Real
~Buffy~
"Ok, I need to pound something. Let's get away from the cops before I punch one of them in the nose." Buffy marched up to Willow where she was sitting in the hospital waiting room. She was almost trembling with rage. "They're trying to blame it all on Dawn. They think she's kidnapped her doctor, and they've issued an APB for her arrest."
Willow put her arm around her friend and led her over to the lounge chairs by the window. "Xander went to scout for a place to do a locator spell, but I've got a feeling they aren't here. Something is out of balance, I'm not sure what, but it's coming from the psychward."
"Will, you didn't do a spell or anything did you?" Buffy's voice was full of worry over her friend's fragile magical balance.
"No. I just sense it, that's all. See if you can get us back there so we can take a look."
When Buffy returned to Willow a few minutes later, she was wearing a visitor's badge and held another one in her hand. "They were only going to let me go, but I complained about needing emotional support", she said as she offered the second one to her friend.
"Hello, I'm Mrs. Linstrom, the head nurse on this ward. If you'll follow me I'll show you where the security guard saw them last, but I need to tell you that when the police released the room we went ahead and let our art therapist start her group. The patients get anxious when their routines are disturbed."
The woman quickly led them to a brightly lit room filled with about fifteen patients engaged in a variety of arts and crafts. The cheerful chatter that had been going on in the room ground to a halt as Buffy's group entered, but the nurse called out a few greetings and gradually the men and women returned to their previous activities.
Buffy stood in the doorway, examining the room for any clues to Dawn and Spike's whereabouts. The walls were lined with shelves holding craft supplies and pieces of art work in various stages of completion. Nothing looked too out of place or broken, so there probably hadn't been a fight. She turned toward Willow to see if she had spotted whatever had been sending out the feeling of wrongness. Willow just shrugged, and slowly began to wander about the room, stopping every few feet to examine something only she could see.
Wills had the right idea, she thought, moving around beat standing there with the nurse. The woman was starting to give them 'the look'; the one that said hurry up, you're wasting my valuable time. Buffy gave the woman one of her patented dumb blonde smiles in return, and began to move toward the back of the room.
Buffy made eye contact with one of patients as she walked between the tables. The old woman's bird bright eyes examined her curiously, and Buffy stared back until the sight on one of Dawn's painting distracted her. The painting sat on an easel in the center of the far wall. Buffy wasn't even aware that she had moved until she found herself reaching toward the canvas with a fingertip. The painting was unlike anything Dawn had done before. It was a swirling mass of blurry handprints that spiraled into a vortex of dark paint. The handprints distorted what might have been two human forms, but the original composition of the work was unclear.
"You're her sister aren't you, the one who made the cookies?" The old woman's sudden appearance at her elbow startled her and she withdrew her hand.
"The one Dawn brought me was so delicious. You wouldn't happen to have anymore would you?"
"Mrs. Corbin, you need to return to your seat, and get back to your own work, ok?" said the head nurse as she tried to intervene.
"Wait, how did you know I baked cookies yesterday?" Buffy examined the blue haired woman with increasing suspicion.
"She brought me one, don'tcha know? Such a sweet little thing, she popped right into her painting a brought it back, and it was still warm too."
"What do you mean? She went into her painting how?"
"Mrs. Corbin, Sandy's about ready to begin her lesson, you need to go sit down." Buffy ground her teeth in frustration as the nurse physically took the woman by her arm and guided her back to her table.
"Willow", Buffy said under her breath, "could you make anything out of that?"
"Kinda sorta", Willow whispered, "and there is definitely something wrong with this painting. We need to get it back to your house, ASAP"
~Dawn~
I can't believe he left me alone with this crazy woman. First Drusilla tries to drown me, and now she's braiding my hair into pigtails- with bows! I feel like I've fallen head first down the rabbit hole. I can only hope some cat with a big grin doesn't appear and stick a sign on me that says 'drink me'.
My momentary bravado wears off and I feel like crying. I wish Spike hadn't left; I'd feel much safer if he was around. I know in my mind that he's the 'Big Bad', and that he can kill me anytime he wants to, but it still feels like there is a connection. I look into his eyes, and it's as if he sees me. Dru sees me too, but that's not the least bit comforting. She's seeing too much. I wish I could turn my brain off; she's rummaging through it the way Anya picks over the bargain bin at Saks, and the harder I try not to think of something the more she picks up.
