Where Pies Go When They Die 8/9

This entry is part 8 of 10 in the series Where Pies Go When They Die
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Where Pies Go When They Die 8/9

Chapter Eight: Fire Walk with Me
Author: ghostyouknow27
Rating: R. Warnings for cartoon violence, bloody violence and naughty words.
Summary: Hell, as it turns out, serves a great cherry pie.
Words: ~ 17,500 for the story
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Joss Whedon and Eric Kripke. Sadly, I can’t blame the “plot” on “anyone” “else.”
A/N: Thanks (I think) to diamondtook862  and ever_neutral  for helping me through a bajillion drafts of the end of this pie monster.

Fire Walk With Me

Buffy’s body stretched like taffy.

She zoomed through a narrow tunnel, red curtains wafting around her. She sensed things. Other pieces of human taffy. Invisible shadows. Even more invisible bright spots.

Something was pulling her toward one of the bright spots. She wanted to go to it. She wanted to feel it swallow her up. It would be good there. There wouldn’t be any pie in Bright Spot Land. Just rainbows and ponies and good times. Maybe a nice, warm womb in which to sleep.

But something was moving toward her. It was bright, too, and pulsing. Buffy couldn’t see it. Not really. Not with her eyes. But it was fast, and it was large, and it was moving between her and the bright spot. She tried to get around it, but her taffy body didn’t go sideways, only forward, and she was arrowing straight toward its center…

Geez. It was huge. Chrysler building huge! It was huge, and then it wasn’t huge, but still huge, y’know? And boy did she sound stoned. But she wasn’t! She was a flying piece of human taffy! And she was about to collide into a crazy white thing with way too many wings and eyeballs and lights…

Buffy crashed into the huge-not-huge thing and it was warm and fuzzy and all around her. It grabbed her arm, and she felt a fiery hook pierce through her whole, long, taffy body, and it was fire and pain…

Light blazed around her.

The red curtains burst into flames.

Buffy doubled over in her chair, fingers white-knuckling the edge of the table. Her chest spasmed. She coughed – once, twice – then forced open her eyes.


Buffy usually found herself in the diner kitchen after she killed the pies. Now, she sat at a long, fancy-ish table. A large platter stacked high with Doublemeat Medleys formed its centerpiece. Next to the platter, glass bottles of red liquid slanted into a silver bowl. Blood, maybe? It certainly didn’t look like Mountain Dew, not even the Code Red one.

Where was Spike? He’d snapped out of his pie trance, hadn’t he? Of course, he’d waited until Buffy had nearly bled to death on a cherry pie demon … Still! He had recognized her! Even after that whole year of Spike hiding his continued existence, Buffy couldn’t believe that he’d abandon her.

So, where was he?

Buffy’s arm hurt. A lot, actually, like the nerves in her skin were screaming their little nerve-y heads off. Buffy rolled up her big, puffy sleeve… which, ugh. What kind of sicko dressed an unconscious girl in yellow polyester, anyway?

There was a burn on her shoulder. The skin was raised and red and ugly. Also, shaped like a handprint. What had happened? Had she been jumped by some sort of grabby fire-demon-thingy? If so, it had to die for destroying her ability to look cute in a tank top.

Buffy jumped from her seat. Only her legs weren’t really listening to her brain, and she knocked over the chair. It crashed to the floor. Buffy spun in a clumsy arc, eyes scanning the room. There weren’t any doors. How were there no doors?

The room looked like the Renaissance had vomited the decorating scheme. The walls were white. Gilded rectangles framed mirrors and old-fashioned paintings depicted chubby people. No, not people. Angels and demons. Of course there were angels and demons in the paintings.

A gold harp stood in one corner, because this place was just too fancy for harmonicas. There was also some weird, patterned grate thing, and a marble fireplace covered with gold candelabra, and fancy gold-edged chairs and shiny chandeliers.

Wherever Spike was, it wasn’t here.

Which didn’t make sense. Spike was a follower. Not in a sheep way. He was totally not a sheep. He was the opposite of a sheep, what with getting a soul and stuff. But Spike wouldn’t have chosen to stay behind. Not after learning that Buffy was really Buffy. So, something must have separated them.

What had happened? Had the cherry pie dragged him to true Hell? Was Buffy in Hell? This place was way fancier than the diner. Was she in another Heaven? Or had Hell given itself a chi-chi makeover?

“We are not in Hell.”

Thursday’s voice rumbled from somewhere behind Buffy. She pivoted to face him.

Thursday stood on the other side of the table. He was wearing the same beige trenchcoat as always. His hair tufted around his head at odd angles, like he’d been through a storm, but his expression was anything but ruffled.

Okay, so he did look a tad constipated.

Buffy would have smacked the look off his face, except for the thing where hitting him bruised every bone in her body. She settled for crossing her arms over her chest. “Where’s Spike? Where’s this? What happened to the diner?”

Thursday vanished.

“Hey! Don’t disappear when I’m talking to you!”

Thursday couldn’t just leave her! For one thing, the burgers were stinking up the place. Secondly, Buffy didn’t take well to traps. Thirdly, she didn’t know what had happened to Spike. Thursday couldn’t have sent him to Hell, not after Buffy had finally gotten through to him. Or the taste of her blood in his pie had gotten through to him… aaaand that was an ew factor that Buffy wasn’t going to think about ever again.

Buffy jumped as Thursday reappeared at her side.

“I retrieved your vampire.” Thursday held an unconscious Spike by the collar of his duster.

Was Spike hurt? Why was Spike hurt? He had been fine when Buffy had left to do the red curtains and taffy thing!

