Fortress Around Your Heart - Part Eight
DISCLAIMER: The title belongs to Sting, as does a bit of Wesley's poison-fed babbling.
THANKS: Lesley and Magpie, for last-minute questions.
NOTES AND SUMMARY: See Part One for ritual blathering. When last we saw our heroes: Spike and Buffy looked for Wes; however, Lilah was merrily torturing him before she had a revenant poison him; Anya taught Dawn the cool tune-into-your-guy trick she'd learned from Buffy five years ago, then Dawnie went to rescue him. Wes's reaction was not quite what one would expect. This part: Watchers and their women, next on Jerry Springer. Although research WAS done, I do not recommend using this fic as Poison Control information.
20 DECEMBER 2007. LONDON. NEAR MIDNIGHT.
As a Watcher, he monitored the changes. Dizziness came first. Nausea was second, although that hardly described the knives in his gut. Next, the shakes. Then the heart, tripping fast, irregularly. Be still my beating heart, he'd thought. A joke.
For a second he'd thought he could add hallucinations to the list. Dawn's voice sounded so close. She'd called his name. But she wouldn't be stupid enough to come here. The others wouldn't let her.
When he opened his eyes, he realized it was Dawn. Oh, idiot Wesley- he should be surprised how long it had taken. Still, he had to tell her. "Get the hell out."
Her eyes widened. "Wes. It's me. I've come to rescue you."
"No." He had to remind himself to breathe.
Her hands soothed. He could feel her even through the links of the chain that bound him. "Come on, sweetheart. We don't have much time." She stood up and ran her fingers through her hair. She messed with her hair when she was thinking. He loved it.
He loved her. Even when she wasn't thinking, like now.
"I suppose I could teleport us together- damn, I should have realized you'd be tied. Maybe this would work--" She bent down, trying to fit him into her arms.
He could die happy there. No. Duty. "Go home."
"Shut up, Wesley." Her words pounded in his ears. Heartbeat speeding up again, he thought.
He'd never won an argument with her. Had to win this one. She was close to him, so hopelessly close. He moistened his lips, then said, "My job, Dawn."
She stopped. But she wasn't convinced. "If you take me away -- London, the family, is in danger." He had to stop, breathe again. "They assume you're all distracted. Looking for me. I have to stay. She'll think it's working."
"You're not going to stay here."
"Listen. Dawn." The trembling was getting worse. The knives in his stomach dug in a bit further. He allowed himself just a second to rest in her arms, then he lifted his head. "Tell them. Wolfram and Hart. Nullats raising hell-spirits. Try to control the Fissure- tomorrow, maybe after I die. Before. Buffy should get Below first."
"You're not going to die." He must be shaking so hard that it made Dawn's arms tremble, he thought fuzzily. "Wesley, you're not."
"Poisoned. Yew leaves. Usually terminal."
She buried her head against his shoulder. So hopelessly close. When she lifted her face, he thought he'd never seen her so fierce. "I'm taking you home."
"No."
She closed her eyes and tightened her arms; she was focusing her energy. His last chance. "If you love me, let me stay."
At that she did drop her arms. He was almost there. "Wes. Don't be a bastard."
"Yours. Forever. Please let me stay." He'd exhausted himself. Blackness crept around the edges of his vision. "Please. Can't fail again."
From outside the room he vaguely could hear rustling. Hell-bitch and minions were coming back, oh God, Dawn. Her hands touched his face where Lilah's had defiled it. Made it clean. She whispered, "I'll tell them. But I'll be back."
She kissed him, although he could barely feel it. Blackness. Be still my beating heart.
***
Lilah opened the door and looked in. It had sounded like voices in here, but the room was empty, the wall of black glass reflecting back no intruders.
There was only Wesley, slumped in his chair. Unconscious or dead.
She crossed over to him and checked his pulse. His heartbeat skipped off-rhythm and too fast. But at least it was still there. They could have more time later, perhaps.
The Nullat (whichever one it was) stood in the doorway, watching. She came out to the other office to join him, shutting the door as she left. "Not dead yet? The revenant was agitated- when we bring them back, they can't rest until murder has been done."
"Not dead yet. But he's fading, I think."
The Nullat nodded. "Onto the next business. We've got two sentries to watch the Giles house, to make sure their team is contained."
Lilah turned to lock the conference room. Not that Wesley could get out, naturally, but just as a precaution; she didn't want to risk anything. She checked her watch. "Good. Ah, it's almost midnight. I've ordered several more mercenaries to replace the ones Bennet killed tonight. They should be here by mid-morning; after that, we'll begin. Shouldn't be a problem. "
***
"Okay, those are the major problems." Add Recap Girl to the list of Slayer duties, Buffy thought. "Should we be worried that you haven't finished the decryption of the prophecy, Imran?"
