Title: Sick 'Em, Ripper! 5/?
Author: Jacqui
Email: wily_one24@yahoo.com.au
Rating: At the moment, G.
Disclaimer: They're mine! They're all mine! Oh wait, no, this is the real world, isn't it? I don't own squat. 'Cept, maybe Anastasia's white dress and stone chalice.
Spoilers: First three seasons, then I take control. Things were different in my Buffy college universe.
Feedback: You would not believe how much I want it…
Comments: The Council is evil. Do we all agree? Good, then you're ready to read on…

Anastasia stood tall, her slender frame almost moving with the wind, her red hair billowed around her, flowing down her back. Her wrist was held forward by one of the men, the sleeve of the gown draping in folds underneath her arms. She breathed in, her green eyes watching silently, without fear. The other man brought the blade of the dagger across her flesh. She watched, fascinated, as the blood began to ooze.

* * * *

She closed the door firmly and quickly, leaning on it and trying to catch her breath. She couldn't breathe, no matter how hard her lungs struggled to take in air, none got through. She thought she was going to pass out. Buffy was vaguely aware of the bodies that were beginning to crowd around her. Her whole world seemed to be shrinking. She held out the bags to Willow.

"Here. Take them." Buffy shook her head from side to side. "I need… I have to…"

And then she was gone.

Warren watched her run up the stairs, her blasted dog hot on her heels, and his eyes narrowed. Turning to Alice, he raised his eye brows as is to confirm what he had suggested to her earlier. His answer was a glare from the older woman. Only Xander caught this interaction, silently wondering what it meant. He stored it away for future reference.

"Someone should go after her."

Anya looked at Willow, who nodded, giving her the bags.

"Maybe I should go." Fiona stepped forward.

There was a split second before Willow stepped forward too. They stood face to face. A feeling crackled in the air, something not quite reaching competition, but almost. Willow's eyes challenged Fiona to disagree.

"It's ok, Fiona, I'm her best friend."

"I think I can…"

"Fiona, I've got it."

Fiona stood there for a moment, but stepped back, ceding the point. Her skin bristled with the brush off. For the past week she had been trying to make her way into the group, be included in their little gang. It hadn't worked as well as she'd hoped. It ached a little, just a little.

In Buffy, she saw a good friend, someone she could learn from, talk to, understand and be understood. In Xander and Anya she saw good friends, almost an elder brother/sister thing. She wasn't so sure with Willow. The woman was incredibly protective and jealous of her little circle, it was almost as if Fiona had to battle with her, to earn her way in. She didn't like the combativeness. Willow was someone she'd love to get to know better, but couldn't find a way.

* * * *

The compound was lit up like a Christmas tree by the time he'd gotten back. He could see the scurry of people in the shadows, it reminded him of insects hidden in a garden. The idea unnerved him. Rupert just couldn't shake the feeling that he was walking back into the enemy's nest. He almost turned around.

Almost, but didn't. He wanted nothing more than to sink into his bed, in the dark, away from everybody and rethink the day's events. If he allowed himself to admit it, he wanted to think more about the American woman he'd seen, the eerie near-familiarity of her. And Annaliese. He could vaguely place her in his memory of Council members. Yet she seemed to know him.

It wasn't to be, however, he sound found out. His arrival seemed to herald a welcoming committee, one that wasn't entirely welcoming. Suddenly, he found himself surrounded, voices asking him questions, trying to lead him to someone he couldn't quite catch the name of. Someone had his right elbow cinched in their arms and was trying to pull him away.

Another hand came out of nowhere and took hold of his left arm, a voice loudly proclaiming that he must follow them. That was it. A flash of anger and confusion hit him forcefully and without thinking he twisted his body out of their reach, lashing out with his fists and his feet. Out of nowhere came skills that he hadn't known he had. Within seconds, he was free and there were several guards lying on the ground, looking up at him surprised, several more standing back, looking wary to approach him.

"I'm sorry." He mumbled, not quite sure what he was sorry for.

