Time Travel for Pedestrians
By kalima
Dear Mr. Bledsoe. The strike demons /strike doctors at Sunnydale General are taking good care of you, I'm sure. They will give you the finest most up-to-date strike drugs that make you not care about anything /strike treatment for whatever you have. Get lots of rest, okay? strike because it's much better to be the one unconscious than to be the one waiting out here. I know this from experience. You see, hospitals are the worst of the many hell dimensions. The cafeterias exist only to torment you with the promise of real food. They are never actually open, so you are forced to buy candy bars and coffee from vending machines which makes you a million times more jittery than when you got here. And all the demons who serve in hospital hells are bound by complex spells of non-communication. Even when they talk to you, you can't understand what they're talking about. The more desperate you are for information, the less you understand. The trick is to pretend not to be interested. To just sit and sit and --"
God, I hate this place. I hate this place I hate this place I hate this place I hate this place I hate this place I hate this place I hate this place I hate this place /strike
Get well soon. Sincerely, Buf --"
"Miss Summers?"
"Yes! What?" Buffy leapt to her feet as if she'd been caught in an act of sedition. The card and the pen flew in opposite directions and she scrabbled after them while the young, handsome doctor waited.
Young and handsome. Of course. Because there had to be at least one of those in any hospital hell dimension.
She clawed after the pen rolling under the chair then straightened, brushing the hair out of her eyes. "Yes. I'm Bufâ€"Missâ€" I'm Buffy Summers." The card had landed on the vinyl-covered sofa. It had a picture of a cat with a thermometer in its mouth. The cat looked a little shady, like it was getting ready to turn state's evidence on the whole hospital hell dimension stuff she'd written inside. She shoved it into the back pocket of her jeans.
"I'm Doctor Wilson," young and handsome said. "Your grandfather's condition is stable for the moment."
"My...ye-es, okay. That's good, right?"
"Were you aware of his condition?"
"No. Can't say that I was."
"He's extremely ill. His heart is...well, he should have had surgery for this condition months ago. I don't suppose you happen to know the name of his physician?"
"No. I'm sorry. We haven't really kept in touch. Is he...? He's going to be all right, though?"
"Well, he needs the surgery as soon as possible, but we can't really go ahead with it until we have more information."
Like who's going to pay, Buffy thought. "I don't think I could tell you much."
"Your grandfather is extremely agitated at the moment. And it's really important that he not be. Agitated. If you know what I mean. He needs to relax, take the strain off his heart. You understand?" She did, but didn't understand what he thought she should be doing about it. Sensing this, he went on, "We need to contact his regular health care provider, any specialists he's been seeing. Find out what, if any, treatment he's received or is scheduled to receiveâ€""
"Uh huh..."
"He's not telling us." Doctor Young-Handsome took a breath and his mouth crooked in obvious irritation. "Won't tell us, he says, until he's had a chance to speak with you."
Oh. Poor Ernest. The way he'd gripped her hand in the ambulance, so desperate to talk, even trying to remove the oxygen mask, until the medic got insistent and she'd finally she'd promised not to leave until he could talk to her. She thought he'd just been afraid. But now it seemed clear he'd come to the Magic Box â€" maybe even come all the way from England â€" to speak with her. And it was something so important he couldn't rest until he had.
The doctor looked her in the eye. Hard. She was a little annoyed that she found it so difficult to hold his gaze. Not like she was lying about anything. She hadn't actually come out and said yes or no on the grandfather thing.
"He's asked to see you, and I hope, for his sake, you won't be encouraged to do something stupid â€"" Buffy bristled and something about her bristle made his eyes go wide. "I mean like if he asks you not to tell us things we should know. Because that would be bad. He will die if he doesn't get the right treatment. Do you understand?"
"Yes. Thanks. I do understand what 'die' means. My mother died after you people cut a tumor out of her brain last year."
