Death of TV Shows
Part 3: Formaldehyde masks smells
A Forever Knight/ Buffy/ X-files crossover
Disclaimer: and characters etc. that I did not invent, I do not claim here. I'm just borrowing them for a little bit. __________________________________________
Buffy woke up around five the next afternoon, feeling refreshed. For a moment, she didn't even open her eyes, content to lie back in her own bed. It was dark out behind her eyelids – what time was it, anyway? Slowly, she opened her eyes, and froze – her room was *never* this dark. Where was she?
Oh yeah: the end of the world . . . Death . . . Canada . . . the ever- strange Detective Nick Knight. Sitting up, Buffy really looked around for the first time. Or tried to. Muttering about people who kept their houses completely dark, Buffy got up and stumbled forward, knocking over something. Desperately hoping it wasn't very valuable, she backed up, and –
"Ow!" Slapping her hand (loudly) over her mouth, Buffy stifled any further exclamation.
"Are you all right?" Nick asked from beside her only a moment later. Buffy jumped slightly and punched where he had been. A light flickered on to reveal a tired-looking Nick in black silk pajamas and a bathrobe. "Are you all right?" Nick repeated, "I heard some crashing."
Buffy studied his face, doubting he had slept at all. Had he been watching her? Her instincts said 'no.' He looked as if he needed some rest . . . and not from spying on her; he looked decent enough. Even so, "I didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't," Nick answered truthfully. "Don't worry about it." He looked slightly uncomfortable. "Perhaps I should get dressed, and then we can talk."
Buffy nodded. As soon as the detective had gone, she began searching for whatever she had knocked over and broken. Several seconds of looking exposed a small, ornate clay bowl which looked enormously expensive. Wincing, she picked up the pieces and put them on the table they had fallen from.
Deciding not to worry about it, Buffy walked over to examine the painted canvases Nick had decorated his loft with.
"Just a little hobby of mine," Nick commented, coming up behind her silently.
Jumping slightly – again – in surprise (who could sneak up on the slayer? She must have been very distracted indeed) Buffy turned to Nick. "Sorry about the bowl – I broke it – was it antique?"
"What do you mean?" Nicolas asked, looking at her in confusion. Buffy pointed. "Oh, yes, it was," he answered simply, making Buffy even more uncomfortable.
"Um, I can pay – or, well, no, I can't, but –" Buffy started, anxious to break the silence.
"No, it's fine." Nick answered, quickly changing the subject when he noticed the Slayer's discomfort. "But what about you?"
"What?"
"You," Nick replied. *Oh, he was changing the subject . . . I get it . . .* "We agreed to decide what to do in the evening, and it's almost that time now. Do you have any family?"
"No," Buffy answered, smiling apologetically. "I don't have anyone. Maybe if I could borrow some money to get back to California . . ."
"You would still have no place to go," Nick finished.
"No," Buffy said sadly. "I wouldn't." She stared back at one of Nick's paintings, wondering if this was strictly true, though somehow she felt it was. She was lost. Just like . . . the colors of the canvas seemed to be staring back at her; they, too, had gone astray. But that was silly.
"I will take you down to the station in a little while, then," Nick said calmly. "They can help you much better than I . . . perhaps that is why your mysterious person sent you to me."
"She's not 'my' mysterious person. But maybe you're right," answered Buffy, doubting it very much. She tore her eyes away from the painting. "Why can't we go now?"
"There is no need," Nick replied quickly. "I work the night shift anyway, and this won't take much time. In the meantime, you must be hungry. I don't keep much food around, but we might be able to find something to satisfy you."
Buffy blinked her eyes rapidly for a moment, sensing that Nick had just cleanly changed the subject again. Still . . . she hadn't eaten for who- knows-how-long, and any food sounded great right then. "Sure, whatever you have would be fine."
But after a few minutes it became evident that "whatever Nick had" wasn't much. All that they found was some bread, a little coffee, and some old hamburgers that Nat had brought. "I'm on a special diet," Nick said as way of explanation. "My doctor makes me . . . used to make me . . . protein shakes.
*Flashback*
Nick and Nat are in the loft. Nick has a "You have *got* to be kidding me" expression on as Natalie hands his a thermos. "Now I want you to drink *all* of this," she says. "And don't make that face at me!"
