Title: SAMARITAN
Author: Ivytree
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, etc. Except Wally and Mrs. C, and the rest of the demon gang...
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. 14 Wan Remembering
Three pale faces and one dark one bobbed before Xander's eyes, and the tabletop tilted crazily.
"No problem," he mumbled, holding onto consciousness with all his will. The smoky clouds obscuring his vision cleared with painful slowness, and he found himself gazing straight at Angel. Ordinarily he would have tried very hard not to do this, but now Angel's dark eyes held his own and for some reason steadied him.
"It's okay," he heard himself jabber, "I had a touch of flu this week, that's all. And you know, having the flu touch you is like, eeww; and then we were talking about dead people and I hate talking about dead people. It's a thing I have. Okay, I'll shut up now."
The others stared at him in perturbation; he deliberately uncurled his fists under the table, forced his shoulders to relax, and even gave them a reassuring if sickly smile. He had to look like nothing was wrong, nothing unnatural or mysterious, at least.
Because Riley didn't know. That's what Angel's unwavering regard was telling him; Riley didn't know.
And he could never, must never know. If there were substances like this 'suoshashai' out there, who could tell what other dangers to Buffy might lie hidden? All of them, Giles, Willow, Anya, Dawn and Spike - and, he supposed, the Angel Investigations team - had to protect her secret with their lives, from now on.
The reality of what they'd done last year hit him. It seemed so simple at the time. If you loved Buffy, you should want her to be alive, shouldn't you? But deep inside he'd known it was never that simple; he'd lived on the Hellmouth his whole life. What had Spike said? 'There's always consequences.' He looked at Riley, the normal guy - the normal guy who was now the greatest threat of all to Buffy; and then at Dead Boy, brooding darkly at the head of the table, and knew full well he would protect her at any cost. When did good and evil flip in this damned universe?
* * * *
"His horns are real big; if you take one and I take the other, we can drag him," Buffy suggested hopefully, surveying their captive with her hands on her hips.
"That'll leave marks on the ground," Spike said. "Better they don't find out we got one." He grinned, knowing perfectly well she just didn't want to pick up the Fyarl. "Come on, Slayer; I'll take his shoulders and you take his legs."
"Oh, all right," she pouted. "But only under protest. I just bought this sweater!"
"Very nice, too." She always looked beautiful to him, even covered with plaster dust and demon goo. Fyarls did tend to secrete. He hooked his arms under Grak's. "Don't worry, love, we'll have him home in no time."
"All I have to say is, eeww and double eeewww." Buffy grimaced, hoisting her end of the enormous demon.
Dawn and Anya trailed behind them, delicately picking their way through the debris.
Heaving their seemingly inanimate burden over one particularly challenging pile of cement chunks and plasterboard, they heard Dawn call helpfully, "Be sure to mind the mucus, you two!"
Buffy rolled her eyes.
* * * *
"What does your wife know about your organization?" Angel said. "What can the Doctor find out from her?"
"Not as much as she thinks," Riley replied. "Sam is - well, she's sort of an auxiliary member."
"What's that mean?" Xander said. This whole business was giving him a queasy feeling in his gut; he didn't want to know these things. The world was about to reveal its true, savage face beneath the mask of normality - again - and he didn't want to see it. He'd liked Sam. He'd liked thinking of Riley and Sam as the perfect action-figure couple, dashing, adventurous, and romantic. And she sure SEEMED just as gung-ho as Riley did, which suggested she thought she was a full member of the team. Unless this was all because -
"Because the girl's part demon?" Gunn suggested.
"She didn't come up through the military," Riley said. For some reason he sounded evasive - and looked it, too; jeez, the guy never looked you in the eye anymore. He used to be so straightforward. "She was in the area, and joined us when we got there - "
Fred spoke up suddenly, her thin little face almost stern. "That's not exactly how it happened, is it?" she said.
Riley stared at the tabletop.
"She wasn't just THERE, was she? She was a prisoner."
"What are you talking about - " Xander protested, for what seemed like the fifth time this evening. But he didn't finish, because Riley just sat there, shoulders hunched, not saying a word. Xander swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry again. Oh, God, it was all true.
"The human/demon hybrid community was there when your organization got there, right?" Fred turned to the others, her brown eyes earnest. "Groups like that often flee their country of origin seeking a safe area to live, far away from people - human people, that is."
She faced Riley again. "And you all showed up, and they got into some kind of tangle with you. Of course, with your superior firepower, you defeated them easily. And then you had yourselves a convenient population of servants and footsoldiers, with no pesky human rights laws to interfere - 'cause they're not exactly human."
