Undercover - Bones Crossover Fic - Chapter 9
Undercover
by spikeNdru
BtVS/AtS Crossover
Other Fandom: Bones
Genre: Drama, Action, Humor
Pairings: Currently, Jack/Angela. There may be later pairings as the story progresses.
Characters: Booth and Angel; Ensembles from both series.
Rating: PG-15
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters; BtVS Characters belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy and Fox, Bones characters belong to Hart Hanson and Fox; I'm just borrowing them for the purposes of this story.
Summary: A figure from Booth's past suddenly shows up in Washington, DC. Dealing with his past may be more difficult than Booth originally believes, once Angela gets involved.
Many, many thanks to makd for the superb beta.
Previous chapters can be found here.
Chapter Nine
Vampire night vision was all well and good, but there had to be at least some ambient light for it to function. Angel was really getting tired of waking up in total darkness, as if he was one of those blind cave fish he'd seen in a documentary he'd watched once with Fred. After eons of living in the water deep in caves-in the Caribbean? He couldn't remember exactly where-with no light at all, the fish first went blind and then mutated to the point where they didn't even have eyes. Angel guessed use it or lose it applied in spades to those fish.
There was no actual point to his ruminations, he decided; just something to think about because there was nothing better to do. His chest itched. He must be healing. He squirmed experimentally and felt the pull of his muscles. Yeah. The entrance wound on his back was completely healed, and the huge, gaping exit wound in his chest had already started to close. A little bit more time and a little bit more blood and he'd be fine. Unless Dru killed him first.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Booth's hand brushed the butt of his gun in its holster for the second or third time. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. If he was twitchy enough to need constant reassurance that his gun was still there-ready and waiting-he had no damn business going for an-armed-walk in the park. What did he hope to accomplish anyway? Angelus-if the guy Brennan shot really was Angelus-was down in the sewers somewhere, either dead or dying. And there was no way he could have killed Perkins; he had an iron-clad alibi. Both Booth and Angela had seen him with Rebecca Lowell when Perkins was murdered. So if he wasn't looking for Angelus, what did he think he was doing here in the park? Waiting for Perkins' real killer to show up?
Booth saw movement out of the corner of his eye and froze, his hand slowly creeping toward his gun again. The shadow passed in front of one of the decorative pole lamps interspersed throughout the park. It was the small blonde woman he'd seen earlier with Goodman. What the hell was she doing out alone at night? And why were she and Goodman so interested in this unimportant little park? Maybe he'd just go ask her!
Booth stepped out of the cover of the trees and the woman whirled to face him, some kind of weapon clutched in her right hand. In an instant, Booth's gun was in his hand and pointed at her. He widened his stance and brought his other hand up to support his gun hand.
“Drop your weapon,” he ordered. “FBI. Drop it!” he added.
The girl slowly opened her fingers so he could see her drop the . . . knife? It didn't glint in the light of the pole lamp as metal should have done; in fact, it looked like a piece of wood with a point on one end. She lifted her hand and wiggled her fingers to underscore the fact that she was unarmed.
Booth took another step toward her and now the light shone on his face, although it backlit her. The light gleamed on her blonde hair and formed a nimbus around her face, which remained shadowed. He couldn't see her expression clearly, but she appeared to be studying him intently.
“I'm guessin' you're Seeley Booth,” she said, and moved closer, slowly, careful to make no sudden moves that he could misinterpret. Her eyes were locked on his face, and he felt emotionally naked under her probing gaze, in some weird way. He began to feel self-conscious, as if she were cataloging every stray hair he'd missed when he shaved, every line and chicken pox scar he carried. He felt silly continuing to hold the gun on her, so he put it away.
She gave her head a little shake and he felt her intense scrutiny lessen. She blew out the breath she'd been holding and a brief look of disappointment crossed her face.
“You're not Angel. You look so much alike that I thought maybe . . . It was stupid to think . . . Sorry.”
Booth felt unexplainably bereft at the withdrawal of her interest. “Angel?”
“He's . . . someone I used to know, a long time ago. There was a shoeshine prophecy, so I thought . . . I hoped . . . But you're not him.”
