Chapter 8:
She hadn't realized he was being literal. But there they were, outside her office, he dragging her along: his own personal ragdoll, easily transporting her despite her inert weight.
The building was closed, business hours long over. Spike stopped abruptly at the entrance, pushing her in front of him.
"Open it," he said, not requesting.
She stared at him blankly, and he nodded toward the locked doors.
"I know you have the key. Go on."
She didn't bother asking him what he needed, or why they were here. His answer wouldn't really matter. Whatever it was, she would probably end up giving it to him...except...
"I can't," Buffy replied, relatively happy for this small triumph, "Key's in my purse, which is in my car...at home."
She smiled at him then, condescending yet sweet as she pleased. Spike made some non-verbal noise of agitation.
"I don't have time for this..." he muttered more to himself than anyone, before regarding her again, "Alarm?"
She stopped smiling.
"What?"
"Do you have an alarm? Inside?"
She didn't know. Or she couldn't remember. Or she didn't want to tell him.
"Why?"
He made that noise again. Somewhere between a growl, a grunt, and a sigh.
"Fuck it."
Buffy nearly yelped at the sound of shattering glass. Breaking the bolt, Spike withdrew a now-bleeding fist from the hole he had created, and cocked his head to one side, listening.
"Guess not."
He opened the door and walked through, not waiting for her to tag along, knowing she would. Following, she found her eyes drawn to his hands. Fresh from his previous encounter, he had successfully managed to re-open and worsen each wound. Buffy felt her stomach drop, because in her time with the department, she'd seen psychotics exhibit a somewhat elevated tolerance for pain...but Spike? Hadn't even flinched.
She considered this a bad thing.
Still, she trailed after him, continuously stumbling, grabbing onto his duster as she tripped through darkness she couldn't navigate. Thrice in one day, she could have easily suffocated on the paradox. As the one person who had the most evidence of Spike's raving insanity, she now relied on him to keep her from falling. Making him, at least for Buffy: The Way, The Truth, and The Light.
She'd laugh if it wasn't pretty tragic.
Spike led her straight back "to work", pushed her to sit on the couch. Then he moved from her, and she strained to see what he was doing. There was no need, for moments later he returned, bringing with him her telephone and Rolodex, dumping them both in her lap.
"We're gonna disappear for a while, you and I."
The declaration shocked her, for reasons she wasn't quite certain of. He'd said much of the same all day.
"That kind of thing, people get suspicious. Now, The Husband's no threat there, obviously, but you do see a mess of nutters on an almost daily basis, and I'm sure they'll go completely barmy if you leave without word." A pause, and then, "So call 'em. All of them. Cancel your appointments. Tell 'em...tell 'em it's a family emergency or what all, I don't care. Just do it, an' don't mention me."
Instruction over, Spike turned, then seemed to think better of it, "Oh, and Elizabeth," he added, crouching down to catch her gaze, which had fixed itself dumbly on the objects he'd tossed to her. He reached forward, grasped her forearm and twisted it to expose the palm. Buffy's eyes remained downcast until she heard a soft click and saw the glint of moonlight off a blade unfolding from its handle. Her heart raced as he drew a track of crimson along her lifeline, posing his threat with perfection,
"Dialing 9-1-1 is an easy way to lose a finger."
It hurt. The cut. And the realization. That she wasn't immune to his menace, his temper. She couldn't force the disappointment down, knowing that Spike would likely kill her as soon as she proved herself useless.
Buffy looked from the blood pooling in her hand to the telephone resting on her thighs, and then to Spike.
"Okay," she whispered, a simple answer to a complicated demand.
Her voice made up the background, and Spike only half listened to her explaining away the skepticism of unstable patients. As soon as she was too engrossed in doing so to pay any attention to his occupation, he strode to her desk, intent upon retrieving what he'd forgotten. And there they were, right where he'd left them. Maybe it was the sickness talking, but Spike partly expected them to have vanished. His existence had always seemed fairly theoretical anyway, making tangible records of his so-called legacy nigh impossible. Yet there they were, and call it a rare show of sentiment, but he was glad to see them. Those tapes, chronicling history as Spike knew it. His biography: carefully extracted by Dr. Elizabeth Summers-Daly, and real enough to slip into his pockets.
Which he did.
After stowing away the last cartridge, and hearing the receiver placed back onto its cradle, he glanced over to find Elizabeth grimacing as she held her slashed hand close. A box of tissues lay on her desk―convenient for an emotional therapy session―and Spike grabbed them, going to her.
"You all right?" he asked, holding out the box. She took a few, pressed them against her wound, wearing an expression that made him regret the question.
"Better than you," she returned, looking pointedly at his ravaged fist, "You should clean that up."
Her genuine concern made him uneasy, so he ignored it, "I will. Why'd you stop?"
"I'm finished."
"You've rung everyone?"
She nodded, telling the truth.
"Good. Not done, though," he said, "You've got one more. Rupert Giles."
Elizabeth peered at him quizzically, for sure trying to suss out some hidden motive. But Spike had nothing to hide. Well, not much, at any rate.
"He saw you today. He'll wonder where you've gone. Probably put two and two together an' send in the pigs. Clear it up, would you?"
"I can't," she said, spouting the two words that repeatedly hindered their progress, "His number's in my cellphone, which is in my..."
Spike waved a dismissive hand, "In your purse. In your car. At home. Right."
She seemed pleased with herself again, as if discovering a loophole in some supposedly air-tight contract involving the two of them. She really did lack faith.
"Come on," he directed her, placing a hand beneath her elbow and steering her toward the door, "We can solve this elsewhere. I've already got what I came for."
Spike couldn't help but feel like they were going in circles. Here and there, back and forth: it was starting to make him dizzy. Or maybe that too was the sickness...wouldn't matter soon enough. Just one last call.
Buffy noticed the changes right away, because she distinctly remembered leaving her car running by the curb. However, when her home came into view, the vehicle did not. Moreover, nothing she recalled from mere hours ago remained. The residence looked deserted, devoid of life, and that fact alone personified the source of all the silence and police tape.
Spike, naturally.
"Your house always look this dead, pet?" the source asked, reading her thoughts, taunting her with them.
"Just today," she replied absently, exiting the DeSoto and moving to her front door. It was unlocked, little surprise there. Honestly, she was beginning to question the LAPD's ability to either protect or serve.
Upon entering, she was sure.
It was obvious the interior had been cleaned as best as possible, though Buffy was forced to close her eyes against the various sprays of blood staining the walls and carpet of what no longer felt like her family room. She made her way quickly to the garage entrance in search of her car,
"Love what you've done with the place," Spike offered snidely, "Or, rather, what I've done."
The door's slam was the only answer she gave him as she stormed out and climbed into the SUV. Reaching for the bag she'd thrown to the floor, her eyes were caught once again by an object that, until this very moment, she'd never considered a viable solution to the havoc that was William the Bloody.
Yet, seeing through a haze of red―blood-red, to be exact―Buffy decided on a few things.
She didn't want to die. So she'd make herself useful.