"It wasn't like that!" Riley burst out. "They needed our help! Two of their shamans went over to the dark side and threatened them all - they were GLAD to join us. They were grateful!"
* * * *
"So what do you think, love?" Spike asked. He dug his hands in his pockets, his fair head angled and his blue eyes intent. Buffy could hardly keep herself from grabbing him and kissing him again right in front of everybody. However, business before pleasure. She could just hear him saying that, and repressed an inappropriate smile.
"He looks sick," Mrs. Caprescu said with unmistakable authority. Apparently, Clem's mom was more than just a housewife. "Aura looks sick."
They stood with Clem in a loose circle around the captive Fyarl, now chained in the basement of the house at 99 Deuce Lane. It had taken an epic effort to get him here through the wreckage-strewn tunnels. Anya and Dawn had returned to the Magic Box; Anya, looking slightly conscious, voiced an intention to call Xander (in a strictly professional capacity, of course) regarding the hole in the basement wall. And for once it had not been difficult to get Dawn to stay behind; she said Fyarls gave her the creeps ever since that time Giles turned into one.
Grak seemed semi-comatose and muttered to himself in a rumbling undertone. Spike sighed.
"Tough enough to get sense out of a Fyarl at the best of times," he said. "But this poor bastard is off his loaf. Hasn't even mentioned any of the things they usually rabbit on about - family, food, and fighting, basically."
"What IS he saying?" Buffy said.
"A lot of guff about Hard Female - must be the Doctor - and what bits she'll chop off if ol' Grak doesn't produce Warrior Female." He gave her a smile that had the curious effect of making her insteps tingle. "I guess we all know who that is."
"'Hard Female'?" She looked at him, feeling her cheeks warm. Business, Buffy, business. "That's kinda weird."
"Fyarl's a bit meager in the vocabulary department."
Her wrinkled visage full of concern, Mrs. Caprescu placed a hand on the massive demon's chest. Spike moved forward as if to protect her, but his intervention wasn't needed; Grak twitched but otherwise seemed unaware of her presence.
"This is wrong," she said. "Is very - very forlorn for this one, cut off from brothers. How do you say it? Is hurting brain."
"You mean brain damage, Mom?" Clem said.
"Yes, brain damage," she repeated carefully. "Fyarls don't work like this - he'll die."
"Think that's the thrall?
She nodded, her drooping features grim. Buffy admitted to herself that she'd always thought of Clem as a comic relief type of demon, but there was nothing humorous about his mother, who was obviously a person of distinction. She was impressed, and a little nervous.
"Not that Fyarls' brains are much to write home about in the first place," Spike remarked, frowning. "That's why this Doctor bint always needs new minions, I reckon; they don't last long if their brains fry."
All at once he seemed uncomfortable and, watching his face, Buffy saw an expression flicker across it that she didn't immediately recognize. Was it - could it be - compassion? Even for this creature?
He went on, "You can fix 'im up, though, right, Mrs. C?"
"Oh, yes," she nodded, earrings bobbing. "I can fix."
* * * *
Gunn sat forward and folded his hands in front of him on the table, a certain tension evident in the line of his shoulders. He looked like a guy who could handle himself, Xander thought, wondering how he got mixed up with Angel. Dead Boy himself, leaning back and somehow managing to look mysterious without actually doing anything, seemed to trust him to handle this part of the interrogation.
"So let me get this straight," Gunn said, his voice deliberate. "These human/demon hybrids work for you, fight for you, cook for you, clean up your mess, take out your garbage, detail your cars, press your uniforms, and shine your shoes - all because they're grateful? Those are some thankful people."
"They're not people," Riley said sullenly.
"Uh-huh. But they're people enough to take into your bed."
"It wasn't like that! She was working in the barracks, and as soon as I saw her I could tell she wasn't like the others...."
"Right. A house servant. Hello, Mandingo."
"Charles." Fred slipped her hand through the crook of his arm.
"Sorry, baby; but, damn." He leaned forcefully back in his chair. "Not like I haven't heard THIS stuff before."
"We took care of them; they couldn't make it on their own. They thanked us every day. They needed us to protect them."
"I guess indentured servitude is better than death, even for demons," Xander said. He definitely felt sick now.
"It's not like you're making it sound. I love Sam, and she loves me."
"How does that go with her not being 'people'?" Fred said, her voice gentle. "If you care about her just like a person, and she cares about you, why isn't she a person?"
Riley rubbed his face with both hands. "She is. She's different from the rest, I guess," he said. "I don't know anymore. I just want her back."
