Disclaimer: see chapter 1
Author's notes: sorry this has been a little longer coming than usual - I was finishing an Aragorn story that wouldn't let me go. Anyway, here's a brief instalment to keep your appetites whetted.
Death Awaits: chapter 10 - The Connection
There is, I find, a certain clarity when every part of your body hurts. You have to focus more on the environment around you. This is difficult, I am finding. I keep drifting in and out of consciousness. My vision's a little blurred. But I think I could still tell you how many logs there are on the fire at the moment.
The day must be nearly over by now. About halfway through the Breton went away, and it was just me and .
The Council got it wrong, when they said vampires were simply evil, that they didn't really think or consider their actions. There's no such thing as simply evil. There is the evil of most vampires, which prompts them to kill because they are hungry - and most vampires will grab and bite and leave the body. At the other end of the scale, there's Angelus. He cares. He cares about what he does and he makes sure he does it properly. I wish I was going to have a chance to tell the Council that, to remedy this image of him as just a particularly nasty vampire. He's so much more, so much worse. They need to know, they have to know, for the next Slayer. I don't think Buffy will kill him. I know I can't, not now. It was systematic, you see: first my hands, so I couldn't use a weapon, then this eye, so I couldn't aim a crossbow, then my legs, so I can't try to kick.
There are footsteps on the flagstones, and I try to recede into myself. Perhaps if I make myself as small as possible, they'll forget I'm here?
The footsteps come right up to me, and I look up through my good eye. It is Luc Tarpeau, clearly designated as my watcher now Angelus has gone. He stands and examines me for a moment, and nods in appreciation before bobbing down.
"I brought you some water." I eye the glass suspiciously. It could be poisoned. The Breton pushes it towards me. "Allez. It won't kill you - why would we kill you that way?"
He tips the glass up and water trickles into my mouth, cool and fresh. It helps. I begin to feel a little more lucid, and swallow some more.
"Thank you," I croak. The Breton smiles brilliantly.
"We wouldn't want you to die of thirst either. And Gunn's bringing you something to eat when he gets back. The night has just fallen."
So now I know what time it is, and that I have been here nearly twenty-four hours. By now they must have given up on me, decided not to come after me, thinking that I have gone back to England.
Luc Tarpeau leaves the glass by my side, and gets up to go and sit on the sofa, picking up a book and settling down with a soft sigh of contentment. I close my eyes again. It is more comfortable if I do not try to see anything out of the damaged one, the one with the swollen eyelid.
Time passes, again. There are soft rustles from the Breton's book, pages being turned. Now and again he lets out a short chuckle. I fall into dreaming of green fields and red buses, of beer in pubs and the staid traditions of the Council. They'll hold a memorial service for me, in the chapel, with prayers and few tears shed. I am an active agent and as such they'd always have expected me to die one day. Travers will give a short eulogy, someone will sing a song, and that will be that. I doze off, trying to imagine myself back in my room at Headquarters, listening to music .
"Well, I heard it was true," a voice says, breaking into my dreams, "but I wasn't going to believe it till I came here myself."
I frown. Surely I know that voice?
"Spike?" The Breton's voice is full of astonishment.
"Hi, Luc." I open my eye and look around, and yes, it is William the Bloody, cigarette in hand. The Breton has dropped his book and is grinning widely.
"Mais . where were you?" The vampires cross to each other; Spike claps Luc Tarpeau on the back heartily.
"Round and about," Spike says vaguely. "Europe, with Dru. Prague - bleedin' nightmare, nearly got ourselves killed. Here, too much."
"How is Drusilla?" the Breton asks, and for a second the grin drops off Spike's face.
"Dunno. In South America. But I'm not here to talk about Dru. Someone said Angelus was back."
Luc Tarpeau nods, and waves Spike towards a seat. "It's true. As you can see." He glances at me, hunched in my corner, and Spike follows the glance.
"Oh yeah. That's the old man's work, all right. Know who he is?"
"Un anglais. He calls himself Mike Fletcher. We think he works for the Council, but he's kept quiet until now."
Spike grinds out his cigarette. "Yeah, he's Council. Came to me the other day with the Slayer and her Watcher. They wanted me to help them."
