This Man of Honor
By Duchess Stephanie

TITLE: "This Man of Honor"
AUTHOR: Duchess Stephanie
RATING: R (language, mention of sexual violence, situations)
SPOILERS: Post-prom, after all the "Graduation" stuff.  (at least as far as what I hypothesized after 'Grad' 1... of course, I have yet to see part 2)
ARCHIVE: To 'A Watcher's Love,' 'The New BG Relationshippers', and almost anywhere that's willing- just warn me, first!
SUMMARY: Graduation's over, Angel, Faith, Wesley, Cordelia and the Mayor are gone, but school hasn't started again, yet, and the summer's cruel to Buffy, who, against everyone's advice, takes on a demon that even she can't control.  Giles is the only one who can save her... but at what price?
NOTE: This is my first Buffyfic, an idea that I've bouncing in my head for months.  I warn you that I'm best recognized for my "X-Files" fiction, so any constructive criticism will be much appreciated. (Ofiles19@aol.com) I also realize that the subject matter of this story is difficult, and a touchy subject, which is partially why I gave it an 'R', since I tried to avoid being graphic whenever I was able. Maybe I'm a sick person for writing it, but no flames, please. Also, if you've read 'Speciously Wanting' (you'll know if you have once you read this story), forget you did. This story has some of the same ideas in it, but the two are as different as can be. Plus, that one was written in a rare mood. I don't want anyone disappointed.
DISCLAIMER: No one in this story is mine, they are all the property of the WB, Joss Whedon Mutant Enemy, or whoever else has a copyright to them.  (Except Reykjavere- who, surprisingly, you will not find in any 'demonology' text. He's all mine!)

*****

For Daniel....

The Bronze's back alley was not known for its ambiance, but, with a pendulous Gibbons moon and a wide arc of cold, glittering stars, it took on an almost alien atmosphere, not peaceful or beautiful by any definition, but captivating all the same. So thought Buffy Summers, swinging her boot-clad legs on the stack of milk crates she had absently propped herself on.  Not as eloquently, of course, because the mind of an eighteen-year-old, Chosen or not, never lingers on ethereal pleasures for terribly long at terrible depth.

It was somewhat solemn, though, suiting her pensive state of mind at the moment.  A cool breeze, uncharacteristic of a Californian June night, wafted down the alley, dusting gooseflesh over the arms left carelessly bare by her new, marigold-colored sheath.  The teeth of her twin butterfly clips were mildly annoying her scalp, and she considered whether taking them out was worth messing up her hair.  Idle mental monologue that whiled away the almost forty minutes she had stood out here, anticipating the arrival of some lumbering bloodsucker that she could smash into the pavement like a fat, dusty beetle, with aplomb.  The rush of adrenaline the former thought gave her was canceled by the insect-imagery.

"Ewww" she groaned softly, letting her voice disappear into the still night.

All right.  This was dull, dull, dull.  All her friends were inside, enjoying the decadence of the last summer of their childhood.  Swaying carelessly among dozens of similarly clueless kids, their eyes bright, and their thoughts free of anything heavier that the prospect of choosing what post-grad beach parties to make an appearance at. It sounded like fun.

She had purposely played martyr and left the door open, letting the music drift like a few vestiges of the normal existence into her lonely alley o'nada.  Softly, slowly, it tempted her, like it always did, like a hand drawing her against the tide.  One song seemed to melt like candle wax into the next, sinking her into a reverie, until one started, it's opening bars causing her lip to slide painfully beneath her teeth.

"Spend all your time waiting, for that second chance.. For the break that would make it OK.."

Buffy was a strong, strong girl, and not just in regard to her superhuman physical prowess.  But she felt like crying.  This couldn't be happening.  She had started going out again, purposely to get away.  To avoid any thoughts or incidents that would intensify her almost constant pain.  And nearly everything was a poignant reminder.

"In the arms of the Angel.. far away from here.."