He shrugged. "I have no idea. The last two lines are difficult to read at all, and dealing with incunabula isn't my field. I've got a call in to Darren, but Shaz said something about a Leeds away game. He's not answering his mobile unit."
Spike was prowling Giles's study again: up, down, circle, up, down. It would have made Buffy a little dizzy, if she hadn't been so used to husband-as-big-undead-cat. "Can't wait for Dazza, he's probably face-down in a pub somewhere. Sod has no idea of right-thinking - well, obviously, he supports the Gunners. And how important is the prophecy? What have we figured out from the first three bloody lines, anyway?"
Giles leafed through his notes for the hundredth time. "We know that there is someone calling up death-spirits, and the revenants are stronger than humans. We know that there likely will be an attempt to call up the Lady, and I don't fancy coming up against her if she too will be stronger than when last we met. The solstice seems to be a key."
"And that's tomorrow," Buffy finished. "But isn't there something else? Are we missing a line?"
Giles flipped back a page. "'The six who should not be, oppose the walking death.'"
"Who are these 'six who should not be' anyway? And I bloody well detect a bit of 'walking death' prejudice," Spike grumbled.
"Stop being an over-sensitive git, Will." Giles tapped his pen against the page. "Anyway, you're obviously one of the 'six who should not be,' as anyone who's heard you sing will attest." Ignoring her husband's yelp of protest, he looked at Buffy. "You're certainly outside the realm of the probable, dear, as is Dawn. But who else?"
Before she could remind him of his own weird wife, a clatter came from the kitchen.
***
Anya caught Dawn in mid-spin, dropping the kettle as she did. Dawn gasped, "He won't let me take him."
"Oh, sweetie-"
"Dawn! Honey, what's wrong?" Buffy was the first of the stampede through the kitchen door, and she leapt on her sister. Giles and Spike arrived together, and Imran followed more sedately.
"I saw Wesley--"
"You what?" came in surround-sound.
Dawn pulled herself away from the female members of the family and leaned against the counter. She took a deep breath; he wanted her to be accurate. "I teleported. He's alone, being held in the Wolfram and Hart offices here. Riverside somewhere, I saw out the window." At that, Imran pivoted on his heel and left - back to the study and, Dawn figured, the laptop. "He's been poisoned. Yew leaves? I think that's what he said. But it's bad, it's really bad."
Spike cracked his neck, the way he always did when he tried to suppress an explosion of rage. Then he spun around a chair and straddled it, folding his arms on its top. "Okay, Bit. Before we ask why the bloody hell you didn't tell us you were going- why didn't you bring him back?"
"He was being a goddamn Watcher, that's why." Dawn swallowed her fury. "He said to tell you guys that they, Wolfram and Hart, were holding him as a distraction for you all. They think that if you and Buffy are looking for Wes, you won't notice them doing something with the Fissure. Controlling it?"
"'Dead or distracted,'" Giles said. "Sodding hell. And he's right. If we pull him out of there, they know we're onto them. We'll lose an edge."
He and Buffy stopped and looked at each other, serious and still. Seeing the exchange, Spike buried his head in his arms. Oh my God, Dawn thought. They wouldn't. "You can't. You're not going to leave him there to die."
"Not to die, Dawn," Giles said sharply. "But-"
"But we have to leave him." Buffy brushed a tear away from Dawn's face.
"You do not!" She stumbled back, away from her sister's touch. "I only left because I need help! If you're not going to..." Her voice broke on the anger which made it hard to breathe.
Anya said, "Activated charcoal is a universal poison antidote. We've got some in the cabinet because of Lizzie - I'll get it."
"Thank you, darling," Giles said. "Dawn, Anya and I will teleport in and take care of Wes. We won't let him die-"
"Rupert. You can't go." Anya's voice was quiet.
"Well, admittedly I can't do more than assist. But more magick would be useful."
"Rupert. I said you can't." And she left the room.
Giles made a noise Dawn had never heard from him before, all frustration and love and fury. "Never mind that. Dawn, we'll get to him and administer the antidote."
"And as soon as possible, you'll help me and Spike go Below. We'll be there ahead of the game, then we can collect Wesley. He'll be fine." Buffy petted at Dawn's hair, but she batted the hand away. She couldn't bear the Slayer's touch at the moment. She couldn't bear anything to do with their jobs and their stupid duties and their willingness to let Wes suffer.
