82. Rising Tensions
When the haze
that followed his – well, less
than climactic -- climax had passed over, Spike slowly opened his eyes,
lifting his body up off of the Slayer's still, lifeless form. Buffy's
body was not moving, not breathing, not betraying any sign of life
whatsoever.
Empty.
A sudden sensation of panic gripped him at the terribly disturbing
sight. Suddenly, he realized that her pants were still open, her body
exposed to the night – and even though he was the only one there to see
her, and the body in question was that of his mate – somehow, the
thought sickened him, and he felt the sudden need to protect her
dignity. With shaking hands he scrambled to refasten her jeans,
fighting off the rising fear within him.
*Buffy – Buffy, love – please tell me you're...*
*I'm right here...don't worry, Sweetheart, I'm right here,* his mate
assured him gently, and there was a clear note of gratitude joining the
soft tremor in her quiet voice. He could well imagine that seeing her
own body, through his eyes, lying there so still and lifeless – utterly
helpless and exposed -- would have to be terribly unsettling.
*She's gone,* Buffy finally said, an almost awed tone to her voice.
*You did it, Spike – she's gone...*
*Gone,* he echoed, just trying to make it become real in his mind. He
stared down at the beautiful, yet ravaged body of his mate – but then
had to avert his eyes. Her utter stillness, combined with the bloody
wounds that he had inflicted on her, was just too near to seeing her
*really* dead – and at his own hand, no less.
*Funny,* he thought, half trying to just change the subject from the
thoughts that were filling both of their minds, in his head. *Would
have thought it'd have been – more dramatic, somehow. Bloody light
show, blinding force of power – that sort of thing. You know?*
*Yeah,* Buffy agreed quietly. *You just – did what the ritual said to
do, and – she left.*
*Where do you suppose she went?* he wondered, his voice low and
controlled as he climbed slowly to his feet. *Hell?*
*Only if that's where the Council's been keeping her all this time up
until now,* Buffy replied grimly. *I would assume that, if we reversed
Willow's spell, like we were trying to do – it should have just sent
her back to wherever she was to begin with. Which should hopefully take
the Slayer line back to where it was before I managed to screw it all
up -- and hopefully make the Council stop trying to kill me – for the
moment.*
She paused, and he could almost feel her mental frown. *Until the next
time I do something to break their stupid rules...*
*Buffy!* Spike remembered suddenly, his eyes raised to look at the car,
though he could not actually see the cell phone. *The Council...do you
think...?*
*Let's find out,* she cut him off tersely, fear in her voice, as she
remembered the very likely threat to her family, and Spike rushed them
back to the car to find out who had called her phone.
*It's Mom's cell,* she announced unnecessarily. After all, it was
Spike's hand that was holding the phone, his eyes that were reading the
numbers. *Spike, what if they're hurt?*
*Shall we call them back?*
*Check the message first,* she suggested, a frantic note edging into
her voice. *If the Council has her phone...they'll wanna talk to me...they
won't trust you, Spike, and all they'll hear is your voice...*
*They *shouldn't* bloody trust me!* Spike retorted, a dangerous anger
rising in his voice. *Considering I'd like to tear the lot of them
bloody limb from limb!*
The message that Travers had left for Buffy only served to increase
their anger and fear.
*Wanna call back?* Spike asked, his fingers ready to dial the number.
*No – no need to let them know when we're gonna be there. Maybe we can
catch them off guard...we know they're at the motel...let's just go there.*
Buffy was silent for a moment, before her tearful, suddenly smaller
voice spoke again in his head, *Oh, Spike – they've got my family...*
*My family, too, pet,* he reminded her gently, as he got back out of
the car and went around to the back, lifting her limp body and placing
it gently in the backseat of the car. *Don't worry – we'll get 'em out
of there...the two of us can take 'em...*
*I have no doubt of that,* Buffy assured him, her voice flat, but
trembling slightly with fear and uncertainty. *It's the fact that at
the moment 'the two of us' is actually more like the *one* of us that
has me a little concerned...*
*Bloody hell.*
*What?* Buffy asked, anxious. She could tell by the sound of his mental
voice that something bad had just occurred to him. *What is it?*
*So – Red's spell was what unleashed the Slayer demon – and what turned
off my chip – right?* Spike questioned slowly, a note of resignation
already creeping into his voice.