Nick sits down on the couch, grinning brightly at her. "You don't really want to give me that," he says in a low, hypnotic voice, taking out a pocket-watch and waving it in front of her face. "You do NOT want to give me the protein shake."
"Yes, I do," answers Natalie firmly. "And you *want* to drink it." Nick just groans in response.
*End Flashback*
Buffy watched Nick in amusement as his face momentarily glazed over . . . again. He sure did that a lot.
___________________________________________________
After a couple of hours (and what seemed to Scully an infinite number of sunflower seeds from hundreds of bags that Mulder somehow managed to carry without making his suit jacket bulge) later, they arrived in Minneapolis, Minnesota. LaCroix had sat directly behind them the whole way, making it impossible for the FBI agents to speak comfortably about this new case. Bas as soon as the plane stopped, the vampire disappeared, and they were as alone as one can be in a crowded airport.
"It says here we have about an hour before the next flight," Scully noted, examining their tickets as they exited the 'on-ramp'. "That means we have a couple of extra minutes. What?"
Mulder shook his head, motioning for her to be quiet, and then pulled Scully to the side. "I spoke to Langly last night," he said, glancing over his shoulder. The man did *not* know how to appear inconspicuous. Or, at least, he wasn't exercising the ability at the moment. "Apparently the man in the pictures worked for the Chicago police department in the '60s under the name of 'Nick Forester.'"
"He kept the same first name," Scully said in surprise, "but changed his last one."
"A lot of people do that when they change names – I imagine it's easier to remember." Scully nodded. "Anyway, they couldn't find any more information on his past – and we're lucky to get that much. This Detective Nick Knight has no past – and someone did an excellent job of covering his tracks."
"That could mean anything," Scully pointed out. "He's not necessarily an X- file. And what has he done wrong? You haven't told me of any federal offenses."
"Aside from hacking into computers and changing records," Mulder answered. "But that's just the thing." He glanced around once more in case anyone was listening. Nope, just the same, bored, exhausted airport faces. "He has never been in any kind of real trouble – but I checked the records – when he was in Chicago, there were several unsolved murders by exsanguination – same thing in Canada."
"Coincidence," Scully argued.
"Maybe – but Detective Knight also has a strange skin condition which makes him allergic to sunlight – he has always requested the night shift . . . and gotten it." Mulder tilted his head slightly, raising his eyebrows as if making the scoring point. But Scully was not beaten yet.
"I've heard of that," she said. "He's phototrophic. It's pretty rare – I've never seen a case – but not impossible."
"Scully, we're talking about a guy who hasn't aged in at least forty years!" Mulder exclaimed. "I mean, this man looks like he's in his early thirties, he would have barely been alive at the time the first picture was taken." Mulder waved some papers in front of her in proof. Scully grabbed them.
"Mulder, these records say he graduated from the police academy in Chicago not that long ago. There's nothing unusual about them. The picture might be wrong – or faked – or his father – or just a look-alike! I just want to stay open to all possibilities . . . including that there is no case here."
"When what about that strange girl that came to us? I don't think she was joking."
"I don't think she was sane," Scully answered. "Rich, maybe, but not sane – what kind of informant shoves pictures under your door, then sticks around to talk to you?"
"A serious one."
"Uh, huh."
"Then what about LaCroix?"
Scully sighed, putting one hand to her forehead. "I don't know, Mulder, I just don't know – it doesn't add up to anything but someone's sick idea of a joke."
"Perhaps you should head to your plane before it leaves," LaCroix suggested. He had somehow managed to come up to the two agents without either one noticing. A moment later, he was gone again.
"Doesn't he ever make any noise?" Mulder asked in amazement.
"Apparently not," answered Scully. "Maybe we should investigate him anymore. X-file 666: the man who makes no noise. He does have a good point, though; we're going to be late."
___________________________________________________
Doctor Natalie Lambert had spent the night in the basement of The Hospital looking over her notes. She was feeling pretty well, now, though – after having a nice nap on her desk. But it was time to get back to work again. There would be a body rolled in any second now. In fact . . .
"Here he is, doc," said the young man who rolled the body in.
"What's left of him," added the redheaded girl who accompanied him. "Some bits of dust and ash, mainly." She laughed a little nervously and hurriedly left with the boy.
