forearm. I was the one who held his hand and promised him it would be all right. But I was wrong. Randall wasn’t strong enough to dislodge the demon. It consumed him—devoured his soul—and Eyghon, unfettered, rampaged through London, using Randall’s body to obliterate everything in its path. The only way to stop it was to destroy the vessel he’d taken over.

“None of the others would do it. Ethan, Deirdre…they all would have been quite happy to let Eyghon loose on the world. So in the end, I was the one who had to do it. I had to watch Randall’s face contort with pain as I ran a sword through his body, dispelling the demon inside him.”

John had no idea what to say. How did one console a man whose grief was so old and deep-seated as this? A grief that was riddled through with guilt, not only over Randall’s death, but also for the untimely end of his relationship with John—one that had held so much promise. If only I hadn’t begged him to teach me magicks, thought John. If only Rupert had told me then what he’d told me now. If things had only been different… But it was pointless dwelling on the past. What mattered was to make the best of what they had now.

John reached over and took Giles’ hand in his, gently stroking his thumb over the soft webbing between the other man’s thumb and forefinger. It was a small gesture, perhaps, but it spoke volumes:

Yes, I forgive you.

No, I don’t think any less of you.

Yes, after all these years I still feel something for you.

Giles cleared his throat before lifting his emerald eyes to meet John’s. “Thank-you,” was all he said, but in those two words, he, too, had expressed so much more.

Chapter Text

It was a painful decision to make, as much for Giles as for John. They’d spent the rest of the morning debating whether or not to go through with it, but they both knew John couldn’t let Asmoth go. And it seemed unlikely that Asmoth would simply give up and leave John alone. So, after a hasty lunch of sandwiches and soup, Giles called Buffy to let her know what they’d decided. She promised to pass the word on to the others, and preparations would begin to do the invocation spell the following night.

That afternoon was spent going over possible possession demons they could summon. This time the requirements were considerably higher than they had been all those years ago when Ethan was in charge. It was important that the demon take full possession of John’s body during his unconsciousness—if any remnant of John remained, their entire plan would fall apart. It was equally important that they’d be able to completely rid him of the demon once they no longer needed it. That meant finding a demon like Eyghon, who would leap into a new host if John’s life were threatened.

Eventually they settled on a demon called Glax who fit the bill to a tee and was reportedly one of the tamer specimens up for grabs. Plus, as John pointed out, it didn’t hurt that the demon’s spiral-sun tattoo was kind of cool.

“We have a couple more decisions to make,” said Giles, a serious expression on his face. “Do we do the tattoos ourselves or get them done professionally? I believe I have a nice, rusty needle somewhere around here…” he trailed off and looked about as if a rusty old needle might suddenly appear on the table or under the sofa.

“No offense, Rupert, but I think I’d prefer the seedy backroom of a tattoo parlour and an unqualified tattoo artist named ‘Tank’.”

“Suit yourself,” answered Giles, “but that eliminates some of the more interesting places we could put the tattoos.”

“Not necessarily,” said John with a twinkle in his eyes. “I’m sure ‘Tank’ has done tattoos on every conceivable part of the body. I doubt we’d be able to shock him.”

Giles smiled wickedly back at him. “It would just be between the two of us,” he said, as if trying to convince himself more than John.

“And ‘Tank’,” John reminded him. “Don’t forget about ‘Tank’.”

“Yes—and Tank.”

Many hours later, Giles and John staggered out of The Pit Bull, having consumed more than their fair share of pints. After they’d got their tattoos it seemed like too much of a downer to go back to Giles’ place and sit around waiting to see if Asmoth showed up. So they opted on a boisterous night on the town—just the two of them—for old time’s sake.

Giles knew it was time to head home when he got so drunk he forgot about the tattoo and made the mistake of sitting down. John laughed so hard he spilled his beer, for which Giles got his revenge, slapping him on the ass and making him yelp in pain. Not that it dampened their spirits any.

Laughing and tripping over their feet, they stumbled past Giles’ flashy new red convertible and flagged down a taxi. The driver was either too professional or too used to Sunnydale weirdness to question why his two drunken passengers chose to lie face down in the backseat instead of sitting up like normal people. He was also too shrewd a businessman to refuse the ridiculously generous tip.