*Oh, no!* Buffy realized what he was suggesting with a sense of alarm.
They had successfully reversed the spell and sent the Slayer back to
her prison – but had they in the process also reversed Spike's chipless
state? Buffy was surprised herself at how much the idea of his being
helpless again bothered her. A few days earlier, she would have been
relieved that the chip was working again – but not now.
A chipped, helpless vampire would not be of much benefit against
Travers' men.
*We don't know that yet,* she reminded him, with a desperate hope in
her voice. *I mean – you haven't tried to hurt anyone human --
*completely* human – since we finished the ritual...*
*No, we don't know yet,* Spike conceded hesitantly. *But it only stands
to reason, pet...*
*I know,* Buffy cut him off softly, resignation in her quiet words.
With a sinking heart, Buffy began to allow herself to consider the
possibility that she would be going into whatever the Council's
treacherous leader had planned for her, mostly on her own. She had been
taking comfort in the knowledge that she would *not* be alone – that
her mate would be by her side, fighting with her, the whole way.
But perhaps – it was not to be.
Spike's battle was completed, and had been won.
Now – it was Buffy's turn.
"What could possibly be taking her so long?" Travers demanded suddenly,
breaking the silence that had fallen over the room, broken only by the
quiet sound of voices on the television, and the soft of sounds of
Joyce's movements on the bed beside Giles, as she gently tended to the
wounds that his henchmen had inflicted on him. "One would almost think
she didn't care what became of her own family..."
The cruel smile that came over his face as he gave Joyce a speculative
look was infuriating to her.
"If you can think that for one single moment," she replied calmly,
meeting his eyes without a trace of the upset she was feeling, "then
you really don't know anything about my daughter."
"I know all that matters," Travers countered. "She is the only
currently active Slayer, and she has allowed her unwise relationships
with those around her and dependence on amateur children who know
nothing of her calling, to cause the essence of her power to be
released – unleashed upon the world, to do irreparable damage. And
*someone*, Mrs. Summers – must be responsible for cleaning up your
daughter's mess."
Joyce's eyes flashed fire as she slowly stood up from the bed, holding
the man's gaze defiantly. "It seems to me it's more *your* mess than
anyone else's, Mr. Travers," she informed him coldly. "Judging by what
I've been told of the Slayer's history -- how she even came into being
in the first place. Besides -- you're so eager to clean it up -- makes
it seem like you think it's your fault..."
The smug amusement in the man's eyes faded into anger as he glared at
her. "It would be wiser, Mrs. Summers, if you would speak more
carefully to me...considering the fact that your life, and the lives of
all you hold dear are currently in my hands. I can end each and every
last one of them with a single spoken command – so it might behoove you
to show a little more respect."
There was a moment's silence, as Joyce took in those troubling words,
knowing that she should just keep her mouth shut. But she simply
couldn't resist one last dig.
"There it is," she said, a light of cool recognition in her blue eyes,
a slightly sad smile on her lips as she returned to the bed and the
gentle ministrations she was giving to the wounded Watcher.
"There what is?" Travers frowned, confused, and annoyed by her apparent
lack of concern about his threats.
"The ugly, dirty killer that's been hiding behind that cultured,
self-important mask," she replied without hesitation, looking up to
meet the man's eyes boldly, completely unafraid.
In an instant, Travers rose from the chair, fury in his eyes as he
stalked across the room to where Joyce knelt on the bed. The woman
tensed in anticipation of attack, but did not have time to pull away,
as he grabbed her by the hair at the back of her head, spinning her
around to face him and drawing back his hand as if to slap her.
She braced herself for the blow, closing her eyes, willing herself not
to respond as Dawn screamed out her name in terror. One of Travers' men
grabbed the girl and held her back from going to her mother's defense –
though all but Dawn herself knew it would have been a futile attempt,
anyway.
But Travers did not slap her – just stood there for a moment, frozen in
place with the rest of the room, allowing the weight of the unspoken
threat to sink in, before he released her suddenly, stepping back a bit.
"You almost caused me to lose my temper, Mrs. Summers," he warned her
coldly. "In the future you might wish to choose your words more wisely
– else I might have to seek other means of keeping you under control."
His pointed glance in Dawn's direction had a greater effect on the
woman than anything he had said or done so far, as her eyes widened in
fear, and barely repressed anger. She wanted to demand that he not even
think of touching her daughter, lest he deal with her wrath – but Joyce
Summers was no fool.
