FIC: Whither Thou Goest... Part 8/?

[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: 8/? (yeah, I know the parts and the chapter numbers aren't
necessarily matching up, but that's because there was a prologue and now a
chapter that had to be split into two parts)

Whither Thou Goest...
Chapter Six

"My mother?" Buffy demanded as she entered the Emergency Room waiting area
several steps ahead of Willow and Anya.

Giles looked up from the vinyl covered, lime green couch that had been his
resting place since bringing Xander and Joyce in. "Buffy, I--" he started
to say as he rose, using the felt covered painting leaned against the arm
of the couch as an impromptu brace.

"Where?" the Slayer cut him off without preamble.

"Ah...through there," Giles answered and nodded toward a corridor of
curtained off examining rooms. "It's the third one on the...left..." he
informed the Slayer's already retreating back, then swung around just as
Willow reached him.

The redhead glanced at the covered painting, then at Giles and raised an
eyebrow. "Most people just bring flowers," she noted after a beat.

"Well, I...uh..." Giles looked down at the painting and was just starting
to explain when he realized that Willow had already taken off after her
friend. Instead of the hacker, he lifted his eyes to find Anya standing
expectantly in front of him.

"Xander?" was all the former vengeance demon said by way of question.

"Fourth cubicle on the right," Giles sighed, unsurprised to suddenly find
himself alone once again.

* * * * * *

Despite the pain in her throbbing wrist, Joyce Summers was in a
surprisingly good mood, though that was owing more to the Vicodin floating
through her bloodstream--and the resulting buzz--than any real pleasure
with the state of life. Her gaze more than a little unfocused, she watched
as a doctor who appeared to be no more than a year or two older than Buffy
laced her left hand and forearm into a canvas and steel brace. She'd been
poked, prodded, X-rayed, had lights shined into her eyes, and generally
found herself with far more attention than she really wanted. Especially
since they kept asking her what had happened and who was the tall
Englishman glowering in the waiting room, while casting suspicious glances
at her injuries, particularly when she didn't have much of an explanation
beyond, "There was an accident at the art gallery I own." She had to tamp
down a bubble of hysterical laughter as she realized they thought that
Giles was somehow responsible for her condition. Probably thought he was
her boyfriend and had gotten rough. God only knew how they thought Xander
was involved.

She had to force down another giggle. The Vicodin was definitely doing its
job. Joyce suspected she wouldn't feel anything for a week or more.

"Mom?"

Joyce's gaze lifted as Buffy entered, her expression scared and suddenly
found herself enveloped in a hard hug. She used her good arm to hug her
daughter back, trying to soothe her obvious fears and reassure her. "I'm
all right, really...just a little...." The world tilted on its axis and she
had a hard time focusing for a brief moment. "A little woozy is all...and I
think that's mostly the painkillers...."

Buffy tucked a finger under her mother's chin, tipping her head up as she
studied her face, then down the length of her throat, where reddish marks
were quickly turning several ugly shades of purple. It didn't take any
imagination at all to make out shape of a human hand, with fingers spread,
wrapped around her neck, but she didn't say a word about the damage, not
with half the hospital staff listening in and measuring Giles for a jail
cell for domestic partner abuse. "They really loaded you up," she said
softly, then hugged her mother again. "God, we've both had a couple of bad
days."

Joyce frowned and leaned back to peer up at her daughter through bleary
eyes. "Giles said there'd been some trouble last night," she murmured. "I
hope it wasn't anything too bad."

Buffy kept an arm across her mother's shoulders as she assured her,
"Nothing I couldn't handle." She noted an eavesdropping nurse nearby and
carefully continued, "The police have the situation well in hand."

"Police?" Joyce questioned--since when had Buffy willingly involved the
police in anything--then noted the direction of her daughter's gaze.
"Oh...right...police," she agreed none too believably.

Silently willing her mother to be quiet as she noted the doctor's
speculative gaze, the Slayer met the doctor's curious look with a tight
smile. "So, can I take my mother home?" she questioned, her tone purposely
neutral.

He nodded. "She's got a prescription for Vicodin for the pain. She
shouldn't need them for more than a day or two though." He waved Buffy his
way. "However, if we could just talk for a moment, Miss Summers...."

"All right," Buffy murmured, glancing at her mom and offering a reassuring
smile.

"I'll stay with her," Willow assured the Slayer as she entered the cubicle
a pace or two behind Buffy.

The Slayer looked back, truly meeting Willow's gaze for the first time
since the disastrously disruptive phone call. She tensed, half expecting to
see anger in her friend's eyes, but the only thing she was a look of
supportive worry. "Thanks," she whispered past the sudden tightness in her
throat.

Willow nodded. "It'll be...okay...." she exhaled, something about her
expression leaving the Slayer uncertain whether she was referring to the
present situation or their relationship.

"Thanks," Buffy repeated, then followed the doctor out into the corridor.
"All right?" she said when he turned to face her.

The young man tucked his hands in his pockets. "Your mother claims her
injuries came from an accident," he began.

