He prodded the unconscious man with the toe of his boot and grinned widely. "She hasn't aged well, has she?" The growl of fury that ground out of the figure behind him rumbled through the building, eliciting a faint moan from the senseless man on the floor.
That is not the Slayer!
Spike's eyebrows shot up to his hairline and he eyed House quizzically. "You know, I do believe you're right. Damn." He tsked at the three captors, hovering over their prize and blankly awaiting instruction. "Naughty demons!"
The error is yours! roared the voice.
"Hey, you saw me give the orders. How was I to know he was her stake-supplier? Chalk this one up to experience, I guess." Spike's flippant advice did nothing to soothe the creature's rage. When it next spoke, it's tone was as cold and hard as diamonds.
Enough. We shall waste no more time. The demons looked up expectantly.
Kill him.
It was hard to believe that the drones were capable of the lightning-fast dart they made towards House's body. The closest seized the unconscious doctor's hair roughly and yanked his head off the floor. Something flared for a second in its eyes ---
"Hey, woah woah woah!" Spike grabbed the thing's wrist and squeezed. "Snapping his neck? Where's the elegance in that?"
Do not concern yourself with aesthetics, sneered the voice in frigid tones. We are demons. We kill.
"And lose all that fresh-pumping blood?" Spike's grip was verging on the bone-crushing now, and the demon silently and sourly released its prey. "That's just wasteful. Not to mention the fact that this little change in schedule - "
An idiotic mistake -
"As you say - has fortuitously brought me and Dru a little present. No point chucking all that away." Spike stood up and tugged thoughtfully on his leather lapels. "We send them back after the Slayer, keep him for fun and games, and we're hardly a day behind schedule. He can be the warm-up for the main event, eh?"
I warn you, Vampire. I will not be delayed any further. Your games do not amuse me.
"Let's not be petty, now. I get what I want, you get what you want. Everybody wins." He eyed House again, cold and appraising. "'Cept this guy, obviously. Does that bother anybody here?"
The silence billowed around him for a few seconds, and he nodded in satisfaction. "Alright then. We send them out again. And I'll introduce the doctor here to Dru." Spike smiled the smug smile of one who has deftly sidestepped all the landmines, and is skipping towards the finishing line. "Time to set up our little procedure."
Of course, one of the key things about landmines is their tendency to suddenly blow up in unexpected places. Drusilla's lusty admiration of Spike's defiance of the Slayer-summoning had quickly turned into savage fury when she discovered her pet (Spike stifled the urge to bite something) was not the replacement candidate. She stalked around the small stone room she had labelled her 'parlour' and hissed with anger.
"Just look at him, darling," coaxed Spike. "He's perfect. He's just what you need."
"He's not what I want!" snarled Dru, stamping petulantly.
"But this is perfect, see? This way - this way, your doctor doesn't have to go through the process. We can keep him, for a rainy day. Play with him all you want. And this one, we can use to help you." Once the process is complete, Spike told himself firmly, she won't care about the other doctor anyway. She'll forget. And we'll go hunting.
Dru pouted and twisted that damn tie in her fingers again, unwilling to bounce back from the disappointment. "But he was so delicious." She gave that drunk little smile, the one that made Spike's heart remember what skipping a beat felt like, and lounged dreamily against the wall. "Could you feel it on him?"
"Feel what?"
"Death." She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. "He was doused in it. It clung all over him. So much time around them . . . All dwindling away . . . ". She made a purring noise and suddenly flitted over to the other doctor, where he lay on a low stone bench. He was stirring faintly, the demons' hold fading away. It was too soon for them to capture a new target using their traditional practices, especially someone as powerful as a Slayer, but Spike had smoothly talked them round to working a different method. It made their time-frame a little more urgent, but it was tried and recently tested, and Spike had cleverly made sure that it was their only remaining option.
She leaned over House's body and stared. As always, Spike couldn't help wondering what she was looking for, what she saw. Never the same things as anyone else, that much was certain. She pressed a curving fingernail into the faint worry-lines between his eyes and watched him frown in response, head twisting weakly away from the stimulus. "It's not as strong on him," she said flatly. "It's not -- oh!" She twitched, and moved around to his right side.
"What is it, pet?"
"Dead," she murmured, almost lazily.
"Told you, see? He's a doctor too. Humans dropping like flies everywhere he goes," said Spike triumphantly.
"No . . . not on him . . . In him . . " Spike jerked in jealousy as her hands darted out and grabbed the man's belt buckle. House was beginning to come to; his fingers curled against the stone and he let out a groan in protest. Spike planted his hands on the doctor's shoulders and watched warily as Dru pulled the belt off and began to slide the man's pants down over his boxers. Semi-conscious, House squirmed from some primitive intuition of panic, but he was still too spent to even open his eyes. He lay defenceless as he was pinned out like a butterfly, scar exposed to their probing eyes.