"Then why did they put him in a full body bag?" Natalie asked herself. "Of course, it does look pretty full . . . this is going to be ugly." Wincing in anticipation, she unzipped the bag and jumped back in shock.
"Thanks for that," said the 'young' man inside, sitting up. "It was getting a bit cramped in there. Are you all right?" he asked, looking at the shaken doctor. "I didn't mean to surprise you."
"You're not going to grab a bag of blood and drink it, are you?" Nat asked cautiously.
"Blood?" he replied in eager surprise. "You have blood in here? The formaldehyde must have drowned out the smell!" He looked around. Spotting a blood bag, the vampire jumped for it and downed the contents without pausing. Then he looked up at Natalie suspiciously. "What made you think I'd do that, love?"
"You're a vampire," Natalie answered. "The second one I've pulled in in the last couple years. Why is it always me who gets you people?"
"I don't know – luck?"
"I doubt it. I'm Natalie Lambert, by the way. I haven't seen you around here before, so you must be new," Natalie continued, quickly recovering from the shock.
"Spike," he answered, looking at the doctor as if she were crazy. Then – "What do you mean; you've never heard of me? I was one of the biggest vampires this century! Still am, I guess."
"You're only a century old?" she asked in surprise. "No wonder. But I'm quite sure I would have remembered you; you are very unlike the other vampires I've met here in Toronto."
"Toronto? Toronto Canada?" Spike interrupted. "You mean we're not still in California?"
Natalie stared at him doubtfully. "No, I'm quite sure this is Toronto. Although, your accent is strange . . . but you sound more Australian than Californian."
"British."
"Sorry. What I mean is you're just a little confused. It's not surprising, seeing as the two who brought you in here said you were basically ash. What happened?"
"Oh, you know, the usual: the end of the world, the opening of the hell mouth, an ugly pendant sucking out my soul, sunlight and Death."
"What?"
"I know it's strange," Spike answered, grabbing another bag of blood. "I didn't think Death was a real person either, but she is – and bloody insane! Here I was, thinking we were alone in the world, and this little *girl* shows up in black robes and tells me she's Death! And now I wake up here, alive. I mean, I'm not exactly alive, but not . . . dead."
"Undead," Natalie supplied, pulling up the word from the recesses of her memory.
"Yes, but I don't know why – I *should* be dead!" Spike exclaimed after draining bag #2. "I shouldn't be in Canada or wherever we are. I was in the *sunlight*!"
"And now you're here," Natalie finished. She pulled up a chair very slowly, and sat on it, as if afraid it would break. "That's very strange."
"You're telling me!"
"No, not that," Natalie said, shaking her head.
"Well *I* thought it was strange. What, does this happen every day for you? Unknown vampires just showing up after the end of the world? Or do you not know about that?" Spike looked at her again in wonder. "You don't, do you? All this stuff about vampires . . . but you've never even noticed the end of the world. So what do *you* think is so strange?"
"I had a dream," Natalie started, then paused. "I *thought* I had had a dream that I had died . . . that Nick had killed me."
"Nick? Who's he, your vampire friend?"
Nat nodded, and then continued. "He bit me . . . but he took too much, and I died."
"You died because he took too much?" Spike interrupted. "That doesn't add up. No, go ahead and finish, don't mind me."
Natalie gave him a Look, but continued. "Then I woke up here, so I thought it was all a dream! Now that you're here, though . . ."
"Wait a minute," Spike interjected. "You woke up *here*?"
"Yes . . ."
"Where exactly is here?"
"The Coroner's Building, of course. No . . ." Natalie really looked around her for the first time. "This is The Hospital! How did I know that? And why would I be doing an autopsy in a hospital?"
"I thought that's where they were done," Spike shrugged. "It doesn't mean anything."
"Yes it does. It means a lot . . ."
"It means you think you're dead. Or that you've been given a second chance or something like that." Natalie nodded again. "Well I'm not going to wait around thinking I'm dead. How do I get out of this place?" Spike stopped, looking at Natalie's face. "What, don't you think we can? Do you *feel* dead? Well I'll tell you this: I've been dead, and this isn't it." He took a few steps toward the door. "Aren't you coming?" Natalie smiled and followed him. After all, it was a doctor's duty to look after her patients . . . even if they were technically dead.
