"Can't have you catch your death of cold, love. Looks like there's a path over there, but a bit of a swim to the bank too, pet." He's so sweet, if slightly patronising. But that was what she thought of Vaughn when she first met him, and she ended up hopelessly in love with him. The little voice that tells her it's a dangerous train of thought to repeat sounds horribly like her mother. But she is smart and has to focus on taking one step at a time, which is getting them out. "It is easier to dry bodies than clothes. And wet clothes might get me too cold again, especially if it is a long walk to an exit. If we put our clothes and the knapsack in your coat and tie it up into a bundle, one of us can pass it through the gap to the other, and then wade to shore and get dry and dressed again." "Wet, naked, except for the risk of scraping the sensitive bits on rough stones - I like this idea!" She's already stripping down. "You would. The jeans should go through separately, though; they're already at least partly wet. We can do the same with the torch; it will give us both some light while we're doing this." He takes a long time to come back with, "As long as we don't burn each other, pet." "We'll be careful." She's naked, and has everything but the jeans heaped on the duster by the time he comes back to shore. "Ok, Syd." She wades out to the gap, while he strips off completely and ties the dry gear up in the leather coat. "I'll take point." The stones are sharp. She can feel them add to the scrapes and bruises she's already carrying as she squeezes through the gap, and the salt in the water stings like hell. But better a few cuts than another close encounter with hypothermia - this time without so much priceless firewood. The water is deeper on the far side, the undercurrents pull at her, threaten to drag her under, drown her in the icy darkness, and she has to fight to keep her footing. His voice asking, "Flame-y torch or the waterproof one, love," is a lifeline in the shifting sands under her feet. "The flashlight." "Here you go, pet." It's an awkward swim, but she manages it holding the flashlight with one hand. She fights against the current to put it on a rock, beam pointing towards the gap, before swimming back. She stands up, knowing she will need both hands. "Spike, the clothes." He must have anticipated her, and passes the leather bundle through. "Don't drop it, love. Been together a long time, that coat and me." She would answer, but it's heavy and her footing uncertain, so she needs all her concentration just to make it to a bank which feels twice as far away wading than it did swimming. She's nearly pulled over three times, but she makes it. She always makes it. Even when it's hard like now and she has to force herself to go on, she does. "Ok, Spike." "Torch now, pet. Got to be careful. And I got the jeans over my shoulders. Should manage two for one this trip, yeah?" Two for one sounds good and burning does not, so she crouches down in the water and keeps her arm wet while reaching up from his hand to grasp the torch. She pulls it through the gap, and holds it Olympics style, while she takes the jeans from him, and stands aside to let him through. Where he seems to collect as many scrapes as she did, going by the litany, of "Fuck, sod it, bugger, bloody rocks." And finally the half-drowned, "Fuc-" as he loses his footing and comes up coughing water. He looks so like a drowned puppy, she can't help smiling. So he shakes the water from his hair all over her. She is really tempted to trip him, get him wet again. But she's freezing, her scrapes hurt, and he might forget the need to keep the jeans as warm and dry as possible and retaliate. So she hands them to him and they wade to shore, each of them having to steady the other when they threaten to stumble. She rests the torch beside the flashlight. The light illuminates a high cavern, rapidly narrowing into a long tunnel with a path running beside the river. It also shows her Spike. It is not as if she hasn't already seen him naked. She has, and she's had him more times than she wants to think about too strongly right now. But he's frighteningly attractive wet and naked. He knows it too. The way he's posed drying his hair with his jeans, he's an art print come to life. His darkening eyes and rumbling, "My water nymph," just adds the icing to what's already criminally tempting. "I must look like a drowned racoon!" He moves across and starts drying her hair. "Nah, a nice sleek otter, pet." Every drop of water flowing down his chest makes her thirsty. Just not for salt water. "That's a winning line." "Not a line, pet. Just saying you look very, very tasty." The rough denim over her nipples, over and over again. How the hell is she supposed to not want him, this. "We can't. We have to get out." "We can. We can get off too." He's kissing her, and she can't help kissing him back. Kissing her over her face, her neck, her breasts. And her ass, he's kneading it, though the denim. Over all of her, drying, soothing, scratching, arousing. "Oh, god." How can a man bring her off with a pair of jeans? When he really plays unfair and he starts fingering her clit. "Come for me, pet." She does. And slumps into his arms. He kisses her until she comes back to herself. Then he lets her stand up. "You didn't?" He smiles. "Later, Syd, definitely later. Want to go for it for hours with you, I do. Really take my time, when it's not so cold. When you're not freezing cold. Show you everything, just how bloody good we can be. Just wanted to give you something for now." "I don't understand." She wants to. He's untying the coat and handing her clothes. "Nothing to understand, love. I just want to make my woman happy. Always have. Happy you let me give it. Just want to carry on giving it to you when we get home, is all." And it is cold, and he dried her off as he brought her off, so she pulls on her nice warm clothes. But she still feels the chill. "I know l have to go back to my life, find out who I was, what I did. Hell, I have to tell my dad about what has happened so he can help me cover up the parts that will get me fired or