"Ouch," murmured Spike. "Well, he's a bit banged up. Doesn't make a difference to us, sweetheart."
"No", moaned Dru, tracing the ridge of scar tissue with a fingertip. "It's dead, it's a block . . . It drains all his life. I don't want it. It'll break everything - " Her voice rose in a wail and Spike was at her side in a second, dragging her hands away from House and onto his own shoulders.
"Hey, calm down - "
"No, no, no, he'll ruin it -- "
"Ok, ok. It doesn't have to be a problem, eh?" He kissed her deeply, and her trembling subsided, intrigue sparking anew in her eyes.
"Can we really?"
"Of course, pet. We'll work around it. Only the best for you, Dru."
"Where's House?"
Wilson looked up from his desk. "He isn't back yet?"
Cuddy shut his office door and cornered him with a glare. "Back from where?"
"Er . . . The clinic?" covered Wilson lamely. She sighed. "He should be around soon," he placated. "He's meant to be giving me a ride back."
"No, he's not," said Cuddy. Wilson raised his eyebrows at this bizarre order and she explained further. "Do you know what time it is? It's past seven; he's ditched you, ditched me and gone home."
"I don't think so." Wilson had gotten the distinct impression that House had no intention of letting him slip off home alone this evening, despite his protestations otherwise.
"I do. He's not in the hospital, trust me, unless he's hiding under your couch." Wilson frowned. Maybe he had mistaken House's apparent concern - it was House after all - but the promise of mocking Wilson's newest band of followers should have been guarantee enough of his company. Cuddy smiled at his perplexity. "Did you think he'd leave you a note? It's House. He left his office at four and hasn't been back. I've already heard it from Foreman," she added, a note of irritation lacing her voice. Wilson started slightly, but she didn't seem to notice.
Maybe he just went straight home. Got the test results, solved the case . . . Interest over. Wilson fought a small pang as he arrived at this conclusion. What, did you want House as a babysitter? he wondered angrily. He rubbed his bandaged wrist absently against his desk. Back to business as usual.
"You should get home too," added Cuddy softly. "Sounds like you had a rough couple of days. Need a ride?"
"Thanks, but I should finish this. See you tomorrow." She nodded and paused as she stepped through the door.
"Oh, and if you do drop by on House tonight, tell him to stop wasting the lab techs' time. You don't browbeat them into running every test under the sun on whatever chemicals you fancy and then not even bother to pick up the results."
The pen dropped from Wilson's numb fingers. Thirty seconds later, he was sprinting across the balcony towards House's office, leaving it to bleed out its blooms of ink into the carpet.
Thirty minutes later, Wilson arrived back in his office and stood in front of his desk, looking lost. House wasn't in his office, in any of the department lounges, in an empty exam room or on the roof, and his car was still parked in the lot. There was no Cuddy to hide from anymore, and still the test results for his prized bottle of green gunk lay untouched in the lab. House might have lost interest in the vague threat of Spike and his cronies, but there was no way he had lost interest in the medicine.
Wilson tried calling him one more time before throwing his phone onto the couch and running his hands through his hair. If he finds out I'm panicking like this because he skipped work, I'll never hear the end of it, he thought. The sad fact about that theory was that it only held if there was a rational explanation. Was he overreacting? He hadn't seen House since their conversation on the balcony, but it wasn't as if he had been watching out for him . . .
He stopped in his tracks. Of course. He peered onto the balcony, then out into the corridor. No one that he could see, but . . .
"Hey! I know at least one of you is there. Come out!" He waited for a few seconds in the silence that followed, and was just beginning to feel foolish when there was a faint whisking noise behind him and Angel dropped into sight outside his balcony door.
"Hey. Everything alright?"
Wilson gaped at him for a second. "How did -- you know what, never mind. Have you seen House?"
"Not since you were talking to him on the balcony."
"Oh. That's -- wait a second, you were listening to that conversation?" Wilson put his hands on his hips and glared at Angel.
"Not intentionally," said Angel. "It was more that I accidentally overheard, if you get me."
"No, not really." Angel watched the stressed doctor seemingly fight to stay in control of himself, wondering if he was going to throw a punch. To his surprise, Wilson simply straightened up after a few seconds of silent fuming and gestured to the couch wearily. "Sit down. I need to talk to the rest of your friends. I can't find House."
Angel moved cautiously to the chair, pulling the walkie-talkie out of his pocket. "Wouldn't he have already left work by now?"
"Yes, but that's not the point." Wilson frowned, and snatched the walkie-talkie out of Angel's hand with surprising speed (and rudeness, considering his normal demeanour). "This is how you've been spying on me all day?!" He jabbed the button before Angel could respond and spoke into the mouthpiece. "All of you, come to my office now." He tossed the thing back at Angel and perched of the edge of the desk. "This is ridiculous. This isn't Nancy Drew; you either call the police if you think that there's a problem, or you admit that there's nothing to worry about. You don't embed yourselves in corners of the hospital and monitor me all day without my permission!"