They stumbled into Giles’ apartment, giggling like school children and blindly groping along the wall to find the light switch. But the sight that met their eyes when the light flicked on was enough to sober them instantly. On every wall, on every flat surface, one word was deeply etched over and over. “Next”.

“Looks like I had a visitor while we were out,” Giles remarked with a dry laugh. “Obviously never heard of an answer phone.”

“Rupert, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault,” said John, not finding it in the least bit funny.

Giles shrugged off the apology. “Please—this is nothing. You should see what happened to my last workplace.”

John picked his way through the wreckage of shredded books and cushions and made a futile attempt to restore order. He quickly ran out of steam when he realised his efforts were getting him nowhere, and he turned to find Giles watching patiently, an indulgent smile on his face.

“I should at least try and clean up,” said John.

“Leave it,” said Giles. “Tomorrow we’ll have an army of young people here to help us clean this mess. It’s late, I’m drunk, and I just want to go to sleep.”

Neither of them said anything when John followed him up to the bedroom. Thankfully Asmoth had confined his tantrum to the main floor and left the loft untouched, so they didn’t have to wade through debris to get to the bed. When they got there, they were both so exhausted that they collapsed onto the bed, not bothering to change out of their clothes.

Their matching tattoos made finding a comfortable sleeping position difficult, but eventually they ended up spooning, keeping their newly marked butt-cheeks pointing skyward. When Giles wrapped his arm around him, john didn’t object—it was the first time since he’d encountered Asmoth that he was able to drift effortlessly off to sleep.

Giles was a little surprised they’d managed to sleep through the entire night without incident. The only demons he had to face were the hangover that greeted him when he cracked his eyes open and the awkwardness of waking up with John still wrapped in his arms, peacefully sleeping.

Giles propped himself up on his elbow and watched the younger man sleep. He was fascinated by his eyelashes, which were just long enough to reach the curve of his cheek. And then there was the delicate curl of his upper lip… Giles sat up, shaking his head to rid himself of those thoughts. Too much time had passed for both of them for him to even consider thinking those thoughts.

The movement jerked John awake, and in his shocked and sleepy state, he blurted out something about goldfish wearing moustaches.

Giles snickered, as much at the spectacular bed head John was sporting as at the nonsensical words coming out of his mouth.

“Wh-what? What is it? What happened?” John sputtered as consciousness seeped belatedly into his brain. “Why are you laughing?”

“If you could see what I see, you wouldn’t have to ask,” said Giles.

John’s hands followed Giles’ line of vision to his flattened and dishevelled mop of curls. “It’s the hair, isn’t it?” he said, answering Giles’ smile with a grimace. “Why d’you think I used to shave my head when I was a kid?”

Giles lay back down, fighting the urge to let his own hands run through John’s curls. “I like the hair. It has attitude. And it’s…I don’t know…sort of sweet.”

Their first conversation of the day was cut short by the sound of the front door opening, followed almost immediately by the sound of frantic footsteps pounding up the stairs.

“Giles! Are you okay? What happened?” Buffy shouted as she raced up the stairs. Any other questions she may have had promptly flew out the window when she burst into the loft to see John in bed with her watcher.

John looked to Giles, a mild panic in his eyes. But Giles didn’t so much as flinch. It wasn’t like she’d caught them doing anything, he reasoned. There really was nothing to be embarrassed about. With a flourish, Giles threw back the covers, and fearing the worst, Buffy recoiled before she realized they were both fully dressed and presentable.

“I’m afraid there wasn’t much left of my sofa for John to sleep on,” Giles said by way of explanation.

“Right,” said Buffy. “Of course.” She’d seen John’s look, though, and couldn’t help feeling there was more to it than he was letting on. But that line of thought forked off into dark and twisting territories that she wasn’t willing to explore, especially not first thing in the morning.

“So what happened last night?” she asked. “And why didn’t you call me?”