put in a padded cell. I will have to tell him about all of it, the man in the alley, the mummies. And what will be even harder, about you." "He's really not going to approve of me then, Syd?" He doesn't sound surprised. "He never really liked Vaughn! And he is CIA, and wears a suit." But he's never really approved of any of the men she's loved. Ninety-nine point nine percent of her believes her dad tried to save Danny, but there's the nagging voice in the back of mind that maybe he just didn't try hard enough, that he could have saved him if he really wanted to, that he let Sloane kill her fiancé. She can't lose anyone else. She's lost too much already. She can't lose Spike too. Not now - and an even tinier voice keeps pushing maybe not ever. *** It's a long walk through the tunnels, even for a vampire and a fit super-spy. It's cold too. The torch is warm, but he can't help worrying, "Warm enough, pet?" He's lost too many women. He's not losing this one. "Oh, yes. After being dried off like that - toasty." He can hear the truth in her heartbeat. "That's just for starters, love." He'd say he was glowing with pride for getting her that way, but he doesn't want to tempt the gods to go screwing with Spike again. He lives in hope that they'll get fed up with their favourite game at some point in the next millennia. "Right now, I am so hungry, I could smile at Sark for a breakfast. Not Sloane though." "Going to give you a banquet, Syd." He lives in hope too that this time it'll last, that he'll make a woman so happy, give enough, that finally it'll work, that finally she'll stay, want him - that finally he'll be happy. He knows it won't be enough; it never is. But he can't help hoping, wanting, trying; it's not in him not to. *** The caves go on for miles, and have clearly been widened each time they narrow. Niches with statues punctuate the tunnel walls. Spike shies away from the first one, and from her noticing him do it. "Startled, is all." It's such an obvious attempt to keep his cool. "Right." She can't help smiling, or the urge to give him a hug. "We have to keep moving." "Right, pet. Got to do that." But they can keep walking, and she can hold his hand. It's good to have someone's hand to hold again. "It's good too to have someone to talk to down this rabbit-hole too." And it is. "Know the feeling, Syd. Mind you, keep expecting a White Rabbit to turn up complaining it's late, most of my life. Then stab me in the gut, way it usually works." "You like Lewis Carroll?" He keeps on surprising her. "Don't tell anyone." And his embarrassment is adorable. "You are quite safe from the Red Queen." Probably, hopefully, ok, maybe not from mom. "Known a few of those in my time," launches a conversation about books that eats up the miles. "I know I should not be surprised that underneath all the punk and leather facade is someone else. I live that life. But you liking books is such a lovely surprise." "Not a horrible nightmare of wussdom, and such bleeding horrible disappointment you'll never sleep with me again?" She hates the self-doubt and pain she can hear in his voice. "No. I've missed books and poetry since I lost grad school." Mom might have really loved words, or maybe they were just an alias that helped her use dad for her KGB masters - Syd might never know, but she knows that there's a part of her that needs them for herself. "Lorne's got some good authors on his books. Reckon he might get us in on some readings if I ask nice, grovel, or even worse, agree to put on a suit and go to one of his bloody premieres and parties. Keep a bloke from going off his nut at one of those, would you, pet?" "I'll think about it." It is tempting, really tempting. *** There's another rock-fall. There's a fork in the tunnel. But when he tells her, "I can smell the fresh air, pet. Through the rubble - far away and faint, but it's fresh." She turns away from the other path. "OK." She trusts his call. He can't help feeling happy. He knows it's a mistake; that it's just asking for trouble, but he can't help smiling. Between the two of them, clearing the obstacle is easy. The path goes on, wider and more worn. "Sorted." The smile grows into a grin when Syd spots, "Footprints!" He picks her up and spins her round and round, "We did it, pet!" She's grinning too. "Extraction, here we come." "And some ciggies -" Just the thought of one rolling between his fingers, resting on his lips, filling him up with bitter warmth, makes the nicotine demon start demanding its fix Now! "And food! I am starving! Pizza, Chinese take-out, enough pasta to feed Italy - I could eat all that and still have room for dessert." He can't help picturing feeding her grapes, teasing her with olives, and playing her with the cherries Lorne insists the plane is stashed with. "A nice cold beer." Followed up with a nice warm Syd. "Coffee. Oh, God, coffee." "Going to have it all, pet. Bit of a way to go yet though, I reckon." He can't see any light other than the torch. "Me either. So, later?" She snatches a kiss. Later, he will rock her world. He has plans. "Oh, yeah, for definite." *** Following footprints by flashlight, it's not easy, but Sloane and SD-6 trained her well. She's almost grateful. It, and Spike's unerring sense of direction, gets them to the mouth of the cave. "We did it, Spike!" "That we did, Syd." He squeezes her hand, and they walk out into the night. "We must have lost more time than I thought." She's never been so happy to see stars. "Time flies when you're having fun, love." He's looking up at the moon. Her torch is nearly burned down to her fingers, so she drops it and kisses him. He throws everything into kissing her back. They're melting into each other and it's so tempting to take it, them, all the way right now, but she knows that now they are out, it's not all about them. There are calls she needs to make, searches to be called off, arrangements to be made. She wants nothing more than to fuck him senseless right here, right now, but she has obligations, not just to him, not even to herself, and those have to come first, so she pulls back. "Everyone... my dad, must have been so worried."