"Right," Buffy allowed, her tone non-committal.

"You must have noticed those bruises on her neck were shaped an awful lot
like a human hand...and there's a matching set on her broken wrist." He
took Buffy's silence for assent and continued. "The man who brought her
in...tall Englishman...I can't help but wonder what his relationship is to
your mother...."

"He's a friend of the family," Buffy said after a beat.

"Miss Summers, you're mother has clearly been attacked...that's painfully
obvious despite her insistence to the contrary. What happened to her was no
accident...."

"I know," Buffy said softly, her expression suddenly supremely
dangerous--once she knew exactly what had happened, there wouldn't be
enough of the vampire who'd done it left to fill a hibachi-- "and I assure
you, the responsible party will be held accountable. Mr. Giles, however, is
in now way involved in what happened. Quite the reverse. He was helping my
mother."

The doctor frowned, startled as much by her tone as by the information.

"Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to take my mother home."

He ducked his head in acknowledgment. "Of course."

A few minutes later, Buffy waited impatiently while her mother sat in the
hospital mandated wheelchair and filled out the necessary paperwork. She
just wanted the hell out of this place.

Xander staggered out, an arm across Anya's shoulders as his girlfriend
helped him keep from falling over.

"You okay?" Buffy questioned her friend.

He nodded. "My head's hard."

Anya didn't look happy though. "You could have been hurt," she complained
to her boyfriend. "And saving someone who's old. Where's the point in that?"

"Anya...quiet."

She seemed to sense that she'd said the wrong thing and flashed look at
Buffy that was as close to apologetic as she ever got. "Not that I'm not
glad your mother's alive...she is alive, right?"

"She's alive," Buffy confirmed, then turned a hard gaze on Giles, who was
standing now, still clutching the painting tightly. "Though I'd like to
know exactly what happened..." She looked around suddenly as if remembering
something. "Spike...where's Spike? You mentioned him in your phone call,"
she snapped, each sentence falling hard on the heels of the previous one,
not giving Giles a chance to answer. "Did he have something to do with
this, because if he did, he's dead."

Giles held up a hand to halt her tirade before it gained any steam.
"Buffy...no...actually, he didn't--"

"For once," Xander piped in helpfully. He didn't have Joyce's advantage of
prodigious amounts of chemical pain buffer, but he'd found with time that
hard blows to the head had almost the same effect.

"Yes, well, be that as it may," Giles grumbled and flashed a glare at the
boy. "Spike is actually back the studio at present. I asked him to stay
there and see if the ... party... in question tries to return."

"What?" Buffy demanded in disbelief. "In case you haven't noticed, Spike's
one of the bad guys. If there's someone out there who wants me or anyone I
care about dead, he's most likely to give them a map and personalized
directions."

"Not in this instance," Giles said carefully. "Since it's rather a matter
of self-preservation...." He glanced around, noting the overabundance of an
audience, all trying to listen while looking like they weren't listening.
"We can discuss it in more detail later."

* * * * * * *
"Stay here, Spike," Spike muttered as he exhaled smoke into the chilly
night air that filled Joyce Summer's art gallery. Chill air blew in through
the open skylight windows with enough ferocity that he would have been
shivering had he been human and even as a vampire, he really would have
preferred something a bit warmer. "Look after the place, Spike." He took
another drag from his cigarette. "We don't really have room in the car,
Spike." He blew out another stream of smoke, not noticing the way it
wreathed his head as he enjoyed his serious dabble in the high art of
self-pity. "You're expendable, Spike, so go play with the psycho
Vampire-Slayer." He was half crouched, half sitting near the doors that led
into the rear work area of Joyce's gallery. He'd locked the place up and
was just considering packing it all in. He wasn't their bloody errand boy.

"That's right, Spike," Delaine DuCourvallier agreed charitably.

He twisted and started to push to his feet, but not before his throat was
gripped in an impossibly strong hand. Still held tight, he found himself
airborne before he knew what hit him. And then, he wished he was still
airborne as she slammed him down into a display case, his impact shattering
glass and sending the extensive collection of Pre-Columbian hand carved
figures rolling and clattering across the floor. He tried to break her hold
and twist away, but she only lifted him by the throat and hammered him back
into the base of the display case, splintering the hardwood and drawing a
noisy grunt of pain from the vampire. Before he could gather his wits and
fight back, she lifted him, and shoved him headfirst into the next display
case over, shattering the glass, then yanked him upright again, his nose
and mouth bloodied.

"Now that you're a little tenderized, I think we can talk," she drawled
knowingly. "In fact I'd love to hear how a whiney little rat-bastard like
you apparently wound up as the Slayer's personal lapdog."

"I'm nobody's lapdog," Spike snarled, and tried to claw his way free,
swinging a clenched fist at his tormentor.

She ducked the badly aimed blow, then, to punish him for the brief display
of defiance, she shoved his head through another display case. "We've only
got a few more of these to go," she murmured as she hauled him back,
staggered and barely conscious. "And then I'm going to start using your
head to punch holes in the walls." She lifted him high until his feet were
almost off the ground, slender fingers pushing deep dents into his throat .