“We weren’t here when it happened,” said Giles, plucking his glasses off the bedside table and putting them on. “John and I went out last night on an…errand, and we didn’t get in ‘til quite late. By then the damage was done and Asmoth was nowhere to be found. I didn’t see the point of alarming you over nothing.”

“Nothing? Giles, have you seen your apartment?”

“Not at great length, no,” he admitted. “But the point is, no one was hurt.”

Buffy looked at him askance; “If no one got hurt, then why were you bleeding?” she asked, pointing to the dark red stains on the front of his rumpled shirt.

Giles looked down and noticed the stains for the first time. He knew where they’d come from, or course, and a quick glance at John’s back proved his theory right—he’d once again soaked through his bandages. But he couldn’t very well tell Buffy that he’d got the stains from snuggling with John all night.

“What, this?” he asked innocently. “It’s nothing. It’s not even my blood.”

“Do I even want to know how it got there?” asked Buffy.

“Probably not,” Giles replied with a tight-lipped smile on his face. “Now, if you’ll give us a minute, we’ll get ready and meet you downstairs.”

With one last, uncertain glace at her watcher, Buffy turned and trotted off down the stairs.

It had taken a good part of the day to clean up the mess Asmoth had made of Giles’ apartment, mostly due to the fact that a large portion of his workforce had abandoned him to go to classes. But he, John, Xander and (occasionally) Anya, worked solidly to get the place in order once more. There were still gouges in the walls and woodwork that were going to require Xander’s newfound skills in carpentry, and Xander was honoured that Giles had offered him the job.

Willow and Tara were the first to arrive after their classes, and Giles sent them right back out again to get the supplies they needed for the spell. Giles gave Willow the key to his store to do a little pre-grand-opening shopping, and the grin on her face told him that she didn’t consider the request much of a chore.

Buffy showed up shortly afterwards, having dropped Dawn off at home first. She scanned the room appraisingly. “Not bad,” she said approvingly. “I mean aside from the lack of chair cushions and the Manson Family wall treatments.”

“Glad we passed inspection,” Xander remarked. He and Anya were sitting on the cushion-less sofa, but they both looked too tired to move somewhere more comfortable.

“So, are we all ready to take on the latest Big Bad?” Buffy asked with annoying peppiness.

“Yes, about that…” said Giles, leading her by the arm away from Xander and Anya. In a hushed voice he continued: “Buffy, when the time comes, I’d prefer it if the others weren’t here.”

“The latest Big really got you wigged, huh?” she asked.

“It’s not that,” he said. “It’s the spell. I’d…I’d just rather it was me and John for that.”

He didn’t explain why. He didn’t have to; she could see it in his eyes. It was clear that this was very hard for him, and she had no desire to make things even more difficult by giving him a tough time. Her peppiness dissolved instantly and she was all business.

“Don’t worry, Giles, I’ll take care of it,” she said, and trooped off to dismiss the troops.

From the looks on their faces Anya and Xander didn’t need much convincing. With a merry wave farewell from Anya and a ‘good luck and stuff’ from Xander, they were gone. The real test, however, would be Willow and Tara, who would both be eager to help and might not understand why he didn’t want them to.

He was right, of course. Willow was so excited at the prospect of taking part in the spell that when she was told she couldn’t help out, anger and hurt flashed through her large hazel eyes.

Giles placed his hands firmly on her shoulders and looked her straight in the eye. “This is the sort of magick you can’t turn back from, Willow,” he explained. “It taints you—believe me, I’ve been there, and if I could turn back the clock and take it all back, I would. John and I have no choice in this, but I cannot allow you to delve into this kind of magick for my sake. It’s far too dangerous.”

Willow pouted and looked as if she wanted to protest—he was underestimating her power, just like he always did, and it infuriated her—but there was something in Giles’ eyes that warned her this was not the time to argue. Plus, Tara looked spooked at the mention of dark magicks, and she didn’t want to scare her away. She decided to let it go, for Tara’s sake.

With sunset approaching and all the casual onlookers gone, Giles and John reluctantly prepared for the invocation spell.