"Leather, bows, and lace for good measure, then we will give the queen her tea. Miss Muffet has the key, and you shall have blood and honey." She gives the braid a little crack like a whip as she ties off the end.
Oh, gods! Now she knows Faith's old nickname for me, and has caught something about the key. Please, please, keep her from finding out about Buffy. Drusilla runs the side of her hand down my face, scratching me with her nails. I rear back in shock, covering my cheek with my hands. She pulls my hands away and licks the welt with her pointy cat's tongue.
"Aren't you real, precious? All ashes and energy, you are. The queen of cups is served by the page, but I don't think she'll save you.
No, no, no! Stop thinking! Recite poetry, count backwards by threes, something, anything, just stop thinking, I order myself. Latching on to the first poem I can think of, I begin to recite, Momma said I'd loose my head if it wasn't fastened on… Ok, ok, not a good choice… 100, 97, 94, 91, 88... Drusilla thrusts a white linen gown in my hands, making me loose count.
"New clothes for old, precious, and then we'll anoint you."
Dru's own brand of craziness merges with memory, and the fear carries me back to Glory and her demands that I change for her ceremony. Terror has become a whirlpool of darkness, sucking me down into my own personal hell. I find myself I huddled in a tight ball at the end of the bed as the panic comes in waves, threatening to drown me. Time has no meaning to me; I can attend to nothing but the flood of pain and anguish that drags me under. I shiver and sob, grinding my nails into the palms of my hands. I'm helpless... made to be used…I'm not real, not real, not real…I have nothing…am nothing…not real, not real…
Slowly my awareness of my surroundings returns. How many hours have I lost? The panic eases its clutch on my throat and I can breathe again. I'm all sweaty and nauseous, and my throat is raw with pain. My screaming must not have bothered Drusilla, because I find that am wearing the damn Victorian nightgown that precipitated the flashback. I start shiver and cry again as another wave of terror washes over me, and all the while my brain continues its endless litany of not real, not real, not real….
The panic fades again, leaving me limp and trembling. This time it was less powerful, and even with my distorted sense of time I could tell it was shorter. When Dr. Lawrence mentioned desensitization therapy, I don't think this was what she had in mind, but for the first time I believe I can beat this. I imagine myself standing on rock; there is no sand to wash away from under me now. The black wave pours over me drenching me in fear and sweat. I moan, but when I refuse to give in the terror sluices around and past me. I've made it! Exhausted and emotionally battered, I collapse onto the bed unable to even open my eyes. Dru can kill me now if she wants to, I'm too tired to fight.
~Dr. Lawrence~
The sunlight filters in through the window slats bathing the attic in a dusty twilight. I wonder what the vampire is thinking as he sits motionless on a horse hair sofa that has clearly seen better days. It's odd to see something sit that still and know it could still move. If I close my eyes he completely disappears off my internal radar, there is no breath, no swallows or sighs, no little rustles of fabric; nothing that would typically alert others to our presence. Just as I've begun to think that he's turned to stone, he breaks the stillness with the force of a hurricane. The power of his lunge catches me off guard, and I almost topple off the old trunk I'd chosen for my perch. My eyes follow him warily as he grabs up a loose piece of wood, and twists it and twists it until it's reduced to splintery rubble.
"What are you staring at?" His voice is angry and belligerent.
"I was just wondering if you were planning to start a fire, or if that was your way of displacing some anxiety? I'm betting on the anxiety." There is no way I'm going to tell him how much that little show of strength just terrified me. It's time to shift into clinician mode. Lock those emotions down! Strive for nonjudgmental support; I don't want him turning that anger on me.
"Yeah, well, I got a lot on my mind."
"Want to talk? Sometimes it helps make things clearer."
"Talk about what? That Dawn's out there somewhere with me and Dru, that Paige is sick, that I'm trapped in this house until the sun goes down, trapped in the past with no sure way home. Fat lot of good talking does."
"Made you feel better just then, didn't it?"
"Yes. No! I just don't like sitting here."
"Let's keep talking; it makes me feel less panicky, and maybe we can come up with a plan." Good, he's just given me a sympathetic look; that means I've established the start of an empathic bond with him. And let's not mention that what I said was true. If I don't keep talking, I'm liable to start shaking like a potluck jello mold. Jesus, I wish I had my bag here, I could sure use some of those lovely little pills the pharmacy reps keep pushing on me. "Where do you think they took her?"
"Don't know. I got about three places that I'll check after dark."
"And if you don't find them there?"
"I'll hit the local demon pubs till I find a lead."