"You said no?"
"Course I bloody well did!" Spike exclaims. "Despite what happened last time, with Acathla an' all - you heard about that?"
"I heard," the Breton says.
"I wasn't too happy then," Spike says, slowly, "but I've had some time to think since and I reckon we're better off with Angelus than the poof. Where is he?"
"Out with Darla," the Breton said. "I got the first watch. He was a little worried he'd done too much, and thought he should wait before starting again."
I rest my head against the wall and close my eyes again, trying to cut the vampires out, trying to concentrate on strong thoughts, on stopping this pain.
It is then I feel something inside my mind, something trying to reach me. I frown, and listen again. It sounds like a radio at a very low volume, whispering, "Mike? Mike?" I wonder if I am hallucinating again. But the voices continue. "Mike, can you hear us?"
There are definitely two voices, together, in chorus. Female voices, light but determined to get through to me. I must be hallucinating, but if I am surely there is no harm in trying to reply. I think, as loudly as I can, "Who are you?"
I feel a rush of happiness, and the voices grow stronger. "It's Willow and Tara. Where are you?"
They have not forgotten me. They have not abandoned me. The joy I feel is astounding and uplifting, and I reply immediately, "I don't know. It's a large hall, with a fireplace. It's Angelus's." I falter over the name. There is a pause.
"Like this?" I see a picture in my mind, and it matches almost exactly the room I am in. I want to nod, but try to keep my head still.
"Yes!" I cry back. "Yes!"
"The mansion," Willow's voice comes strongly through now. "Who's there?"
"Now, just the Breton and Spike," I say.
"Spike?"
I confirm the question, and the happiness through the connection subsides a bit. Then I feel Tara's comforting voice.
"We'll come and find you, Mike. Or Buffy will. Hang in there."
"Thank you," I manage. "Thank you."
"Buffy says she'll be there soon," their voices return. "Giles says he's coming with her. Xander says he'll stake Spike for you. We've got to go. We'll see you soon."
The connection fades, and dies. But my hope has been reborn, and I let myself fade into unconsciousness again.
Author's notes: sorry this has been a little longer coming than usual - I was finishing an Aragorn story that wouldn't let me go. Anyway, here's a brief instalment to keep your appetites whetted.
Death Awaits: chapter 10 - The Connection
There is, I find, a certain clarity when every part of your body hurts. You have to focus more on the environment around you. This is difficult, I am finding. I keep drifting in and out of consciousness. My vision's a little blurred. But I think I could still tell you how many logs there are on the fire at the moment.
The day must be nearly over by now. About halfway through the Breton went away, and it was just me and .
The Council got it wrong, when they said vampires were simply evil, that they didn't really think or consider their actions. There's no such thing as simply evil. There is the evil of most vampires, which prompts them to kill because they are hungry - and most vampires will grab and bite and leave the body. At the other end of the scale, there's Angelus. He cares. He cares about what he does and he makes sure he does it properly. I wish I was going to have a chance to tell the Council that, to remedy this image of him as just a particularly nasty vampire. He's so much more, so much worse. They need to know, they have to know, for the next Slayer. I don't think Buffy will kill him. I know I can't, not now. It was systematic, you see: first my hands, so I couldn't use a weapon, then this eye, so I couldn't aim a crossbow, then my legs, so I can't try to kick.
There are footsteps on the flagstones, and I try to recede into myself. Perhaps if I make myself as small as possible, they'll forget I'm here?
The footsteps come right up to me, and I look up through my good eye. It is Luc Tarpeau, clearly designated as my watcher now Angelus has gone. He stands and examines me for a moment, and nods in appreciation before bobbing down.
"I brought you some water." I eye the glass suspiciously. It could be poisoned. The Breton pushes it towards me. "Allez. It won't kill you - why would we kill you that way?"
He tips the glass up and water trickles into my mouth, cool and fresh. It helps. I begin to feel a little more lucid, and swallow some more.
"Thank you," I croak. The Breton smiles brilliantly.
"We wouldn't want you to die of thirst either. And Gunn's bringing you something to eat when he gets back. The night has just fallen."