“What did you do to him?” Buffy grabbed Spike’s arm and yanked him away from Thursday.

“He was… agitated. It was more pleasant to transport him this way.”

“More pleasant? You knocked him unconscious! You can’t just go around knocking people unconscious! What if you gave him permanent brain damage?”

“I assure you I did not.” Thursday looked disgruntled. “I saved the vampire from immediate damnation. I’m sorry you don’t approve of my methods.”

Thursday did not sound sorry. If anything, he sounded a tad too smite-happy.

Buffy supposed that she shouldn’t be surprised that Thursday wanted thanks or whatever. That was, like, half of God’s schtick, wasn’t it? Not that one, all-powerful God existed!

Spike’s body dangled like a ragdoll; Buffy looped his arm around her neck and used her shoulders to prop him up. He wasn’t too heavy for her, but he was all gangly and dead-weight-y. Which made sense, because he was, y’know, dead.

“Sorry I’m not raising my hands in praise. They’re kinda full of unconscious vampire. A vampire I would like you to fix. Like, now.”

Buffy adjusted her grip. Spike’s head rolled around his neck, his lips smushing against her shoulder. She felt a wet spot form against her polyester dress. Gross! Was Spike drooling? That really didn’t make her feel better about the brain-damage thing.

“I follow Heaven’s orders, not your commands,” Thursday said. The lights in the chandelier flickered.

Great. This again.

“And Heaven specifically ordered you to knock Spike out?”

“No.” Thursday shifted his feet. “He refused to let go of your body, and I did not wish to transport you both at the same time, so I rendered him unconscious before pursuing your soul.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Buffy didn’t like the way Thursday said ‘body’ and ‘soul.’ Like, they had been separated. “Where did you transport us? And does Spike still need to be unconscious? Because holding him up isn’t nearly as much fun as it looks.”

“You do not appear to be enjoying yourself.” Thursday’s blue gaze went straight through Buffy. “It’s not necessary for William Pratt to remain unconscious, just more pleasant. I will revive him.”

Thursday stepped forward and lifted two fingers to Spike’s forehead.

Buffy felt a zap.

“Bloody buggering fuck!”

Spike stiffened. His kicked out, his feet scrambling for purchase. His boot hit the side of Buffy’s leg. His arms flailed. The hand that had been over her shoulder knocked against Buffy’s ear.


Maybe Thursday had a point about Spike being more pleasant while unconscious.

“Buffy?” Spike froze. His whole body shuddered, and he drew back, his eyes scanning her face. “God, I thought I’d lost you! Is this real? Tell me it’s real.”

“Would you believe me if I said it was? Or do I need to bleed all over your pie again?”

“Thank God!”

Spike smiled and sagged against her. For a moment, his nose was buried in her hair, and she could feel the curve of his lips and the slight flare of his nostrils as he breathed her in. Buffy felt all safe and cocooned, which was silly, because she was the one supporting Spike. But then his arm brushed against the burn on her shoulder, and she winced.

Spike stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest. “What the bloody Hell were you thinking, you stupid bint? Following me into Hell? Thought you and the witch knew better than to bring back the dead!”

What a jerk! Buffy didn’t know why she had expected Spike to be happy about his rescue. She should have remembered that he was an idiot! A stupid, shirty idiot, who was never going near a cherry pie ever again!

“One, you weren’t any deader than normal! It was supposed to be a Wolfram & Hart pocket Hell thingy. Two, don’t thank… Him. Because really? Not all that helpful.”

“You blaspheme,” Thursday said.

“Darn right I do!” Buffy snapped. “Just wait! I’ll take God’s name in vain, too! God – God – God – Christ – Jesus – God!”

“Have you lost your mind?” Spike asked Buffy. “And who the bloody Hell are you?” The vampire faced Thursday and growled, the noise almost as low as the angel’s normal speaking voice.

“I am the angel of Thursday.”

“More like the angel of jerk-face,” Buffy mumbled.

Spike’s eyes widened. “An angel? We’re not in Heaven, are we?”

“No!” Buffy was this close to shaking him until his fangs rattled. “What is it with you and thinking everything is Heaven? This is not Heaven! Heaven is, like, memories and stuff! Do you remember eating Doublemeat Medleys in a Renaissance room? Ever? Because this one isn’t mine!”

Spike frowned. “Thought you said Heaven was not having a body and feeling all warm and such. How could that be be a memory?”

Buffy flushed red.

“It just… it isn’t… shut up!”

“Her Heaven recreated the conditions of her mother’s womb,” Thursday explained. “I believe it is a sensitive subject.”

Spike’s ducked his head, looking embarrassed. “I’m sure lots of people want to, uh, feel close to their mums in Heaven.”

“Heaven is a vast and interesting place,” Thursday said, with something like agreement.

“I don’t want to talk about this.” Buffy whimpered. “I’d rather remove my kidneys with a butter knife than talk about this.”

“Right.” Spike jerked his chin thumb toward Thursday. “So, what’s an angel like you doing in a place like this? Come to think of it, what are the Slayer and I doing in a place like this? What happened? Last thing I remember, I was in that diner, holding the Slayer’s…”

Spike’s voice broke.

Body? Was Spike about to say that he had been holding her body? What had happened? Buffy remembered getting stabbed. She remembered bleeding all over the place. She remembered Spike getting a clue just as everything went cold and dark…

But she hadn’t died. That kinda thing was hard to forget! Besides, she’d died twice already. She was an expert on dying. She’d totally recognize the signs if she had died again!

“Buffy Summers died,” Thursday said. “I was unable to prevent it.”



Originally posted at http://seasonal-spuffy.livejournal.com/436417.html

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