How easy it was to make that secular, and relate it, like almost everything else, to her broken heart.  Angels.  Angel.  Her Angel, who, was so far away from her.  Inevitably, a tear slid, hot and salty, down her face.  She dabbed at it hastily, less out of fear for her mascara than of anyone seeing her weep.  Unacceptable.  She was the Chosen One, the Slayer, and Buffy knew firsthand what the consequences of her tears were to everyone she knew and loved.  Love.  The word was hard and angular, jagged in her thoughts.

"Damn it!" she cried angrily, her vision blurred with tears.  She stood crookedly, and forcefully kicked the stack of crates, sending them skittering across the pavement.  With a just-as-powerful blow, she whacked the door, almost sending it crashing into its frame, but a hand reached out quickly to stop it, exhaling an annoyed groan at the wrist-cracking momentum their hand had just put out of motion.

"Damn it!"  A masculine voice echoed.  Buffy whirled around, blotting her face hastily. Her Watcher, Giles, stepped out into the alley, flexing his wrist gingerly, and shaking his head.  Almost to himself, he muttered, "Should not have tried that one."

"Giles" she greeted him wryly.  "I'm so sorry.  I didn't mean to.."

"No, no, it's quite all right" he lied, visualizing the next week in an Ace bandage.  "I just heard some... commotion, and I thought I'd come out to check?"  He let his voice trail off like a question, as if the haphazard dairy cases weren't enough of an indication.  "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine" she exaggerated. Then, to change the subject: "What are you doing here?"  She dropped her voice to the level of mock scolding, though she wasn't really pulling it off.  "Partying with the teenagers again?  Giles, we talked about this!"

"Here?" he looked back at the noisy club like it had just occurred to him that he'd, forty seconds ago, been inside it.  "Yes, of course.  I suppose I came to check on you."  He lowered his voice tactfully.  "To see how you were taking things..  Buffy, you seem upset." She should have known better, to think that, after this long, Giles wouldn't see through her charade of flippant quipping  She dropped the droll banter.

"Yeah" she barely whispered, afraid that her trembling would give her away if she spoke up anymore.  "I guess you could say that."

"You haven't really been ... communicative, lately" he ventured. 

"Sometimes, you know, Buffy, it's best not to internalize so much... to talk to someone about how you feel."

She turned on him sharply.  "What's left to rehash, Giles?" she queried bitterly.  "Poor, sad girl, whose lover's gone away.  It's just so melodramatic I could.."

"Cry" he finished carefully.

"Yes" she admitted.  The painfully repressed tears were sliding, like mutiny, from her blinking eyes.  "Yeah, I guess."

He moved closer to her, and as she let him, he bowed his head in commiseration.  "It's terribly difficult, losing somebody that you love, Buffy" he said, sympathetically.  "But, Angel's not dead, after all.  And in the long run, you will thank him for having the strength to let go."

"But it's so hard."

"Yes."  He averted his eyes gracefully as she sniffed piteously.  "I imagine that it will stay that way for some time, Buffy, but you need to move on.  That's why he left, after all."

"I'm sorry" she murmured.  "I'm so sorry to do this to everyone.  But sometimes I just don't know.."

"Shh" he hushed her, coming closer.  "Stop that."

She looked up at her Watcher gratefully, not resisting as he embraced her suddenly, stepping forward suddenly like it was something he had to do before losing his nerve.  Almost as surprised as she was, he exhaled softly upon feeling her relax in his arms.

Giles was so strong.  Actually considering this, she supposed he had to be, what with her constantly beating the living hell out of him.  Pressed to the tweed of his jacket, she caught the musky scent of his cologne, and the shifting of the sinewy muscles in his chest and arms as his hands fell to her back and the nape of her neck.

"It's hurting me so much, Giles" she murmured, muffled by him to such an extent that he had to strain to hear her words.  "And I'm the Slayer.  I can't afford to screw up, to disappoint everyone..."

"Buffy" he stopped her, and his tone was authoritative.  Gently, but firmly, he pulled her away from him, holding her out in front of him so that her eyes met his.  "Listen to me.  I know you don't do it often, but if you ever have, do it now."  His eyes softened.  "You never have, and never will be a disappointment to anyone, least of all myself.  You are a human being above all else, even a Slayer.  My Slayer.  And a damn good one, at that." Almost troubled at having to have told her that, like it was a personal revelation, Giles thrust her towards himself again.  She hugged him tightly, at his words, but looked up shyly, one question in her mind.