"That sounds like a plan. Is there anything we can do in the meantime?"
"Worry."
Well so much for that open ended question. I think it's time to push. "How do you feel about Dawn being out there with your younger self? Will she be ok?"
"Bloody, sodding, hell, what do you think I'm so worried about? What if I kill her or worse yet- turn her? I'm sure that will go over with Buffy just great. You see pet, I killed your sister, but it wasn't really me, it was just my past self. That ranks right up there with the dog ate my homework as the worst sodding excuse of all time."
I can't help but smile as he turns his back to me and lies down on the couch assuming the typical therapy posture. Secrets are easier to share if your not looking at the person you're telling them too. "So you're concerned about what her sister will do to you?"
"Bloody hell, yes! Buffy will have me staked faster then you can say filet mignon if anything happens to Dawn."
"Even though Dawn's an adult and got herself into this fix?"
"Doesn't matter, I have to protect her."
"It sounds like there are some issues there."
"Look Buffy acts as my conscience. My love for her and my word are all that's keeping me on the straight and narrow. I like mayhem, chaos, and terror. Demon, remember?"
His face deforms and the glare in his golden eyes rapidly reminds me that I am not dealing with one of my typical clients. I hold my ground though, a sociopath is a sociopath. "Tell me about Dawn."
"The monks made her, she's Buffy's sister, end of story."
"How did you two meet?"
"She got kidnapped when she was a kid by this vamp, Angelus, who was trying to end the world. God, I just realized that even in those stupid memories the monks made up I act like a bloody poof. Something about her makes me go all noble and protective. You know, I really love her?"
"Yeah, I can tell", I reply in compassion. He has such a tender look on his face at the moment, it's almost wistful. "Let's go back for a minute. Why would turning Dawn be worse then killing her? I would think that having her sister around in some form would be better than not having her at all."
"You don't know her. She takes her duties as The Slayer very seriously."
"Yet she lets you live?" I cock my eyebrow at him.
"Yeah, and it tears her up sometimes, makes her hate me. She thought that being blessed with super powers would make everything black and white. It's not really her fault though, everyone sees things black and white when they're young, and she really wasn't supposed to live long enough for things to get so confusing."
"What do you mean?"
"You see, slayers don't usually live much past their teens. Buffy passed her expiration date a long time ago. But it didn't help it that the Watcher's council pumps Slayers full of all this rhetoric. Demons are evil. You must kill, blah, blah, blah.
"It sounds Buffy is as confused as her sister. What do you get from this relationship?"
He seems to ponder the question briefly and then smarts off, "Well, there's the sex. It's absolutely mind-blowing what that girl can do in bed. There's this thing she does with her tongue….."
What a typical adolescent response. If he thinks that's going to shock me he's got another thing coming. "Mm hmm, so you're sexual compatible and what else…"
He turns a little more serious and replies, "I guess- I get a family and friends- bunch of wankers that they are."
"And…"
He goes so quiet that I'm sure he's not going to answer, but then the words start to trickle forth. They sound as if they are being dragged from someplace deep within his gut. His piercing blue eyes focus on me intently, and it's as if he's trying pour his emotions directly into my soul.
"Buffy is everything that is good and just. Wherever she is, and wherever she goes she brings the light. She sees the man, not the monster. When she died she took the light with her, and I almost died too. Dawn pulled me back, and I stayed for her, but now…"
"Look, I know I'm damned, but if anything happened now, I'd wait outside the gates of heaven just to be near her."
"So what do I get out of my relationship with Buffy? I get a partner; the strongest woman I have ever known. I get the family and friends that I thought were lost to me when I became a vampire. When I chose the dark. And if Buffy is my light and my redemption, then Dawn is my sanity, and I would do anything, anything, to protect them."
The intensity of his words has rendered us both speechless, but we are too new to each other to be comfortable in the intimacy of silence and after a few seconds he begins to speak.
"We've been talking for almost an hour, but you haven't said much."
"It's one of the hallmarks of a good therapist. Listen, give people a chance to talk, and they usually solve their own problems. The trick is asking the right questions to get them started." I change the subject, "I'm worried about your sister. Do you think anyone's checked on her by now?"
"If you're nervous about her squealing on us, don't be; with a temperature as high as she had she probably doesn't even remember she's seen us." He stands and looks at me, his eyes taking on a speculative gleam. "You know, I might be trapped by the sun, but you aren't. I bet I can find some clothing to fit you, and then you could get what Paige needs with no one the wiser." ~Buffy~
The core group gathered around Dawn's painting, where it lay on the oft-repaired coffee table in the Summers' living room, and listened to Willow give her report.
