Title: SAMARITAN
Author: Ivytree
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, etc. Except Wally and Mrs. C. And maybe...
Feedback: Please!
Summary: Sequel to Grandpa; A soul makes everyday demands, and others a little more esoteric... and tougher still.
Setting: The near future; say, September
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
SAMARITAN Pt. 13 And Still To Be
He stood in the dark hallway, looming and preternaturally silent.
"Invite me in, Xander," he said, a glint in his shadowed eyes that might have been humorous. Or not.
"Uh - " Xander's mouth was dry, and he had to swallow before getting any words out at all. "Come in, Angel. Welcome to my humble, etc." Then he opened the door wide to the last person in the world he ever wanted to meet up with again.
"Good to see you, too, old pal," Angel said. "Nice place you've got here."
Xander didn't know why he was sweating so much; possibly it was the tail end of the most stunning hangover he'd ever experienced. His brain just didn't seem to work right, either. It was all so weird. Spike purportedly saving him from vampires. (But was that true? Really, after all that happened, could they trust Spike's word?) And what was all this stuff about Riley? That couldn't be true, it just couldn't. Riley must have been under some kind of thrall or compulsion or something, because if anybody had it together, it was him. Wasn't it? Though he didn't deny what they'd been saying. And now these two strangers showed up and seemed to know all about those things, and more, and Buffy told him to let them in because they worked with Angel. Who was suddenly back.
Angel, his coat billowing about him, strolled past Xander toward the group seated around the dining table, nodding to Fred and Gunn. What is it with us and dining tables? Xander thought. We get our best ideas sitting around them - and our worst. A shiver crept down his spine as he remembered sitting right where Gunn sat now, planning for Buffy's resurrection with Willow and Tara. And Anya.
He trailed after Angel, wishing he were somewhere else. He saw Riley's eyes widen, and his breathing quicken. Sheesh, the guy was supposed to be a big demon hunter - didn't he know enough not to show fear?
Noiselessly, deliberately, like a cat approaching a hapless mouse, Angel moved closer and closer to Riley until he stood right beside his chair, forcing him to look up.
"Riley Finn," he said. "You know, I didn't expect to see you back in Sunnydale."
"Same - " Riley cleared his throat. "Same here."
"Oh, but I have ties to the community," Angel said. Was that mockery in his voice? What was he intending to do, anyway? "Ties of friendship," Angel went on. "Family ties."
"I just came back for help," Riley said, showing some guts at least.
"And I guess you figured everyone still believed the lies you told. The set-up you engineered."
"Set up? What's that supposed to mean?" Xander couldn't help interrupting. This was a real, live guy against a - well, a not-live guy, after all. He had to side with the live guy.
"He knows what I mean," Angel said, not taking his eyes from Riley's.
"I was just trying to get Buffy out of a bad situation," Riley said.
"You know, Finn, I never liked you. I always figured you had secrets. But I didn't figure you for a deliberate murderer. How do you think Buffy would have felt if you'd done what you wanted, and she found out afterwards you were lying about the Doctor, about everything?"
"Murder! What are you talking about?" Xander exclaimed.
"It wouldn't be murder! He's not even - " Riley stopped himself.
"Human?" With a move so swift it was impossible to follow, Angel seized his shirtfront and jerked him to his feet. "Gee, Finn, maybe nobody told you. Neither am I."
"Hey!" Xander protested feebly.
"And you know how you Initiative guys put that chip in Spike's head, so he can't defend himself from the likes of you?" Angel smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile. "There's no chip in MY head."
There was a moment of absolute silence. Xander gulped. He'd sort of forgotten that part.
* * * *
Her hands moved over his shoulders, his arms, his hair; his lips were cool and silky, just as she remembered, first gentle, then urgent, then soft and tender. At last - too soon - she was forced to break away to pant for breath, holding his face between her hands and looking again into his eyes. And when she looked, she knew, and tears spilled down her cheeks.
"Buffy," Spike whispered, "what are you doing?"
"I thought you didn't love me anymore," she said baldly, unable to keep her lip from trembling. To hell with reticence.
"Oh, sweetheart, no!" he exclaimed, with another fervent kiss. "No, no, no! That could never happen, never."
Again she drew away for a moment. "I'm so sorry for everything - " another kiss, "I hurt you so much," and another, "it's all my fault."
"Buffy, no," kissing her again, "not your fault, mine."
She dove into his embrace, and again knew nothing but him and the darkness, his steely arms pressing her closer and closer as she clutched at his shoulders, his cheek, rough and smooth, his eager mouth seeking hers.
