FIC: Whither Thou Goest... Part 14/?

[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: soft R -- for cursing, some violence, and such
Part: 14/? (yeah, I know the parts and the chapter numbers don't match 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 Ten

Giles cursed softly as he hung up the phone and drew a thick line through
the name and number listed on his notepad. No information to be had from
that source. So far, not much information to be had from any source. The
two names he had for DuCourvallier's alternate identities, Blaine Michaels
and Devon Carstairs, had so far yielded almost nothing, leaving him
uncertain whether they were made up identities, or ones that had been
stolen from victims of the vampire's who happened to be hard to trace.

As wily as DuCourvallier was, either choice was a definite possibility.

He looked down at the list of names on his pad, all of them crossed out
now, the number of notes painfully small in comparison to the time spent.

"Doesn't look like you've had much luck."

The Watcher's chin snapped up as a mug of something hot and steaming was
thrust into his line of vision. "Oh...Joyce...I'm sorry, I was...thinking...."

Joyce Summers nodded wanly, her eyes tired as they met his. No surprise
there. She'd gotten no sleep the night before, had a broken wrist, and had
stopped taking the painkillers in an effort to think more clearly. She had
to be feeling both the resulting pain and the exhaustion. "Have you learned
anything?" she questioned.

Giles shook his head. "Nothing of any real use." He glanced into the
livingroom, where Anya was still studying the painting, though Xander had
finally collapsed and was snoring gently on the couch, one arm flopped
across his eyes.

Joyce's eyes slid closed and she took a deep breath before letting it out
slowly to calm herself. They hadn't really spoken during the day, both
involved with their respective investigations and neither in any hurry for
any contact. A magic induced orgy on top of a police car generally doesn't
leave mature adults anything but profoundly embarrassed. Joyce and Giles
were both embarrassed and then some. "Delaine DuCourvallier was a
Slayer...just like Buffy?" she murmured.

Giles shrugged. "She was a Slayer...but no, not like Buffy. Your daughter
is one of the most...honorable individuals it has ever been my honor to
know," he said with heartfelt emotion. He loved Buffy. It was just that
simple. She was his student, his friend, his colleague, and the child he
would never have. "I know this duty is not something she
planned...certainly not what she would have chosen for her life, but she
has accepted this responsibility with profound maturity. She is a true
hero." He took off his glasses, polishing them as he continued, "Delaine
DuCourvallier was a coward who betrayed those closest to her...turned over
for murder, those who should most have been able to trust her." He replaced
his glasses, then took a sip from the mug she'd brought before continuing,
"She does not deserve to have her name mentioned in the same breath as your
daughter."

Joyce's brows lifted, but she didn't immediately respond. It was the
painting that was bothering her. The emotion was too real, too.... She
couldn't think of the right word, but some part of her couldn't quite
believe the artist who could create that much beauty could commit
cold-blooded murder. And, of course, she had her own issues with the
Watcher's Council.

Giles noted her doubtful look. "You disagree?" he asked, his tone crisply
disapproving.

Joyce shrugged, trying to tamp down her own resentments against the secrets
Giles had been part of keeping from her and the gulf in her relationship
with her daughter that she often blamed him for. "I don't know enough to
agree or disagree," she shot back, unable to quite keep the sharpness out
of her voice. She caught her temper before continuing, "I do know though,
that if I go out and drug a fifteen or sixteen year old child, kidnap her,
force her to do my bidding, and punish her if she refuses, the last thing
anyone would call her is a dishonorable coward if she fought to escape."

A muscle pulsed in the Watcher's jaw. "You don't understand."

"Maybe not," Joyce allowed. She started to move away, but Giles' voice
called her back.

"Whatever you or I think of what has happened in the past is irrelevant,"
he said softly as she turned to face him again. "She is a vampire...and she
is very likely here to kill Buffy."

"I understand that," Joyce murmured. "And I assure you, if I find a way to
destroy her, *I will*...but only because she's a threat to my daughter. Not
because of what she may have done to your precious Watcher's Council... not
when they were more than willing to get Buffy killed in the name of some
kind of test."

Even if he privately agreed with her, Giles couldn't go against a lifetime
of programming, especially not when his more youthful defiance had led to
so many evils. "You pity her," he said after a beat, the words bordering on
accusation, but stopping just short.

Joyce shrugged. "I pity the child she was." With that, she turned away,
moving into the kitchen and leaving Giles feeling oddly bereft.

Tamping down the wave of guilt that never quite left him for what he'd been
a part of doing to Buffy Summers' life, he rose and stretched, then crossed
to where Anya was still studying the painting through a magnifying glass.
"Anything?"

The young woman looked up, her expression reflecting the strange mix of
cynicism and naivete he'd come to expect from the former Vengeance Demon.
"Well, the date on the painting is nearly four years after she supposedly
died...her stroke is quite amazing, and she was a real stickler for
details...you can see the crow's feet on the brunette if you look closely."

Giles sighed softly. "I meant that might explain why she was so desperate
to retrieve the painting."

"Oh," Anya murmured, though he suspected she'd known that all along.
"No...nothing out of the ordinary. No words, spells, images,
maps...nothing...nada...zip--"

"Got it," Giles said to forestall any further commentary.

Anya tipped her head to one side as she looked back at Xander where he was
dozing. "Isn't he cute when he snores like that?"

"Ahm...yes...whatever..." Giles muttered and pivoted to return to his
efforts to track down some kind of lead that might help them find the
former Slayer.