Buffy insisted on standing by, in case Asmoth decided to crash the party before they were ready for him. Giles objected at first, but she promised to be quiet and to stay out of the way. To his utter amazement, she kept her promise, and after a while he forgot she was even there.

The furniture had been pushed against the walls, leaving the living room floor bare. Giles had drawn a chalk circle in the clearing and lit the candles, placing them according to the spell’s instructions. In the centre of the circle sat John, looking apprehensive and determined at the same time. Only when Giles brought out the chains and shackles did his expression elevate to one of outright fear.

“Are those really necessary?” asked John.

“Of course not,” said Giles. “We could always forgo the restraints, turn you into a demon and sit back whilst you devour us in a fit of demonic rage.”

“All right, no need to get all snippy,” said John.

“Sorry, it’s just…”

“I know,” said John, freeing his friend from any further explanation. “Let’s just get it over with, shall we?”

Giles nodded grimly and stepped inside the chalk circle, the chains in his hands. He bound John’s feet and hands together so he wouldn’t be able to stand, then he stepped out of the circle again to get his bag. He dug around in it, pushing aside crosses and stakes to find the wooden box at the bottom. He discarded the bag and opened the little box with a squeak of its rusty hinges. He stared at the empty syringe and the small vial of drugs—a potent mixture he and Ethan had formulated years ago—and willed himself to do the unthinkable. With practiced skill, Giles filled the syringe, tapped it, and then depressed the plunger until he was sure no air bubbles remained.

John looked up at him, his eyes wild with fear. His whole body trembled as the syringe drew nearer, and he flinched as the cold metal needle touched the skin on his forearm.

Giles hesitated. He couldn’t bear sending John off to sleep, possible never to wake up again, without offering whatever comfort he could. He bent down, bringing his head down to John’s to whisper in his ear.

“I won’t let anything happen to you, John. I promise.” And they were so close it almost happened by accident. Giles’ lips brushed gently over John’s—more a remembrance of a kiss that a kiss itself. He hovered there a while—a breath apart—stretching the moment out as long as he dared.

John didn’t even feel the needle pierce his skin. The only thing he was aware of was Giles’ eyes locked on his and the way everything was fading into darkness.

Chapter Text

Something in the shadows shifted and Giles swung around defensively. Buffy appeared from the darkness, her hands held out before her in a gesture of surrender.

“Just me,” she said. She edged closer and glanced down at Giles’ friend lying unconscious and bound in the centre of the circle. “Everything going okay so far?” she asked.

Giles cleared his throat, his eyes shifting away from her toward John. He’d completely forgotten she was there, and now he was just grateful to her for not mentioning what she must have just witnessed.

“Yes. All I need to do now is recite the invocation,” he said.

Buffy stood by him and patted his shoulder. “He’ll be fine, Giles. This Asmoth is about to get the stuffing kicked out of him.”

“And Spike…?” asked Giles.

“You want me to beat the crap out of Spike? ‘Cause I’m all good with that.”

“You know what I mean.”

“He’s holed up at Xander’s place with everyone else, waiting for the call.”

“Does he know why?”

“All I told him was that if he played nice we’d give him a chance to go up against the new demon in town. He seemed happy with that.”

“Yes,” Giles agreed. “It’s probably best if he doesn’t know everything.” There was an awkward moment as they both came to the realization that they were stalling.

“Do you want me to…I don’t know, hold a candle or something?” asked Buffy.

Giles smiled at her. “Thank-you, but that won’t be necessary,” he said. “In fact, it would probably be safer for everyone if you got as far back as possible for this.”

Buffy backed away until she was once again lost in the shadows. “Good enough?” she asked.

“Yes…yes, that’s fine,” he muttered. The spell book lay open on the dinner table and Giles grabbed it, quickly skimming through the invocation before stepping back into the circle. He frowned a bit at the unusual wording, but figured it was just one of those languages that didn’t translate well into English. One last check to make sure everything was in order, and then he adjusted his glasses and began the recitation.

“I invoke thee, Glax the Ungoodly. Here are legs and arms and torso and worthy brow to house thee. Take them, and visit upon us the magnificence of your ungoodly presence.”