* * * *
Perched beside Anya atop a mound of rubble and viewing the scene below them, Dawn uttered a happy squeak, and clutched Anya's hand, receiving a warm smile in return. She KNEW this would happen eventually, she just knew it. And it was all because of her - if she hadn't chased that demon they wouldn't be here at all. Of course, that wasn't entirely of the good, because they were sort of trapped, but still.
She and Anya politely turned their flashlights away for a few minutes, hearing nothing but broken murmurs interspersed with fervid gasps from their two companions. However, it was beginning to look like they'd better go soon.
"Uh - guys?" Dawn called. She saw something unsettling at the far end of the corridor. Something that moved.
"Please excuse the interruption," Anya said in a calm, clear tone, "but I think there's a monster coming this way."
They heard scrabbling in the darkness, and turned their flashlights to the floor below them again. Spike was helping Buffy up.
"All right now, love?"
"Sure," she said, clinging tightly to his hands, "I'm not hurt. Just sort of dusty."
"Why don't you two ladies join us?" Spike said. "If we lure the whatsit down here, Slayer and I can dispose of it."
"What about the ceiling falling on us?" Dawn said nervously.
"That was just a loose bit - most of it's still sound." He kicked the wall to demonstrate. "See? Better that than a beastie, anyway. Come on, Niblet, hop it - it's getting close."
There was definitely a sound coming their way, though it was more of a deep grumble than a roar. "It doesn't sound too mad, just sort of cranky," she suggested hopefully.
"Nevertheless," Spike said.
* * * *
Spike, Buffy, Anya and Dawn hid themselves in a shadowy corridor, waiting for whatever it was to come. It had reached the pile of debris blocking the passage, and Buffy heard it clambering up, sending showers of dust and rubble tumbling to the floor, still muttering to itself in a low, resonant growl.
The creature made it to the top and slid clumsily to the floor, landing in a heap of over-muscled limbs; rather proud of herself for doing so, she recognized it as a Fyarl, its great horns a black silhouette in the dim light. It crouched in a defensive posture, swinging its head around in a half-circle, sniffing.
"Grrwaol, grrwaol, grrwaol, Grak," the Fyarl mumbled to itself.
Buffy tugged on Spike's hand, still clasping hers.
"We should split up and trap it between us," she whispered.
His head was cocked at an angle; he was listening.
"Wait a minute," he whispered, "I think I can - its name is Grak."
"You understand Fyarl?" Anya said, looking impressed. "That's a very difficult language. No pronouns."
"It's enthralled, all right; it's been ordered to catch us. Well, to catch you, Slayer."
Buffy snorted. "They'll have to do better than one lousy Fyarl to do that," she said. "We could catch IT, though. Can we knock it out?"
"It'll take some doing, but we can, Miss Warrior Girl," he replied with an appreciative grin. "Between us."
She drew his head down for a quick kiss; then, soundlessly, they separated, and moved to flank the Fyarl. On a signal, they both rushed the demon, and Spike punched it with a rapid right and a left. Buffy spun, throwing a powerful kick to its chest; it whirled to confront her, and Spike shouted, "Hey! Grak!" The unwieldy head pivoted back toward him, allowing Buffy to follow up with a two-handed blow to the back of its neck. It reared back and began to snort, and Spike slammed it under the chin, calling out, "Oh, right - mind the mucus!"
Buffy danced backward. "What!?" she exclaimed. The creature was making a now rather ominous snuffling sound.
"It's got a sort of mucus weapon," Spike said, whirling to kick the Fyarl soundly in the diaphragm - betting that it actually had a diaphragm. "Forgot to mention it." Fortunately, his ploy seemed to work; it clutched its midsection with a grunt, and staggered forward. "Best not allow it to, uh, let loose - "
Together, they pummeled the creature to the ground - keeping well out of range of any discharge - and a robust kick to the head from Spike finished it off. It subsided to the floor, with an almost peaceful sigh.
"Well, we captured our minion." Buffy stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the limp, bulky form lying between them. "Now we've just got to get it home."
* * * *
"So," Angel said in a friendly tone, pulling out a chair out from the table and seating himself, as Riley collapsed back into his. "Now you're going to tell us everything we want to know about your former Initiative pals, the Doctor, and what you're really doing here."
"I'm looking for my wife!"
"Maybe that's true, maybe it isn't. We'll see. Why did you come here last spring?"
"The Doctor. We thought she double-crossed us."
