“Shh, little one,” Angel murmured, slipping his free hand down to wipe away the tears that glistened on his childe’s lower lashes.  “I’ve got you.”

And he did, he had him, completely and irrevocably.

*   *   *

“Can’t believe you’re still sticking with the astronaut argument what with that bloody big forehead of yours, not to mention the Neanderthal behavior.  I mean ‘s so bloody clear you should be in the caveman camp, you git.  Maybe you’re just afraid to come out of the closet – pouf,” he added for good measure with a smirk.

The dark vampire entered the kitchen a step behind the blond, pushing the smaller one forward with a solid smack to the back of his head.

“Oi!” his childe exclaimed, a look of righteous indignation on his expressive face.  “Watch the hair!”  He made a production of smoothing the peroxide strands back while glaring at the dark vampire behind him.  “’S not like the bloody bog trotters weren’t this close to the stone age back in your day, anyway,” he added by way of a supporting argument.  “Ne-o-lith-ic,” he said, drawing out the syllables in an insulting way, his tongue teasing just behind the front of his teeth in a deliberate provocation.

“Shut up, Spike,” Angel warned.  “What the fecking English know about the Irish could fill a thimble, so don’t talk about what ye don’t understand.  The Celts were around long before the pasty-faced peasants in that God-forsaken land were mucking about in their stupid fields.  Interfering, condescending, pretentious sons of whores, that’s what those Protestant bastards were, even before they were Protestants, by God, and from the looks of it,” he added with a growl, eying his childe with a narrowed gaze, “still are.”  He scowled thunderously, but his target only upped the wattage of his smirk in response, and Angel’s frown deepened.  His Irish accent had appeared and grown stronger with every word, and the three pets already in the kitchen when they entered watched the exchange with fascination.

“Is this a continuation of the same astronaut/caveman argument you two were having back at Wolfram and Hart?” Wesley asked politely.

“Yes!”

“No!”

Angel and Spike glared daggers at each other at their contradictory responses.

“Why don’t you tell them what it’s about, luv?” Spike purred, his tongue peeking out to taunt the other vampire yet again.  “Something about the old ways versus the new ones, and the effectiveness of modern technology, like, say, electricity and…”

“Shut up, Will,” Angel growled again, slipping further into Angelus territory.

“But pet, it’s a fascinating question,” Spike said, batting his eyes innocently.  “And old Wes here is just the bloke who can clarify things for us.  We’re probably too close to it to be objective, what with our past and all…”

“Do you really want to go there, William?” Angel said, stepping up until his chest brushed against his childe’s and the blond had to look up to meet the taller vampire’s eyes.  “Because we can go back upstairs and discuss it further if you really want to…”

Spike blinked at the glint in the dark vampire’s needle-sharp eyes.  A hint of fang flashed behind the snarling lips, and the sensation of those teeth piecing his bollocks swept through him.  He drew in a gasping breath and capitulated abruptly.  “Uh, no, ‘s okay, really, all done here,” he said, backing up slowly and holding his hands up, palms out, in a placating manner.

“Are you sure?” Angel demanded, stepping back into his childe’s personal space.  “Because if you have any doubt at all, I think we should clear it up…”

“No, no, luv, not necessary, really.  ‘Sides, got important things to do today, what with our guests arriving tomorrow and all.”  The blond ducked around the menacing figure and moved quickly to the range, where he began to fiddle with the already steaming tea kettle and the pot sitting on the counter beside it.

Angel grunted, eyeing the blond suspiciously on his way to the fridge to retrieve the eggs.  He cuffed him upside the head again in passing, just for good measure, and glared at him as though daring him to make another comment.

“Caveman,” Spike muttered, sotto voce, his back to the room as he prepared the tea.

“Did you say something,” Angel demanded, turning abruptly.

“Said Cayman,’ his childe replied quickly.  ‘S the name of a band from back in the seventies I’ve been trying to recall – Cayman Crocs.  Name just popped into my head,” he added.  “Strange, that.”

“Yeah, strange,” Angel said, his eyes narrowing.  He watched his childe closely, but the blond wouldn’t meet his eyes, busying himself with the tea, and finally the dark vampire returned to the business of making breakfast, muttering to himself.  Wesley caught a glimpse of a smirk on Spike’s lips when Angel turned away, and shook his head, an indulgent smile on his face.

“The rooms in the west wing are all ready,” he said to the room at large.  We prepared all of them, just in case we needed extras.  Everything is done.”

“Good, pet, knew you lot would manage it,” Spike said, all business again.  “The blood?”

“The refrigerators and microwaves are all in place, and the blood is set to be delivered soon, at around six o’clock,” the ex-Watcher explained, glancing at his watch.  “We ordered extra of that, too, and arranged for a second, smaller delivery for the day after tomorrow, again, just in case.”

“Exellent.  Angel, your paintings?”

“Finished yesterday,” the dark vampire said, all animosity seemingly forgotten.  “They won’t be fully dry for a while, but I’ll put them up today – they’ll be far enough off the ground to be protected.”