From her dark corner, Buffy’s nose wrinkled up in distaste. She could only hope the demon they’d summoned wasn’t as pathetic as the spell made him out to be. In any case, they were about to find out; she felt a vibration in the air, which was quickly followed by an odd humming sound. Inside the chalk circle the air was shimmering as if it had become super-heated. She heard Giles gasp and saw him stagger back a few steps. Curiosity brought her out of the shadows to get a closer look.

John’s body was writhing, bucking on the floor, straining against the shackles. It was as if his skin was charring—cracking and curling up at the edges. His eyes had turned a deep, jaundiced yellow and he began bellowing in a language that Buffy knew wasn’t human in origin.

“So…?” asked Buffy uncertainly.

Giles turned to look at her and his eyes went wide. He shouted: “Buffy! Behind you!”

Buffy spun on her heel, already kicking out at Asmoth, having sensed the demon behind her. The tall, wraith-like creature caught her foot easily in his clawed hands and twisted her so she landed hard on her back.

She rolled away as his foot came down. It was close enough that she felt the breeze against her ear. She was on her feet in a heartbeat and she held out her hand, instinctively aware that Giles had thrown her a weapon. It landed, unseen, in her hand, and in a smooth arc she heaved the weapon towards the centre of Asmoth’s body, hoping it was a blade and not a bludgeon he’d tossed her. Thankfully, Giles had been on the same wavelength as her—he’d thrown her a weighty double-edged sword. The heavy blade ripped through the ancient demon, nearly severing his body in two.

The shrieks that emanated from Asmoth’s large, gaping mouth were so high-pitched and deafening that Buffy, Giles and the newly-summoned Glax all collapsed to the ground, shielding their ears as best they could. The screeches slowly became deep, booming roars as Asmoth realized he’d been tricked. With a sickening lurch, he threw himself at Buffy, but only the top half of his body obeyed. He still managed to dig his claws into her leg, though, and he started pulling her towards him.

“Buffy—finish it!” Giles called out, finally understanding that Asmoth was trying to save himself by making her his next power source.

Buffy didn’t need to be told twice. Actually, she really didn’t need to be told the first time. Her weapon was already poised, and before the words were out of her watcher’s mouth, the sword plummeted down into the demon’s skull, embedding itself firmly between his eerie, vacant eyes.

The howling roars ceased abruptly. Buffy yanked the sword out of Asmoth’s skull and he toppled to the floor with a thud. As she and Giles watched, the demon’s body shrank and dissolved, as if his flesh was being sucked back into the void he’d come from. Within seconds there was no trace of him.

“Handy,” said Buffy. “Don’t even need to vacuum. You gotta love the ones that clean up after themselves.”

“Are you alright?” asked Giles.

Buffy looked confused for a second, and then remembered that Asmoth had clawed into her leg and she should be in a lot of pain right now. But she wasn’t. She looked down at where her leather pants had been ripped and found only faint red marks where the demon’s claws had torn her flesh. Odd.

“I’m fine, see? Don’t even need a Band-Aid,” she said.

“You’re sure you’re not hurt?” asked Giles in disbelief.

“Yep. Although he did ruin my favourite pants.”

The sound of rattling chains behind them reminded them that their job was only half finished.

Giles turned around to see how John was doing and a weighty, mottled fist slammed into the side of his head, knocking him to the floor. Buffy dodged out of the way as Glax made to grab her. The chains dangled loosely off his wrists, no longer attached to the leg shackles.

“Strong demon you picked, there, Giles,” she remarked as Glax shuffled after her, his legs still caught up in the chains.

Giles ignored her and lunged for the phone, quickly keying in Xander’s number. “Xander, get Spike over here… Yes, now!” he barked and dropped the receiver.

By now Buffy and Glax were locked in a deadly struggle. Giles watched anxiously from the sidelines, wincing at every grunt and moan.

“Try not to hurt him, Buffy,” he said.

“And what am I, chopped liver?” she answered between blows. “And don’t blame me—you’re the one who bought the chains. Where’d you get them, ‘Chains ‘R Us’? Was K-Mart having a two-for-one sale?”