"Uh… Mister Giles?" One guard managed to stutter. "Mister Travers would like to see you in his office."

"I…" Rupert took another look at the damage he had done and wondered why it had felt so natural. "Thank you."

* * * *

Buffy sank to the floor, her back against the wall, her knees pressed into her chest. She knew she couldn't breathe now, everything was growing small, distant, even her hands in front of her face seemed so far away. She gasped painfully, her whole body trembling. I can't do this, she muttered, feeling the hot sting of tears, I just can't do it anymore. She buried her head into her arms and sobbed.

She didn't hear the door open, didn't hear a slight intake of breath, or light footsteps inch near her, but she did feel the soft hand that laid itself on her shoulder. Buffy leaned into it, craving the touch.

"Buffy?" Willow's voice, soft and concerned. "What happened?"

"He didn't know me, Will, I saw him and he didn't know me!"

"Wait… him? Giles?" She didn't need a confirmation, Willow knew the only person that could have this effect on Buffy would be Giles. "Slow down, tell me what happened."

There was something very lonely in the way that Buffy leaned into Willow and let herself be comforted, her voice scratching out of her throat amid the sobs she tried to control. There was something even lonelier in the way that Willow needed to comfort her, needed to be the strong one.

* * * *

"I don't get it."

"No! You don't get it. That's just it."

Alice stared him down, her eyes were hard and they bore a little too deeply into his skull. Warren squirmed, suddenly feeling as if he were ten, being scolded for pulling his sister's pigtail.

"She's a liability, Alice, we can't risk it."

"Can't risk it?" She hissed the words at him, gesturing to keep the sound down. They sat in the small kitchen, keeping an eye on the door. "I'll tell you what you can't risk. That girl, that 'liability', is probably the one and only thing that can and will bring Fletcher back. Do you hear me? She stays. They all stay."

Warren hung his head in his hands, an air of hopelessness settling over him.

"I just can't see Rupert Giles fitting with a girl like Buffy."

Alice looked at him for a moment.

"No. Maybe not Rupert Giles, your fellow commando, part of your secret little militia. But he's more than that. The Giles that lives in Sunnydale would. My Fletcher does. G-man, bookman, watcher. It doesn't matter what you call him, he feels for that girl in there. More than you know. More than I know. She stays."

Alice stood up, effectively cutting off their conversation, her chin raised in righteous dignity.

"Now, if you don't mind. I have a cake to decorate."

* * * *

Quentin Travers paced in his office, wearing a path on the carpet. His face was red, his hands jerked as if he couldn't keep them still, or didn't particularly want to. Two men, both wearing suits, watched him nervously. The man on the right itched to throw out an arm and catch Quentin in mid pace, stop him from making them dizzy.

"Did you think it was easy? To remake a man's life?" Quentin's voice droned on and on. "All the records had to be changed, all the staff put on notice, he was my friend once! All this work and you let him leave the grounds?"

A small buzzing sounded.

"Mr. Travers?" A tinny voice sounded from the telephone on his desk. "Rupert Giles is ready to see you."

He looked at the two men.

"Go. But I'm going to want to talk to you again. Do you hear me?"

They nodded and turned to leave. Quentin missed the withering look they gave each other, or the faces they made as they went through the door. He just didn't pay that much attention. He was focused, instead, on the man waiting to enter his office.

Rupert Giles. He hadn't lied. Once upon a time they had been friends. Companions in a harsh and demanding class of future watchers. He could remember them as teens, young boys thrust into a world neither of them had been ready for. He could remember the beginning of Rupert's rebellion, the downward spiral, the break neck urgency which the council had chased after him.

All that fuss, showered upon the boy who hadn't wanted it. The boy who had had the natural talent. Rupert had won all the battles, lorded over the training matches, ran circles around them all when it came to researching the demons. And he never once let it go to his head.

They'd saved him, the watchers. The almighty council, they'd kept him hidden, their own secret weapon, honing him until he was ready to be leashed onto the world. None of them had known, none of them had ever guessed that it would be a girl from California, the one who had slipped through their cracks. He could remember the last letter of correspondence that they had ever received from Merrick.

