TITLE: Darkest Before Dawn
48 "Flight"
AUTHOR: Nmissi
PART: 48/50
DISCLAIMER: I own Nothing
and No one. Especially not Spike. If I did,
what makes you think I'd
share him with you?
DISTRIBUTION: Anybody, just
credit me and let me know where it's
going.
Feedback: Please.
Nmissi@aol.com
SUMMARY: The way the world
would work if I wrote the Buffyverse.
Angel interrupted them suddenly, his urgency all too
apparent.
"We have to get out of here, now."
He began tugging at Buffy's arm, even as Spike tried to
sit up in the bed.
"What are you talking about?" she asked him. Then she
noticed Spike yanking his IV lines out, and pulling off the monitor feeds.
"What the hell are you doing?"
Spike ignored her, his eyes seeking out his Sire.
"Is it bad?"
Angel nodded and Spike groaned. He slipped his legs, cast
and all, down over the side of the bed.
"I'm numb all over, don't know how well I can stand up."
Fierce determination fixed his face; he grabbed Angel's
wrist and caught his eyes again.
"Get her out of here. Keep her out of harm's way."
"Spike, I-"
"Just do it, Angel. For me, alright? You owe me this."
Angel nodded, and moved towards Buffy.
"Spike! Angel! What am I, invisible?"
She
was annoyed and a little angry with them now. Looking back at her fiancée, she
tried logic. It had never worked before, but 'Hey- there's a first time for
everything' she told herself.
"You can't travel like that. Look, whatever it is, I'll
go take care of it."
Her words were meant to reassure, but Spike didn't even look
at her. She looked up at Angel again, and tried to question him about the
danger. But he ignored her questions, his eyes still trained on Spike.
"She's pregnant, Angel. Don't let her fight." Spike
stated bluntly.
"I'll keep her safe," Angel promised him.
Then he picked the girl up in his arms and made to carry
her out. But Buffy was no delicate heroine, no damsel in distress. She took a
good couple of whacks at him, and fought him every step. She was not leaving
here without answers. And she was not leaving here without Spike.
Angel had his arms around her ribcage, just below her
bustline, loosely dragging her towards the door. She couldn't prevent him
carrying her, but she'd damn well do her best to prevent him hanging on. She
squirmed and struggled, and finally threw her head back hard into Angel's jaw.
It made a cracking noise and he let go, as Buffy slid to the floor and took up
a defensive stance.
"That's enough of the he-man routine. In fact, I've had
about enough of the pair of you to last me."
She pointed a finger at Angel.
"YOU. You make your plans and plot your stunts, and never
tell me anything. It was bad enough when it was just me; But now you're pulling
HIS strings and I won't have it. I will not be in that position again. He's not
a puppet. He's not your puppy either, he doesn't have to come when you call
him."
Then she turned her withering glance at her errant lover.
"Even if he hasn't figured that out yet. And YOU- Since
when do you run this show, huh? Oh, I'm in a "delicate" condition, so you're
gonna be all manly and "take charge"? You think you can make the rules for me
now? Sorry Spike- I'm not that kind of
girl. Never have been. Out here, get
this straight: I'm the Top. You got that?"
Spike had the decency to blush slightly. Angel merely
looked uncomfortable. Buffy resumed her Drill-sergeant routine. She looked
Spike over calculatingly, then directed a question over to Angel.
"How many bones did they say he'd broken in those legs?"
"Sixteen." Came the response.
She touched Spike's arm gently, feeling along its length
and flexing it at the elbow.
"and how many breaks in the arms?"
Angel shrugged.
"I don't remember. Enough I
guess."
Her gaze sought Spike's, and she breathed a question.
"Do you trust me?"
His blue eyes were steadfast.
"Implicitly, love."
She brought her hands down hard, bladelike, onto the
casts, first one, then the other. They cracked beneath the Slayer's strength,
and she broke the pieces out with her fingers.
Spike winced under the blow, but the pain was receding
already. She was feeling his leg now, along the bone, looking for the breaks.
"They set it fairly well, considering. But I think its
mostly healed now. I can feel this one, and this one, but that's all. And they
don't feel like breaks; more like, I don't know-"
"Yeah. I get that."
Spike stood gingerly, his hip smarting and his knee
aching. But his weight held; he did not pitch forward, his feet were up to the
task.
Buffy slid an arm under his shoulder, helping to guide
him.
"Don't just stand there Angel. Help me get him dressed."
As they shoved his limbs into the fresh clothes Buffy' d
brought, Angel apprised them of the situation in the hallway.
"Security was dispatched two floors down. It was politely
suggested to me that we stay in here and lock the door."
Spike groaned.
"Eh, mate…How likely is it they've got a run-of-the-mill
psycho down there? Or a drug bust type thing?"
Angel shook his head.
"I don't think so. This is
too…Convenient."
He didn't tell them there were bodies already, that the
police were cordoning off the building. They'd know soon enough, and he didn't
feel like going into the details.
Carefully, they moved out of the room, and into the hall,
towards the emergency stairwells.
Xander had never been particularly good with computers.
Anya was, Willow was. But Xander knew just about enough to open up aol and send
an email. That was all.