She had no handy battle axe at hand this time around, and she knew that
the three men holding them prisoner in this room could kill both her
and Dawn before she could manage to do any real damage to even one of
them.
"Okay," she conceded softly. "Okay – just – don't hurt her – don't hurt
my little girl..."
Travers smiled at the earnest, pleading note to her calm, quiet voice.
"I've no intention of it, dear lady," he assured her, turning and
striding calmly back towards his chair. "So long as you are able to
maintain a modicum of respect."
Joyce nodded slowly, leaning back against the headboard for a moment to
regain her composure after the scare he had just given her. Her eyes
went immediately to Dawn, who had already been released by the man who
had been holding her. As soon as her eyes met her mother's, Dawn rushed
across the room to her mother's side, throwing her arms around her and
nestling close to her.
"Mom," she whimpered softly against her mother's chest. "Oh, Mommy..."
"Shhh, it's okay, Sweetie," Joyce assured her, trying to absorb most of
the impact of her daughter's thoughtless jump onto the bed beside her –
but she was unable to keep some of the force from registering with the
injured older man lying on the bed beside them.
Giles let out a low groan of pain, shifting slightly and slowly opening
his eyes with a little grimace of pain at the bright lights – or maybe
it was more due to the painful cut above his eye. He looked up at Joyce
and Dawn, and then around the room at their unwelcome guests.
He lowered his head again with a softly muttered, "Bloody hell."
Joyce turned her head to look at him with concern, lowering a hand
without thought to brush across his brow. He opened his eyes, meeting
hers in surprise at the unexpected tenderness.
When Joyce noticed his reaction, her face flushed with embarrassment,
and she quickly moved her hand, and averted her gaze. "How – how are
you feeling?" she asked quietly, not quite meeting his eyes.
"Like I've been severely beaten and manhandled into unconsciousness by
two pompous, self-important gits who are under the mistaken impression
that their greater physical strength is an adequate compensation for
their other areas that are lacking," Giles replied without hesitation.
Joyce could not suppress a smile, even as she glanced over at the men
in question to be sure they had not heard his quiet words. The last
thing the Watcher needed at the moment was more abuse, as he would
surely receive if they had heard his resentful words. To her relief,
neither one seemed to have heard a thing, their attention focused on
the television set across from them.
She looked back at Giles, her smile fading into a puzzled expression at
the strangely soft expression in his eyes, still focused on her face,
even when she had looked away.
"And like I've awakened from that unconsciousness to find that the
loveliest angel of mercy has been tending to my injuries while I
slept..." he went on softly. "All in all -- quite better. Thank you for
your kindness..."
Joyce's eyes widened slightly, surprised at the note of tenderness to
his voice.
In the next instant, the Watcher seemed to realize that he might have
said too much – given away too much of the feelings that he still felt
– had felt for this woman ever since that fateful night when an old
friend and enemy had given him a rare gift, of a night of youth,
without the cares that had come with his age.
*Ethan, you foolish git – had no idea what you did that night,* he
thought wryly, quickly averting his eyes from Joyce's perceptive gaze,
hopefully before she saw too much for him to manage to cover up.
"...despite the fact that I was the daft berk who got us all into this
mess in the first place," he finished his statement in a tone of
self-derision and disgust – effectively killing the mood that had been
developing between them.
As if just then reminded of the part Giles had played in all of this,
Joyce shifted unconsciously away from him a bit, looking away as well.
"Yes, well," she replied casually, "I still plan on having a word with
you when this is all over – but for now – let's just think about a way
*out* of this...okay?" Her voice was barely over a whisper; she was sure
that Travers and his men could not hear what she was saying.
But they *could* hear that she was saying *something*.
"Well, Rupert – it appears you're awake...I do hope you're feeling a bit
better," Travers commented with a cold, insincere smile. "You were a
bit out of sorts when last we spoke."
Gritting his teeth against the pain, the Watcher pulled himself up to a
sitting position on the bed and faced his former employer.
"Yes, well – aside from the present company I'm forced to endure – I'm
feeling quite a bit more comfortable than I was in the trunk of your
bloody car on the drive up here!" he shot back bitterly, glaring at the
tweed-clad, smaller man sitting in the chair a few yards from him.