* * * * * *
Joyce stood with her good hand braced on the kitchen counter, the tightly
strapped and bound one held against her chest, her face pale with pain. A
bottle of juice sat unopened on the counter near her hand, right where
she'd set it after trying to open the top. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," she
berated herself. Lost in her private musings, she'd had the brief thought
that caffeine probably wasn't a good idea for her after all the drugs she'd
had and bypassed the fresh-brewed coffee, instead grabbing the juice bottle
out of the fridge. One quick twist intended to open the bottle had instead
reminded her of the fragility of her newly broken wrist as bone ground
against bone. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," she repeated the imprecation as she
concentrated on simply remaining upright.

"Need help with that?" An arm reached past Joyce for the juice bottle, clad
in dark leather, the hand long and fine boned.

Spike.

Startled, she spun to face the blond vampire, as he plucked up the bottle,
easily popping it open before setting it back on the counter.

"...thank you..." she murmured hesitantly. She knew what he was. Certainly
Buffy had been very clear with her warnings and her disdain for him, but
training wouldn't let her be rude when he'd only been polite to her. It
didn't mean she wasn't on her guard.

He offered a hint of a smile. "But you've been warned about me," he drawled
knowingly.

"Something like that."

That lazy half-smile still danced along his lips. "I'm really not so bad,
y'know." He reached up to grab a glass from the cupboard over her head. "I
don't pretend to be what I'm not."

"You tried to kill my daughter," Joyce said quietly, willing herself not to
show any fear of the man in front of her.

He shrugged, apparently indifferent to the accusation. "I'm a vampire.
She's the Slayer. It's the natural order of things." His expression twisted
to an angry sneer as he lifted a hand to his temple. "Or it was until those
bastards put this bloody chip in my head." He filled the glass with juice,
then presented it to her.

"Mmm, Xander and Anya mentioned something about that," Joyce murmured, then
took a sip from the glass, letting the cool, biting sweet slide down her
throat. "You'll pardon if I'm not to sympathetic that you can't eat people
these days."

He laughed softly, eyes gleaming as he offered another shrug. "The Slayer
and I know where we stand with each other." He leaned close, intentionally
crowding her. "Actually, the irony of all of it is that her Watcher came
closer to killing her than I ever did...and you too in the bargain."

Joyce swallowed hard. "How do you know about that?"

"There are no secrets amongst demons. Word gets around." He fingered a
blond wave where it settled on her shoulder. "Now Giles, he appears to be
the Slayer's dear friend...but.... Personally, I've always preferred the
devil I know...and we all know I'm the devil."

Joyce stiffened, her gaze sliding away from his, not wanting him to see
that she had some of the same doubts. "I should get back to what I was doing."

He didn't move. "Yes, looking for La Coeur Noir's long lost secrets."

"La Coeur Noir?" she repeated, forcing down a shiver as she continued to
face him.

"The black heart. It's what they call her. The Watchers fear her, you know.
You're hunting for her secrets," he leaned in close enough to whisper near
her ear, "but they say she already knows all of theirs."

Joyce reached out with her good hand to push him aside, the glass still
gripped tightly in her fingers threatening to spill juice all over his
leather jacket. "As I said," she intoned coldly, "I should go."

Laughing softly, he let her push him back. "Of course. You have fun with
that." Still chuckling, he watched her flee. Funny thing was, he still
rather liked the Slayer's mum. Head canted to one side, he considered
turning her once he got the chip out of his head only to discard the idea
almost instantly. There'd been precious few humans he had any use for as
anything other than a well deserved meal, but he'd discovered through trial
and error that, on the rare occasion he did like one of them, it was best
not to do the vamp thing. He never seemed to like what they became. Better
to simply kill them if it came down to it.

In the meantime--he chuckled again--there was always a bit of fun to be
had. The Slayer's mother definitely had some serious issues with the
Watcher. That could make for some interesting games.

* * * * * *

She leaned forward, her hand braced against the mirror, staring at the all
too familiar lack of her own reflection, missing it for the first time in
more decades than she cared to count. Like so many things she had learned
to exist without, she was suddenly feeling the loss. Like her home, her
name, her past, it was one of the things that normalcy demanded and she had
long since left behind. Delaine DuCourvallier...she tested the name as she
allowed herself to think it...there had been so many other names, so many
other identities and personalities in nearly four hundred years of being
hunted in one form or another. She'd learned early to simply think of
herself by whatever name she was using, to let go of her own identity, and
become someone else. Now, it felt strange just to think of the name she'd
been christened with and relate it to herself.

She turned away from the tangible reminder of what she was and wasn't with
a graceful pivot, willing those thoughts away as her eyes landed on yet
another tangible reminder of things she didn't want to think about.

Her clothes, or more correctly, the tattered remnants of her clothes hung
drying over the arm of a chair, the bloodstains barely dented by her
efforts to wash them out, the fabric ripped and torn from two days of hard
living. Clearly her efforts at cleanliness had not done them any good.
"From Vampire-Slayer to Flasher-Slayer in one easy step," she muttered
disgustedly, silently castigating herself for compulsive stupidity.

A simple mistake brought to her attention and then she'd given in to a
moment's temptation to see something she should have avoided like the
plague. And now, where was she? In a low rent motel used by prostitutes,
buck naked and contemplating wearing the none too attractive leather pants
and muscle shirt she'd found in the dead police officer's bag.

She ran slender fingers through her hair, still wet from the shower,
absently combing out the tangles as she considered her situation.

And soon she would be off, most likely to step into a trap. "Fool," she
whispered angrily.

But she didn't contemplate not trying to retrieve the painting.

Not even for a moment.

Not when she knew how quickly the Watcher's would throw it onto the fire if
they ever got the chance.

Finally, she turned away to grab for a towel, scrubbing her hair and skin
dry with vicious strokes in a completely unsuccessful attempt to redirect
her thoughts.

* * * * * *


TBC

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

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