Thinking about dad is far less complicated, but she knows Vaughn will
be worried too. She tries to compartmentalise Vaughn with Weiss, with
Marshall, Dixon - make him a worried friend, not a lover she can't be
with, but it is difficult. She's never done well at compartmentalising
Vaughn and even moving on now he is married, it's still hard. It's a rough path, with slabs of rock over mud, but it is a path and that's the important thing. "The CIA, they will be looking for us." She needs a phone. "They can dig up half of Cusco?" Though they must have walked miles since there's no city in sight, just a small, shut ticket-hut as they get closer to a road. "If they can't, my dad would. He has contacts here. He will come himself, or share them with my friends." An empty road overshadowed by steep mountains with no signs of villages, and so transport. "Sounds like a good bloke." Where does she start with the puzzle that is Jack Bristow? There is only one thing she can say. "He's my dad." Spike squeezes her hand. "We'll get you back to him, love. We got us a road. Bound to be something on it soon. When it does, we'll just hitch a lift back to Cusco, yeah?" *** Lilah loves it when her Wes sits in the big chair. And his business voice. "Lilah, you called the update meeting. The floor is yours." But the time she's finished with Wes, Angel, Spike, all of them, she'll have the floor, the chair, the ceiling; the whole operation right down to the paperclips - even if her name's not on the door. She deserves it. She's bought and paid for it with her blood and her soul. In the meantime she has pieces to keep in the dark and others to move. And in this game, timing is everything. "We don't have a problem with CIA interference in the operation to retrieve Spike - who the psychic's latest report shows to still be in one piece, as is the girl. The site is secured. We have the army and heavy hitters from the Asuncion office in situ to ensure it stays that way. Everyone likely to interfere is neutralised until we have our boy back. Look." Lilah flicks the remote, revealing a stark concrete cell holding two Americans. *** "Weiss." "I told you; we end up in a jail cell going through back-channels to get your Not-Girlfriend back, you don't get a draw. We're in a Peruvian prison, Vaughn. No draw!" "Syd is your friend too." "Which is why I'm here. But you still don't get a draw." *** Point made, she stops the playback. "Aren't they just precious. Couldn't you just eat them up with a spoon! And now I'm thinking buddy spy show; broody pretty-boy - like they're not dime a dozen, cuddle-munchkin best friend -" "Lorne, please." Wes sighs. "I'm thinking the WB, with the number of shows they cancel, oh, sweetie, they always need new shows. Kristen Kreuk -" "We own her ass. What? You think she could get Lana Lang without us?" Gunn says. "If we could get on to the business in question." Wes loves the authority he gets when Angel's away. No one knows that more than her. She is, after all, the one he fucks over Angel's desk. "I love it when you get all masterful." Lilah sees his refusing to accept just how much he needs to be on top face. The one that usually ends up with her on her knees, him never quite believing she won't bite it off as she makes him give himself to her, while half of him wants her to, if only so he can't sully himself with the Corporate Whore any longer. "Lilah, please." He's got that you are going to pay for that look - she can't wait. "I'm all about business; you know that?" The reference to phone sex during the Inxi meeting scores her point eight hundred and seventy-three since her return. She needs another three. She knows she'll get them from the Peru situation. "Quite. But I believe your briefing memo said you had solved every eventuality for a CIA rescue operation that might leave Spike open to daylight." Bastard scores with briefs. Never mind. Lilah knows who's coming out of this meeting with more orgasms, and even better, more power. "I deliver. I always do. The official CIA recovery operation, and their jet, are being held by the Peruvian Army on their illegal incursion into sovereign territory. As the Washington Branch informed us, Sydney Bristow has a father, ex-lover, and friends in the CIA who have used unofficial means to get the girl out of imprisonment before. Bristow is trapped in a Congressional Committee hearing called by one of the Congressmen we own. The Peruvian Police are holding the other two - as you saw." Gunn looks confused. "Don't Uncle Sam kinda own their Peruvian asses?" "Of course. The tax dollars we do pay, trains, buys, and keeps them in shiny braids and fake designer sunglasses." She knows she should be patient with the ex-street thug "So we paying double?" But sometimes it's hard. "The US government pays them. But their bankers do whatever the Miami office tells them to do." She really shouldn't need to mention money