So hunting for patient records was a bitch and a half.
And he didn't know Spike's name, didn't know where he might be, so he was
hoping to locate "visitor" records. Yet not every visitor was required to sign
in, it all depended upon which hospital entrance you came in by, and what time
you did it.
It was pure luck he should find the drug release forms
for "Walthrop, William." But there they were, lying neatly in a stack alongside
one of the computer terminals. A quick perusal convinced him that this was his
old enemy; his chart notes were full of handwritten comments about his amazing
healing factor, and the speed of his recovery. The release forms were for high
dose sedatives and painkillers; apparently the usual stuff wasn't even having
an effect on him.
"It's just like when Buffy gets hurt," he said quietly,
under his breath.
The chart notes provided a room number, and the computer
provided a nice schematic. He had a good idea where he was going, now.
He started for the elevators, then turned back around.
The pharmaceuticals were on this level; might there be something useful in
there? Something to use as a weapon?
He wound his way to the drug room and encountered a
little problem: passkeys. Apparently only certain folk had access to these
medications. Disheartened, he turned around, and noticed…
The janitor's closet. It was half-opened, a yellow
mop-bucket holding the door in place.
Solvents. He could use solvents for accelerant, if the
opportunity arose.
He rushed in, and made his selections. Bleach. Ammonia.
Polyurethane stain. Spray cleaners and aerosol air freshener.
He loaded up, using a fresh pillowcase for a sack.
Poking his head around the corner, he saw more police
officers. He did not see Glory, but that didn't mean anything. She had cops in
her employ; he knew that. These guys could belong to her as well.
He ducked back into the closet and waited until they
worked their way past him. Then he headed out, sticking close to the walls,
trying to meld into the shadows.
His head ached unmercifully, but he went on undaunted. He
had places to go, gods to profane.
Willow sat heavily upon the bed, watching as the
hellhound bayed at an empty chair.
"I don't understand," remarked Anya to her guards. She
was standing uncomfortably to one side of the door, watching Glory get angrier.
"I thought the hellhound was supposed to be able to smell it. The key, I mean.
Is it…Is it the chair?"
Glory wheeled about.
"No, Silly! It's not a piece of furniture."
She patted Brutus' head affectionately.
"Good Boy. Maybe I'll give you a treat."
She eyed Willow slowly.
"Yeah, just as soon as we don't need her anymore, you can
eat the witch."
The hellhound trained intelligent eyes on Willow, and
trotted over to the bed. It sniffed her knees, and its perusal was
discomfiting. It was as if it were tasting her already.
Glory straightened up.
"I think the girl was telling me the truth. I think she's
the key. Somehow or other, she lived through the whole tacky little suicide
routine. I mean, I know its not the Slayer. I know its not her little
boyfriend. It's not either of you,"
She said this with an ounce of disgust, then went on.
"And it wasn't the pretty girl either."
She licked her lips unpleasantly.
"Although she was good. Very good…"
Her words trailed off as she remembered the joy of
sinking her hands into that one. All the love and concern, all the gentle
warmth of the girl, had flowed into her at that moment. She was happiness
personified.
They always tasted better when they were happy. The
element of surprise had let her avoid the taste of fear on the girl. When she'd
crept upon them, neither witch had been prepared for her.
Fear had its own spice, but sometimes joy had a nice
flavor.
Anya jumped in awkwardly.
"You mean Dawn? Oh, no. I don't think she's your key. For
one thing, she's just a snotty fifteen year old."
Anya snorted disbelievingly.
"You really think an ancient and powerful being would
reside inside a pimply teenager?"
But Glory was moving them out, now, back into the
hallway. The guns at their backs kept the girls moving forward. But alarms were
going off now, and a police bullhorn sounded on the floors below.
"Come out with your hands up."
Glory rolled her eyes.
"This is just Not My Day," she
lamented.
Going down was impossible; all the doors into the
hospital were locked from the inside. It made sense, for security reasons, and
Spike felt like smacking himself for not realizing it earlier.
He hobbled, but kept pace with Buffy and Angel. They
moved up the stairwell, towards the rooftop.
It was not quite dusk yet, but they'd deal with that
problem when it arose. Should they run into real trouble, there was a decent
chance they'd never get to the rooftop anyway.
Was it Wolfram and Hart? That Glory bird?
Or some new evil to confound them? Hey, he hadn't seen
the SCA rejects since Sunnydale; they were overdue for their next run-in.
They came out not on the roof, as they'd expected, but in
an empty half-level of the hospital used mainly for storage.
"How do we get to the roof from here?" Buffy groused.
Suddenly the trio heard a noise in the stairwell behind
them, and turned around. Spike fell into place alongside Buffy; Angel stepped
in front of both of them.
"Oh. Its you," he said, as a winded Xander Harris stepped
onto the landing.
"Yeah. Me." He puffed. "Glory's here. Along with some
demons, and about a squad of policemen. They're shooting people, they've
killed-"
He broke off, despairing as he realized he'd lost count
of the bodies when he'd pursued the gang into the staircase.
"Lots of people are dead. But Buffy,"
He licked his lips and tried to look away from her
probing gaze.
"they've got the girls. They've got Anya and Willow."