TITLE: Downstairs
AUTHOR: Remy
CATEGORY: BtVS; AU
RATING: Light R, I guess, for language and kind of darkfic-y themes.
SPOILERS: Normal Again
SUMMARY: Alternate-ending Normal Again. Buffy's made her choice between the two realities but she still can't escape the other.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. Except when it's mean...'cause then it's not. Heh. remyallegory@yahoo.com
DISCLAIMER: Not. Mine.
NOTES: This turned out shorter and with a slightly different premise than I originally planned, but stories tend to write themselves, sometimes. My feelings on this one are mixed -- not sure if I'm pleased with it or not. ::shrug:: Normal Again fics have been done before, and have undoubtedly been done better, but I'm giving it a shot, anyways...
WARNING: Character death(s).


Downstairs

The scene: Sunnydale, California; November 16TH, 2001; approximately 60 degrees outside (±7 degrees in the basement); the clock upstairs reads 10:47 PM; her sister's body lies bound and gagged on the floor at the foot of the stairs next to the other unconscious three; tiny rivulets of blood trickle down her sister's wrist and palm from where the coarse rope has dug into and broken skin; a strangled cry escapes her sister's lips and disrupts the near-silence, though from behind the stairs it is just a muffled gurgle trapped between a mouth and the masking tape that holds it shut; the collective sound of four beating hearts, some slow some fast, fills the quiet as she watches It snap the chains that bound It to the pillar.

Now she's running up the stairs, her back to the scene that has just played out before her; It is coming after her. She trips on the third to the last step, letting her knee collide with the rotting wood; letting It rip into an ankle as It clamors after her.

The door at the top of the stairway opens suddenly and the bright kitchen light stains everything white.

+

Everything fades from white as she opens her eyes. Her arm muscles ache and she moves to stretch them but the sleeves of the colorless jacket they force her to wear prevents it. A brief struggle ensues: her, slinging her arms back and forth as far as they'll go, her elbows hitting the wall behind her; her jacket, ensnaring her in its prison with thick silver buckles she cannot break.

A voice comes from a body sitting and on the opposite side of the room (yet still towering above her, it seems): "Honey, stop. Please. The noise..."

Only then does she realize the loud thumps she hears are not just in her head.

+

His boots are loud against the dense, water-damaged steps. She cranes her neck upwards, just enough to see that she is once again at the bottom of the stairway. The bare floor is cold against her back.

"Buffy? Buffy?!" he calls excitedly, kneeling next to her, shaking her by the shoulders.

"Spike?" she hums in a distant voice. "What happened...did--"

"Oh god, Buffy..." He rocks her for a moment. "Are you alright?"

She turns from him to find the demon's head a few feet from hers, still slightly rolling back and forth from the force of the blow. "You killed It."

He nods. "Not hard; only had one arm," he replies with a half-smile.

That's when he looks up and behind. He stands abruptly, the hard toe of his boot roughly connecting with her elbow as he scurries over to where the others are. "Oh, fuck. Oh, god. Oh, fuck..." he whispers over and over and over as he drops to his knees next to her sister.

She stands, too, following him to where he is grasping at her sister's body, petting it, saying her name, waiting. "Buffy," he starts, turning to her, his face an awful wet mess. "Go...upstairs. Hurry, call someone...the-- an ambulance. Buffy, just -- oh, fuck -- just go!"

She ignores his pleas. "It...it was supposed to stop."

+

"Sweetie, stop."

Her eyes open again, this time with an audible snap.

"I'm-- I'm going to be better, now..." she mumbles to the three people in her room.

"Does that mean--" her mother (in a beige pantsuit) says, turning to the man in the white lab coat. "I mean, it worked...right?"

"You said...and I did. I got rid of them, of the things...they were, that were holding me back. You said to..." She, too, turns to the doctor. He smiles a small smile. "I'm going to be better, now, right? You said to...so I killed them..."

Her father's forehead creases as he narrows his eyebrows; then, he smiles, too. "Sweetie, it's going to be okay."

"I want to go home. Now." She pushes her back against the wall, trying to stand.

The doctor rushes to her side, placing a fist on her shoulder; she sits back down under the weight of his hand. "Not so fast, sport," he says with a chuckle. He turns to her parents, still across the room. "She seems to be responding, more so than we've seen in previous days. Whatever it was that she...did...it seems to have helped. But don't get your hopes up. This happened before, as you remember. We'll keep a closer eye on her, track progress, and then we'll see about getting her released. All right?"

Her parents nod simultaneously before slowly approaching her. "You hear that, honey?" Her mother says sweetly. "We're going to get you out of here."