He'd known. The moment he'd met Buffy, Merrick had known she was special.

How could he have missed it? Travers didn't think anybody could meet Buffy and not realize that she was different. He'd seen it himself. The first time that he had, ostensibly, met Buffy, had not been the first time that he'd seen her. He'd watched from a distance, silently eating himself up with jealousy, knowing that he would never be awarded a slayer.

It was amusing to think of it now, the thread of hope he'd clung to, the small spark that Buffy would yield to him the way she had with Rupert. They'd had such a natural affinity for each other that Quentin, assuming watcher authority, had expected it for himself. He could laugh as he remembered the way he'd pushed his way in, bumbling, taking away her mentor, ensuring her eternal hatred and mistrust.

"Rupert." He gestured for the man to sit down. "There's something I need to tell you."

Rupert smiled at him. It made Quentin shiver slightly, he'd seen that smile before. It wasn't a friendly one.

"I would say so, Quentin, something is happening here and I get the feeling I'm right in the middle of it."

Quentin made a foppish gesture with his wrist.

"Don't be so melodramatic, Rupert. The whole council is on alert. It seems the latest slayer, Fiona, has mounted an assault on the council. She has friends, we're looking into who they might be. She has power, you realize, and this is a serious matter."

Rupert thought for a minute, taking it in. It would certainly make sense. Relaxing into the chair, he shook his head.

"I don't know, Quentin. I've been feeling awfully strange lately. I think I'm coming down with something."

He couldn't believe his luck. Quentin had to stop himself from crowing right then and there.

"You do seem a little pale, Rupert, here," He lifted a decanter. "want a drink?"

The glass sparkled in the light from a lamp, momentarily catching Rupert's attention. He watched the light play in the ridges of the pattern, the amber liquid swirling behind it. It reminded him of something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"I better not." He made a half hearted grin. "I think I'm getting old."

"Fiddlesticks." Quentin poured the glass anyway and handed it over. Rupert took it, despite his better judgement.

* * * *

He bought the chalice to his lips, his nostrils picking up the spicy scent before it even touched his tongue. He had to stop himself from gagging. Green eyes bored into his and he looked at Anastasia, saw her sitting there unmoving, a large red stain on the white gown where she let her wrist lay. She watched him, took in every movement. The intensity of her gaze unnerved him. Everything about her unnerved him. He held the chalice out to her.

* * * *

The door opened softly, emitting two quiet figures. Buffy walked down the steps first. She seemed smaller, something intangible within her had shrunk or melted, as if her center was drawing the rest of her in. She was tight and tense and took her steps carefully. Willow, taking care, stepped behind her, her eyes were full of concern, never taking themselves off Buffy.

Watching them, Fiona felt a sliver of her resentment dislodge itself. Two friends, they were obviously so close, had spent so much time together, why shouldn't they turn to each other? Why shouldn't they find solace in each others' knowledge of themselves? How foolish was she to assume that she could comfort Buffy where Willow could not?

As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Willow reached out to put her hand on Buffy's. Before she meant to, Buffy pulled her hand away, taking them both by surprise. Buffy's eyes took on a glassy shine and she smiled widely, raising her voice to the room. Willow pulled her mouth out of its frown and clutched her hand to her chest. Fiona took a moment to puzzle this.

"Hey! What's going on?" Buffy clapped her hands together. "I had it on good authority that there was gonna be dessert when I got back!"

"Uh, yeah." Xander scrambled up from his position on the floor, sitting next to the coffee table where he'd been painting Anya's toe nails. His eyes screamed their concern. "Alice is just getting it ready now."

He placed a hand on her shoulder, his head bowed in the unspoken question. Buffy lay her hand over his, smiling sadly in reassurance. Xander nodded and, though he smiled back, he felt a sharp slice of worry. She wasn't fine, she wasn't at all okay. He knew. He just knew.

