Dr. Chilton blinked, and it was the most annoying thing on the face of the planet.
"You're sending him," he drawled with a discreet nod to the piddling Andrew, "to meet with Dr. Lecter?"
Another long blink.
If she detected any hint of reservation—which she did, because the Slayer was not blind and deaf—she didn't respond to it. There had been weasels before and there would be weasels in the future, but none that quite compared to the esteemed Dr. Frederick Chilton. He sat behind his desk and pretended it was made of inscrutable power, leering at them as though he had every right in the world to judge.
In retrospect and fairness—two things Spike was not shuffling out in spades—the scenario had to look more than odd. Three incredibly young (looking) kids who were likely no more than twenty-five asking by appointment to see Dr. Hannibal Lecter, the famous serial killer whose notoriety was surpassed only by legend. But they were there with cause. They had identification and credentials (some counterfeit—pesky immortality thing didn't run well with the government) to prove it.
Chilton spent several minutes studying Buffy with such severe scrutiny that Spike toyed with the idea of ripping the wanker's balls off for fun, chip be damned. No one was allowed to look at her like that. Even if it was to gauge the full absurdity of her name. The Slayer had a bloody ridiculous name, but he was the only one who got to think so.
If Buffy noticed, she remained professional. More so than he could say for himself. The vampire paced away and began playing with one of the bands that encircled his wrist. A fella simply couldn't wear too much metal.
"Well, out of all of us, I believe that…Andrew has the best chance of getting information from Mist…Doctor Lecter. I don't associate well with…that sort of…guy. And—"
"Oh, piffle," Spike groaned. He took two heated steps forward and leered over the little man's desk, enjoying the way Chilton's eyes widened as he shrank helplessly into his chair. "We're sendin' the li'l guy in 'cause 'e's a useless git, much like yourself. 've done my readin' on this Lecter bloke. 'E likes to poke fun at pity cases. Can you think of anythin' more pitiful than him."
Andrew emitted a miserable wail of trepidation in unwitting support of this claim.
Chilton looked up, shaking even as he tried not to, and matched the blaze behind the vampire's eyes. It would only take the slightest shift for his bumpies to emerge and give this prat the scare of his life, and he might have gone through with it had Buffy's hand not gently rocked against his shoulder. It was not a motion to pull back; rather to keep him grounded. To maintain the human visage before all was completely buggered.
"Sorry, luv," he said over his shoulder, eyes not leaving the greasy man for an instant. Daring him to indulge one of those annoyingly condescending blinks again. "Din't mean to lose my temper."
He felt her wry amusement more than anything and understood that the words to escape her lips in no way reflected her current frame of mind. The Slayer was particularly talented at such forms of evasion. "Spike, there's gonna be a world of hurt if you don't back off a bit. Just let the guy talk."
"Yes, yes," Andrew agreed enthusiastically. "Let the guy talk."
Everyone in the room paused to toss him a curious glance.
"What?" he asked, uncomfortable again. "I just enjoy sexual tension."
That did it. Spike leapt away from Chilton as though the man had encased his body with holy water. He promptly ignored the amused glance the Slayer delivered and shivered with contemptuous affect. "So, right," he grumbled. "Get on with it."
The greasy doctor—and questionable one at that—was still a bit flustered. "What?"
"Give the whelp the run-down. 'm assumin' you 'ave procedures for takin' care of this prat?"
Dr. Chilton nodded slowly, clearing his throat and straightening his tie. "Of course…" He evidently found it easier to look at Andrew and took great comfort in doing so; it wasn't often that he found himself bullied by those outside prison cells. No, the would-be-doctor was one for verbal engages with teenagers and the assorted populace whose lack of education rivaled how very far he did not go in college. Enough to get him where he is today, but nothing further. To be so blatantly shown up by a punkish Billy Idol wannabe brought him back to the days of private school and the upperclassman's favorite brands of torture.
The same the most notorious occupant of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane ridiculed him about time and time again. Not that it bothered him, of course.
Andrew seemed to fall under the heading of those he could easily bully. It would be better to get him away from his companions. While pseudo Billy Idol—the girl had called him Spike, horrible nickname—didn't seem to care a lick about what happened to the boy, he might get possessive about another hound sniffing around his favorite hunting territory. There was something about him that made Chilton want to lock him up, and not only the way he regarded him. As though starving and…was he looking at his neck? I've been spending too much time thinking about cannibalism. "Ummm…yes." Time to go into routine. He had made the following speech enough times to recite it in his sleep. "If you will, please…in any circumstance, do not forget the following: do not touch the glass, do not approach the glass. Pass him nothing but soft paper. No paperclips or staples, pencils or pens—"
"What if he needs to write something down?" Andrew intervened.
"He has plenty of writing utensils within his cell."
"But what if his pen has run out of ink and he needs to borrow one from me?"
"He has plenty of writing utensils within his cell."
"But what if—"
Buffy's eyes widened in irritation and she turned to Spike, who in turn whispered something that sounded remarkably like, "Newt," to the trembling interviewer.
Hannibal's going to have a field day with this one, Chilton reflected bitterly. "He has all necessary items at his disposal, and you are invited to remind him of that should he make a request. If he attempts to pass you anything, do not accept it—"
"What if he wants to give me his autograph?"
The Slayer made a face. "Why would you want it?"