"Oh. Oh. Sorry. That's...sorry. But maybe you understand then, how important it is that we take measures to do what's best for your grandfather's health right now." He smiled in a way she was pretty certain they taught in doctor school - earnest condescension with a touch of patronizing sympathy. "We're moving him out of the ICU in a few minutes. As soon as he's settled in, someone will come to get you. I hope you'll encourage him to tell us what we need to know to save his life, Miss Summers."
"I'll try."
The old guy must have been pretty sure she'd go along with the grandfather claim, must still be pretty sharp to use a ruse he knew she'd pick up on. The hospital staff wouldn't question the presence of family members.
Oh god! What if he'd come to tell her he actually was her long lost grandfather? That she'd really, truly been adopted just like Dawn claimed?
Get a grip, Buffy. Grandpa Jack is alive and well in Phoenix. He still sends money in birthday cards. No. This was something to do with her being the Slayer. She knew it in her bones. Something was happening. Maybe it wasn't a coincidence, these new demons showing up at the same time as Ernest Simonson-Bledsoe.
She should probably call home, let Dawn know she'd be late again. She left the alcove and went out to the corridor in order to check the clock there. Crap! Nine-thirty already. Where's the pay phone? Did she even have change?
"Buffy!"
Xander came tearing around a corner, his Nikes squeaking over the linoleum like a herd of outraged mice.
"Wait," she sighed, holding up her hand. "Don't tell me. Does it start with an A and end with 'lypse'?'"
center /center
She knew this area. Well, of course she did. It was hard to get lost in Sunnydale, even in the echoing tombs of industry down by the railroad.
To Dawn, the gray blocks of walls, with their yellow broken windows, were as familiar as the shops in the mall or the names on the gravestones. She tried, very hard, not to think about the tangle of steel and rotted concrete where Glory had built her tower. That was gone. It was a million lifetimes ago.
Happy thoughts. Happy thoughts. She had a twenty in her pocket, a party to go to, and a hot guy had called her gorgeous. Oh, she had her stupid little schoolgirl doubts: it wasn't really her money, the party was a sneaky evil plan to lead her into some Big Bad's clutches, the cute guy had been winding her up...
Except the Big Bad had taken care of her all summer. And she was way past the insecurities of 9th grade. She was cool now. She'd been through stuff. It was possible a guy would find her pretty. Not pretty, gorgeous. He'd said 'gorgeous' in that sort of low chocolatey voice Spike used sometimes â€" yes, all right, usually when he wanted something. Which meant that this guy wanted her. The party was for real too, as Evil didn't tend to print up glossy flyers to advertise their whereabouts.
Even if she didn't know which of the anonymous streets contained the warehouse mentioned on the flyer, she would have been able to find it. From blocks away there were the sounds of people having fun just beyond her reach. Then the sense of mass in the area, the awareness of an abundance of life. She hurriedly crumpled the flyer up into her jacket pocket and fiddled with the thin straps of her tiny satin backpack. God, was her skirt too short? She tugged at the hem, suddenly feeling conscious of her long skinny legs. Gorgeous, he'd said. Deep breath, flick of hair and jutting out of lip. OK, ready.
Cars and pickups and vans were parked haphazardly all along the side streets and in front, lit up by the seeping, pulsing glow from the building. Even outside, the beat hammered in her chest and made Dawn want to gasp for breath. There was a guy on the door, and she stiffened, her back ready for the "I am so old enough" thing, but the guy just smiled and nodded and she was inside!
Wow, she didn't have to pay the cover. At the Bronze, that only happened on Mondays. The slow night when just the embattled drinkers and pool players came out to play. This didn't look like that kind of free though. And free was cool, as it meant she still had that twenty. The twenty that she was totally entitled to because she found it on the floor and if some money falls out of someone's purse but you don't see who that someone is? Finders keepers. Spike had taught her that, along with how to play poker, and how many tortilla chips a vampire could fit in his mouth. Plus, having some cash in her pocket meant she could get a cab home if she wanted. If cabs came this way? She squashed the tiny worm of panic. She'd be okay. She'd borrow a cell phone and call a cab if she needed to. She might not need to if hot guy had a car.