“Good,” Spike said, turning to the coffee pot, which had just stopped brewing.  He poured out three mugs and set the first beside his sire, on the counter, touching him lightly on the shoulder in passing.  He added a liberal amount of sugar and cream to one of the remaining two before bringing both to the table and placing them before Gunn and Illyria.  Finally he poured out the tea and set the cups and saucers on the table for Wes and himself, before taking his own seat.

“We’ll need to double check security today, maybe put a few more precautionary wards in place.  And we’ll need you to check on the status of the applied marks, Angel.”

“Yeah, been thinking about that.  We should do it in the star for added protection, just in case anything’s gone wrong.”

“Agreed,” his childe said with a nod.  “Okay, so you three will take me on a walk-through of the west wing while Angel gets his pictures ready to hang, then we’ll check on the marks.  Tonight’s training sessions will focus on last minute reminders and advice for your behavior during the meeting,” he said, addressing the last to the three pets.  “The second half of the day will be dedicated to anything we might have missed – hopefully there won’t be anything,” he added. “We’ll put a few additional wards in place after that, then we should be ready.”

Angel nodded in agreement and leaned over to place a plate of toast on the table.  He shook his head as his childe snagged a golden buttered triangle off the plate with a smirk, then leaned back and took a sip of the fragrant brew from his cup.

“You are one strange vampire, you know that, Will?” the dark vampire commented, smiling despite himself.

Spike waggled his scarred eyebrow and pursed his lips, blowing his sire a kiss.  Angel’s shook his head again, but he couldn’t keep the smile from his face.

*   *   *

Just over two hours later, west wing inspected and approved by the Master of the House, and the blood delivery received and stored, Spike and the pets entered the basement hall.  He stopped abruptly, the others bumping up against him before they realized he’d stopped.  Spike whistled appreciatively and the pets looked about them.

“Wow,” Gunn said, walking slowly over to the right wall and staring up at the picture hanging at its center, entranced.  On it his own image was placed to the left of the landscaped canvas.  He was depicted there twice, the first figure kneeling and naked at the foreground, his erection staining between shamelessly spread thighs.  It was bound by the leather harness, with the topaz-studded chains framing his cock and balls.  The other image was placed behind the first, this time clad in leather and armor, a medieval, two-headed battle axe hefted casually over one shoulder.  In both images he wore the black leather collar with the golden topaz gem evident at his throat.

At the right side of the canvas was Wesley.  The kneeling image was in the exact same pose as Gunn’s, but the gems on the harness, cock chains and collar were emerald.  The standing figure was clothed all in leather, and his weapon of choice was a sawed-off shot-gun.  It’s appearance was both anachronistic and yet oddly appropriate in the otherwise tribal setting of the painting.  Illyria was placed at the center, red rubies glittering in stark contrast to her blue-tinged skin at both neck and breast.  As with the two males, she knelt naked, but her standing figure was clothed in the blue body armor she typically wore.  She held a spear in one hand, and the other, hanging loosely down at her side, grasped a deadly looking, ornate dagger.

The picture was fascinating for the contradictory sensations it inspired.  The three were definitely depicted as pets of a vampire household, the tattoo’d A’s on their upper right arms visible and clearly marking them as the chattel of some important demon.  In their kneeling pose, they looked submissive and vulnerable, but in their warrior stance deadly dangerous.  The two images together strangely enough communicated a third role for the pets; that of trusted counselors.

For the first time Gunn understood the visceral appeal they had for their vampire Masters, and more importantly, how the roles they filled elevated the status of an already high House and Clan.  Seeing them depicted thus solidified Gunn’s commitment to those he now considered family, and instilled a sense of pride for their Clan that felt far older than his own years.  Beside him Wesley and Illyria stood silently inspecting the images as well, clearly as entranced by them as he.

“Beautiful,” Spike murmured from just behind them.  “Perfect.”

A low whistle of appreciation from him a minute later drew the pets’ attention away from the picture, and turning they found the Master of their House slowly walking toward the opposite wall, where two other pictures now hung, both in the portrait format.  Spike stopped before the first one, placed at the center of the front third of the hall, and stared at it, mesmerized, while the other three approached to stand ranged to either side of him.

“Angelus did this one over a hundred years ago,” he murmured, staring up at the image of his vampire family.

In this painting Darla was the central figure, seated in an elaborately carved and brocade-upholstered French Provincial chair.  Angelus stood behind her, clearly the Lieutenant and childe to her Master and Sire, while beside him, a slight step back, stood a slender youth with honey blond hair, who looked a bit like the boy William and a bit like William the Bloody.  The smaller vampire was clearly on the cusp, but in the picture, despite the transition not yet fully realized, he was portrayed as the darker vampire’s right hand, a prophecy that would play itself out in the years that followed.  At Darla’s feet, curled like a cat, sat a smiling Drusilla, dressed demurely in a long, velvet dress with a high-cut lace bodice peeking through.  Despite the innocent Victorian trappings that clothed her, she looking every bit as dangerous a predator as the other three.

“Wow, the fanged four,” Gunn whispered, stunned by the power represented in the four figures depicted on the canvas.  He should have felt disgust for what that image implied – would have, just a few short months before – but instead he felt his sense of pride increase.  This was the lineage of his House.  This was his Clan.