* * * *
Night had fallen. The dark streets of Demon Town were quiet, since a large part of the population wasn't up and about yet, though light streamed from a few windows. Spike and Buffy were on their way to the Magic Box for supplies, and later everyone would meet at Mrs. Caprescu's to plot strategy. It was time for some action.
As they descended the front steps, Buffy took Spike's hand, threading her fingers through his. He hesitated, looking at their hands joined together and then at her.
She turned to face him. The light of an old-fashioned street lamp gilded his hair and skin, and it did seem to her that she saw a new glow in his eyes. Or was that imagination? His face was so unguarded - how could he trust her again like this? But he did. And she trusted him. That alone was some kind of miracle. Suddenly her eyes were wet, and her heart surged with tenderness as she saw tears in his eyes, too.
She smiled a little, and put her free hand on his chest, rubbing the thin cotton of his shirt under her fingers, feeling the hard muscle and cool skin beneath. She loved his temperature, never too warm and never cold, always just what she wanted to feel. She'd missed that so much. She drew a deep breath.
"Spike," she said softly, her voice tremulous, "isn't there something you want to tell me?"
* * * *
It was dark undergtound. She loved the darkness now. Once it had frightened her; she didn't know what might be hiding in the shadows. Now she hid there.
She could move fast when she needed to, and silently, and then keep perfectly still so as not to be seen. Every tunnel, every passage, every nook and hidey-hole of Sunnydale's nether world was as familiar to her as her own home. She could sniff things out, too; she couldn't remember when she'd discovered that talent. She could go anywhere, find anything, follow anyone, without being seen or heard.
Now she hid. It was damp, where she was, and something smelled rank; but she was so used to that she didn't notice anymore. She could fit herself into the smallest spaces and hunker down, all but invisible. It felt good to do that. It felt secure.
Sometimes terror would overwhelm her, and she'd just rise and flee. And she would run and run, keeping to the black shadows, keeping silent, swallowing her gasps of fear, until she found another sheltered place to hide. She hadn't found the perfect place yet, but she was always looking. It must be safe somewhere, even for her; there must be a place where no one could find her, not Them - and not Her.
TBC
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"And I am but a shriveled thing
Beneath the midnight sky;
A wasted, wan remembering
Of days long wandered by.
And yet I lift my sightless face
Toward the eerie light,
And tread the lonely way we trace
Across the haunted night."
Wilfred Campbell
Author: Ivytree
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Joss Whedon, UPN, Mutant Enemy, etc. Except Wally and Mrs. C, and the rest of the demon gang...
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. 14 Wan Remembering
Three pale faces and one dark one bobbed before Xander's eyes, and the tabletop tilted crazily.
"No problem," he mumbled, holding onto consciousness with all his will. The smoky clouds obscuring his vision cleared with painful slowness, and he found himself gazing straight at Angel. Ordinarily he would have tried very hard not to do this, but now Angel's dark eyes held his own and for some reason steadied him.
"It's okay," he heard himself jabber, "I had a touch of flu this week, that's all. And you know, having the flu touch you is like, eeww; and then we were talking about dead people and I hate talking about dead people. It's a thing I have. Okay, I'll shut up now."
The others stared at him in perturbation; he deliberately uncurled his fists under the table, forced his shoulders to relax, and even gave them a reassuring if sickly smile. He had to look like nothing was wrong, nothing unnatural or mysterious, at least.
Because Riley didn't know. That's what Angel's unwavering regard was telling him; Riley didn't know.
And he could never, must never know. If there were substances like this 'suoshashai' out there, who could tell what other dangers to Buffy might lie hidden? All of them, Giles, Willow, Anya, Dawn and Spike - and, he supposed, the Angel Investigations team - had to protect her secret with their lives, from now on.
The reality of what they'd done last year hit him. It seemed so simple at the time. If you loved Buffy, you should want her to be alive, shouldn't you? But deep inside he'd known it was never that simple; he'd lived on the Hellmouth his whole life. What had Spike said? 'There's always consequences.' He looked at Riley, the normal guy - the normal guy who was now the greatest threat of all to Buffy; and then at Dead Boy, brooding darkly at the head of the table, and knew full well he would protect her at any cost. When did good and evil flip in this damned universe?
* * * *
"His horns are real big; if you take one and I take the other, we can drag him," Buffy suggested hopefully, surveying their captive with her hands on her hips.
"That'll leave marks on the ground," Spike said. "Better they don't find out we got one." He grinned, knowing perfectly well she just didn't want to pick up the Fyarl. "Come on, Slayer; I'll take his shoulders and you take his legs."
"Oh, all right," she pouted. "But only under protest. I just bought this sweater!"