The first half of the warehouse was empty. The light tore out from beyond a wall which half filled the far end. Harsh, horizontal shadows picking out the gouges in the floor where machinery must have been pulled up. There was the smell of dust and the ghost of oil. Dark figures in clumps and clusters, laughing and staggering into or out of the light. Somehow, someone had parked a burrito van in the corner, and a straggle of people stood about, calling up their orders.
She walked across, automatically checking the floor for trip hazards and yet keeping her head high. She wanted to be here, she could be here if she wanted to and it's not like anyone cared. The guy had expressly asked her, in fact. He'd made a point of it. Walking into the fierce lights she felt her eyes ache for a second and then adjust. And then the bass was trembling up her legs, pulsing through her thighs and weaving up her spine. This wasn't like the guitar rawk or angsty ballads of the Bronze. This was that primal dumphdumphdumph that poured out of cars as they cruised the strip, the bass making the sidewalks shake in time. This was a beat that made her muscles twitch, and for a brief moment she wondered if Trick had a sideline in drum'n'bass. And everywhere there were people.
Gaudy people. Girls with fake fairy wings and guys who'd been let near body paint. Women in tiny shorts and men in even tinier ones. Or extra baggy and loose, their movements swallowed by the cloth. Legs bouncing in time with the dumphdumphdumph, torsos sliding back and forth. Stacks of speakers sent out pulses so low they were felt not heard, and someone high above yelled for people to make some noise. And the sweaty pulsing mass of people did. Arms in the air, mouths open and smiling. The smell of fresh sweat and something slightly chemical underneath.
In the bedazzling lights, she saw flashes of faces, and realized that she didn't recognize anyone. No-one from school, no one from the Scoobies, obviously, and none of the skanks who hung out at the Bronze. Crap. She should have phoned Janice and talked her into coming but a) Janice was still grounded over that business at Halloween and b) Janice always did that thing which got the hot boys to pay attention to her. Dawn suspected, in her more sullen moments, that Janice was using her as the less attractive friend. Gorgeous, she reminded herself. Still, it would have been way cool to see Janice's face if â€" when â€" the hottie paid attention to her. Damn. She should have got his name. She couldn't go up to anyone and say "hi, have you seen the cute flyer guy?" to people without looking like a spaz. She circled the edges of the dance area, peering into the crowd trying to see a familiar face.
Dawn couldn't help but notice the smiling touches, even as her overdeveloped sense of personal space had a panic attack. The figures dancing â€" and she wasn't fool enough not to notice there were some demons in there too (one was even wearing some fairy wings) â€" were bumping into one another and laughing. Just that. Touching casually and laughing. She tried, despite the bass deepening its hold on her, to remember the last time she had been hugged for the fun of it. The last time she'd been held for pleasure instead of cold vampire comfort or obligated duty. She suddenly felt very silly, standing on the edge, one hand still fiddling with the strap of her bag and the bass crawling into her bones.
With a yelp, she threw herself into the crowd.
This felt so good. Her legs picked up the swaying, baggy, bumping grind and led her body to relax a little. Someone behind her pushed her slightly and she nearly stepped into the body in front. Then, that girl was turning and laughing with her, their legs rearranging themselves so that they kept the movement going. Dawn copied her arms a little. This was so different to the ritual grind at the Bronze, yet the way she let the beat in felt the same. She relaxed, let her body start to swing by itself, and the girl smiled more widely, and Dawn laughed back. Let herself go. Collapsed her personal space bubble and let the heat and the beat surround her.
After what felt like minutes or maybe hours, she popped back out of the pounding mass on the floor. Felt the cool night air that waited in the shadows. Air. Air was good. How come she hadn't noticed when she was dancing? She stripped off her jacket and tied it about her waist. OK, maybe not flattering, but she guessed this place didn't have a coat check. She leaned forward and took some deep breaths. The bass and the warmth were calling still but she had to just recover for a second.