“You said 'Angel'. Are you talking about Angelus?”
Her eyes widened in shock and her hand involuntarily flew to her throat. She regained control almost instantly and dropped her hand. Booth noticed it was now clenched into a fist and her eyes narrowed as she stared at him with suspicion.
“What do you know about Angelus? How do you even know about him?”
“Aren't they the same? Angelus and Angel?”
“No! Angel has a soul!”
That made no sense at all, Booth thought. Doesn't everybody? But she appeared to be familiar with both Angel and Angelus so he decided this was a good opportunity to find out what the hell was going on.
~*~*~*~*~*~
“Do you know where Dr. Goodman lives?” Jack asked, as he waited for a break in traffic to exit the restaurant's parking lot.
“Sure. Don't you? Remember that Christmas party we were all invited to- Oh. That's right. You didn't go.”
Jack stole a glance at Angela and then returned his eyes to the traffic. “No. I was pretty pissed off at Goodman back then. He seemed to have something on his mind all the time and he was even flakier about hard science than usual. Every time I tried to talk to him about a case, it seemed like he was ignoring me-like what I had to say didn't matter. Whatever was going on in his personal life took precedence and I felt it was affecting his performance of his job.”
“You didn't tell him that, did you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Of course, you did. What did he say?”
“Not much of anything. His nephew or someone called, and he put me on hold while he took the call and listened for awhile then arranged to call the guy back. Then, before he could respond to me he got another long-distance call and he just waved me out of his office, so I wasn't exactly in a holly-jolly, socializing mood.”
“Maybe we should stop at the Jeffersonian first,” Angela suggested. “Make copies of the stuff we found out?”
Hodgins nodded. “Hang on,” he warned, as he saw his opening and peeled out of the parking lot. He made the left turn into the flow of traffic, and then sighed.
“I understand better where he's coming from now, and I do realize his flights of fancy are just the way he works and not specifically designed to drive me crazy, but . . .”
“But?”
“After all that history, there's a certain irony in me being the one to have to convince Goodman that vampires are real, so bringing copies of the lab reports is a good idea.” Hodgins mumbled something under his breath that Angela didn't hear. She looked at him questioningly. “Not that 'scientific proof' would make a difference to him,” Hodgins repeated.
Angela reached over and patted his leg. “Dr. Goodman might just surprise you, sweetie. You did come to an agreement on Pictish man, after all. You're both very, very good at what you do. It's just that you come from different disciplines, with different ways of looking at things, but there's definite common ground there.”
“You're right. So, how about if you tell Goodman and I'll just back you up when necessary? That'd be less confrontational all around. You're just more . . . diplomatic.”
“Angela Montenegro, ambassador at large, huh?”
“Well, the sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can go home and turn our attention to more . . . uh, personal interests.”
“Hodgins?”
“Yeah?”
“You are such a guy!”
“And you love it, baby!”
Angela patted his leg again, and then rolled her eyes. Men. Frequently they were such little boys. It was one of their more endearing qualities. As long as it wasn't too frequently.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Angel noticed the faint glow of light around the door before it opened. He feigned sleep as he peeked through his lashes to allow his eyes to adjust gradually to the light.
Angel heard a murmur in Latin, and then the door opened and a slender man with a flashlight entered. Angel forced himself to not move when the bright light shone on his face. An involuntary flicker of his eyelids would have given him away, if he'd been human. He couldn't see anything past the bright light, but he bided his time. After a very long minute, the man turned away and began lighting candles around the room. When enough were lit to his satisfaction, he thumbed the flashlight off and picked up a brown paper bag. He turned and Angel was startled into a brief hiss of indrawn breath when he saw the man was wearing a black suit with a Roman collar.
“Oh, good, you're awake,” he said and came toward the bed.
“Are ye a priest, then?” Angel asked in confusion. What would a priest be doing in Dru's lair? Maybe he was hallucinating, after all.
The man set the bag down on the bed and removed a pint of blood. He drew a knife and stabbed the bag near the top, then fitted a straw to the hole he'd made and leaned over to touch the straw to Angel's lips.