"Your slayer?" she wondered aloud.  "You've... you've never said that before."

"Well" he said quietly, and let her take its implicit meaning.

"I thought that since I broke up with the Council, I belonged to no one" she teased.

"A vagabond" he agreed, with mock solemnity.

"A formality" she hypothesized seriously.  "I can take that.  Just like I call you my Watcher."

"I am your Watcher" he stated.  "You are the Slayer, but I was specifically assigned to you."

"Assigned" Buffy sighed.  "A charge.  It must suck, for you."

"You're more than a charge to me" he admitted, quietly.  "Don't say things like that, Buffy."

"Of course" she said.  "My Watcher.  Although, I don't know if I'm anyone's Slayer."

"Oh, Buffy" he sighed, in consternation.  She didn't respond, and, finally just pulled her to him, and realized that, unknowingly, they had begun to dance with the music. "I do believe" he whispered stubbornly, "that you are mine, like it or not."

*****

Morning.  It was Saturday, bright and early, yet hot as hell already.  Ah, California.

Buffy was walking down Sunnydale's main avenue, towards the open-air cafe that had become the Scooby Gang's new gravitating point, in the absence of school and library.  The night's dew had yet to dry on the fat aloe plants in their snug terra cotta pots, but already the sun was creating a shimmering wave of heat off the sidewalk.  It was going to be a scorcher. She passed the old cinema, the Fish Tank, all sorts of landmarks associated with violent and deadly memories that filled her with an empty sort of nostalgia, that she shook off as easily as averting her eyes to the palm trees, waving limply in the sluggish morning breeze.  The coffee bar came up on her right, and she ducked into it gratefully.

Immediately noticing Xander and Willow in their usual corner booth as soon as her eyes adjusted to the shadows of the shop, she aimed herself in their direction.  Above their heads, a palm-wood fan whirled lazily, and she slid into the bench across from both of them.  One of the waiters who knew them well came up behind her almost instantaneously, and Buffy reluctantly ordered an iced tea with her muffin.  Even the promise of caffeine was not worth voluntarily imbibing any type of hot liquid.

"Buff!"  Xander greeted her enthusiastically, per usual.  She accepted his hug, since his T-shirt appeared to be as-yet untouched by yucky perspiration, and, saying hi to Willow, caught the newspaper she pushed across the table to her.

"Current events" she observed cheerfully, brushing the paper lightly with her gaze, not really reading the headlines.  No Apocalypse, no World War, nothing worth diverting her attention.  "Bland.  So, what would be your point?"

Her best friend pointed to an article on the bottom of the page.  "That rapist/killer guy" she said solemnly.  "They found another body last night, and they think it was one of his."

"Uhh" Buffy frowned. " What guy?  I'm not really one for reading the news.  What's the sitch?"

Xander cut in.  "This murderer... they're calling him the Sunnydale Stalker?"

"No bells" Buffy shrugged innocuously.

"Well, he's been abducting, torturing, and murdering young women, all from about sixteen to twenty-four.  This corpse they found last night would be number eight."

"And I haven't heard about this?"  Buffy drew the paper closer to her, in consternation.  "I mean, because if anything goes on in this town at night, I know about it."  She spoke the truth.  Her patrolling often kept her out and about until the wee hours of the morning, tracking the alleys and side-streets for any demonic activity.

"See, that's the weird thing about this guy" Willow explained.  "The authorities seem to think he stalks his victims for a while before capturing hem, learning all he can about the minutiae of their lives, so that he doesn't really need to prowl around to find victims."

"Sort of hit and run" Xander offered laconically. "I mean, he already knows who he's hitting when he goes out."

Buffy rolled her eyes, and not just because Willow was practically the only person she knew who used the word 'minutiae' in daily conversation. "The authorities" she scoffed in derision.  "What have the police ever done for this town?  Like they know anything."  She was now reading the article with interest, and Willow looked over at Xander, her cursory glance expressing no little amount of concern. "So" Buffy observed, her eyes not leaving the paper "A psycho-killer in Sunnydale.  Why does that just make so much sense?  As if I don't have enough work on my hands."