“Please, Buffy,” Giles said and jumped out of the way as she bowled Glax over, tumbling with him until she ended up on top, pinning him to the floor.

“You could stop with the back-seat slaying and give me a hand,” she said. “I might be strong, but I’m not that heavy. If you want your friend to remain damage free, I suggest you get your butt over here and take a seat.”

“Yes, of course,” said Giles. He hesitated only briefly before joining her on top of his be-demoned friend.

Glax snarled menacingly at the two humans straddling him and let loose what was most likely a string of obscenities in his native tongue. Then he started bucking like mad. It took every ounce of energy they had to contain him.

After several long and bruising minutes, the front door at last burst open, and Xander, Spike and Willow rushed in.

“Spike! Am I ever glad to see you,” said Giles. Then, under his breath he added: “I cannot believe I just said that.”

Spike smirked and slowly circled the struggling trio on the floor. “Nice of you to save me a piece of the action,” he said. “Now, if you’ll get off him, I’ll take care of him for you.”

“Thanks, Spike,” said Buffy, “but this one’s mine.” Ignoring Giles’ worried hiss, Buffy clamped her hands hard around Glax’s throat and squeezed.

“You might have told me you had it under control,” said Spike. “I’ve got better things to do than hang around all day with your lackeys, you know.” He was all ready to turn on his booted heel and sweep gracefully out of the apartment when he was overcome by a strange sensation.

Buffy’s hands loosened their grip as the demon withdrew and John’s features returned to normal. Her attention turned to Spike, whose skin was glowing a hot yellow, cracking and curling like John’s had done earlier. But unlike John, Spike seemed to be enjoying it. His face was a picture of euphoric bliss.

“Yes…oh God, yes!” he shouted, and he vamped out—or at least he tried to. His body was visibly vibrating as Glax fought Spike’s resident demon for control. Everyone in the room took a step back as he started flailing about. For a moment it looked as if Glax might win the battle, but Spike finally bested the invading demon.

Spike stood bent over at the waist, his hands on his knees, trying to get his energy back in the aftermath of his internal tug-of-war. “That was…that was…Did you see that?” he said, a big, boyish grin spreading across his face.

“It was riveting, Spike. You had us riveted. You should think about turning it into a one man show and taking it on tour,” said Xander. “Anywhere but here.”

“Ha, bloody, ha. Joke all you want, but that was…” Spike stopped and looked perplexed. “What exactly was that?”

“That was Glax,” answered Giles. “And I owe you a debt of gratitude for dispensing of him.”

“I’ll remember you said that,” said Spike.

“I have no doubt you will.” Giles’ eyes were drawn once more to John, who was sprawled unconscious on the floor where Glax had left him. Aside from the red welts on his throat, he looked like his old self again. Giles retrieved the little box with the syringe and brought it over to his old friend, kneeling on the floor by his side. He looked up to find he had an audience and caught Buffy’s eyes.

She understood at once and gave him a tiny nod. “Okay, everyone. Vamoose. Show’s over; time to go home.”

“But—we just got here,” said Willow. “Don’t we get to take part in the post-slayage pizza extravaganza?”

“Not this time,” said Buffy, herding the group through Giles’ front door. Willow craned her neck as she was all but shoved out the door, trying to figure out what was so special this time. Then, just as the door was closing, she got that spark in her eyes and she grinned knowingly.

Alone with John once more, Giles opened the little wooden box and pulled out the syringe. He had to concentrate to control the shaking of his hands. Was it relief? Or maybe the remnants of an old, deep-rooted guilt? What did it matter? John was alive—this time no one got hurt. This time they all walked away in one piece.

And yet he could still taste the buzzing rush of the dark magicks like ozone hanging in the air around him, filling his lungs, seeping into his veins. The fact that part of him relished the feeling frightened him.

He slowly filled the syringe with the antidote to the first injection, carefully preparing it. He placed the needle against John’s forearm…and paused.