“Am I a priest? Hmm. I suppose I am. But not to the god you think. I suppose you could say I'm an even more ancient Roman.” He briefly touched the white tab in the center of his black collar. “This? It's just a disguise. No one looks closely at a priest going about his duties, now do they?”
Since the man didn't seem disposed to kill him at the moment, and actually seemed to be helping him, Angel thought this might be a good time to ask some questions. He forced himself to stop sucking down the healing blood long enough to ask, “Where am I? What is this place?”
“Just at the moment, it's my home.”
Angel frowned, remembering. “Those were your wards, then?”
The man looked pleased. “Oh, good. You felt them. I wasn't sure if they would work with vampires, in general. The only vampire-other than yourself, of course-likely to come down here is my lady, and naturally she has an all access pass.”
“Dru . . .”
“Yes. The incomparable Drusilla-something of an ancient Roman herself.” He smiled, “If we're speaking of Gaius Caesar Germanicus's sister/lover as opposed to the daughter of Herod Agrippa.”
Angel had finished the blood and the man turned to the brown paper bag. He removed two packets this time-one of blood and a smaller, silver packet. He pierced both with straws and companionably drank a Capri Sun while Angel drank the second pint of blood.
“Feeling better now?” he asked.
Angel nodded.
“Good. We need to get you out of here. Do you think you can walk?”
“Why are you helping me?” Angel asked.
The man laughed. “Oh, don't fear, I'm not helping you. You are a complication to be dealt with expeditiously, that's all. The sooner you're gone from here, the better.”
Angel was sure he was missing something. “Why not just kill me then?” He'd been helpless while he was injured, and tied up as he was, it would have been easy to stake him.
The man looked at him with disappointment. “Oh, now really, old man! Do you really think the fey Drusilla wouldn't be aware of your . . . ending? No. I don't want you dead-I just want you gone. The fair Drusilla isn't the only one with a connection to your existence, and I'd prefer that you be elsewhere when she starts looking for you.”
“She?”
“The Slayer, of course.”
“Buffy? She's . . . here?”
“Yes. She's here. In Washington, at least.” The man cut through the leather bindings holding Angel's wrists to the bed, then turned to free his ankles.
Angel pulled the remnants of leather from his wrists and flexed his hands. “What makes you think I won't drain you dry now that I'm free?”
The man glanced over his shoulder and flashed an impish smile. “Oh, please try! Come on. It'll be fun!”
“Fun for whom?”
“Well, for me, actually. You'll be clutching your head in torment with the worst migraine you've ever had.”
“What did you do to me?” Angel demanded. He wasn't sure how long he'd been unconscious, but if something had been done to him, he wanted to know about it, right now. A niggling thought teased at the back of his mind. Spike! Spike had had a chip implanted that gave him excruciating headaches if he tried to hurt a human . . .
“You put a chip in my brain!” Angel accused.
“Oh, you know about the chip, do you? Actually, no. The Initiative put a chip in my brain-or some portion of my anatomy, in any case. I just developed a spell to turn things around to my advantage. Let's just say that any vampire or demon that tries to hurt me gets a rather nasty surprise. Nasty from their perspective, of course. I think it's a bit of a giggle.”
“I wondered why Dru hadn't eaten you yet.”
“Yes, well. She finds me charming. And occasionally she does try-just for the fun of it. She says the pain makes lovely blue sparks and she's quite fond of games, but I expect you know that. Can you walk? We really should be on our way.”
“I can walk.”
“Good. I'll just blindfold you now for a bit, shall I? Just until we're out of the tunnels. It wouldn't do to have you abuse my hospitality by returning after I've gone through all this trouble to save your life, now would it?”
~*~*~*~*~*~
“Well, now that we both know who I am, who are you, and what's your connection to Daniel Goodman and the Jeffersonian?”
Buffy narrowed her eyes and Booth got the feeling she was looking into him, rather than at him. She shrugged, and with an oh-what-the-hell glint in her eyes, she put her hands on her hips and squared her shoulders.
“I'm Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Daniel Goodman is a friend, and I have no connection to the Jeffersonian. I'd never even been there until tonight when Dr. Goodman gave me a tour of the lab part. That place is really state-of-the-art, high tech, huh? Giles would have a cow if he had to work there.”