“Amazing, aren’t they?” Wesley concurred softly, the Watcher in him fascinated by the history, and the pet feeling the same sense of pride as the fellow beside him clearly did.

“They were – are – a force to be reckoned with,” Illyria replied calmly.  “We are lucky to be attached to such a strong Clan.”

“You are,” Spike agreed, still staring up at the picture.

“This one is similar, but different,” Illyria replied, moving away from the group.  The others turned to find her standing before the second picture on that wall, this one centered on the back third.

“I like it,” she said, appraising it with a tilted head.

Spike’s breath caught at the image there.  It was, as Illyria said, similar to the one done over a century before, but the family dynamic had shifted.  This time Angel was at the center, though even to the pets’ eyes, it was impossible to tell if the leather-clad figure depicted the souled or unsouled version of their Clan Master.  He was seated in the Master of the Order’s chair, while behind him stood a stern, peroxide-haired William the Bloody, clearly his lieutenant and at the full height of his powers.  Like his sire, Spike was all in black, his beloved leather duster covering but not hiding the fighting leather beneath it.  Two figures sat at Angel’s feet; Drusilla, dressed in clothes that were amazingly similar to the ones she’d worn a century before, and beside her, curled into her side, her childe.  Ms. Edith was dressed in a flouncy petticoat and ruffled overskirt, white blouse, cotton anklets and button-up black leather shoes.  She was the very picture of a Victorian china doll.

“Amazing,” Wesley said again, staring up at the four on the canvas.  “I hadn’t realized…”  He trailed off, looking slightly sheepish.

“Realized what, Wes?” Spike asked, his attention now shifted to the ex-Watcher.

“I don’t know how I could have missed it,” the other Englishman finally said, shaking his head.  “The fact that Angel is a vampire despite the soul,” he clarified, staring up at the picture again.”

“Bit of a shock, eh?” the blond said sympathetically as he watched the conflicting emotions on his friend’s face.

The door at the back of the hall, behind them and to their left, suddenly bounced off the wall, distracting them from the picture and their response to it.  Angel came through the door, manhandling another large canvas.  It’s back faced them, so they couldn’t see the image there, but it was obviously intended for the last remaining spot, over the back door itself.  The ladder already stood beside the door, and after setting the canvas down, Angel repositioned the ladder in front of it, grabbed the canvas, and nimbly scaled the ladder.  Spike and the pets moved toward the door and stared up, waiting to see the last of the four paintings.

Angel’s body hid the image as he positioned the canvas on the wall, and it wasn’t until he jumped gracefully off the ladder to land silently on the hardwood floor that it was revealed.  Spike gasped.

There were only two figures in this painting; Angel and Spike.  They were both dressed as in the previous picture, in fighting leathers and coats, and Angel sat in the Master’s chair, his legs crossed as a gentleman would, but there all similarities ended.  Instead of sitting straight, at the center of the chair, his arms upon the carved and burnished wood, Angel leaned to his right, crossed legs slanting off to the left.  Spike didn’t stand behind him in this picture, but instead sat on the right arm of the chair, his left arm lying across the chair’s raised back.  In this picture Angel actually leaned against Spike’s torso, while Spike leaned down, as though they were conversing in hushed whispers.  Both looked out of the canvas, but it was almost as though the artist had caught them in a single moment of time, mid-motion, just after, or perhaps just before, their gazes locked on each other.

It was impossible to determine what they spoke of, but from the way Angel held one hand up, a finger brushing lightly across his lips but not quite hiding the very Angelus-like smirk there, and from the same smirk gracing the blond vampire’s lips – and now it was clear where the childe had obtained that particular mannerism – it seemed that one of them had said something quite amusing to the other.

It was the body language that spoke so strongly in this picture.  In the other paintings both males stood or sat in a stern, almost military posture, but not in this one.  In this one they sat together relaxed.  Strangely enough, it seemed as though their power was even greater in this one, as though, having obtained that level of strength and skill, they could relax totally, confident in themselves and in each other.  In the first picture William was the protégé and fledgling and Angel the mentor and guide, while in the second their roles were more clearly that of Sire and Lieutenant.  The third moved them further along yet.  No vampire looking at it would doubt that he was seeing a most trusted mate or most favored childe and his sire.  Any vampire, however, would very likely be shocked by the degree of equality implied by the pose of the two demons on the canvas, especially given the dark demon’s exalted status of Head of his Order.  It was breath-taking.

The fourth picture, last in an obvious series that started with the pets and worked its way up the hierarchy of the Clan, took pride of place, in the direct line of sight of the Master’s chair on the Diaz.  Spike swallowed hard and backed up slowly, in order to take in the picture in greater detail.  He bumped up against what felt like an immovable object, halting his progress.  Angel.  He let out the completely unnecessary breath he’d been holding and leaned back incrementally, letting his weight rest against the bigger vampire’s stalwart length.  Strong arms came up to circle his torso, then pulled him close.  A light touch of lips against the claiming bite on his neck was no more than that of a butterfly’s wings, but it made his head reel.

“Sire,” he whispered, completely undone.