He remembered the kiss…no, not even a kiss, really…that they’d shared less than an hour before. Now that it was all over, that kiss seemed like a mistake. Giles couldn’t help feeling he’d taken advantage of John’s moment of fear, and he wondered how he would feel once he woke up.

Then he thought how easy it would be to do a quick and painless memory spell. John was unconscious—he’d never know. And better yet, when he woke up, he would have completely forgotten their little…indiscretion. But then he’d also have to alter Buffy’s memory—and he was pretty sure Willow knew, too. She’d have to be dealt with.

That thought—dark and ominous in its suggestions—shocked him out of his magical stupor. One slip. That’s all it would take to send him back down into the realm of Chaos where he had nearly lost himself so long ago.

Before he could change his mind, Giles pressed the needle into John’s arm and slowly depressed the plunger. It took a minute for the serum to take effect, but soon John’s eyes fluttered open.

And when he saw Giles he smiled. Not an embarrassed half-smile, but a full-fledged, hundred-watt toothy grin.

“We did it?” he asked.

“We did,” Giles confirmed. “Do you remember any of it?”

John stretched and sat up. “No. The last thing I remember…” and his eyes lit upon Giles for a second then flashed away, his cheeks pinking slightly at the memory. His smile remained, though, much to Giles’ relief.

“Well…obviously there’s no problem with your memory,” said Giles. “How do you feel?” Giles offered him a hand up, and John tested his rubbery legs like he’d just got off a boat.

“I’ve got a bit of a sore throat,” John replied.

“I can imagine,” said Giles with a dry laugh. “Be thankful that’s all you’ve got. Glax turned out to be more of a handful than we’d anticipated.”

John’s hand went to his bruised throat, and he noticed the busted chains still dangling off his wrists. He looked at Giles in alarm, only now truly comprehending the danger in which he’d put Giles and his friends.

“Don’t worry,” Giles said before John could say anything. “We’re all fine. No harm done—not even to Spike, sadly,” he added.

“It’s really over, then?” asked John doubtfully. “Asmoth is gone?”

“Oh, he’s gone, alright—and he didn’t go quietly, either. But if you want further proof, we can take a look at your scars.”

John agreed and after the shackles were removed, he followed Giles into the bathroom. He lifted his shirt and turned so he could look at his back in the mirror.

“Ready?” asked Giles. John nodded, and watched in anticipation as Giles peeled off the bandages. To his amazement, the wounds that had plagued him for four long years had healed almost completely, leaving only thin, pale marks as a reminder. John let out a sigh of relief and he felt the tension go out of his neck and shoulders for the first time in years.

They adjourned to the living room and took a seat on the still-cushionless sofa, eying the mess wearily. It always seemed like such a let-down having to deal with the aftermath, and neither of them had the energy or the inclination to worry about it for the time being.

“So…what happens now?” asked John after a long, companionable silence.

Giles shrugged. “Life goes on, I suppose. Tomorrow we’ll set things straight—try and find some way to send you home.”

John hesitated before making the suggestion they were both contemplating: “I could stay here…with you.”

Giles gave his old friend a warm, sad smile. “If only it were that simple,” he said. “I wish you could stay, John. I honestly do. But you have a home, and there are people there who care about you, and they need you…”

“But you need me too. I could help you here. I know things—things about the future—that could help you. Like, in 2003, Sunnydale…”

“John, please—sometimes it’s better not to know,” said Giles. “I couldn’t do the job I do if I had to second-guess every decision for fear of how it might affect the future. It just wouldn’t work.”

John wanted to protest, but in his heart he knew Giles was right. They sat quietly for a while before he could manage to speak again: “Rupert…I-I don’t know how to begin to thank you for all you’ve done.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Giles. “I’m just glad we had the chance to meet again. You know…when you get back home, you should look me up.”

“Of course I will,” said John. “But it won’t be the same, will it? I mean, none of this would have happened for him, would it?” John had wanted to say so much more, but now that he had the chance, he found himself voiceless—muted by the strength of his emotions. All he could manage was a plaintively voiced, “Rupert…”

“I know,” Giles answered. He took John’s hand, and neither of them said a word as John followed him up the stairs to the loft. This time there would be no regrets.