Angel had the grace took look ashamed as the rest of them filtered in through his office doors, looking at Wilson curiously. "What's up?" asked Buffy, settling herself in his chair.
"House is missing. And stop visiting my patients."
"Missing? Since when?"
"I don't know, you're the ones doing reconnaissance. When did you last see him?"
They conferred briefly. "When he yelled at me to leave you alone," declared Xander, unabashedly present nonetheless. Wilson felt a brief rush of gratitude to his friend.
"That was about three seconds after you last saw him," pointed out Angel. Buffy looked uncomfortable, but decided to go for 'optimistic' anyway.
"That doesn't have to mean anything. Does he normally leave work early?"
"Yes, but this isn't a normal day!" snapped Wilson. "He hasn't even checked for his lab results, and that's the only reason he came into work today." Xander shrugged.
"So his work ethic's slipping. He got a half-day. I say kudos to the guy."
"You think this is funny?!" Wilson stepped forward with a murderous look in his eyes, and Giles hastily stood up in front of the doctor and spoke soothingly.
"You're right, we can't afford to take any risks at the moment. Where was he going when he left the hospital?"
"Jogging park," answered Wilson promptly, ignoring their puzzled looks. "I'll go and look for him there." He grabbed his coat and started shrugging it on, wondering why he had needed a consult to decide on this course of rather obvious action. Then he remembered. "Just take this seriously for a moment. You think this could be anything to do with Spike? There was nothing special about me, if he just wanted to get his hands on a doctor - "
"Technically, yes, but Drusilla tends to have very strong preferences over who they have for -- as guests," amended Giles. "If she acted as you say she did, it would be rather odd for her to change her mind now."
"I have to go," muttered Wilson. "If House is with Spike -- "
"Don't panic yet," said Buffy. "Like Giles says, not to freak you out, but you seemed to be the favourite." Wilson felt reassured for a second - she seemed so sure - before self-preservation kicked in. That's not exactly ideal news, he thought glumly. "And if Spike does have him, as long as he doesn't provoke -- " she trailed off suddenly, as she remembered who she was talking about, " -- isn't, um, stupid, or anything, he should be fine for a while."
Wilson went pale, imaging a list of possible responses House might make if confronted with Spike again. Stupid seemed to fit pretty much all of them; suicidal was slightly more accurate. Not to mention the fact that Spike didn't even need to hurt House; take away his pills for a few hours . . .
Buffy's brittle smile finally gave up in the face of Wilson's horrified expression. "I'll come with you", she murmured, doubt beginning to rise up inside her. "But I'm sure he's just -- "
"Sitting out in the rain at eight p.m.?" said Wilson dully. "It's Spike." He didn't wait for her to agree - he turned and bolted out of his office, leaving the increasingly uneasy gang to look at each other in worry, before Buffy grabbed her jacket and sprinted after him.
The first thought House managed when he woke up was a fervent thank God that the pain in his head had mercifully receded.
It took about three more seconds for his leg, long overdue its friendly fix of Vicodin, to start complaining loudly, and he realised that the rest of him felt weak and exhausted, as if he'd been chewed up and spat out several times over. He opened his eyes, half expecting to hear the beeping of monitors and to see Wilson standing over him, looking pissy. No such luck. Wherever he was, it was dark, and freezing, and the beds felt like they were made of rock. He felt the cold seeping into his thin shirt, making him shiver, and he moved his fingers gingerly to realise: the bed was made of rock. What the hell?
He glanced to the side and moved his hands to confirm - he was lying on a stone table. Far away, on the edge of the darkness around him, he thought he saw a pale female figure step into the shadows. The White Witch, his brain thought stupidly, and he felt a rush of childish fear. Run, and even though he knew he couldn't, something felt wrong when instinct moved him to try. He gripped the sides of the table and managed to push himself into a sitting position with an absurd amount of effort, and stared at his legs in stupefaction.
His right leg was chained - chained, what kind of gothic horror movie had he wandered into? - to the table, the thick iron wrapped tightly once around his ankle and again at the top of his thigh, perilously close to pressing on his scar. His left leg rested awkwardly on top of the links, free to twitch uselessly as his fight or flight impulse soared into overdrive. House tugged at the chain uselessly but it was viciously tight, biting into the flesh, and there was no knot or lock that he could see, let alone reach, as he groped vainly under the table. He yanked at it again but couldn't even make it clink. He was trapped: tethered here by his one useless limb. This has to be some sick fucking joke.