laundering, and clients wanting to avoid jail, not after all the time Team Angel have been inside Wolfram and Hart. Sometimes she's still surprised how much common sense she still has to explain. "And which drug trafficker kept out of prison does the Miami office want for its help, Lilah." Her Wes is so delicious with that note of long suffering revulsion in his voice. She can't help herself "Would we ask that?" "Of course you would." Her penance and his for wanting her, it's going to be spanking. "Not this time, lover." She hates and loves his wince at the endearment. "That is why I called Lorne in on this." "I was wondering, and I have cocktails with J-Lo in forty." The Green Bitch is annoying, but at least he's about to be useful for once. "The CEO of the Miami branch has an unusual price... His wife is a succubus -" "Oh man. The ultimate trophy wife." "That's right, Gunn. Every man wants her, she's his, and she can't kill him by the terms of the pre-nup. But he still gets the upside, and the envy of every man in Miami." "If we could get to what this demon wants enough that her husband will manipulate every corrupt banker between here and Uruguay -" Wes' looks at his belt promises pain and pleasure way more appealing than being consumed by a succubus. Or an incubus; she doesn't care - whatever gets Lilah off, gets Lilah off. Right now, it's Wes. It's always Wes. "She's a big Miami Vice fan. She wants it back." She's learned to never overestimate the tastes of demons. "What! Has she seen Don Johnson recently?" Especially Lorne. "Any form she can get it." And it is full of pretty things; Lilah can see the appeal. "Ok, and I want this very clear that I'm not doing this for Lady Macbeth. I'm doing it to get Mr Fashion Disaster I'm-not-good-enough-to-kiss-her-feet home to grovel to Freddikins. But I'm thinking, two pitches. One to the studios, I mean, sweeties, the seventies remakes, so over. Did you see Scooby Doo Five? Purlease, honey, so bad this time that even the dog should have been put down! The time to remake the eighties is so here. So, I'm thinking we make Tubbs a Latino, open it up to that market, fit in with that whole Miami Cuba Libre vibe - maybe Andy Garcia: platinum Rolex over olive skin, hottarama. Crockett: has to be Brad Pitt - which should also make Jen happy, and please god off my cell-phone! I'm thinking, lots of product placement, Versace, Gucci, Ferrari of course -" "The Milan office will owe us. I like." "Like I care? As I said, I'm doing this for Fred's boy, even if he isn't worth it! So, I'm thinking we also pitch a series to the networks. The way they cancel shows, Fox is always looking for pilots. We get a couple of hot guys with buckets of proven homoerotic buddy chemistry, put them in fast cars with lots of tits and ass - teen boy and girl demographic heaven! I can get a couple of guys just coming off a cancellation cheap. We have ourselves a winner twice over, boys and girls." "So, get to it." Power: the ultimate high, the ultimate aphrodisiac. "I report to Wes in Angel's absence, not the Zombie Queen!" Winding up - as Spike would put it - Lorne is a bonus. And Wes reports to her, especially when he thinks he doesn't. "If you could help Lorne with any contracts that need purchasing, breaking, Charles." "I'm on it." Lorne and Gunn's departure leaves Wes to her tender mercies - if she had any - and him to her. She wouldn't have it any other way. Even if the bastard makes her wait. "I believe you have scum to call, Lilah." "As soon as I leave this room." She adds a slight shimmy into the leather chair. It works. "And you will return when you have finished and we will discuss this further." But business before pleasure pain. "Soon as I've got word from Peru or Texas. Or, hey, both!" It's the moments where he drops the mask that kills her. "Thank you. For Fred's sake, if nothing else. For doing what has to be done. What I can't with Angel away and the firm to run on Christmas Eve levels of staffing." It makes her give him at least some shading of the truth. "Anything to get Fred's boy back." "He is ok?" "Oh, yeah. He's alive and well, so to speak. Sat in with the psychics myself. He'll be back making 'Peaches' life as miserable as possible in no time. Which is good, I can't do it all myself." Well, she can and does. Spike is fun to snark about Angel with over drinks, but she's never lost sight of his place in the game. And now he's fucking the Bristow girl, he's just played into her hands beautifully. The air-quotes around Peaches get her a smile from Wes and a rumbling, "You and Spike have definitely been spending too much time together. This has to be remedied. I think we will have to discuss this further - at some length." "Length is good." She licks her lips. Which has the desired effect. "Later?" "Oh,
yeah." She is going to love later. She won't be able to sit down
for days afterwards. But later is always worth it. |