FIC: Whither Thou Goest... (3/?)

[PB <pbnj@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>]

Title: Whither Thou Goest...
Author: Pink Rabbit Productions
Archive: Pink Rabbit, A Slayer/A Hacker
Author's Notes: This is the latest sequel to Spin, Spinning, Spun Out, It
All Depends On Your Timing, and Interludis Neanderthalensis. It's not
finished, but I'm going to start posting in segments since it's getting
close to the end (probably).
Disclaimer: The characters and show all belong to Joss Whedon, Fox, Mutant
Enemy, Kuzui, and God only knows who else. This particular arrangement of
words in cyberspace belongs to me, however. Btw, it contains love between
two women, so if such things offend you, are illegal where you live or
somesuch, kindly don't read it and upset yourself, 'kay. It'll just make
life easier on all of us.
Spoilers: None that I can think of.
Rating: PG-13
Part: 3/?

Whither Thou Goest...

Chapter Two

Joyce Summers resisted the urge to curse as she took another swallow of
lukewarm coffee. For perhaps the thousandth time, she glanced at her watch,
noting the slowly advancing hour with a disgusted sigh. It looked like she
wasn't going to get any sleep. Not that the client she was scheduled to
meet wasn't worth the effort--after all, she was contracted to get ten
percent of the auction of the extensive collection of impressionist
paintings and sketches the woman was selling--but she was already nearly
two hours late and Joyce had had a long day. There was also the niggling
worry that it was Sunnydale and going missing in this particular small town
was seldom a positive experience. She knew more about that particular facet
of her adopted home than she might have preferred since her daughter was
the Slayer--the Chosen One--tasked to protect the world from the evils of
the night--which included the Hellmouth, an entry from the Netherworld that
just happened to reside in Sunnydale, and attracted every sort of evil
known to man. She was proud of Buffy for the responsibility she'd taken on,
respected her child, knew that she was often all that stood between life
and eternal damnation.

But, if and when she was honest with herself, she had to admit it scared
the living hell out of her. Mostly, she dealt with the fear through sheer,
unadulterated denial, but it gnawed at her and left her terrified that she
was somehow failing her child due to her own inability to deal with the
ugly realities of life she'd discovered the night Buffy ran away from home.
Her daughter had come back and they'd made some kind of peace, but it all
still frightened her, driving her to push herself until she couldn't think
anymore. If she couldn't think, she couldn't worry and wonder what was
happening to Buffy, couldn't imagine the funeral she would probably have to
attend some day. She didn't know much about Slayers, but she'd learned
enough to know there was no retirement plan. Her daughter would die one
day, and the chances were very high she would all too young when it happened.

Joyce shuddered as though someone had walked over her grave and took
another sip of her coffee, silently willing her client to appear. Anything
to block the morbid path her thoughts were taking.

As if in answer to the unspoken summons, a soft knock rattled the art
gallery front door. Joyce's head snapped up, a relieved expression on her
face as she called out, "Yes," and hurried toward the door.

"Mrs. Summers," a warm, softly accented voice called through the door. "My
apologies for running late."

Joyce swung the door open, revealing a very pretty young woman with short
blond hair, and what looked to be an almost delicate build under her heavy
black trenchcoat. She didn't appear to be much older than Buffy. Surprised,
she took a half step back. "Devon Carstairs?" She had expected her customer
to be considerably older.

The young woman smiled and shook her head. "I'm afraid not," she said
hastily. "I'm Blaine Michaels, Ms. Carstairs personal assistant...." She
shrugged, still looking embarrassed. "Also her niece if you must know the
truth. Dev had to leave for France rather unexpectedly...there was a fire
at an estate she owns near Luxembourg. She sent me down here in her
place...and unfortunately, I managed to have both a flat on the Ten and a
dead cell phone battery." Visibly flustered, the young woman ran a hand
through her hair. "I apologize for keeping you waiting. Truly, I had no
idea I'd run this late or I would have called you before leaving Los
Angeles to let you know about the change." She stuffed her hands in the
pockets of the calf length black trenchcoat that flared around her slender
legs. Again she flashed an embarrassed smile, making Joyce feel churlish
for any annoyance she'd been feeling at the lateness of the hour. "God, I
swear, if I weren't family, Aunt Dev would just fire me."

"Don't worry about it. I had to work late anyway," Joyce inserted, and held
the door wide as she waved the young woman in. "Come on in. Your aunt faxed
me the crate number that was miss-shipped, and it's right back here," she
continued as she led the courier through the gallery toward the storage
area in the back.

"I'm sure she'll be very pleased with how organized you are."

Joyce laughed softly. "Well, it's quite a collection to get ready for sale.
She has some wonderful impressionist works."

"Yes," Blaine Michaels agreed smoothly. "She inherited much of it from my
grandmother. She was the serious art collector...and, in truth, some of the
more valuable pieces in the collection came from her father...he was in
Europe before the war and picked several things up for a song."