Disclaimer: and characters etc. that I did not invent, I do not claim here. I'm just borrowing them for a little bit. __________________________________________
Buffy woke up around five the next afternoon, feeling refreshed. For a moment, she didn't even open her eyes, content to lie back in her own bed. It was dark out behind her eyelids – what time was it, anyway? Slowly, she opened her eyes, and froze – her room was *never* this dark. Where was she?
Oh yeah: the end of the world . . . Death . . . Canada . . . the ever- strange Detective Nick Knight. Sitting up, Buffy really looked around for the first time. Or tried to. Muttering about people who kept their houses completely dark, Buffy got up and stumbled forward, knocking over something. Desperately hoping it wasn't very valuable, she backed up, and –
"Ow!" Slapping her hand (loudly) over her mouth, Buffy stifled any further exclamation.
"Are you all right?" Nick asked from beside her only a moment later. Buffy jumped slightly and punched where he had been. A light flickered on to reveal a tired-looking Nick in black silk pajamas and a bathrobe. "Are you all right?" Nick repeated, "I heard some crashing."
Buffy studied his face, doubting he had slept at all. Had he been watching her? Her instincts said 'no.' He looked as if he needed some rest . . . and not from spying on her; he looked decent enough. Even so, "I didn't mean to wake you."
"You didn't," Nick answered truthfully. "Don't worry about it." He looked slightly uncomfortable. "Perhaps I should get dressed, and then we can talk."
Buffy nodded. As soon as the detective had gone, she began searching for whatever she had knocked over and broken. Several seconds of looking exposed a small, ornate clay bowl which looked enormously expensive. Wincing, she picked up the pieces and put them on the table they had fallen from.
Deciding not to worry about it, Buffy walked over to examine the painted canvases Nick had decorated his loft with.
"Just a little hobby of mine," Nick commented, coming up behind her silently.
Jumping slightly – again – in surprise (who could sneak up on the slayer? She must have been very distracted indeed) Buffy turned to Nick. "Sorry about the bowl – I broke it – was it antique?"
"What do you mean?" Nicolas asked, looking at her in confusion. Buffy pointed. "Oh, yes, it was," he answered simply, making Buffy even more uncomfortable.
"Um, I can pay – or, well, no, I can't, but –" Buffy started, anxious to break the silence.
"No, it's fine." Nick answered, quickly changing the subject when he noticed the Slayer's discomfort. "But what about you?"
"What?"
"You," Nick replied. *Oh, he was changing the subject . . . I get it . . .* "We agreed to decide what to do in the evening, and it's almost that time now. Do you have any family?"
"No," Buffy answered, smiling apologetically. "I don't have anyone. Maybe if I could borrow some money to get back to California . . ."
"You would still have no place to go," Nick finished.
"No," Buffy said sadly. "I wouldn't." She stared back at one of Nick's paintings, wondering if this was strictly true, though somehow she felt it was. She was lost. Just like . . . the colors of the canvas seemed to be staring back at her; they, too, had gone astray. But that was silly.
"I will take you down to the station in a little while, then," Nick said calmly. "They can help you much better than I . . . perhaps that is why your mysterious person sent you to me."
"She's not 'my' mysterious person. But maybe you're right," answered Buffy, doubting it very much. She tore her eyes away from the painting. "Why can't we go now?"
"There is no need," Nick replied quickly. "I work the night shift anyway, and this won't take much time. In the meantime, you must be hungry. I don't keep much food around, but we might be able to find something to satisfy you."
Buffy blinked her eyes rapidly for a moment, sensing that Nick had just cleanly changed the subject again. Still . . . she hadn't eaten for who- knows-how-long, and any food sounded great right then. "Sure, whatever you have would be fine."
But after a few minutes it became evident that "whatever Nick had" wasn't much. All that they found was some bread, a little coffee, and some old hamburgers that Nat had brought. "I'm on a special diet," Nick said as way of explanation. "My doctor makes me . . . used to make me . . . protein shakes.
*Flashback*
Nick and Nat are in the loft. Nick has a "You have *got* to be kidding me" expression on as Natalie hands his a thermos. "Now I want you to drink *all* of this," she says. "And don't make that face at me!"