+

"Buffy, you have to get out here." He says pushing at her, pulling at her, finally just picking her up before ascending the staircase. She can feel his hands shaking beneath her shoulders and the back of her knees.

He drops her unceremoniously onto the kitchen floor. He flies over to where the phone is and grabs it off its cradle before returning to where she is still sprawled on the floor, her eyes dead and unfocused--

"Buffy, please, I need you...c'mon, snap out of it!" he yells; but she still doesn't move.

He slaps her hard across the face and this time she responds. "Spike? Where-- what am I doing here? Here."

"Buffy, please, just listen to me...I need you to call for help." He thrusts the phone at her and she cautiously takes it. Then he flies back down into the basement, still muttering curses through choking sobs.

She presses the light blue button that says talk, staring at the numbers that mean nothing to her though she's done this before, this nearly exact procedure. Press the nine, the one, the one again. Wait until the nice and calm lady on the other end tells you what to do.

No, this is all wrong. She presses the blue button again, turning the receiver off before tossing it to the floor.

Her mind is racing, giving her a headache. Why won't it stop!? she wants to scream.

Spike bursts back into the kitchen causing her to flinch. He grabs her by the arm and pulls her off the floor. She looks at his face to find the tears have stopped coming. Instead, he looks uncharacteristically calm as he runs his hands up and down her arms, over her stomach and back, looking for any abrasions.

"They're dead, aren't they?" She asks suddenly. He's taken back by the impassive tone of her voice, but then dismisses it as shock and grief. He nods. "Tara, too?" He nods again. "She came down last."

"You called, right?"

She nods. "They're on their way."

"You've got blood on your hands."

"It's not mine."

He leads her to the sink, rolling up the sleeves of her shirt before thrusting her forearms under the cold water. She watches the water bleed as it swirls around the sink, staining the porcelain before disappearing down the drain. They are both quiet; then: "Something's wrong."

+

"What's wrong?" she hears her mother cry impatiently.

The room is spinning; she realizes the doctor is shaking her. "Buffy? You still with us?"

She blinks a few times, then nods.

"She seems to be jumping in and out of consciousness, almost as if-- as if she is battling with herself. For control. There must be...something...still holding her back."

Her mother kneels next to her, wrapping her arms around her neck. "Oh, Buffy. My sweet, strong Buffy. Stay with us...please?"

"Why won't it stop?"

+

"Why won't what stop?"

His voice shatters her reverie and she is back in her kitchen.

"Buffy...I need you to tell me...explain to me what happened."

"I-- I don't remember. I mean, the demon, it was chained to the pole, and then it wasn't. I watched from the corner. And Tara, she came down the stairs. And I just...it was dark; It couldn't see me, I don't think. And then I was running up the stairs and It was following me, and then everything went white and I was back in the hospital."

"The hospital...?" He stares at her in confusion. She doesn't respond. "Where the bloody hell is the ambule--" he starts in anger, then realizes the situation. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, lost in the shock -- of what? -- of something -- until... "Buffy, we have to get out of here. Out of the house. We-- I have to get rid of...them...Buffy. I wasn't thinking...the police, there's nothing...we can't explain this." He tugs at her arm, pulling her towards the front door, but she doesn't move. "I need you, Buffy, to bloody focus!" he yells. "Do you understand? They're coming and we can't--"

"No, they're not." He stares at her incredulously. "They're not coming. I didn't call."

"Wha--?"

"Spike, you don't understand!" She yells in frustration as she pushes him off her; he falls into the island, the sharp edge of the tiling scraping the small of his back. "I watched. Don't you see? I was supposed to get better after they died."

He turns and runs out the kitchen towards the staircase leading up. "Stay there!" he yells from the foyer. He runs up and into her bedroom, to the small table next to her bed. The mug is still there and it is empty, coated inside with a thin layer of dried brown liquid. He scours the tan carpet for any signs of spilt potion. Nothing; then he sees the syrupy liquid in the trashcan next to her table.

He heads back downstairs, his mind racing, confused and telling him it's all his fault. Make sure she drinks that. But he didn't. Bloody fucking hell.

Back in the kitchen he finds her missing. He starts to yell her name but in the eerie silence he can hear the quiet click-clack of her shoes against wood; she's going back downstairs. There is no time to stop her, however, as a quick glance at the counter next to the stove reveals to him: a crumpled piece of notebook paper, a half-empty cylinder of something dark orange, some nettle leaves and alkanet root, and the detached left arm of the Glarghk Guhl Kashma'nik.