"Very nice, too." She always looked beautiful to him, even covered with plaster dust and demon goo. Fyarls did tend to secrete. He hooked his arms under Grak's. "Don't worry, love, we'll have him home in no time."
"All I have to say is, eeww and double eeewww." Buffy grimaced, hoisting her end of the enormous demon.
Dawn and Anya trailed behind them, delicately picking their way through the debris.
Heaving their seemingly inanimate burden over one particularly challenging pile of cement chunks and plasterboard, they heard Dawn call helpfully, "Be sure to mind the mucus, you two!"
Buffy rolled her eyes.
* * * *
"What does your wife know about your organization?" Angel said. "What can the Doctor find out from her?"
"Not as much as she thinks," Riley replied. "Sam is - well, she's sort of an auxiliary member."
"What's that mean?" Xander said. This whole business was giving him a queasy feeling in his gut; he didn't want to know these things. The world was about to reveal its true, savage face beneath the mask of normality - again - and he didn't want to see it. He'd liked Sam. He'd liked thinking of Riley and Sam as the perfect action-figure couple, dashing, adventurous, and romantic. And she sure SEEMED just as gung-ho as Riley did, which suggested she thought she was a full member of the team. Unless this was all because -
"Because the girl's part demon?" Gunn suggested.
"She didn't come up through the military," Riley said. For some reason he sounded evasive - and looked it, too; jeez, the guy never looked you in the eye anymore. He used to be so straightforward. "She was in the area, and joined us when we got there - "
Fred spoke up suddenly, her thin little face almost stern. "That's not exactly how it happened, is it?" she said.
Riley stared at the tabletop.
"She wasn't just THERE, was she? She was a prisoner."
"What are you talking about - " Xander protested, for what seemed like the fifth time this evening. But he didn't finish, because Riley just sat there, shoulders hunched, not saying a word. Xander swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry again. Oh, God, it was all true.
"The human/demon hybrid community was there when your organization got there, right?" Fred turned to the others, her brown eyes earnest. "Groups like that often flee their country of origin seeking a safe area to live, far away from people - human people, that is."
She faced Riley again. "And you all showed up, and they got into some kind of tangle with you. Of course, with your superior firepower, you defeated them easily. And then you had yourselves a convenient population of servants and footsoldiers, with no pesky human rights laws to interfere - 'cause they're not exactly human."
"It wasn't like that!" Riley burst out. "They needed our help! Two of their shamans went over to the dark side and threatened them all - they were GLAD to join us. They were grateful!"
* * * *
"So what do you think, love?" Spike asked. He dug his hands in his pockets, his fair head angled and his blue eyes intent. Buffy could hardly keep herself from grabbing him and kissing him again right in front of everybody. However, business before pleasure. She could just hear him saying that, and repressed an inappropriate smile.
"He looks sick," Mrs. Caprescu said with unmistakable authority. Apparently, Clem's mom was more than just a housewife. "Aura looks sick."
They stood with Clem in a loose circle around the captive Fyarl, now chained in the basement of the house at 99 Deuce Lane. It had taken an epic effort to get him here through the wreckage-strewn tunnels. Anya and Dawn had returned to the Magic Box; Anya, looking slightly conscious, voiced an intention to call Xander (in a strictly professional capacity, of course) regarding the hole in the basement wall. And for once it had not been difficult to get Dawn to stay behind; she said Fyarls gave her the creeps ever since that time Giles turned into one.
Grak seemed semi-comatose and muttered to himself in a rumbling undertone. Spike sighed.
"Tough enough to get sense out of a Fyarl at the best of times," he said. "But this poor bastard is off his loaf. Hasn't even mentioned any of the things they usually rabbit on about - family, food, and fighting, basically."
"What IS he saying?" Buffy said.
"A lot of guff about Hard Female - must be the Doctor - and what bits she'll chop off if ol' Grak doesn't produce Warrior Female." He gave her a smile that had the curious effect of making her insteps tingle. "I guess we all know who that is."
"'Hard Female'?" She looked at him, feeling her cheeks warm. Business, Buffy, business. "That's kinda weird."
"Fyarl's a bit meager in the vocabulary department."
Her wrinkled visage full of concern, Mrs. Caprescu placed a hand on the massive demon's chest. Spike moved forward as if to protect her, but his intervention wasn't needed; Grak twitched but otherwise seemed unaware of her presence.
"This is wrong," she said. "Is very - very forlorn for this one, cut off from brothers. How do you say it? Is hurting brain."
"You mean brain damage, Mom?" Clem said.
"Yes, brain damage," she repeated carefully. "Fyarls don't work like this - he'll die."
"Think that's the thrall?