"Your organization? The Suovolte eggs were for you?"
"Yes."
"What for? Weapons?"
"No; they're too erratic to make good weapons. But certain substances - certain valuable substances - can be extracted from the embryos."
"How did Spike get them?"
Riley shrugged. "Just what he said, probably. It turned out that one of the Doctor's low-level minions double-crossed HER, and lifted them to sell back to the Suovolte. He didn't know anything; probably just let somebody store them in exchange for some quick cash."
"So who is the Doctor?"
"No one knows. No one's ever seen her. We know she operates from near the Hellmouth, but we only talk to subordinates."
"And why is your group allied with her?"
"We're not! She's a common criminal, a crime boss. She's a supplier, that's all." Riley had answered all Angel's questions in a monotone, shoulders slumping. But now he raised his head and threw a glance at Xander and another, curiously, at Fred. "We're not - we're not street thugs. We only deal in rare items, on commission. Only for select buyers who really need them."
"'Select' buyers who really need them? Right," Angel said, his lips twisted in distaste. "Fred, why don't you tell everyone what you found out about the substance they get from Suovolte embryos?"
"Well, it's sort of a glowing black goo, called 'suoshashai,'" she answered, pushing her glasses up her nose, "and it's used in certain kinds of necromancy."
"Okay, so I'm not too up on the spooky stuff," Xander said. "And necromancy is, again?"
"Raising the dead," Angel replied with a steady, meaningful look, "and controlling them - almost like turning them into zombies."
"It's extra dangerous, because it can be used on anyone who's been raised from the dead," Fred said, her face sober. "Even long afterwards. The user doesn't have to be at the gravesite or anything."
Xander could actually feel the blood drain from his face. Anyone who's been raised from the dead. Even long afterwards. The room started to spin as he heard Gunn say, "Hey, man, you all right?"
TBC
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"GLORY of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song,
Paid with a voice flying by to be lost on an endless sea-
Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, to right the wrong-
Nay, but she aim'd not at glory, no lover of glory she;
Give her the glory of going on, and still to be.
The wages of sin is death: if the wages of Virtue be dust,
Would she have heart to endure for the life of the worm and the fly?
She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet seats of the just,
To rest in a golden grove, or to bask in a summer sky;
Give her the wages of going on, and not to die."
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Author: Ivytree
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, etc. Except Wally and Mrs. C. And maybe...
Feedback: Please!
Summary: Sequel to Grandpa; A soul makes everyday demands, and others a little more esoteric... and tougher still.
Setting: The near future; say, September
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
SAMARITAN Pt. 13 And Still To Be
He stood in the dark hallway, looming and preternaturally silent.
"Invite me in, Xander," he said, a glint in his shadowed eyes that might have been humorous. Or not.
"Uh - " Xander's mouth was dry, and he had to swallow before getting any words out at all. "Come in, Angel. Welcome to my humble, etc." Then he opened the door wide to the last person in the world he ever wanted to meet up with again.
"Good to see you, too, old pal," Angel said. "Nice place you've got here."
Xander didn't know why he was sweating so much; possibly it was the tail end of the most stunning hangover he'd ever experienced. His brain just didn't seem to work right, either. It was all so weird. Spike purportedly saving him from vampires. (But was that true? Really, after all that happened, could they trust Spike's word?) And what was all this stuff about Riley? That couldn't be true, it just couldn't. Riley must have been under some kind of thrall or compulsion or something, because if anybody had it together, it was him. Wasn't it? Though he didn't deny what they'd been saying. And now these two strangers showed up and seemed to know all about those things, and more, and Buffy told him to let them in because they worked with Angel. Who was suddenly back.
Angel, his coat billowing about him, strolled past Xander toward the group seated around the dining table, nodding to Fred and Gunn. What is it with us and dining tables? Xander thought. We get our best ideas sitting around them - and our worst. A shiver crept down his spine as he remembered sitting right where Gunn sat now, planning for Buffy's resurrection with Willow and Tara. And Anya.
He trailed after Angel, wishing he were somewhere else. He saw Riley's eyes widen, and his breathing quicken. Sheesh, the guy was supposed to be a big demon hunter - didn't he know enough not to show fear?
Noiselessly, deliberately, like a cat approaching a hapless mouse, Angel moved closer and closer to Riley until he stood right beside his chair, forcing him to look up.
"Riley Finn," he said. "You know, I didn't expect to see you back in Sunnydale."
"Same - " Riley cleared his throat. "Same here."