Booth decided the stress of the past twelve hours must be affecting his hearing. She couldn't really have said what he thought he'd heard, could she? Moving right along, he latched onto her last remark rather than her first.
“Who's Giles?”
“Giles? Oh. He's . . . um . . . like Dr. Goodman but . . . tweedier.”
“He's an anthropologist?”
“Uh . . . probably more of an historian, with the books and the research and stuff and ohmigod, you even sound like Angel. It's kind of creepy, in a way. It's been a really long day and I'm kind of . . . why am I telling you all this? That was a rhetorical question, by the way. I should go. I'm supposed to be patrolling-um, petroleum. Looking for petroleum. Shit! I can't believe I said that. It's not like it even worked the first time.” Buffy giggled. “Ohmigod! I wonder what Riley would think of you?”
Booth was completely lost. Her words zinged around in his brain like the light flashes of a flare gun discharged in an enclosed space, and he seemed to only be capable of processing the last things she said at the conclusion of her bizarre monologues.
“Who's Riley?”
“Oh. Riley Finn. He's . . . um . . . we used to date.”
“Is he a historian, too? Like . . . Giles?”
For some reason, Booth thought it imperative to identify the players in an attempt to create some kind of order out of the apparent chaos of this conversation? Interrogation? Whatever the hell it was.
“Riley? Oh, no. He's sort of a psychologist, when he's not involved in secret ops. At least I think he is. He was a TA, but I don't know if Professor Walsh getting skewered by her Frankenstein monster and then the collapse of the Initiative meant that he didn't actually get his degree. It's funny. I never thought to ask. I should have, shouldn't I? It should have mattered whether he could still get his Master's even though his adviser got turned into a zombie, unless that whole TA thing was just a cover story for the secret ops stuff, and there was so much other stuff going on . . .”
“Secret ops?”
“Oh. Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned that. My bad. It may be the jet lag. Well, I guess I should-”
A high-pitched, but obviously masculine, scream of terror came from the other side of the park. Booth drew his gun at the same time Buffy bent to snatch her stake from the ground and they both began to run in the direction of the scream.
A dazed-looking man in his late 20's leaned against a tree as blood dripped from a wound on his neck. His eyes were unfocused with shock and he didn't seem aware of Buffy and Booth's presence. Buffy cupped his chin to turn his face toward her in an attempt to get his attention.
“What happened? Are you okay? Can you talk?”
“Whoa! Whoa . . . that was dritty . . . Bummer.”
Buffy frowned at the fang marks in his neck.
“The vampire,” she said urgently, “which way did it go?”
“Whoa! Bad trip.”
Booth handed Buffy his handkerchief and she pressed it to the man's neck to staunch the bleeding.
“You're okay,” she reassured him. “Can you tell me what happened?”
He finally stopped mumbling and focused on Buffy. “She . . . changed. She . . . we . . .”
Buffy nodded encouragingly. “Go on.” She pulled a bottle of water from her jacket pocket, twisted off the cap and handed it to him. He took a long drink and shuddered.
“I went out for dinner-I found this vegan restaurant and it was totally awesome-to celebrate some good news, and then I thought I'd score a little weed, y'know? And I met this really cool hippie chick, y'know? Like right out of the 60's. It was far out. And she said she had some primo shit-she called it 'Christmas dinner', so I figured it'd be awesome, y'know? 'Cause she was wasted, man. Talkin' about stars an' pixies an' angels an' stuff. An' we ducked into the park and I said 'Hows about some of that Christmas dinner now' an' she smiled like that cat in Alice in Wonderland, y'know, and then her face . . . it was like a bad trip flashback or somethin' an' she bit me an' I yelled an' then you came. I never did get any 'Christmas dinner'. Bummer.”
Booth's mind suddenly supplied the words she'd used to identify herself. Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Maybe this entire day had been a bad dream and he'd wake up in his own bed any time now and the world would be normal-without Angels and vampires and Vampire Slayers. And Brennan wouldn't have shot anyone.
He surreptitiously pinched the skin on his left hand in an attempt to wake up. At home. In bed. Maybe this was all a dream . . .