They'd always had this, some tenuous connection. Maybe he was overstating it, but he'd always felt it. In the hardest times, they'd both been able to let go of all the bullshit and just be honest with each other. Sometimes it was just a look, or a caress, others it was a full blown conversation, but they hadn't held back.

She was holding something back now.

Maybe it wasn't as sudden as all that, but he was noticing it now. He'd been on the road for a long time, he and Anya, making Sunnydale one of their quick stops on the map. Sure, they'd spend more time there, more often than anywhere else, touching base regularly. But a deep connection had been lost, too. A sadness hit him at the thought that they were all drifting apart.

As if on cue, the swinging door that joined the kitchen and the lounge room swung open. Alice gestured them all in, cooing like a mother hen. There was a directness in her eyes, though, when she looked at Buffy, looked into Buffy, trying to see something that wasn't being told.

The cake sat on a plate, Buffy was thankful to note that Alice had managed to disguise the damage that had been done on the way home. It looked only slightly lopsided and lumpy, with the icing dripping invitingly off the edges, a trail of sugar flowers in one corner, a few mismatched birthday candles of yellow and pink.

Fiona had never accused herself of being totally unaware of her surroundings, in fact, she had taken a fair bit of pride in being fairly astute. This was one time, however, that she was surprised, floored by others' actions. She had sense something in the air, some tension that threaded the night, but she had credited the situation.

She had not thought that anyone particularly remembered and why should they? It's not like she was in their clique, or had made sure they'd taken notice of the occasion. In fact, she had been hoping to let it slip by without notice, but she had to admit that she was almost pleased with the attention.

A few trinkets had been wrapped in crepe paper, nothing elaborate or expensive. But Fiona found herself standing there with tears in her eyes when everyone began singing Happy Birthday. She felt warm, she liked it.

* * * *

Rupert tossed in his sleep. His right hand clutched the quilt to his chest, his left hand spread out as far as it would go, twisting and untwisting in the sheet. He could feel the cloying quilt cover twisted around his legs, tighter and tighter, not letting him go, but he wasn't consciously aware of them.

At the present moment, his brain was trying desperately to grasp the images that danced just outside of his understanding. Books in a library he had never seen, fighting with skill he had never possessed, shouting with emotion he had never felt, laughing at a joke he had never heard, names thrown out at him that he didn't recognize.

He woke himself. Forcibly dragging himself into the waking world. He sat up, feeling the sweat run in trickles down his back and under his arms. Shaking his head, he tried to dislodge the uneasy taste the dreams had left in his brain.

There was an incredibly annoying itch at his temple, a persistent tapping as if someone, possibly woody the woodpecker, were trying to gain access. At first, he resisted it, vaguely aware of a lesson or two he hadn't paid any attention to, something about mind reading and altering.

Eventually, though, he could no longer stand it and consciously welcomed whatever wanted admittance. It was a voice, gently threading itself into his brain, feminine and carrying a soft German accent, he immediately recognized it as Annaliese.

"Giles," she whispered and he again felt the intimacy of his name, that tantalizing familiarity with which he knew her and yet didn't. "I can't talk to you openly, but listen to me. Your name is Giles and you are a Giles. You are right to be suspicious of those around you. Find your answers in the Slayers."

With a slight rush of air, a breeze within his skull, she left him. Rupert felt dazed, he wasn't sure exactly what had happened, but he knew that he had to act on it. Giles. The name, once again, seemed more familiar and comfortable than Rupert. His head felt almost empty now, as if she had left behind her a loneliness, a promise of comfort that he once had known.

He wondered who she truly was.

Then he drew on his pants and a sweater, grabbed his keys and made his way to the library. A darkened room, silent and seemingly gutted in the middle of the night. During the day, there weren't that many people in the library at any one time, a few here and there, but now their absence was palpable. Maybe it was the possibility of people disturbing him being taken away that he felt more. He wasn't sure.

The books were where they'd always been, where they'd been the night before. The same books he had looked at, read, puzzled over, mourned. He could taste his obstinate passion of the day before, the way the purpose of the Watchers' Council had been subverted and perverted, he could feel his fervent belief, but he couldn't reach it now. Strange. He was so sure of the thoughts, now he didn't know where they had come from, didn't know whether he believed them himself.