"Oh, but I have ties to the community," Angel said. Was that mockery in his voice? What was he intending to do, anyway? "Ties of friendship," Angel went on. "Family ties."
"I just came back for help," Riley said, showing some guts at least.
"And I guess you figured everyone still believed the lies you told. The set-up you engineered."
"Set up? What's that supposed to mean?" Xander couldn't help interrupting. This was a real, live guy against a - well, a not-live guy, after all. He had to side with the live guy.
"He knows what I mean," Angel said, not taking his eyes from Riley's.
"I was just trying to get Buffy out of a bad situation," Riley said.
"You know, Finn, I never liked you. I always figured you had secrets. But I didn't figure you for a deliberate murderer. How do you think Buffy would have felt if you'd done what you wanted, and she found out afterwards you were lying about the Doctor, about everything?"
"Murder! What are you talking about?" Xander exclaimed.
"It wouldn't be murder! He's not even - " Riley stopped himself.
"Human?" With a move so swift it was impossible to follow, Angel seized his shirtfront and jerked him to his feet. "Gee, Finn, maybe nobody told you. Neither am I."
"Hey!" Xander protested feebly.
"And you know how you Initiative guys put that chip in Spike's head, so he can't defend himself from the likes of you?" Angel smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile. "There's no chip in MY head."
There was a moment of absolute silence. Xander gulped. He'd sort of forgotten that part.
* * * *
Her hands moved over his shoulders, his arms, his hair; his lips were cool and silky, just as she remembered, first gentle, then urgent, then soft and tender. At last - too soon - she was forced to break away to pant for breath, holding his face between her hands and looking again into his eyes. And when she looked, she knew, and tears spilled down her cheeks.
"Buffy," Spike whispered, "what are you doing?"
"I thought you didn't love me anymore," she said baldly, unable to keep her lip from trembling. To hell with reticence.
"Oh, sweetheart, no!" he exclaimed, with another fervent kiss. "No, no, no! That could never happen, never."
Again she drew away for a moment. "I'm so sorry for everything - " another kiss, "I hurt you so much," and another, "it's all my fault."
"Buffy, no," kissing her again, "not your fault, mine."
She dove into his embrace, and again knew nothing but him and the darkness, his steely arms pressing her closer and closer as she clutched at his shoulders, his cheek, rough and smooth, his eager mouth seeking hers.
* * * *
Perched beside Anya atop a mound of rubble and viewing the scene below them, Dawn uttered a happy squeak, and clutched Anya's hand, receiving a warm smile in return. She KNEW this would happen eventually, she just knew it. And it was all because of her - if she hadn't chased that demon they wouldn't be here at all. Of course, that wasn't entirely of the good, because they were sort of trapped, but still.
She and Anya politely turned their flashlights away for a few minutes, hearing nothing but broken murmurs interspersed with fervid gasps from their two companions. However, it was beginning to look like they'd better go soon.
"Uh - guys?" Dawn called. She saw something unsettling at the far end of the corridor. Something that moved.
"Please excuse the interruption," Anya said in a calm, clear tone, "but I think there's a monster coming this way."
They heard scrabbling in the darkness, and turned their flashlights to the floor below them again. Spike was helping Buffy up.
"All right now, love?"
"Sure," she said, clinging tightly to his hands, "I'm not hurt. Just sort of dusty."
"Why don't you two ladies join us?" Spike said. "If we lure the whatsit down here, Slayer and I can dispose of it."
"What about the ceiling falling on us?" Dawn said nervously.
"That was just a loose bit - most of it's still sound." He kicked the wall to demonstrate. "See? Better that than a beastie, anyway. Come on, Niblet, hop it - it's getting close."
There was definitely a sound coming their way, though it was more of a deep grumble than a roar. "It doesn't sound too mad, just sort of cranky," she suggested hopefully.
"Nevertheless," Spike said.
* * * *
Spike, Buffy, Anya and Dawn hid themselves in a shadowy corridor, waiting for whatever it was to come. It had reached the pile of debris blocking the passage, and Buffy heard it clambering up, sending showers of dust and rubble tumbling to the floor, still muttering to itself in a low, resonant growl.
The creature made it to the top and slid clumsily to the floor, landing in a heap of over-muscled limbs; rather proud of herself for doing so, she recognized it as a Fyarl, its great horns a black silhouette in the dim light. It crouched in a defensive posture, swinging its head around in a half-circle, sniffing.
"Grrwaol, grrwaol, grrwaol, Grak," the Fyarl mumbled to itself.
Buffy tugged on Spike's hand, still clasping hers.