Spike spat blood and glared down at her. "So, you're the Dark
Slayer...can't say I'm impressed."

She snickered. "Well, it's always a shame to disappoint, though you really
should be grateful. If I were much more impressive, I'd just rip your head
off and giggle while you turned to dust...however, lucky you, you're not
the one I want to talk to."

Spike licked the blood off his lips, studying her with ferally assessing
eyes. "Maybe we can work a deal," he offered slyly. "I've got no love for
the Slayer. If you're here to kill her, I'm all for the idea."

DuCourvallier smiled, momentarily looking for all the world like a
lighthearted college student.

And then she slammed him into another display case. "I don't think so,
Billy," she murmured as she yanked him back, spilling him to unsteady feet
amid falling glass and shattered collector's china. "You see, you're really
not the calibre of help I like to have on my team."

Spike spat more blood, while streamers of crimson ran freely down his face
from a cut at the hairline. "It's Bloody William," he snarled in a voice
thick with hate.

"Right...Bloody Billy, the terror of whatever slum you were hanging out in
at the time," she dismissed his entire death with a sneer.

He lashed out furiously, rocking her head to one side and drawing a single
bead of blood on her lower lip. She returned the blow with interest, nearly
taking his head off, then lifted him by the collar, leaning close to his
ear to whisper, "Now, Billy, do you really want to keep playing this game,
because if you do, you won't even qualify as cigar ash when I'm done with
you." A sensual smile twisted full lips. "And I really don't feel like
killing you tonight."

"Go to hell," he coughed through split lips.

She shook her head, offering a mock sad smile. "Sorry...no...do you know
you can't get a decent cheeseburger there to save your soul?"

Spike stared into her eyes, trying to decide if she was sane or mad and
came away without making any conclusions. "So...what is this...some little
game before you kill me?"

Again her lips lifted in an almost beatific smile. She set him back from
herself, straightening his jacket and smoothing his collar, while Spike
stood stiffly, very aware of how easily she had already dealt with his
efforts at resistance. "Actually, I need you to carry a little message to
the Slayer."

"Do I look like a courier service?" Spike demanded, straightening his
shoulders as he tried to regain something of his dignity. She'd just
managed to surprise him before. Now that he was expecting her, she'd never
get one over on him.

"No...." Her eyes slid over him, her expression baldly assessing. "I don't
know what you look like...except maybe a not very well-trained puppy." She
laughed softly as he looked away, his expression taut at the unknowing
reminder of his little problem. "Now, I suggest you think very hard and try
to make that tiny mind of yours remember this...the
Slayer...here...midnight... tomorrow night...with my painting...no telling
the Watcher...and she's to come alone...or I might just decide to start
eating her friends to get my point across."

Then she grabbed his coat and hurled him across the room, the momentum
sending him skidding before he came to a halt.

DuCourvallier appeared deceptively calm, her arms already folded across her
chest. "Oh, and one more thing, just in case you're thinking of not telling
her in hopes I will kill off her friends..." Which had been Spike's precise
plan there for a moment. "You should know that you'll be the first one to
die." She didn't look at all bothered by the concept. "And if you know
anything about me, you know I don't go in for that whole, 'Demons don't
kill demons,' thing." Her voice dipped low, seemingly soft features taking
on a demonic glow that would have appealed to Spike were it not his death
she was contemplating. "If fact, I like killing vampires--that wonderful
puff of dust is better than an after-sex cigarette--so you'd be wise to
stay on my good side."

"I don't care about anyone's good side," Spike sneered, trying to appear as
badass as possible--none of this would have been happening if not for the
damn chip in his head-- as he pushed up on one hand.

She laughed at him, drawing a dull, dead flush of rage to his cheeks. "Then
you'll die," she taunted. "Now, remember that little message for the
Slayer. She and I have things to discuss. And remember, no telling the
Watcher. I'd be far too tempted to kill him if he came along." Again she
flashed that almost-mad smile, the one that made him wonder just how much
sane she was. And then she turned on one heel, the black coat flicking
around her legs as she strode out, slender shoulders still shaking with her
soft laughter.

Spike slowly pushed to his feet, features demonically twisted with raw
hate. He was going to kill her, slit her throat, rip out her heart and send
her back to Hell. He grabbed a spear of shattered wood from the destroyed
display case, fully intending to chase after her and end it, but by the
time he got outside she was nowhere to be seen.

Fine then, he'd sic the Slayer on her. Let the two of them work it out
between them. Whoever killed whom, he stood to gain. He lit a fresh
cigarette, drawing the smoke into long-dead lungs and letting the pleasant
nicotine buzz wash over him. Yes, this could definitely work out to his
advantage. Keep his head down and out of the way and with any luck at all,
they'd all kill each other before it was over. To the east, the horizon was
just beginning to lighten as he strode out into the remainder of the night,
whistling a jaunty tune.

* * * * * * *
TBC

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

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