The warning bells that Willow had been trying to convey to Xander immediately metastasized into full-scale alarms. "Buffy" she said reticently.  "You're the vampire slayer.  OK, and occasionally demons, minions, witches, and other Slayers."  The object of her worry gave her a withering glance at that last one.  "But.."  Willow continued, "murderous rapists just aren't in your job description.  There are some things that you just have to let alone."

She looked to Xander for support, and he took over gently.  "It's just... maybe you should leave this one to the cops, albeit ineffective, Buffy."

She shook her head, and gestured in frustration.  "Guys, this is a major thing here!  I can't just leave this to the 'local law enforcement,' when there's something I can do about it.  Now, I need to go talk to Giles."

"Buffy.."  Xander protested futily.  She patted his arm carelessly, waved to Willow, and, leaving enough to cover all three of their breakfasts, left the restaurant.

*****

"Absolutely not, Buffy" Giles stated firmly. She was sitting cross-legged on his kitchen table, and he was pacing the room like a caged lion.

"Giles!" she exclaimed, "How can you say no?"

"I mean what I say" he informed her coolly.  "And I'm telling you no."

"You can't tell me what to do" she protested belligerently.  "And I am going to go check that guy out."

"You are most certainly not!" he declared, just as drastically. Then, seeing the venom-ready expression on her face, he tried the more gentle approach.  "Buffy" he reasoned calmly, "this goes beyond your duties.  You have enough, and, besides that, it's just not safe!"

"You send me out to slay vampires and things that go bump every night, Giles" she contradicted.  "Do you mean to tell me that that's not dangerous?"

"This is different" he protested.  "Buffy, I can't.."

"Giles, listen to what you're saying!" she pleaded.  "Look, you know exactly how effective the Sunnydale police have proved in the past.  And this is a big deal."  She lowered her voice.  "This is a rapist/murderer.  That's as close to a monster as it gets."

"There is a huge difference between a sociopath and a brainless vampire that you finish off in two seconds, Buffy."

"Two seconds?" she spat.  "And that's no big?"

"You know I didn't mean it that way" he shook his head, trying hard to stay calm.

"Well, whatever way you meant it, I can't accept it" she informed him.  "Listen, Giles, I can't afford to let the cops screw this one up.  I owe that much to Willow.  Jesus, even to Cordelia!  How could I just sit back and ignore the risk of this guy coming after them?"

At that point, Giles lost his tranquil front.  A strange cast coming over those hazel eyes Buffy knew and trusted so well, he crossed the distance between them in three long strides, leaning close to her, and trapping her wrists, propping herself up, in his hands before she knew what he was at.  So close, in fact, that she could smell the peppermint on his breath, and feel the unalloyed seriousness in his touch and glance that she had elicited from him.

"Now, you listen to me" he said quietly.  "You worry about him coming after your friends?  Well, how about the risk of the bastard coming after you?"

"Giles..." she protested weakly. "Do you think that I want to see you raped?" he demanded, those eyes green and animal-like in their intensity.  "Murdered?  Do you think that I could live... with myself?" Buffy noticed the long and awkward pause in that question, and cast her eyes down. "I cannot... will not see you hurt" he said finally.  "And I know what you're thinking.  'How bad can a human be, when I've fought monsters and demons and hell-spawn that should have killed me time and time again?'  Well, Buffy, there is a great difference between physical and psychological demons, and.."  He rubbed the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses anxiously, releasing her abruptly.  "I won't let you go.  That's it."

She rubbed them absently, the force of his hands not so strong, she thought half-defiantly, that she couldn't have released herself, but still powerful enough to warrant a nervous flutter in the stomach that may have been partially caused by the searing concern on that face of his.

"I can't just do nothing" she told him, not defying his edict, just stating the bare facts.