Nick sits down on the couch, grinning brightly at her. "You don't really want to give me that," he says in a low, hypnotic voice, taking out a pocket-watch and waving it in front of her face. "You do NOT want to give me the protein shake."
"Yes, I do," answers Natalie firmly. "And you *want* to drink it." Nick just groans in response.
*End Flashback*
Buffy watched Nick in amusement as his face momentarily glazed over . . . again. He sure did that a lot.
___________________________________________________
After a couple of hours (and what seemed to Scully an infinite number of sunflower seeds from hundreds of bags that Mulder somehow managed to carry without making his suit jacket bulge) later, they arrived in Minneapolis, Minnesota. LaCroix had sat directly behind them the whole way, making it impossible for the FBI agents to speak comfortably about this new case. Bas as soon as the plane stopped, the vampire disappeared, and they were as alone as one can be in a crowded airport.
"It says here we have about an hour before the next flight," Scully noted, examining their tickets as they exited the 'on-ramp'. "That means we have a couple of extra minutes. What?"
Mulder shook his head, motioning for her to be quiet, and then pulled Scully to the side. "I spoke to Langly last night," he said, glancing over his shoulder. The man did *not* know how to appear inconspicuous. Or, at least, he wasn't exercising the ability at the moment. "Apparently the man in the pictures worked for the Chicago police department in the '60s under the name of 'Nick Forester.'"
"He kept the same first name," Scully said in surprise, "but changed his last one."
"A lot of people do that when they change names – I imagine it's easier to remember." Scully nodded. "Anyway, they couldn't find any more information on his past – and we're lucky to get that much. This Detective Nick Knight has no past – and someone did an excellent job of covering his tracks."
"That could mean anything," Scully pointed out. "He's not necessarily an X- file. And what has he done wrong? You haven't told me of any federal offenses."
"Aside from hacking into computers and changing records," Mulder answered. "But that's just the thing." He glanced around once more in case anyone was listening. Nope, just the same, bored, exhausted airport faces. "He has never been in any kind of real trouble – but I checked the records – when he was in Chicago, there were several unsolved murders by exsanguination – same thing in Canada."
"Coincidence," Scully argued.
"Maybe – but Detective Knight also has a strange skin condition which makes him allergic to sunlight – he has always requested the night shift . . . and gotten it." Mulder tilted his head slightly, raising his eyebrows as if making the scoring point. But Scully was not beaten yet.
"I've heard of that," she said. "He's phototrophic. It's pretty rare – I've never seen a case – but not impossible."
"Scully, we're talking about a guy who hasn't aged in at least forty years!" Mulder exclaimed. "I mean, this man looks like he's in his early thirties, he would have barely been alive at the time the first picture was taken." Mulder waved some papers in front of her in proof. Scully grabbed them.
"Mulder, these records say he graduated from the police academy in Chicago not that long ago. There's nothing unusual about them. The picture might be wrong – or faked – or his father – or just a look-alike! I just want to stay open to all possibilities . . . including that there is no case here."
"When what about that strange girl that came to us? I don't think she was joking."
"I don't think she was sane," Scully answered. "Rich, maybe, but not sane – what kind of informant shoves pictures under your door, then sticks around to talk to you?"
"A serious one."
"Uh, huh."
"Then what about LaCroix?"
Scully sighed, putting one hand to her forehead. "I don't know, Mulder, I just don't know – it doesn't add up to anything but someone's sick idea of a joke."
"Perhaps you should head to your plane before it leaves," LaCroix suggested. He had somehow managed to come up to the two agents without either one noticing. A moment later, he was gone again.
"Doesn't he ever make any noise?" Mulder asked in amazement.
"Apparently not," answered Scully. "Maybe we should investigate him anymore. X-file 666: the man who makes no noise. He does have a good point, though; we're going to be late."
___________________________________________________
Doctor Natalie Lambert had spent the night in the basement of The Hospital looking over her notes. She was feeling pretty well, now, though – after having a nice nap on her desk. But it was time to get back to work again. There would be a body rolled in any second now. In fact . . .
"Here he is, doc," said the young man who rolled the body in.
"What's left of him," added the redheaded girl who accompanied him. "Some bits of dust and ash, mainly." She laughed a little nervously and hurriedly left with the boy.