So now I know what time it is, and that I have been here nearly twenty-four hours. By now they must have given up on me, decided not to come after me, thinking that I have gone back to England.
Luc Tarpeau leaves the glass by my side, and gets up to go and sit on the sofa, picking up a book and settling down with a soft sigh of contentment. I close my eyes again. It is more comfortable if I do not try to see anything out of the damaged one, the one with the swollen eyelid.
Time passes, again. There are soft rustles from the Breton's book, pages being turned. Now and again he lets out a short chuckle. I fall into dreaming of green fields and red buses, of beer in pubs and the staid traditions of the Council. They'll hold a memorial service for me, in the chapel, with prayers and few tears shed. I am an active agent and as such they'd always have expected me to die one day. Travers will give a short eulogy, someone will sing a song, and that will be that. I doze off, trying to imagine myself back in my room at Headquarters, listening to music .
"Well, I heard it was true," a voice says, breaking into my dreams, "but I wasn't going to believe it till I came here myself."
I frown. Surely I know that voice?
"Spike?" The Breton's voice is full of astonishment.
"Hi, Luc." I open my eye and look around, and yes, it is William the Bloody, cigarette in hand. The Breton has dropped his book and is grinning widely.
"Mais . where were you?" The vampires cross to each other; Spike claps Luc Tarpeau on the back heartily.
"Round and about," Spike says vaguely. "Europe, with Dru. Prague - bleedin' nightmare, nearly got ourselves killed. Here, too much."
"How is Drusilla?" the Breton asks, and for a second the grin drops off Spike's face.
"Dunno. In South America. But I'm not here to talk about Dru. Someone said Angelus was back."
Luc Tarpeau nods, and waves Spike towards a seat. "It's true. As you can see." He glances at me, hunched in my corner, and Spike follows the glance.
"Oh yeah. That's the old man's work, all right. Know who he is?"
"Un anglais. He calls himself Mike Fletcher. We think he works for the Council, but he's kept quiet until now."
Spike grinds out his cigarette. "Yeah, he's Council. Came to me the other day with the Slayer and her Watcher. They wanted me to help them."
"You said no?"
"Course I bloody well did!" Spike exclaims. "Despite what happened last time, with Acathla an' all - you heard about that?"
"I heard," the Breton says.
"I wasn't too happy then," Spike says, slowly, "but I've had some time to think since and I reckon we're better off with Angelus than the poof. Where is he?"
"Out with Darla," the Breton said. "I got the first watch. He was a little worried he'd done too much, and thought he should wait before starting again."
I rest my head against the wall and close my eyes again, trying to cut the vampires out, trying to concentrate on strong thoughts, on stopping this pain.
It is then I feel something inside my mind, something trying to reach me. I frown, and listen again. It sounds like a radio at a very low volume, whispering, "Mike? Mike?" I wonder if I am hallucinating again. But the voices continue. "Mike, can you hear us?"
There are definitely two voices, together, in chorus. Female voices, light but determined to get through to me. I must be hallucinating, but if I am surely there is no harm in trying to reply. I think, as loudly as I can, "Who are you?"
I feel a rush of happiness, and the voices grow stronger. "It's Willow and Tara. Where are you?"
They have not forgotten me. They have not abandoned me. The joy I feel is astounding and uplifting, and I reply immediately, "I don't know. It's a large hall, with a fireplace. It's Angelus's." I falter over the name. There is a pause.
"Like this?" I see a picture in my mind, and it matches almost exactly the room I am in. I want to nod, but try to keep my head still.
"Yes!" I cry back. "Yes!"
"The mansion," Willow's voice comes strongly through now. "Who's there?"
"Now, just the Breton and Spike," I say.
"Spike?"
I confirm the question, and the happiness through the connection subsides a bit. Then I feel Tara's comforting voice.
"We'll come and find you, Mike. Or Buffy will. Hang in there."
"Thank you," I manage. "Thank you."
"Buffy says she'll be there soon," their voices return. "Giles says he's coming with her. Xander says he'll stake Spike for you. We've got to go. We'll see you soon."
The connection fades, and dies. But my hope has been reborn, and I let myself fade into unconsciousness again.