"I'm just amazed she's selling. I'd think it would be awfully hard to part
with some of them."

"Yes, well, I'm afraid my aunt has suffered some financial setbacks this
year. The market has not been kind and she needs the cash."

Joyce flinched sympathetically. "So sorry to hear that."

The girl shrugged philosophically. "It happens."

As they entered the tightly packed confines of the back room, Joyce wove
between several rolling work tables as she gestured toward the front crate
in a stack of flat, painting crates stacked against one wall. "It's the top
one," she informed her guest.

The young woman stepped fluidly past Joyce, her posture stiff as she pulled
up short in front of the crate. "No," she said almost instantly. "This
isn't the right one. It's too small." She reached out, brushing dust off
the packing slip taped to the outside of the wooden crate. "Here's the
problem. There's a scuff mark. If you don't look closely, it looks like it
says Oh-four, but it's Oh-seven." She straightened and Joyce heard a soft
curse as she leaned past her to look at the error.

"I'm so sorry," the tall blond apologized. "How much larger?"

The young woman gestured with her hands, indicating a package roughly three
feet by four feet.

Joyce resisted the urge to curse. "It must be one of the ones at my house."
She flushed at the annoyed look turned her way. "The collection is so
large, and I needed more work-space here," she said defensively. "I stored
some pieces at my house. If you like, I can go back, get them, and bring
them here for you. It shouldn't take me more than an hour...two at the most."

The young woman glanced at her watch where it resided on her inner wrist.
"Unfortunately, I have to be back in LA at eight am and I'm cutting it
close as it is." She uttered another curse under her breath.


I can have it shipped to any address you'd like--" Joyce offered, but
Blaine cut her off quickly.

"No," she said very quickly, then offered a tight smile. "Aunt Devon asked
me to see to it personally. It's something of a family heirloom. I'll just
have to drive back tomorrow night. Is ten o'clock tomorrow evening all
right with you? I'm sorry it's so late, but I've got meetings all day
tomorrow, and I won't be able to get back to Sunnydale before then."

"Of course," Joyce agreed quickly.

The young woman smiled. "Thank you, hopefully this time things will go a
little more smoothly and I won't be quite so late."

Joyce forced down an unexplained shiver as she nodded in agreement, shaking
hands politely and wishing her young customer well. She missed the brief
glimpse of thick blood congealed and drying on the young woman's dark shirt
front as she stepped out into the night and a fresh wind caught the edges
of her coat, briefly blowing them apart before slender hands pulled them
back together. Certainly it never occurred to her that she was doing a
business deal with the dead.

* * * * * *

"Just another fun night in Sunnyhell," Buffy exhaled where she sat on the
front porch of the Twenty-Four/Seven, her legs stretched out in front of
her. To the east, the horizon was turning the soft shade of pink that
heralded morning. She looked up as she heard soft footsteps, smiling limply
at Willow as the hacker sank down next to her and leaned her head against
the Slayer's shoulder. "You okay?"

"They had a lot of questions. I feel kind of stupid because I couldn't
really answer them. It all happened so fast that I'm not quite sure what
happened."

"Yeah," Buffy sighed tiredly. She would have sworn she'd known what
transpired in those final moments, but when she'd tried to describe it to
the detective, somehow she couldn't quite lay things out in a way that made
sense in her own head.

"I'm not sure they believed me," Willow added, then buried her face in
Buffy's shoulder as though she could block the ugly events of the night out
of her mind.

"Not surprising," the Slayer exhaled. "They've obviously looked up my
files. That whole mess with Kendra came up...not to mention the murder of
the deputy mayor...." She leaned her cheek against the top of Willow's
head. "God, some days I think I'm cursed."

"You live in Sunnydale. I think it's one of the requirements," was Willow's
muffled response.

"Point taken," Buffy sighed, so exhausted that she didn't have the
wherewithal to resist the urge to nuzzle Willow's hair affectionately,
taking comfort from the feel and smell of the silky strands.

They were still sitting there like that long minutes later, when Rupert
Giles' aging Citroen pulled up. The Englishman climbed out, his hair and
clothes askew, his expression rife with worry. "Buffy...Willow..." He
searched for any signs of injury as he hurried forward.

"We're okay," Buffy assured him while Willow looked up and offered a wan smile.

Giles ran a shaky hand through his hair as he looked inside the small
store, noting the police still working amid upended shelves and shattered
glass. "What happened?" He looked at the Slayer again. "Who...when..."

"You forgot why and where?" Buffy said acidly as she pushed to her feet,
then reached back to tug Willow up. "But the answer is, three guys in ski
masks with shotguns, about three hours ago--"

Giles appeared horrified. "You should have called me sooner."

"Not an option," Willow sighed tiredly.

"Mm," Buffy mumbled in confirmation. "The police had a lot of questions,
and since Willow and I were the only ones not unconscious or dead..." she
trailed off suggestively.