"Then why did they put him in a full body bag?" Natalie asked herself. "Of course, it does look pretty full . . . this is going to be ugly." Wincing in anticipation, she unzipped the bag and jumped back in shock.
"Thanks for that," said the 'young' man inside, sitting up. "It was getting a bit cramped in there. Are you all right?" he asked, looking at the shaken doctor. "I didn't mean to surprise you."
"You're not going to grab a bag of blood and drink it, are you?" Nat asked cautiously.
"Blood?" he replied in eager surprise. "You have blood in here? The formaldehyde must have drowned out the smell!" He looked around. Spotting a blood bag, the vampire jumped for it and downed the contents without pausing. Then he looked up at Natalie suspiciously. "What made you think I'd do that, love?"
"You're a vampire," Natalie answered. "The second one I've pulled in in the last couple years. Why is it always me who gets you people?"
"I don't know – luck?"
"I doubt it. I'm Natalie Lambert, by the way. I haven't seen you around here before, so you must be new," Natalie continued, quickly recovering from the shock.
"Spike," he answered, looking at the doctor as if she were crazy. Then – "What do you mean; you've never heard of me? I was one of the biggest vampires this century! Still am, I guess."
"You're only a century old?" she asked in surprise. "No wonder. But I'm quite sure I would have remembered you; you are very unlike the other vampires I've met here in Toronto."
"Toronto? Toronto Canada?" Spike interrupted. "You mean we're not still in California?"
Natalie stared at him doubtfully. "No, I'm quite sure this is Toronto. Although, your accent is strange . . . but you sound more Australian than Californian."
"British."
"Sorry. What I mean is you're just a little confused. It's not surprising, seeing as the two who brought you in here said you were basically ash. What happened?"
"Oh, you know, the usual: the end of the world, the opening of the hell mouth, an ugly pendant sucking out my soul, sunlight and Death."
"What?"
"I know it's strange," Spike answered, grabbing another bag of blood. "I didn't think Death was a real person either, but she is – and bloody insane! Here I was, thinking we were alone in the world, and this little *girl* shows up in black robes and tells me she's Death! And now I wake up here, alive. I mean, I'm not exactly alive, but not . . . dead."
"Undead," Natalie supplied, pulling up the word from the recesses of her memory.
"Yes, but I don't know why – I *should* be dead!" Spike exclaimed after draining bag #2. "I shouldn't be in Canada or wherever we are. I was in the *sunlight*!"
"And now you're here," Natalie finished. She pulled up a chair very slowly, and sat on it, as if afraid it would break. "That's very strange."
"You're telling me!"
"No, not that," Natalie said, shaking her head.
"Well *I* thought it was strange. What, does this happen every day for you? Unknown vampires just showing up after the end of the world? Or do you not know about that?" Spike looked at her again in wonder. "You don't, do you? All this stuff about vampires . . . but you've never even noticed the end of the world. So what do *you* think is so strange?"
"I had a dream," Natalie started, then paused. "I *thought* I had had a dream that I had died . . . that Nick had killed me."
"Nick? Who's he, your vampire friend?"
Nat nodded, and then continued. "He bit me . . . but he took too much, and I died."
"You died because he took too much?" Spike interrupted. "That doesn't add up. No, go ahead and finish, don't mind me."
Natalie gave him a Look, but continued. "Then I woke up here, so I thought it was all a dream! Now that you're here, though . . ."
"Wait a minute," Spike interjected. "You woke up *here*?"
"Yes . . ."
"Where exactly is here?"
"The Coroner's Building, of course. No . . ." Natalie really looked around her for the first time. "This is The Hospital! How did I know that? And why would I be doing an autopsy in a hospital?"
"I thought that's where they were done," Spike shrugged. "It doesn't mean anything."
"Yes it does. It means a lot . . ."
"It means you think you're dead. Or that you've been given a second chance or something like that." Natalie nodded again. "Well I'm not going to wait around thinking I'm dead. How do I get out of this place?" Spike stopped, looking at Natalie's face. "What, don't you think we can? Do you *feel* dead? Well I'll tell you this: I've been dead, and this isn't it." He took a few steps toward the door. "Aren't you coming?" Natalie smiled and followed him. After all, it was a doctor's duty to look after her patients . . . even if they were technically dead.