Then again, maybe not.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Continued in Chapter 10.
by spikeNdru
BtVS/AtS Crossover
Other Fandom: Bones
Genre: Drama, Action, Humor
Pairings: Currently, Jack/Angela. There may be later pairings as the story progresses.
Characters: Booth and Angel; Ensembles from both series.
Rating: PG-15
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters; BtVS Characters belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy and Fox, Bones characters belong to Hart Hanson and Fox; I'm just borrowing them for the purposes of this story.
Summary: A figure from Booth's past suddenly shows up in Washington, DC. Dealing with his past may be more difficult than Booth originally believes, once Angela gets involved.
Many, many thanks to makd for the superb beta.
Previous chapters can be found here.
Chapter Nine
Vampire night vision was all well and good, but there had to be at least some ambient light for it to function. Angel was really getting tired of waking up in total darkness, as if he was one of those blind cave fish he'd seen in a documentary he'd watched once with Fred. After eons of living in the water deep in caves-in the Caribbean? He couldn't remember exactly where-with no light at all, the fish first went blind and then mutated to the point where they didn't even have eyes. Angel guessed use it or lose it applied in spades to those fish.
There was no actual point to his ruminations, he decided; just something to think about because there was nothing better to do. His chest itched. He must be healing. He squirmed experimentally and felt the pull of his muscles. Yeah. The entrance wound on his back was completely healed, and the huge, gaping exit wound in his chest had already started to close. A little bit more time and a little bit more blood and he'd be fine. Unless Dru killed him first.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Booth's hand brushed the butt of his gun in its holster for the second or third time. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. If he was twitchy enough to need constant reassurance that his gun was still there-ready and waiting-he had no damn business going for an-armed-walk in the park. What did he hope to accomplish anyway? Angelus-if the guy Brennan shot really was Angelus-was down in the sewers somewhere, either dead or dying. And there was no way he could have killed Perkins; he had an iron-clad alibi. Both Booth and Angela had seen him with Rebecca Lowell when Perkins was murdered. So if he wasn't looking for Angelus, what did he think he was doing here in the park? Waiting for Perkins' real killer to show up?
Booth saw movement out of the corner of his eye and froze, his hand slowly creeping toward his gun again. The shadow passed in front of one of the decorative pole lamps interspersed throughout the park. It was the small blonde woman he'd seen earlier with Goodman. What the hell was she doing out alone at night? And why were she and Goodman so interested in this unimportant little park? Maybe he'd just go ask her!
Booth stepped out of the cover of the trees and the woman whirled to face him, some kind of weapon clutched in her right hand. In an instant, Booth's gun was in his hand and pointed at her. He widened his stance and brought his other hand up to support his gun hand.
“Drop your weapon,” he ordered. “FBI. Drop it!” he added.
The girl slowly opened her fingers so he could see her drop the . . . knife? It didn't glint in the light of the pole lamp as metal should have done; in fact, it looked like a piece of wood with a point on one end. She lifted her hand and wiggled her fingers to underscore the fact that she was unarmed.
Booth took another step toward her and now the light shone on his face, although it backlit her. The light gleamed on her blonde hair and formed a nimbus around her face, which remained shadowed. He couldn't see her expression clearly, but she appeared to be studying him intently.
“I'm guessin' you're Seeley Booth,” she said, and moved closer, slowly, careful to make no sudden moves that he could misinterpret. Her eyes were locked on his face, and he felt emotionally naked under her probing gaze, in some weird way. He began to feel self-conscious, as if she were cataloging every stray hair he'd missed when he shaved, every line and chicken pox scar he carried. He felt silly continuing to hold the gun on her, so he put it away.
She gave her head a little shake and he felt her intense scrutiny lessen. She blew out the breath she'd been holding and a brief look of disappointment crossed her face.
“You're not Angel. You look so much alike that I thought maybe . . . It was stupid to think . . . Sorry.”
Booth felt unexplainably bereft at the withdrawal of her interest. “Angel?”
“He's . . . someone I used to know, a long time ago. There was a shoeshine prophecy, so I thought . . . I hoped . . . But you're not him.”
“You said 'Angel'. Are you talking about Angelus?”