"We should split up and trap it between us," she whispered.
His head was cocked at an angle; he was listening.
"Wait a minute," he whispered, "I think I can - its name is Grak."
"You understand Fyarl?" Anya said, looking impressed. "That's a very difficult language. No pronouns."
"It's enthralled, all right; it's been ordered to catch us. Well, to catch you, Slayer."
Buffy snorted. "They'll have to do better than one lousy Fyarl to do that," she said. "We could catch IT, though. Can we knock it out?"
"It'll take some doing, but we can, Miss Warrior Girl," he replied with an appreciative grin. "Between us."
She drew his head down for a quick kiss; then, soundlessly, they separated, and moved to flank the Fyarl. On a signal, they both rushed the demon, and Spike punched it with a rapid right and a left. Buffy spun, throwing a powerful kick to its chest; it whirled to confront her, and Spike shouted, "Hey! Grak!" The unwieldy head pivoted back toward him, allowing Buffy to follow up with a two-handed blow to the back of its neck. It reared back and began to snort, and Spike slammed it under the chin, calling out, "Oh, right - mind the mucus!"
Buffy danced backward. "What!?" she exclaimed. The creature was making a now rather ominous snuffling sound.
"It's got a sort of mucus weapon," Spike said, whirling to kick the Fyarl soundly in the diaphragm - betting that it actually had a diaphragm. "Forgot to mention it." Fortunately, his ploy seemed to work; it clutched its midsection with a grunt, and staggered forward. "Best not allow it to, uh, let loose - "
Together, they pummeled the creature to the ground - keeping well out of range of any discharge - and a robust kick to the head from Spike finished it off. It subsided to the floor, with an almost peaceful sigh.
"Well, we captured our minion." Buffy stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the limp, bulky form lying between them. "Now we've just got to get it home."
* * * *
"So," Angel said in a friendly tone, pulling out a chair out from the table and seating himself, as Riley collapsed back into his. "Now you're going to tell us everything we want to know about your former Initiative pals, the Doctor, and what you're really doing here."
"I'm looking for my wife!"
"Maybe that's true, maybe it isn't. We'll see. Why did you come here last spring?"
"The Doctor. We thought she double-crossed us."
"Your organization? The Suovolte eggs were for you?"
"Yes."
"What for? Weapons?"
"No; they're too erratic to make good weapons. But certain substances - certain valuable substances - can be extracted from the embryos."
"How did Spike get them?"
Riley shrugged. "Just what he said, probably. It turned out that one of the Doctor's low-level minions double-crossed HER, and lifted them to sell back to the Suovolte. He didn't know anything; probably just let somebody store them in exchange for some quick cash."
"So who is the Doctor?"
"No one knows. No one's ever seen her. We know she operates from near the Hellmouth, but we only talk to subordinates."
"And why is your group allied with her?"
"We're not! She's a common criminal, a crime boss. She's a supplier, that's all." Riley had answered all Angel's questions in a monotone, shoulders slumping. But now he raised his head and threw a glance at Xander and another, curiously, at Fred. "We're not - we're not street thugs. We only deal in rare items, on commission. Only for select buyers who really need them."
"'Select' buyers who really need them? Right," Angel said, his lips twisted in distaste. "Fred, why don't you tell everyone what you found out about the substance they get from Suovolte embryos?"
"Well, it's sort of a glowing black goo, called 'suoshashai,'" she answered, pushing her glasses up her nose, "and it's used in certain kinds of necromancy."
"Okay, so I'm not too up on the spooky stuff," Xander said. "And necromancy is, again?"
"Raising the dead," Angel replied with a steady, meaningful look, "and controlling them - almost like turning them into zombies."
"It's extra dangerous, because it can be used on anyone who's been raised from the dead," Fred said, her face sober. "Even long afterwards. The user doesn't have to be at the gravesite or anything."
Xander could actually feel the blood drain from his face. Anyone who's been raised from the dead. Even long afterwards. The room started to spin as he heard Gunn say, "Hey, man, you all right?"
TBC
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"GLORY of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song,
Paid with a voice flying by to be lost on an endless sea-
Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, to right the wrong-
Nay, but she aim'd not at glory, no lover of glory she;
Give her the glory of going on, and still to be.
The wages of sin is death: if the wages of Virtue be dust,
Would she have heart to endure for the life of the worm and the fly?
She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet seats of the just,
To rest in a golden grove, or to bask in a summer sky;
Give her the wages of going on, and not to die."
Alfred, Lord Tennyson