"I don't think it's just this situation, Buffy" he tried at last, after a long silence.  "It's everything that's happened since Ang.... since the Ascension."  He sat down on the stool opposite her.  "You've been distraught, and I think this person is just the path you believe you've found to meaning in your life again."

"Are you trying to insinuate that I need conflict for my mental well-being, Giles?" she inquired.

"No...  Yes" he admitted.  At her reaction, he hastened to clarify.  "All I'm trying to say is that... this is not a good idea right now.  Not ever, but especially not now."  He got up, and went instinctively to put a kettle of tea on, his sovereign source of mental stability, but, turning back, came up before her again. "I need you to swear to me that you won't try anything....  Buffy?"  He looked at her intensely.

She took a deep breath.  "Didn't I already say I wouldn't?"

"No, you didn't" he contradicted.  "And, besides, I want you to swear.  You won't even leave the house tonight."

A long, pregnant pause passed between them, before she murmured "I promise."

"Swear it, Buffy" he commanded her inarguably.  "Before me, your Watcher, that you won't have anything to do with the Sunnydale Stalker.  Do you swear?"

His face was inches, at most, from her, his expression so tense that she was almost afraid he was going to leap at her, should she not comply.

"I swear" she said, so softly that it was almost a whisper. His eyes held hers in his proximity for an endless second before he busied himself with the kettle again.  His back was turned at the faucet, and she asked it, with no trace of the sarcastic in her voice: "One Slayer dies, the next one is called, right?"

"Not to me" he replied inscrutably.

Her soft "Oh" was concealed by the laboring of the teapot beginning to heat on the burner.

*****

That night, she sat in her room, staring idly into her trunk of killing-implements.  Tiny, ornate vials of holy water were arranged in neat rows, gleaming, sharp stakes were stacked in a pile, and more than one exotically be-runed ceremonial knife, its hilt crusted in symbolic jewels, lay wrapped in velvet beneath the false bottom, among half-burned candles and discarded crossbow bolts.  Buffy wondering what in the Hellmouth she was going to do.  It wasn't often that Giles bothered to forbid her from doing things, knowing that nine times out of ten she would do it anyway, but he was adamant about this Stalker thing.  Just the fact that the matter held so much concern to him gave her usually steely nerves some misgiving quivers. Determined not to let that thought cross her mind more than once, she reached for the small, porcelain musical figurine of a perfect blond ballerina that some relative had given her for her Confirmation some years back, in the itinerant time in her life  when her great aspiration was to be a dancer in a frilly tutu.  It had, for years, lay forlorn among other forgotten trinkets of her lost childhood.  Upon winding the tchotchke, it played a tinkly refrain from "Swan Lake," and the doll, her stiff features perma-frozen in blissful ignorance, wobbled, creaking, around in circles.  Some aspect of the thing, either the tinny melody issuing from it, or what Buffy imagined to be the self-assured and smug pout on the dancer's face, sudden conjured an angry uprising in her gut, and, unconsciously summoning all her supernatural strength, threw it against the wall.

It wasn't until the music stopped in the middle of a measure, she got assaulted by a miniature spring, and the doll's head rolled across the floor like a bauble that Buffy realized what she had just done.  She came to this epiphany with the sudden knowledge that she was panting, and she caught her breath in her throat.  She was waiting for her mother's concerned query as to what the noise was to come wafting up the stairs when she reminded herself that it wouldn't; Joyce was out of town on one of her all-too-frequent business trips.  Buffy could never convince herself that this outings weren't her mom's own method of escape, that by leaving the city, she wasn't purposely blocking all that went on after dark in Sunnydale.

With this barrage of revelation came also the acknowledgment that it was past midnight.  Even the vamps would have tried to take over the world by then if they were going to. 

Me, the insomniac, she thought, with no trace of a wry grin. Delving into the steamer again, she withdrew one particularly lethal-looking blade from its sheath, and turning it over in her experienced hands.  The curve of the metal was sinuous, and deadly sharp.  It had never been used- never had the hilt tasted of flesh, demonic or otherwise, and the gleaming weapon cried for usefulness.

"I'm hallucinating" she told herself, half-panicking at her calm thoughts regarding the knife, which reminded her o