Her eyes widened in shock and her hand involuntarily flew to her throat. She regained control almost instantly and dropped her hand. Booth noticed it was now clenched into a fist and her eyes narrowed as she stared at him with suspicion.
“What do you know about Angelus? How do you even know about him?”
“Aren't they the same? Angelus and Angel?”
“No! Angel has a soul!”
That made no sense at all, Booth thought. Doesn't everybody? But she appeared to be familiar with both Angel and Angelus so he decided this was a good opportunity to find out what the hell was going on.
~*~*~*~*~*~
“Do you know where Dr. Goodman lives?” Jack asked, as he waited for a break in traffic to exit the restaurant's parking lot.
“Sure. Don't you? Remember that Christmas party we were all invited to- Oh. That's right. You didn't go.”
Jack stole a glance at Angela and then returned his eyes to the traffic. “No. I was pretty pissed off at Goodman back then. He seemed to have something on his mind all the time and he was even flakier about hard science than usual. Every time I tried to talk to him about a case, it seemed like he was ignoring me-like what I had to say didn't matter. Whatever was going on in his personal life took precedence and I felt it was affecting his performance of his job.”
“You didn't tell him that, did you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Of course, you did. What did he say?”
“Not much of anything. His nephew or someone called, and he put me on hold while he took the call and listened for awhile then arranged to call the guy back. Then, before he could respond to me he got another long-distance call and he just waved me out of his office, so I wasn't exactly in a holly-jolly, socializing mood.”
“Maybe we should stop at the Jeffersonian first,” Angela suggested. “Make copies of the stuff we found out?”
Hodgins nodded. “Hang on,” he warned, as he saw his opening and peeled out of the parking lot. He made the left turn into the flow of traffic, and then sighed.
“I understand better where he's coming from now, and I do realize his flights of fancy are just the way he works and not specifically designed to drive me crazy, but . . .”
“But?”
“After all that history, there's a certain irony in me being the one to have to convince Goodman that vampires are real, so bringing copies of the lab reports is a good idea.” Hodgins mumbled something under his breath that Angela didn't hear. She looked at him questioningly. “Not that 'scientific proof' would make a difference to him,” Hodgins repeated.
Angela reached over and patted his leg. “Dr. Goodman might just surprise you, sweetie. You did come to an agreement on Pictish man, after all. You're both very, very good at what you do. It's just that you come from different disciplines, with different ways of looking at things, but there's definite common ground there.”
“You're right. So, how about if you tell Goodman and I'll just back you up when necessary? That'd be less confrontational all around. You're just more . . . diplomatic.”
“Angela Montenegro, ambassador at large, huh?”
“Well, the sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can go home and turn our attention to more . . . uh, personal interests.”
“Hodgins?”
“Yeah?”
“You are such a guy!”
“And you love it, baby!”
Angela patted his leg again, and then rolled her eyes. Men. Frequently they were such little boys. It was one of their more endearing qualities. As long as it wasn't too frequently.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Angel noticed the faint glow of light around the door before it opened. He feigned sleep as he peeked through his lashes to allow his eyes to adjust gradually to the light.
Angel heard a murmur in Latin, and then the door opened and a slender man with a flashlight entered. Angel forced himself to not move when the bright light shone on his face. An involuntary flicker of his eyelids would have given him away, if he'd been human. He couldn't see anything past the bright light, but he bided his time. After a very long minute, the man turned away and began lighting candles around the room. When enough were lit to his satisfaction, he thumbed the flashlight off and picked up a brown paper bag. He turned and Angel was startled into a brief hiss of indrawn breath when he saw the man was wearing a black suit with a Roman collar.
“Oh, good, you're awake,” he said and came toward the bed.
“Are ye a priest, then?” Angel asked in confusion. What would a priest be doing in Dru's lair? Maybe he was hallucinating, after all.
The man set the bag down on the bed and removed a pint of blood. He drew a knife and stabbed the bag near the top, then fitted a straw to the hole he'd made and leaned over to touch the straw to Angel's lips.