A noise cut through his panic and he twisted sharply to the left. There was a man, standing with his back to him on a raised level of this -- bunker? It was just empty, cold stone; this windowless pit wasn't what Wilson had described. The man was white-blonde. Spike. Of course Spike had done this. Bastard.
"Hey," House rasped, levelling a furious look at Spike's back. "Hey!" Spike turned round, looking surprised. "Yeah, Sid Vicious! You -- what the hell did you do to me?"
Spike looked puzzled and skipped lazily down the steps. House tightened his grip on the stone sides as his stomach turned over. "My head . . . What did you give me? Jesus Christ . . ."
Spike grinned, and House clenched his fists. "Ah, that. Don't you worry, my friends have that effect on people. Few Aspirin and you'll be good as new." He stood at the foot of the table, leaning idly against it. He seemed in no hurry to elaborate further. House leaned back on his elbows and tried to think rationally, in this, the most illogical of situations. He's dangerous, chimed a little voice that sounded suspiciously like Wilson. Don't push him.
"So," he said, in his best impression of a normal voice. "I understand you need a doctor. I work best with coffee, a whiteboard, maybe a sandwich. Chains tend to hinder my diagnostic abilities. Just so you know."
Spike put his hands on either end of the table, and leaned forward, a sharp tug in his thigh reprimanding House when he instinctively tried to squirm back. "Hey now, you think I'd drag you over here to work? What do you think I am?" House admirably restrained himself from answering. "We don't need what you can do, doctor," Spike explained contemptuously. "We just need what you are. No need to strain yourself diagnosing."
House frowned. "Are you sure? Because most people don't like what I am. Just what I can do. It's pretty much the only reason they keep me around." He swallowed, and carried on: "I can't help noticing that you really seem to want to keep me around too. I'm flattered, but I think I'm about to lose the circulation in my leg, and you can see how that might be a problem for me."
"Oh, I wouldn't start worrying about that. Try not to dwell on it," said Spike lightly, and House nearly shouted.
"Surprisingly, what with the pain and the fact I'm chained to a table, I'm finding that kind of difficult -- " Spike grabbed his shirt front and pulled him forward, digging the bonds deeper into his leg.
"Do you really think you're in a position to argue with me, doctor?" Spike pushed him away carelessly and House fell back gasping onto the table. The top of his leg felt as if it was being gripped in a vice. He must have blacked out, because when his vision cleared and he could breathe again, Spike had gone from the end of the table. He cursed and then jolted as he saw a woman sitting at his side, watching him intently. She reached out and took his hand, like some sick parody of a bedside vigil.
"You're going to fix me," she said dreamily. He stared at her. She was looking at him expectantly.
" . . . Good," he said faintly. "Glad I could help." Drusilla, he remembered. 'I think she was high'.
She was staring at his leg now, and he wished he could curl away from her eyes. With unnerving precision, she let go of his hand and placed her own on his jeans above his surgical scar, flexing her fingers. He froze. Don't touch, don't touch, don't touch - He held himself tensely, waiting for the agony, but she simply traced its edges with her finger. "I looked," she whispered, smiling in flirtatious mischief, and House had a sudden memory of hands on his belt, ice against his stomach and thigh, and felt sick. He looked at her, and couldn't think of a less erotic moment in his life. "You're all blocked up," she announced.
"You going to sort out my chakra?" he asked bitterly. His defective leg was pinned out and framed by the chains at either end, forming the focus of her fascination.
"I'm going to check back," called Spike's voice, and House saw him standing at the top of those steps again, heading towards a doorway. "See how things are going with the Slayer." He shot House a smug look. "Maybe check up on your last doctor while we're looking, eh, Dru?" He was walking off before House registered what he'd said.
"Hey! Leave Wilson alone! Hey!" He struggled briefly against the chain, leaning towards Spike. "Leave him alone you son of a bitch!"
"Sssssh," said Dru, and her hand was on his chest, pushing him back against the stone and sapping everything out of him. She was doing something to him . . . Her eyes locked onto his, her hand roaming over his scar, and he felt unbearably weak.
"Let me go," he heard himself whisper, "Untie me, please -- "
"Sssssh." Her eyes were too big, too dark. They made him dizzy. "I can't do that, silly. You can't move it, it needs to stay still."
"Why?" It was little more than a moan, and he couldn't look away from her anymore. He couldn't even move. She moved her lips, but the world was unfocussing.
Would you give up your leg to save my life?
"What?" He was drowning, falling away from himself. His voice was faint to his own ears. He felt her nails raking through his hair.
"You haven't been listening at all, have you? You need to be still." She giggled like a child and her fingers dug into his scalp, and House felt six years old again, terrified of the monsters in the dark. "Be still, be good. You shan't move it. No mess." ." Her smile curved and filled his vision, edge to edge, sharp and cold as knife. "Because you're no use to me at all until it's all gone. Chop."