"It looks like someone pushed a bubble of energy into and through the canvas", explained Willow.
"By someone, you mean Dawn", stated Buffy.
Willow answered with a shake of her long hair. "Most likely, but it could be someone or something else. I would bet on Dawn though, if it had been anything else, Spike would have at least attempted to tear it apart, and we would have seen more damage at the hospital."
"So where are they?" Buffy thrust herself out of the chair impatiently and began to pace around the room.
"I'm not quite sure yet", said Willow. "There is an opening at the center of the painting like the mouth of a balloon, but right now it doesn't appear to lead anywhere. It could have been a tunnel to some other dimension that's contracted in upon itself so that it only looks like a bubble, or they could actually be trapped in the painting."
"Like something in that Robin William's movie "What Dreams May Come?", asked Xander.
Willow shrugged helplessly.
"You know the one where his wife dies and he slogs around in all that paint."
"I know the movie, Xander, I just don't know what it's like wherever they are", replied Willow sharply, taking her frustration out on her friend.
"So we do a spell, and we get them back, right?"
"It's not that easy Buffy, this wasn't created with a spell. What ever did this used pure energy. We can't duplicate that."
~Spike~
I've spent the better part of the night searching without catching hide nor hair of 'em. Did have one lucky break though, the word at the local pub puts Granny and Peaches abroad. That raised the odds of Dawn surviving this little disaster by fifty percent. I'd give her a seventy-five percent shot if I could lock up Dru for a while. Nibblet's always had me wrapped around her little finger; she knows just what to say to capture my attention, and I never was one to eat someone that interested me.
I take a right and start angling my way eastward toward the Whitehall district. Dru and I use to keep a crib there. It was always easy pickings there with all the whores and drunks about. The constables had too much on their plates to notice when those lost souls go missing. I can remember the time Dru and I came upon this prostitute and her john, and we took them and dressed them up in the other's clothes and … I stop, disgusted with myself, telling stories like that to Dawn is part of what got us into this mess.
Wandering between warehouses and alleys gives a person a lot of time to contemplate life. I can't help thinking about what Doc and I talked about. There was so much I left out. I didn't tell her about all the time I spent trying to drag Buffy down into the dark. I'm not sure if I really meant it even when I was saying those things to her, 'cause every action I took drove both of us further and further into the light. I hope I get a chance to tell her what I told the Doc about her being my light. Maybe if I actually put it out there she'd understand a little more. We've come so far, but getting Buffy to accept new things is like an ant moving a mountain one grain of sand at a time. I wonder if she'd agree to a little family thera….
"Bloody hell!" I explode, as I trip and almost fall over the legs of an old drunk. Not one of my most graceful moments, I'm glad Xander wasn't around. I'm sure he would have come up with some snide comment. I kick the drunk in frustration, but he just rolls over without a sound, dead.
"Well, let's see what killed you, you rheumy ol' sod." I haul him up by the collar of his coat and take a look at his neck. "Why, lookie here, someone's been feeding on you, mate. Bet they gotta buzz too". The smell of alcohol and human excrement had almost masked the odor of blood, not that there was much left. I brought my nose down to his neckline and gave it a good sniff. All I could smell was myself. Hallelujah! The first positive sign I've had this evening that I'm close to locating them.
I drop the corpse, and go to wipe my hands on my jeans eager to get moving, but stop. The stickiness on my hands strikes me wrong, it doesn't the feel of blood or vomit or any of the other sundry fluids that commonly accumulate around corpses. I hold out my palm toward the moonlight, and examine the viscous golden goo that has affixed itself to my hand. Rolling some of the stuff off between my fingers, I give it a sniff. Linseed oil? Now what would linseed oil be doing on an old bum like this? I pull back, and examine the corpse with fresh eyes.
Nicer clothes than I'd first thought, not new, but good quality. The smell of the alcohol is wrong too. What is it? I'm sure I've smelled it before. I rack my brains trying to remember, and then it comes to me, wood spirits, or wood alcohol, or something like that. Dawn sometimes used it to clean her brushes. A nasty thought forms in the back of my mind, and I stoop down to take a closer look at the corpse's hands. The nailbeds are encrusted and stained with a multitude of colors. I give his fingertips a sniff and confirm my fears…oil paint.