Spike took one look at her, then put one hand on Giles's shoulder, the other on Buffy's. As if he'd given them some kind of instructions, they both left. Good, Dawn thought. Him she could handle. But she kept her eyes on the floor. He saw too much.
Utterly serious, he said, "Want to hit me, Bit?"
At any other time she'd have laughed. Not now. "Why would I do that, Spike?"
"He's hurting because I couldn't protect him. It's my fault. I'm so sorry." He lifted his empty hands and looked at them. It was as if he lifted the ropes she'd used to bind her fear, and she hurled herself into his arms. "I'm so sorry, Dawn. I'm so sorry," he repeated, rocking her as she finally allowed herself to cry.
***
"Can you see 'em?"
"It's not my fault you're such a clumsy fat-arse." The vampire pushed back at the Tallent demon. Why he had to be stuck with night-sentry duty, and with such a stupid creature, he couldn't imagine.
The two reshuffled themselves, and then peered through the public garden's shrubbery at the Cheyne Walk house. Most of the lights were on; the vampire could distinguish movement in one of the front rooms.
"Should we try to get closer?" the Tallent asked.
"If you fancy a permanent burning sensation. That place is warded like the jewels in the Tower."
The demon looked at him. "I'll stay here then."
"Good plan." The geezer was a bloody idiot, the vampire thought. Even so, it was safer doing sentry here with the Tallent than being ordered off to actually face one of the Watcher/Slayer villains. Those murderers for the Light were nasty business. He checked his communication unit, just to feel more secure.
One of the neighbours came out of his front door with his animal, and they started to walk toward the garden. The vampire slunk back into the shadows, pulling his idiot companion along. He was a mite empty, but it wouldn't be smart to eat on the job. Or in front of a Watcher/Slayer house.
***
Giles found her in their bathroom, just as she tucked the activated charcoal away in her pocket. A wonderful thing to have a smart, practical wife, he thought. "Ah, darling. You've gotten the antidote ready."
"Yes. And I'm bringing a sick-bag, because I think he probably should throw up," she said briskly.
Giles allowed himself the luxury of a quick kiss, then another. "Right then. Let's go, Anya."
"You. Can't."
"Anyanka, don't be ridiculous. You've never stopped me from doing my job before, and this isn't even dangerous. Wesley needs our help. Now--"
"I know you understand the English language, Rupert. I said, You can't. Can't as in, are not able to." She walked off, and he caught up to her halfway across their bedroom. When she felt his hand on her arm, it was if all the air had left her body; she sank onto their bed, looking at her shoes.
He sat down next to her. "Talk to me."
"I don't want to," she said under her breath. Then she straightened. "Have you never wondered, Rupert, why in the past three years you've made it through three serious head traumas?" When he shook his head, she said, "You've been charmed. No, wait, I'll be more exact. I had a charm placed on you. A magick, so that whenever you receive a blow to the head, the charm absorbs the dangerous pressure. The killing pressure."
A charm. She wouldn't have. Except- oh dear Lord. "But, Anya, I've had the concussions. I have the sodding headaches afterward, still have one now."
"Well, magick has consequences. One of them is the unconsciousness and the headaches. The longer and more severe both are, the worse the initial consequence would have been." She took his hand, linked their fingers. "Do you understand what I'm saying, Rupert?"
He hadn't woken up for hours this time, and he had a headache that had lasted for over twenty-four hours, meaning -- no, he wasn't going to think about that just now. "What's the other consequence?"
"No magick use for at least twenty-four hours, more like thirty-six. The charm drains your natural power; it takes time for it to come back. So you see, when I say you can't do the magick, that's what I mean. You won't be back to normal until tomorrow."
He removed his hand from her grasp. He felt rather numb, except for the pain behind his eyes. "I can't believe what I'm hearing. You didn't ask me, even tell me. And now I can't do the work I need to do. I can't help Wesley, the group."
"Oh, that's right, Rupert. You'd be such a great help to him if you were dead." The chill was immediate. She stood- had she gotten taller?- and stared coldly at him. "I've never asked you to stop your dangerous field-work, have I? Never reminded you that you have a wife and daughter who love you, who depend on you, who would be devastated if you died. Never made you less than you are."
"Anya. I know, but that's not the point. You took the choice away from me."
"No, I didn't. I don't stop you from doing your work, Rupert. I merely save you from your stupidity." She took a step back "And now if you'll excuse me, I need to save another idiot human Watcher." With a shift of energy, she was gone.