Andrew smiled, then—dear God, was he blushing? "Just…to prove that I was here. You know? Jonathon and Warren—"
"Do not accept anything he passes you," Chilton interjected.
"But what if—"
"No."
"What if I need to borrow a—"
"FOR GOD'S SAKE, DO NOT ACCEPT ANYTHING!"
Spike blinked slowly, then rumbled a long chuckle. "Temper, temper."
Buffy elbowed him, but there was a conspiratorial grin on her face. A characteristic one/eighty. She was suddenly calm and diplomatic—the biting sneer retreating from an otherwise amiably snarky persona. "Andrew," she said softly. "It's best to listen to what Dr. Chilton has to say, wouldn't you agree? Especially since he's being so nice and letting us interview Lecter in the first place. Even if it was a polite suggestion made by one Quentin Travers." Her eyes sparkled when Chilton bristled in recognition of the name. "We apologize that Mr. Travers could not be here in person, Doctor, but he is a very busy man. He was hoping Giles—Mr. Giles—could take his place, but things in Sunnydale do tend to get a little hectic."
Chilton nodded numbly. "And…Andrew, his name is? He is the best alternative your people could come up with?"
The peroxide vampire offered a firm snicker. "What? You prefer me go in there? The Slay—erm—Miss Summers doesn' exactly feel all comfy with the notion 'f bein' led down there, an' knowin' what sorts've loons you keep locked up in 'ere, I can't say I'm too thrilled with the idea, either."
There was a moment of rational thought.
"Well," Chilton began, "it does seem that you are not as intimidated at the thought of meeting Hannibal Lecter face-to-face. I don't see why—"
"'Cause I'm the Big Bad," Spike snarled. Buffy elbowed him again. "Erm…'cause I'm a rude son of a bitch, an' 'f I remember right from all the bloody articles, your boy isn't a fan of people who 'ave the knack of tellin' it like it is. Trust me, mate. 'F we 'ad another option other than Gonna-Shit-His-Pants over there, we'd've taken it."
There really was no disputing that, even as Chilton looked him over with the foresight of having not already considered such an angle. He knew the excuse provided for Ms. Summers was likely a fluke; their change in temperament was foreseeable, but he had her pegged as the sort of dame who shied from no challenge. While true, the hospital administrator wasn't exactly the world's most apt people-reader; the girl's disposition was fiery at the wait. She was a pistol, and a bold one at that.
"Very well…I will escort…Andrew to meet with the doctor, providing he agrees to follow the precautionary restrictions that I established." His eyes narrowed at that. "And a last name might be helpful."
"I'm Tucker's brother."
Buffy and Spike exchanged a look.
"Tucker…he tried to set the hellhounds on—"
"Andrew!"
The boy turned his gaze downward shamefully.
Dr. Chilton blinked again, only this time out of confusion rather than condescension. "Right," he said slowly. "Let's go."
That was it; his safety net of the vampire and Slayer was gone. Andrew watched helplessly as the figures of his hosts were shut into the administrator's office, unable to do anything but comply with the strong grip that ushered him down a labyrinth of halls. Every step was further pronouncement that he was indeed alone. Alone. Going alone to face the doctor.
A big guy named Barney asked something about glass. Or bars. Or bars made of glass. Or glass that protected bars from other glass. Or…it didn't matter. Well, it probably did, but that didn't mean he was going to ask. Instead, he nodded numbly and was all but shoved into the main section of the dungeon.
Andrew's gaze drifted down the darkened hallway, the full-blown panic that had been threatening him ever since the Scoobies pulled up to the asylum finally taking its toll. His hands clamped tightly on the questionnaire, eyes closed until he remembered that walking was likely a necessity. With each step, his legs threatened to cave. He could imagine the humiliation: lying unconscious at murderer's row. He wondered if he would be treated to a raunchy Catherine Zeta-Jones number as he…
The inmates were quiet and depressing…all except one. Some rambling lunatic that hissed something…ewwww. He was sure his virgin ears were much too inexperienced to even begin to know what to do with that suggestion.
Why him? Why now? What on earth was he supposed to say to the man? "Umm, yes. Dr. L. We're wondering if you're really a demon. Can I ask you a few questions?"
Presuming he didn't pass out.
Not likely. Nearer and nearer to the madman's cell and he was beginning to see stars. Dizzying stars.
Whoa. Head rush. Cool.
Last cell. There was no more being Mr. Avoidance. Andrew inhaled deeply and peered inside, emitting a small squeak when he saw Lecter standing at astute attention, as though he had been waiting for him.
There was that breathless minute as perhaps the most notorious, living serial killer took him under his observation of the utmost scrutiny. A long, endless beat of irreproachable consequence. The boy was certain that was the end of him. He would wither and fall then and there, die a harmless sham of a would-be Big Bad and put the Slayer and her Slayerettes to unimaginable shame. A fate worse than death. It was like he standing in the presence of every single comic book baddie he had fantasized and—more importantly—idolized as a child. Shivering with glee but unable to hide his reservation. Innate and overwhelming bitterness that did little good soared through his veins. They expected him to talk to this man? This guy who put the doings of Norman Oswald to shame? How? Why? How?
Three excellent questions.
"Hi, Mist…Doctor Lecter," he began nervously. "I'm Andrew."