"Well, I assure you, Rupert – I'm no more pleased with the – social
arrangement than you are. I'm just ready to get this ugly business
taken care of so that we can part company again," Travers said with a
dismissive air.
"Right," Giles sneered with clear contempt in his voice for the other
man's attempt at deception. "You're just going to let us all go, once
we've witnessed the *solution* you've come up with for this little
problem, is that what you expect me to believe?"
Joyce looked at him in alarm, and he met her gaze for a moment intently.
He wanted her to know just exactly what danger she and her family were
in – just exactly how deadly Travers could be.
"Giles," Travers began with warning in his voice, not missing the look
that had passed between them.
Giles ignored him completely. "You think the answer to the current
threat is to kill the innocent young girl that the entity is housed in
– and then, to ensure that no one questions your actions..."
"Giles!" Travers snapped, standing up, alarm in his eyes as he took in
the rising shock in Joyce's eyes. "Silence!"
Joyce had known on some level that these men intended to harm her
daughter – but to hear it stated so bluntly made it all too real for
her liking. The solution Quentin Travers had found for the problem was
to *kill* the current Slayer – and start all over again.
Giles, for his part, refused to be silenced before he was good and
ready, his voice rising with the heat and anger of his defensive desire
to protect those he cared about. He went on as if Travers had not
spoken at all.
"...and then, you'd be willing to *dispose* of all those who were forced
to watch you do it, as well. If that's what you mean by our 'parting
company', Quentin – when you throw our lifeless bodies into a ditch
somewhere along the highway..."
"I warn you, Giles..."
The dangerous note in the man's voice went unheeded by the furious
Watcher – even as one of his henchmen rose from the bed across the room
and headed slowly toward him.
"...then bloody well say what you mean, you soddin' berk! Stop trying to
make it sound so righteous and noble, when you know very well it's not
anything of the sort! You take kidnapping and murder and terrorization
of innocent women and children and turn it around to say that you're
somehow saving the world...when all you're doing is turning into
something it needs saving *from*!"
Travers took a step back, a cold smile on his face – and Joyce noticed
it, though Giles didn't.
He was still on a roll.
"You've become the monster, Quentin. And I'm bloody well glad that you
no longer see fit to keep company with me. Because you make me well and
truly sick...you and your hypocritical, self-righteous evil lies..."
His words were cut off in a moment as the man who had been approaching
him reached across where Joyce sat and silenced his words with a
vicious blow to the temple with the butt of his gun.
Joyce let out a startled little cry of fear and outrage, as Giles
slumped down with a groan of pain, struggling not to lose
consciousness. Joyce took a moment to be sure that he was going to be
okay, before focusing her attention back on the emotionless eyes of the
man who had ordered the blow.
"He's right, you know," she informed him in a soft, certain voice, eyes
blazing into his with quiet rage.
Travers gave her a questioning look, unsure of what exactly she meant.
"You *are* the monster," she stated firmly, righteous judgment in her
voice, her expression.
More than Travers could take.
He rose from his seat, stalking across the room again to Joyce -- and
this time, delivered the sharp blow across her face that he had
threatened the first time.
"You try my patience, woman," he snarled. "I need no more of your
comments -- your useless opinions!"
Joyce's head snapped to the side with the blow, and she held it there,
her jaw working with repressed anger and hatred against the man --
aware that to show those emotions would likely only make things worse.
If it had only been herself that she had to worry about, she would have
fought back – resisted in some way.
But if she did not appease this man now – he would likely look to Dawn,
as a means of gaining Joyce's cooperation...and Joyce would suffer any
pain or humiliation necessary in order to spare her children from the
same.
Travers backed down a step or two, recovering his composure, satisfied
with her apparent submission. His voice trembled slightly as he barely
managed to rein in the cruel rage that had overcome him for a moment,
smoothing his suit down as he returned to his seat.
"Now as I said before -- let's just sit here quietly and wait for Ms.
Summers to..."
His words were cut off in the next moment -- by a sharp, hurried knock
at the door. Startled glances were exchanged, as each person in the
room gauged the weight of the sound, and what it meant. No peep hole in
the door made it impossible for them to know for certain who was at the
door – but there was only one logical conclusion they could come to –
and it was a conclusion that lent a much stronger air of tension and
expectancy to the entire situation.
The Slayer and the vampire had returned.