Giles sat there for a moment, alone in their bedroom. His head still hurt, and he rubbed absently at his forehead. A wonderful thing to have a smart, practical wife, he thought again. And he mused on the oddity of human emotions, specifically his.
He had never felt so betrayed. He had never felt so loved.
***
He was so cold. An odd and disjointed pounding kept him awake, but it was cold and dark where he was.
Then, without warning, Wesley felt something: a stick of some kind, jammed down his throat. Oh God, the hell-creature had come back. It was more torture-
The knives in his gut twisted, and he retched. Uncontrollable and off-rhythm, the heaving matched the pounding he kept hearing. The pain burned, and he couldn't make any of it stop.
However, a hand on his back kept rubbing in circles, soothing him. He was confused; torturers shouldn't make their victims feel cared-for, should they?
Finally, his agony eased. A familiar voice said, "Now try this," and he had something that tasted like burnt coal put into his mouth. More poison, perhaps. But he swallowed obediently.
It almost came back up, but he leaned his head against the conveniently located shoulder of his torturer, and the shudders stopped.
For the first time he opened his eyes. His family vengeance-demon smiled at him.
"Okay, that should be a good start. I don't think you had too much to begin with, Wesley, so we've probably gotten the worst of the poison." Anyanka checked his pulse; the pounding had eased to a more livable rhythm. "However, you need to pretend that you're still asleep and ill. As per your completely stupid insistence, we're leaving you here so they won't know we're on to their tricks." She stood, looking with some disgust at the full bag in her hand. "Lucky for you I'm a mother, and used to this sort of job."
"Anyanka?" he said weakly.
"Don't talk, sweetie." She brushed his forehead with a kiss. "Now, while you wait for us, I want you to be thinking of a wonderful vengeance wish on those who did this to you. I'm coming out of retirement for one special job, Wesley. So you make it good. "
After one last smile, she disappeared. He stared at the empty room, then closed his eyes.
This time the dark was warm and comforting.
***
Nothing like a spot of tea for comfort, that's what Spike always said. Well, at least since he'd altered his previous 'nothing like a spot of victim's blood for comfort' saying. Still, points for pentameter. Even crap pentameter.
He passed out the cups to Rupes (all pale and quiet, head must be killing him) and Imran. Dawn had refused to come out of the kitchen, but Buffy took a mug and then followed it up with a kiss. "Is she feeling better?" she asked him.
"No, she's hurt and mad as damnit. But she'll open a Portal for us in the morning, regardless."
Buffy sighed, then sat down on the couch next to Rupert. "And you've got your plans laid?"
"Yes. I'll be actively 'searching' for Wesley, in full view of the Wolfram and Hart people." He sipped at his tea. "I assume Anyanka will help me."
And Mrs. Giles herself arrived in the middle of the study, right on her cue. Spike thoroughly approved. She said, "Hello, everyone. Wes should be fine - I think. Antidote has been administered, after he lost his stomach contents. You might have a healer or doctor standing by when we eventually get him out, though."
Rupert looked at her- oh bloody hell, trouble between Victoria and Albert. "Thank you, Anyanka," he said. She nodded, and left the room. Spike shivered just a little: cold front passing.
Imran stepped into the awkward silence, as he was wont to do. "Buffy, I'll continue the planning for when you and Will come back from Below. It won't be enough to remove the immediate threat..."
"No, we need to strike a body-blow at the jerks who threaten London and our family. We're going to do some damage they won't forget," his own Queen said cheerfully. And to think she used to deny that she ever enjoyed her work, he thought, as he sipped at his tea.
***
Lilah wearily pushed away her files and looked at her watch again. Late, very late.
She kicked off her shoes and stretched. It had been a good day, and tomorrow looked to be even better. She and her team had every advantage here; this was one Special Project which augured well.
She'd heard noises in the conference room a few minutes ago, but when she'd gone in, nothing had changed. Wesley still slumped unconscious in his chair. He was as she'd always known he had been, alone. The black wall of glass had reflected back his defeated form, and behind him the files and computers and power of Wolfram and Hart.
A bottle of Scotch was in the bottom desk drawer, she knew, and she got it out. Into a lovely crystal tumbler- nothing but the best at W and H - she poured a couple of fingers. The expensive liquid shimmered, even under the office fluorescent lights.
Lilah lifted it up and toasted. To the Winter Solstice: the shortest day of the year, and what promised to be her most successful. She drank down the smooth oak-tinged gold.
***
Outside, the winter wind blew off the Thames. It rattled against the glass windows of the tallest skyscraper on Temple Place, wrapping around the building like a pall of smoke, bringing the smell of ash and blood.
It sounded like the howl of a wolf.