She nodded, her drooping features grim. Buffy admitted to herself that she'd always thought of Clem as a comic relief type of demon, but there was nothing humorous about his mother, who was obviously a person of distinction. She was impressed, and a little nervous.
"Not that Fyarls' brains are much to write home about in the first place," Spike remarked, frowning. "That's why this Doctor bint always needs new minions, I reckon; they don't last long if their brains fry."
All at once he seemed uncomfortable and, watching his face, Buffy saw an expression flicker across it that she didn't immediately recognize. Was it - could it be - compassion? Even for this creature?
He went on, "You can fix 'im up, though, right, Mrs. C?"
"Oh, yes," she nodded, earrings bobbing. "I can fix."
* * * *
Gunn sat forward and folded his hands in front of him on the table, a certain tension evident in the line of his shoulders. He looked like a guy who could handle himself, Xander thought, wondering how he got mixed up with Angel. Dead Boy himself, leaning back and somehow managing to look mysterious without actually doing anything, seemed to trust him to handle this part of the interrogation.
"So let me get this straight," Gunn said, his voice deliberate. "These human/demon hybrids work for you, fight for you, cook for you, clean up your mess, take out your garbage, detail your cars, press your uniforms, and shine your shoes - all because they're grateful? Those are some thankful people."
"They're not people," Riley said sullenly.
"Uh-huh. But they're people enough to take into your bed."
"It wasn't like that! She was working in the barracks, and as soon as I saw her I could tell she wasn't like the others...."
"Right. A house servant. Hello, Mandingo."
"Charles." Fred slipped her hand through the crook of his arm.
"Sorry, baby; but, damn." He leaned forcefully back in his chair. "Not like I haven't heard THIS stuff before."
"We took care of them; they couldn't make it on their own. They thanked us every day. They needed us to protect them."
"I guess indentured servitude is better than death, even for demons," Xander said. He definitely felt sick now.
"It's not like you're making it sound. I love Sam, and she loves me."
"How does that go with her not being 'people'?" Fred said, her voice gentle. "If you care about her just like a person, and she cares about you, why isn't she a person?"
Riley rubbed his face with both hands. "She is. She's different from the rest, I guess," he said. "I don't know anymore. I just want her back."
* * * *
Night had fallen. The dark streets of Demon Town were quiet, since a large part of the population wasn't up and about yet, though light streamed from a few windows. Spike and Buffy were on their way to the Magic Box for supplies, and later everyone would meet at Mrs. Caprescu's to plot strategy. It was time for some action.
As they descended the front steps, Buffy took Spike's hand, threading her fingers through his. He hesitated, looking at their hands joined together and then at her.
She turned to face him. The light of an old-fashioned street lamp gilded his hair and skin, and it did seem to her that she saw a new glow in his eyes. Or was that imagination? His face was so unguarded - how could he trust her again like this? But he did. And she trusted him. That alone was some kind of miracle. Suddenly her eyes were wet, and her heart surged with tenderness as she saw tears in his eyes, too.
She smiled a little, and put her free hand on his chest, rubbing the thin cotton of his shirt under her fingers, feeling the hard muscle and cool skin beneath. She loved his temperature, never too warm and never cold, always just what she wanted to feel. She'd missed that so much. She drew a deep breath.
"Spike," she said softly, her voice tremulous, "isn't there something you want to tell me?"
* * * *
It was dark undergtound. She loved the darkness now. Once it had frightened her; she didn't know what might be hiding in the shadows. Now she hid there.
She could move fast when she needed to, and silently, and then keep perfectly still so as not to be seen. Every tunnel, every passage, every nook and hidey-hole of Sunnydale's nether world was as familiar to her as her own home. She could sniff things out, too; she couldn't remember when she'd discovered that talent. She could go anywhere, find anything, follow anyone, without being seen or heard.
Now she hid. It was damp, where she was, and something smelled rank; but she was so used to that she didn't notice anymore. She could fit herself into the smallest spaces and hunker down, all but invisible. It felt good to do that. It felt secure.
Sometimes terror would overwhelm her, and she'd just rise and flee. And she would run and run, keeping to the black shadows, keeping silent, swallowing her gasps of fear, until she found another sheltered place to hide. She hadn't found the perfect place yet, but she was always looking. It must be safe somewhere, even for her; there must be a place where no one could find her, not Them - and not Her.
TBC
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
"And I am but a shriveled thing
Beneath the midnight sky;
A wasted, wan remembering
Of days long wandered by.
And yet I lift my sightless face
Toward the eerie light,
And tread the lonely way we trace
Across the haunted night."
Wilfred Campbell