“Am I a priest? Hmm. I suppose I am. But not to the god you think. I suppose you could say I'm an even more ancient Roman.” He briefly touched the white tab in the center of his black collar. “This? It's just a disguise. No one looks closely at a priest going about his duties, now do they?”
Since the man didn't seem disposed to kill him at the moment, and actually seemed to be helping him, Angel thought this might be a good time to ask some questions. He forced himself to stop sucking down the healing blood long enough to ask, “Where am I? What is this place?”
“Just at the moment, it's my home.”
Angel frowned, remembering. “Those were your wards, then?”
The man looked pleased. “Oh, good. You felt them. I wasn't sure if they would work with vampires, in general. The only vampire-other than yourself, of course-likely to come down here is my lady, and naturally she has an all access pass.”
“Dru . . .”
“Yes. The incomparable Drusilla-something of an ancient Roman herself.” He smiled, “If we're speaking of Gaius Caesar Germanicus's sister/lover as opposed to the daughter of Herod Agrippa.”
Angel had finished the blood and the man turned to the brown paper bag. He removed two packets this time-one of blood and a smaller, silver packet. He pierced both with straws and companionably drank a Capri Sun while Angel drank the second pint of blood.
“Feeling better now?” he asked.
Angel nodded.
“Good. We need to get you out of here. Do you think you can walk?”
“Why are you helping me?” Angel asked.
The man laughed. “Oh, don't fear, I'm not helping you. You are a complication to be dealt with expeditiously, that's all. The sooner you're gone from here, the better.”
Angel was sure he was missing something. “Why not just kill me then?” He'd been helpless while he was injured, and tied up as he was, it would have been easy to stake him.
The man looked at him with disappointment. “Oh, now really, old man! Do you really think the fey Drusilla wouldn't be aware of your . . . ending? No. I don't want you dead-I just want you gone. The fair Drusilla isn't the only one with a connection to your existence, and I'd prefer that you be elsewhere when she starts looking for you.”
“She?”
“The Slayer, of course.”
“Buffy? She's . . . here?”
“Yes. She's here. In Washington, at least.” The man cut through the leather bindings holding Angel's wrists to the bed, then turned to free his ankles.
Angel pulled the remnants of leather from his wrists and flexed his hands. “What makes you think I won't drain you dry now that I'm free?”
The man glanced over his shoulder and flashed an impish smile. “Oh, please try! Come on. It'll be fun!”
“Fun for whom?”
“Well, for me, actually. You'll be clutching your head in torment with the worst migraine you've ever had.”
“What did you do to me?” Angel demanded. He wasn't sure how long he'd been unconscious, but if something had been done to him, he wanted to know about it, right now. A niggling thought teased at the back of his mind. Spike! Spike had had a chip implanted that gave him excruciating headaches if he tried to hurt a human . . .
“You put a chip in my brain!” Angel accused.
“Oh, you know about the chip, do you? Actually, no. The Initiative put a chip in my brain-or some portion of my anatomy, in any case. I just developed a spell to turn things around to my advantage. Let's just say that any vampire or demon that tries to hurt me gets a rather nasty surprise. Nasty from their perspective, of course. I think it's a bit of a giggle.”
“I wondered why Dru hadn't eaten you yet.”
“Yes, well. She finds me charming. And occasionally she does try-just for the fun of it. She says the pain makes lovely blue sparks and she's quite fond of games, but I expect you know that. Can you walk? We really should be on our way.”
“I can walk.”
“Good. I'll just blindfold you now for a bit, shall I? Just until we're out of the tunnels. It wouldn't do to have you abuse my hospitality by returning after I've gone through all this trouble to save your life, now would it?”
~*~*~*~*~*~
“Well, now that we both know who I am, who are you, and what's your connection to Daniel Goodman and the Jeffersonian?”
Buffy narrowed her eyes and Booth got the feeling she was looking into him, rather than at him. She shrugged, and with an oh-what-the-hell glint in her eyes, she put her hands on her hips and squared her shoulders.
“I'm Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Daniel Goodman is a friend, and I have no connection to the Jeffersonian. I'd never even been there until tonight when Dr. Goodman gave me a tour of the lab part. That place is really state-of-the-art, high tech, huh? Giles would have a cow if he had to work there.”