"Dead?" Giles exhaled, losing another shade of color at the thought.

"Yeah," the Slayer sighed and nodded toward the front door of the store.
"Another customer. She never had a chance." She dragged a hand through her
hair, her tone disgusted as she muttered. "So much for my vaunted Slayer
powers. I couldn't even stop three stupid thugs--"

"They had shotguns, Buffy," Willow reminded her. "Nobody could have done
any better."

Giles settled a hand on the blond's narrow shoulder. "I'm sure Willow's
right," he tried to reassure her. "You may be the Slayer, but you're not
invulnerable. A shotgun blast will kill you just like anyone else."

Buffy's mouth twisted in an grim smile. "Yeah, tell that to the dead
woman's family. I'm sure it will be a lot of comfort." Then the Slayer
broke away and climbed into Giles' car without further comment.

Willow turned a sad-eyed look Giles' way. "You know how she gets
when...well...when she loses one."

A muscle flexed in the Watcher's jaw. "Yes." He looked at Willow seriously
as though trying to assess her condition. She'd been through so much
recently. He was worried about her. "Are you all right?"

There was a certain lack of sincerity to Willow's tone when she answered.
"I'm fine. Just tired...it was pretty bad." Her shoulders tipped in a
prosaic shrug. "But then again, we've both seen things that were a lot worse."

Frowning, Giles demanded, "What were you two doing here at this hour?" as
though somehow their schedule was at fault.

The hacker shook her head. "Just being silly," she brushed the question
off. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, shivering in the predawn
chill. "Look, Giles, I really think we should get back to the dorms. It's
been a long night." She wavered on her feet, so tired she could barely
remain upright.

The two stared at each other for a long moment, Giles suspecting there was
something else he should say, but at a total loss as to what. Finally, he
just nodded. "Get in the car. I'll take you back."

It was only a little over a half a mile back to the dorms and the drive
took place in total silence, the three occupants of the tiny car all lost
in their respective thoughts. Willow had wiped most of the blood from her
hands on a towel handed to her by the officer who had interviewed her, but
it was still caked on her clothes, and the smell of it filled the crowded
space despite the open windows, reminding each of them of the night's high
price.

Giles pulled into the small parking lot at the rear of the dorm and took a
spot near the back doors, then turned to peer at the Slayer where she lay
sprawled in the back seat. After a brief glance at Willow, who appeared
equally worn out, he cleared his throat. "Look, you two both look like
hell. I'm not sure a dormitory is quite the right place for you right now.
Why don't you come stay at my place for a day or two. Get some rest...deal
with...what's happened..."

Buffy let out a grim bark of laughter. "I don't know. Will, you think Dr.
Walsh would let us have the day off for stumbling into the middle of a murder?"

A swell of hysterical laughter bubbled up from the hacker's chest. "Only if
we were the victims."

That appeared to strike Buffy as hilariously funny much to Giles' chagrin,
though he quickly realized it wasn't real laughter, but rather a way of
venting the monstrous stress of the evening. "Buffy...Willow..." he said in
a carefully controlled voice. "It's obvious that you're--"

"Too tired for this conversation," Buffy cut him off impatiently as she
climbed out of the small car, then reached back to catch Willow's hand and
tug her out as well. She ran a trembling hand through her hair. "Look,
Giles it's not that I don't appreciate the offer, but I really want to
sleep in my own bed tonight..." Then, noting that it was rapidly becoming
daylight, she snorted something impolite under her breath. "Or not sleep as
the case may be." She sighed heavily. "Besides, hanging with Spike and
watching Passions together is not my idea of a therapy day."

Giles glanced at the sleepy redhead standing next to the Slayer. "Willow?"

The girl shook her head. "I don't think so," she demurred without further
explanation.

The Watcher sighed heavily, quashing the urge to order them back into the
car with effort. He could see the exhaustion and hurt in every facet of
both girls and wanted nothing more than to protect them and help them
through it. Unfortunately, by the look of it, they were no more receptive
to the help he wanted to offer than he would have been at that age. "Be
careful," he said at last. "And remember, you can always call me..." He
turned a piercing gaze on the Slayer. "I know I'm not officially your
Watcher anymore, but I hope I'll always be your friend."

"Of course you are," Willow filled in instantly, though the Slayer was
silent for a long moment. Suddenly, she blinked back to the real world and
nodded, confirming Willow's words.

"Of course we're friends, Giles," she assured him.

And if there was a note of reserve in her words, well, it was
understandable after the night's events. Shock and all that. At least, that
was what Rupert Giles told himself as he got back in his car and drove away.

* * * * *
TBC

--"If I was all that fond of real life, I would never have majored in theater"

For f/f related fanfiction, art, and a little bit of everything else
Visit the new Pink Rabbit Consortium Homepage:
http://pinkrabbit.simplenet.com