Four leaves + 1/2 root is scrawled in pink gel pen on the notebook paper. Squinting at the small handwriting he mixes the leaves and the black root into a mug, pouring in the thick liquid. He glances at the paper. Should turn brown. Dark. "Dark enough," he mutters, turning towards the basement. "Buffy!"

He hears a loud crack and a few quick clunks before she stumbles back through the doorway.

"Here," he says, handing her the mug. "Drink this."

+

"Drink this, dear."

She takes the small plastic cup of water from the evening nurse, swallowing it in one gulp with the acidic capsules and chalky pills. Satisfied, the lady gives her a quick pat on the head -- "Good girl." -- before turning around to leave.

"How are you feeling, Buffy?"

She quickly recoils in surprise, but relents as the doctor walks into her line of sight, then, crouching before her with a concerned look on his face.

"Um, okay. I guess."

He nods, vaguely. "You're a strong girl, Buffy. I'm not lying when I say you have a real chance of getting released, and soon. But Buffy, there's got to be something else in there," he taps his finger against her forehead, "something that's dragging you back there. And we need you here. Your parents need you to come back. Do you understand?"

She nods.

"This is real, Buffy. Not that place in your head."

+

She stares at the coffee cup in his hand. "I-- I can't."

"Buffy!" he growls. "Drink it! Whatever it is that you're...whatever other life you're living, it's all in your mind, Buffy, in the poison running through your blood. It's not real, Buffy. I'm real. What happened is real. This is real, Buffy. Not that place in your head." He lets a stifled sob escape his mouth. "Christ, love. Please. Just...drink it. I need you to be here, Buffy."

She takes the mug from him, holds it, thinks for a moment that maybe she really does want to drink it. But -- no, no -- she doesn't. She wants to forget; she wants to go home. And, besides, she killed everything here that holds any sort of meaning. No, no, apparently not everything.

"Spike?" She sets the cup on the counter next to her, her back now up against the wall. "Spike, I can't. And you-- you don't want me to. I took her from you. The others, they didn't...but Spike, she was so scared. I-- I chased her down the hall, and I taped her mouth shut so I wouldn't have to listen to her cry and beg. And I tied her up and left her there, and then I watched..."

He looks at the basement door, at the mug on the counter, and the girl crying in front of him.

"This can't be real. I wouldn't do that..."

"Buffy..." he says because he doesn't know what else to say. He looks away again because he can't really look at her. "No, Buffy. It was an accident. It-- it wasn't your fault. It was the poison. We can get out here, Buffy. I can take you someplace safe. We can go see ole Rupes. Here, let me get the phone and I'll just...I'll just give him a ring and you drink that and then..."

He leans down to pick the phone off the floor and when he stands back up he finds a splintered end of the stairway railing pressed against his chest. "Buffy..." he faintly whispers, his hands automatically flying up in surrender, the phone dropping to the floor with a deafening crash.

"It's you," she says. "I didn't think...but it is. And if it's not, then...I'm sorry, Spike."

"Buffy, stop," he tries to demand sternly, but it instead comes out flimsy and cracked. "Staking me isn't going to change a bloody thing..."

And it doesn't.

+

"Hello? Mrs. Summers? This is Doctor Phillips from the Los Angeles Mental Institution..."

He hates this part.

"We're sorry to inform you but something unfortunate has happened..."

It's quite a rare occurrence, actually. And one with little explanation available.

"About fifteen minutes ago Ms. Klatt, the midnight orderly, found Buffy unmoving in her bed while doing her rounds. The ambulance has just arrived, but, Mrs. Summers, we couldn't get a pulse..."

It's like the mind just gives up...blows a fuse...quits.

"They're taking her to the ER now, Mrs. Summers, and I assure you everything humanly possible will be done to bring her back...I'm sorry, ma'am, we really don't have much of an explanation...it appears as though she...died...in her sleep..."

The hallucinations become reality. When one dies, even within the confines of their own mind, the whole body gives, he supposes.

"I'm very sorry."

+

The scene: Sunnydale, California; November 17TH, 2001; approximately 55 degrees outside (±9 degrees in the basement); the clock upstairs reads 12:12 AM; the neighbor who heard the first screams stands near the sink, a palm held lazily against her mouth; two police officers join a third one in the kitchen, having found nothing upstairs; the third officer shrugs then points at the closed door leading into the basement; a thick boot connects with the nearly-spotless ivory-painted wood, dirtied only by a few bloody fingerprints.

The door at the top of the stairway opens suddenly, settled dust rising as the officers choke, and the bright kitchen light stains everything white.

THE END
4.09.02