His eyes ran over the books he had picked up and read just hours ago, his eyes drinking in every familiar word and shape of the lettering inside them. Now, in the near darkness, he found himself drawn to the aging books of yesteryear, the watchers and slayers well before his time, centuries lying between the writing of the words and the reading of them.

The first book was barely more than a listing of names, the colorless names of girls who had barely made an impression in their own time, let alone this. This book was mainly for interest, an oddity, a hobby. These girls meant nothing to the larger scheme of things, only recently had anybody bothered to research the history of slayers before the advent of watchers. There were many inconsistencies and holes in the accounts. It was mere hearsay, everybody knew this, historical accounts could hardly be trusted.

No. More important were the books that began with the watchers. The first watchers. How every scholar within the council pored over the book that told the whole story, the romanticism, the bravery, the heroism. Every scholar dreamt of being the first watchers. There were two, back in those days. An intellectual and a warrior, chosen to aid the slayer.

* * * *

The stone felt cold between her palms, but Anastasia ignored it, bringing the chalice to her lips and letting the blood pass through, wash over her tongue and coat her teeth. Her eyes passed from one man to the other. The tutor, the teacher, the guide, smaller in stature than even herself, dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge and now to her and her future kin. The soldier, the fighter, the man, his battle armor laid to the side momentarily, eyes shining brightly, elevated with the nobility of what he was entering into, his loyalty pledged now to her and all. She smiled.

* * * *

It clicked. Sharply and almost painfully it clicked. Giles grabbed at the book, Anastasia's book. The one that started it all, held the secret of the watchers, the slayers. He was almost shaking now, fueled by a desire to know, an anger that burned within him. Almost ripping the pages as he desperately tried to find the right one.

He stared at the name, Johann Gleisse, one of the first watchers. His vision swam for a moment, shifting to create a line within his head and then he saw it, the name Gleisse over centuries of power and protecting the slayer, changing to Gieles and finally the current Giles.

Giles. Rupert Giles. He was part of a long line of powerful and influential watchers.

He closed his eyes and called to her, Annaliese, the one woman he could think of that possibly knew what was going on and could answer his questions. It wasn't until he felt the block, the strange power shutting him out at the other end, that he thought to wonder where he had picked up the ability to do that.

* * * *

There was a residue of celebration in the small, crowded apartment the next morning. Anya woke with a blurry head and groaned at the prospect of having to go undercover back into the Council. She didn't like it, it made her skin prickle with nerves. She'd spent the whole day before watching people out of the corner of her eye, waiting for someone to make their move, counting the seconds down until someone realized her demon history. They hadn't and the longer the day went, the worse the edginess got.

She didn't relish another day like that. It was possible the vein inside her temple might explode.

Trudging down the stairs, Anya headed for the kitchen, hoping against hope that part of Buffy's grocery list the night before had included grapefruit juice. At this point, she'd accept orange. Anything. She ran into Warren. His presence in the kitchen unnerved her just a little. She wondered if he ever slept. They'd worked together yesterday and perhaps she felt more comfortable with him than the others, but he still gave her the creeps.

He smiled a greeting, she smiled back.

"What time are we leaving today?"

"We're not." His words were simple and offered no explanation.

"Huh?" Oh brilliant, woman, she chided herself.

"The Council has gone on extreme alert. Any and all non essential personnel will not be allowed back into the complex today or until notified. And non essential…"

"Definitely means me." Anya visibly brightened. "I'm going back to bed."

She spun on her heels and practically skipped out of the kitchen. Warren almost smiled and probably would have, but the door caught on its backward swing and another person came through, before he could lift his head, he heard her voice.

"Well, she seems in a good mood."

"I just gave her the day off. Good morning."

Maybe it was in his eyes, but Buffy felt that the greeting was more for manner's sake than hers. She bristled slightly. Who the hell did this guy think he was? Buffy was no idiot, many people made that mistake, she knew, because she had many things working against her. She was a girl, she was blonde, she often spoke with a curious mixture of esoteric slang and valley girl speak. But people, having made that mistake once, usually didn't make it a second time.