"Here," a woman said and a bottle of water appeared in front of her.
It was the girl from the dance floor. She was Hispanic, with a mass of damp black curls and wearing a wide smile that reached all the way to her still-dancing eyes. A faint sheen of sweat slicked her skin.
"Dehydration bad," she said by way of explanation, and Dawn discovered she was ridiculously thirsty. She took the offered bottle and drank, conscious of each gulp. When she paused, the woman grinned and nodded. Keep drinking, not a problem. Dawn returned the grin, and gratefully tipped the bottle back and gulped it all down. Water had never tasted so good in her whole life.
center /center
Xander's mission was momentarily derailed by the problem of what started with NA and ended in "lips." He wasted precious moments getting the thought train back on track. "Oh. Oh. Starts with an A. I get it. No, nothing that big. Yet. Starts with a V ends with 'pyre.'"
"Is it after you?" Buffy asked, looking over his shoulder. He spun around. Right. Because he was running.
"No. Not that I know of."
"How many?"
"Don't know. The cops found a body in a dumpster behind the Espresso Pump. It had bite marks. Most vamps don't bother to hide their kills, do they?"
"The smart ones do. So. We're talking about a vamp that's been a vamp for a few years. I guess we have a new player in town.? I so don't need this right now."
"Could be someone back for a return engagement."
Buffy shot him a dark look. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Well, come on. Angel. Drusilla. Spiâ€""
"Spike is chipped, Xander," she said, punctuating with an exasperated eyeroll. "I know we all hate him with a fiery passion, but even if he'd tried to kill this girlâ€""
"Boy."
She looked stricken. "A little boy?"
"No. A kid. Like twenty or something. I saw him. Kind of a skater punk slacker type. Which is still, sad, you know. Years of slacking ahead of him."
"Even so. I doubt Spike could have stopped writhing in agony long enough to put the body in a dumpster. And I would have got a heads-up if Angel had gone Angelus."
"Drusilla. She liked the young studs."
"The dumpster thing doesn't seem much like Dru's M.O."
Someone called her name and Buffy winced. A nurse rounded the corner, looking at both of them expectantly like she wasn't sure which one would answer to a name like "Buffy." So she addressed both of them. "Your grandfather would like to see you now."
"Yes, I'll be right there." At Xander's look, Buffy murmured, "Long story. Explain later."
The nurse nodded and then turned on her cushion soft soles to disappear around the corner again.
Buffy blew out a noisy sigh. "Look, I really have to talk to this guy."
"The guy who collapsed at the shop? What for?"
"It's just...really important. I think. Anyway, he needs to talk to me. So, is it possible that you could maybe...um...check this whole vamp thing out for me, or see if Spike could check it out? You know, get the lo-down on our perp before I make the collar?"
"All this flagrant abuse of cop shop talk is not winning me over to this plan."
"It's just one vamp!"
"We don't know that!"
"That's why you should get Spike to help you."
"Isn't this, like, you're job?"
Her whole body clenched like a fist, and he struggled not to flinch. But she closed her eyes and visibly shook it off. "Xander! Mr. Bledsoe came all the way from England to find me. He used to be with the Watcher's Council. He actually lived here fifty years ago. Right here on the hellmouth. I have a feeling that something's going down or about to, and he knows what it is. That's why he came. So, please. Ask Spike to look into the vamp incident. For me. Please?" Then she did that thing with her eyes where they got really big. Practically limpid. There would be lip-trembling and eyelash batting any second now.
"Fine."
"And could you call and make sure Dawn is locked in the house?"
"Anya was doing that before I came to find you."
"Thanks. You guys are the best. I'll catch up with you as soon as I can. Promise."
"You so need to get a cell phone."
"Yeah. And a magical money bush, and house that repairs itself."
Fifteen minutes later, back on the dance floor, in a frenzy of limbs and laughing, Dawn realized she hadn't even seen the hot guy who'd invited her. And funny thing was, she didn't care. She also realized there may have been something in the water.