Booth decided the stress of the past twelve hours must be affecting his hearing. She couldn't really have said what he thought he'd heard, could she? Moving right along, he latched onto her last remark rather than her first.
“Who's Giles?”
“Giles? Oh. He's . . . um . . . like Dr. Goodman but . . . tweedier.”
“He's an anthropologist?”
“Uh . . . probably more of an historian, with the books and the research and stuff and ohmigod, you even sound like Angel. It's kind of creepy, in a way. It's been a really long day and I'm kind of . . . why am I telling you all this? That was a rhetorical question, by the way. I should go. I'm supposed to be patrolling-um, petroleum. Looking for petroleum. Shit! I can't believe I said that. It's not like it even worked the first time.” Buffy giggled. “Ohmigod! I wonder what Riley would think of you?”
Booth was completely lost. Her words zinged around in his brain like the light flashes of a flare gun discharged in an enclosed space, and he seemed to only be capable of processing the last things she said at the conclusion of her bizarre monologues.
“Who's Riley?”
“Oh. Riley Finn. He's . . . um . . . we used to date.”
“Is he a historian, too? Like . . . Giles?”
For some reason, Booth thought it imperative to identify the players in an attempt to create some kind of order out of the apparent chaos of this conversation? Interrogation? Whatever the hell it was.
“Riley? Oh, no. He's sort of a psychologist, when he's not involved in secret ops. At least I think he is. He was a TA, but I don't know if Professor Walsh getting skewered by her Frankenstein monster and then the collapse of the Initiative meant that he didn't actually get his degree. It's funny. I never thought to ask. I should have, shouldn't I? It should have mattered whether he could still get his Master's even though his adviser got turned into a zombie, unless that whole TA thing was just a cover story for the secret ops stuff, and there was so much other stuff going on . . .”
“Secret ops?”
“Oh. Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned that. My bad. It may be the jet lag. Well, I guess I should-”
A high-pitched, but obviously masculine, scream of terror came from the other side of the park. Booth drew his gun at the same time Buffy bent to snatch her stake from the ground and they both began to run in the direction of the scream.
A dazed-looking man in his late 20's leaned against a tree as blood dripped from a wound on his neck. His eyes were unfocused with shock and he didn't seem aware of Buffy and Booth's presence. Buffy cupped his chin to turn his face toward her in an attempt to get his attention.
“What happened? Are you okay? Can you talk?”
“Whoa! Whoa . . . that was dritty . . . Bummer.”
Buffy frowned at the fang marks in his neck.
“The vampire,” she said urgently, “which way did it go?”
“Whoa! Bad trip.”
Booth handed Buffy his handkerchief and she pressed it to the man's neck to staunch the bleeding.
“You're okay,” she reassured him. “Can you tell me what happened?”
He finally stopped mumbling and focused on Buffy. “She . . . changed. She . . . we . . .”
Buffy nodded encouragingly. “Go on.” She pulled a bottle of water from her jacket pocket, twisted off the cap and handed it to him. He took a long drink and shuddered.
“I went out for dinner-I found this vegan restaurant and it was totally awesome-to celebrate some good news, and then I thought I'd score a little weed, y'know? And I met this really cool hippie chick, y'know? Like right out of the 60's. It was far out. And she said she had some primo shit-she called it 'Christmas dinner', so I figured it'd be awesome, y'know? 'Cause she was wasted, man. Talkin' about stars an' pixies an' angels an' stuff. An' we ducked into the park and I said 'Hows about some of that Christmas dinner now' an' she smiled like that cat in Alice in Wonderland, y'know, and then her face . . . it was like a bad trip flashback or somethin' an' she bit me an' I yelled an' then you came. I never did get any 'Christmas dinner'. Bummer.”
Booth's mind suddenly supplied the words she'd used to identify herself. Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Maybe this entire day had been a bad dream and he'd wake up in his own bed any time now and the world would be normal-without Angels and vampires and Vampire Slayers. And Brennan wouldn't have shot anyone.
He surreptitiously pinched the skin on his left hand in an attempt to wake up. At home. In bed. Maybe this was all a dream . . .
Then again, maybe not.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Continued in Chapter 10.