She understood this guy's reluctance to take her seriously, especially in relation to Giles. She understood that he didn't quite trust her and she also understood that he thought she was a complete idiot that would screw the whole operation beyond repair. What she didn't understand, or perhaps more precisely, she didn't want to admit or acknowledge, was that this man was a part of Giles' history, as much as she was a part of his present, and that his problem with her had less to do with her as it did with Giles and he.

"You know who I am, right?"

She sat across him at the table and didn't take her eyes off his, waiting until he met her gaze. There was a slight raising of his eyebrows and she could sense that he didn't know where this was going. It didn't bother her, she preferred it.

"You're Buffy." He drew the sentence out slowly, as if talking to a child. He did it to annoy her, put her off guard. He hated not being the one in control of any situation. "You came to England a few days ago."

"Cut the crap, Warren." She gave up any pretense at politeness. This guy respected authority more than he did sweetness. "I'm the slayer and you know it."

"Yes." He narrowed his eyes.

"I've been the Slayer for longer than any other slayer in history. You know that, too."

"I do." His answers were automatic, they weren't necessary and they both knew it. She wasn't speaking in questions, she was making statements. She didn't need his validation. She wouldn't give him that power.

"So you also know that I've managed to not sabotage, destroy, hamper or impede any mission in any way, for my entire history." She paused, mostly for effect. "Exactly what makes you think I'm gonna pooch screw this one so badly?"

Warren nearly choked on his coffee.

To his credit, he recovered very quickly.

"Ah, well, yes. I mean, no." He paused, took the time to settle his thoughts and choose his words a little more carefully. "You're unpredictable. You're emotional. In my experience, that leads to chaos."

By the change in her eyes, he knew he'd made the right choice. Forthright and not holding back. He began to see the similarities in their approach and a slight trickle of respect began to seep into his brain.

"My emotions," Buffy held his gaze, not pausing the slightest in her resolve. "are what makes me strong. My unpredictability is what gives me, more often than not, the advantage. I care more about that man in there than I do about myself and nothing, I repeat nothing, is going to stop me from getting him out of there."

Warren's respect doubled. He'd underestimated her.

"Right now, you're in charge because you know the Council, you know the inner workings and the structure and the layouts of the whole place. You're at an advantage. You're valuable to the team. But know this, once we get in there, Fiona and I are the strongest in this group and we'll be needed. You try and stop me from getting to Giles and I will make sure you never get the chance to try again. We're supposed to be a team and only a team will succeed in this. If we're not working as a team, we're just not working."

She smiled and it unnerved him, just a little.

"You know, and all that other inspirational crap. I think you're getting me, Warren, are you working with us, or against us?"

"With." He took a deep breath. "Definitely with."

The nodded, small sharp nods that spoke plenty. Buffy stood up and walked to the kettle, filing it with water, she could almost taste the coffee as she began to spoon it into the mug. Warren watched her back, sensing a change in her. His mind threw an image at him, an ice block melting. She turned back and he could see the defenses had drained from her, took a little of the height from her shoulders.

"Did I do wrong?"

His eyebrow twitched in an effort not to blink. Such a dramatic change. He'd offered one nod of agreement and now she was asking for his support and validation. He began to sense what drew each of her friends into their strong loyalty to this woman.

"No. It was going to happen sooner or later." He gestured for her to sit again. "At least we know now what we're dealing with."

"He didn't know me." She whispered. "What was I supposed to do? I mean, would it have helped if I'd told him who I was? If I'd…"

"No." His answer was quick and forceful. There was no mistaking the urgency of it. "The council is very thorough, not only have they wiped his memory, they've most likely created memory blocks within his subconscious. If he starts to pry too deeply, or if someone tries to break past these blocks, then they're designed to protect the truth in any way they can."

"You mean…"

"Rupert has a built in self destruct button and you don't want to push it."

TBC...
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