~Dr. Lawrence~
"Who are you?" Paige's eyes fluttered open and then closed again. Her voice was breathy and the rash had spread across her neck and shoulders. I sponged off her forehead and neck with a wet rag. The heat of her skin made it dry to the touch almost instantly.
"Shsh, I'm nobody", I replied.
"I thought… Willy said you were a doctor."
So she did remember her unorthodox visitors. "Would me being a doctor make you feel better?"
"It's okay…no leeches though, nasty slimy things."
I examine the marks on the girl's arm and feel like crying. "Of all the stupid, ignorant practices, I can't believe that they bled you."
I help her sit up against the pillows. "Do you think you could drink something for me?" She nods and I bring the cup of willow bark tea to her lips. She takes a gulp and makes a face.
"I know it tastes nasty, but it will help bring down your fever", I say forcing some more down her. I'd discovered when I went to the apothecary's that 'BC Powder' one of the earliest forms of aspirin contained codeine, and I didn't want to risk giving it to her on top of the laudanum she was already taking. I wish I had paid more attention in organic chemistry so that I could whip up something more effective, but all I remember about early antibiotics is that one type was made from moldy orange rind. If the fever doesn't break soon I swear I'll find some and make her eat it.
"Where's William?"
"Your brother's dead, sweetheart, it was just the fever making you think he was alive."
Her eyes close again, and her breathing slows with sleep. The grandfather clock chimes the hour, 4 AM, I hope he comes in while she's asleep. Heck, I hope he comes home period. He's my only link to my own time, and I think I'm being justifiably terrified at the thought of anything happening to him.
~Dawn~
I can't believe I fell asleep, emotional exhaustion must be better then any sleeping pill. For the first time, since I went into the hospital, I wake up without being disoriented. I know exactly where I am, and I can only wish it was a nightmare that I could wake up from. Lying still with my eyes closed I take inventory of my surroundings; the soft coolness of fabric twines itself around my feet and I know I'm still on the bed where I passed out. I can tell I'm lying on my side with my arms twisted above my head; it feels like I've been tied to one of the bed posts. The last sensation I identify makes me gasp and open my eyes; a cadaver-cool form spoons against my back like a lover. I know it is Drusilla, the round softness of her breasts presses against my shoulder blades and her long hair tickles the back of my neck. Apprehensively, I realize that the nightgown she dressed me in has become bunched up around my waist, and that her arm lies across my bare hip with her hand dangling between the vee of my legs.
The awareness of her fingertips nestled among my wiry curls both scares and excites me. I don't mean for it to, I don't want it to, but my body responds with a gush of moisture, wetting the inside of my thighs. I wiggle trying to dislodge her hand from its madding perch, and give exploratory tug on the rope. The movement pulls the strands around my wrists tighter, and wakes the sleeping tiger at my side. She licks the side of my neck, and kisses my shoulder. Sliding her fingers deeper she parts me, probes me; I struggle, but she pulls me back against her, covering my legs with one of her own.
She raising her finger to her lips tastes my juices. "Mmm, salty and tart, just like fish and chips."
Eew! Ok, that did it, I'm definitely not turned on anymore! I hear Spike ask in a sleepy grumble, "Did you say something, pet?"
"Can I play, Spike? Can I….
"Sure, pet, whatever you want, just don't break it or you won't get your portrait done."
Well, if Spike thought he could use a portrait as leverage against her killing me then maybe I could use it to get out of doing what ever she has planned. Twisting, I tumble off the side of the bed to land half strangled by the bed curtains. Drusilla kneels above me and looks down to see where I've gone. "Oops-a-daisy, the chickie fell out of the nest and now the fox is coming."
She leans down, and her long hair comes within reach of my fingers. I yank it as hard as I can, and even with my hands tied up I must have got in a good one because she shrieks and summersaults off the bed into my lap. Which, by the way, is not a good place to have an angry vampire.
"Naughty dolly! Babies aren't supposed to hurt their mommies." Fangs bared, she grabs me by the neck, choking me.
"Cor, this is almost as entertaining as the pit fights", says Spike with a smirk as he leans over the two of us. I look up at him, and plead with my eyes for him to get this crazy bitch off of me. He must have got the message because he tugs her away saying,
"Don't kill her yet, pet, she still has a commission to finish."
The pressure of her hands eases a little and I squeak out the word, "light". The pressure eases a little more, and I manage to croak out, "I need light if I'm to do the portrait."
