Going Underground - Part Three

NOTES AND SUMMARY: Giles and Spike in London, after the fight in Piccadilly Circus.

Giles sat in the creaking arm-chair in Spike's room, took his first sip of a rather good brandy, and looked out the slightly open window. There was night-rain, that soft cleansing London mist he had craved during the Sunnydale years. Faint noises came from above-- Spike had a cellar room, and floppy-skinned Jez hadn't closed yet-- but it was late, and he was warm and dry.

And not numb. Couldn't forget that.

Spike came in from the corridor with a mug in his hand. He hesitated, gauging the mood, then took the other armchair in the tiny crowded room. The two sat in silence for a moment. Then Spike ventured, "You doing all right, Giles? The head and all?"

"Hurts like hell. But in a good way." Giles swirled the brandy around his glass, watching the liquid coat the sides then drop down into the bowl. "How about you?"

"I don't believe you have ever before asked me how I was doing. Perhaps I should just whip out my diary and record the date."

"And that evasion doesn't answer the question." Giles shot what he liked to consider his Alpha-Watcher stare in Spike's direction, and as always Spike started to fidget under its power. As my former charge would say, yay me, Giles thought. "So let's start with the basics. Why aren't you in Sunnydale?"

Spike sat up a little straighter. "Hang on. You didn't know I'd left?"

"I've been out of the country for some time-- werewolf uprising in Romania before the Great Shrod Explosion here, fortnight before that in Scotland ghost-hunting. Haven't been back to my flat, haven't gotten my mail or my phone messages." Giles took another sip of his brandy, willing his hand not to shake at what he would say next. "Haven't heard anything from Sunnydale since before the wedding --"

"--That wasn't."

"That wasn't what?"

Spike said, watching him closely, "The wedding that didn't happen. Harris left Anya at the altar." Then he lunged forward to prevent Giles's brandy glass from hitting the floor.

It was Ripper's voice that growled out of Giles's throat. "That little bastard. That little--" And he spun out of his chair and smashed his hand against the wall. God he was feeling again. And it wouldn't be good for Xander Harris that he was.

Spike got up and led Giles back to his chair, putting his brandy back in his hand. "Sit down before I have to pay a damage deposit, Rupert. And besides, you need to have a gulp or two, 'cause it gets worse."

"Tell me." And he took a gulp, as Spike had directed.

"Right. Okay, Harris the pusillanimous had a fit of nerves, left Anya at the altar. And the Scoobies rallied around Harris apparently-- I wasn't there, heard about it later-- which meant Anya was grieving on her own. Except that D'Hoffryn was at the wedding too."

"Oh God, no."

"I'm so sorry. Yes, she did." Spike's eyes were compassionate. "She changed. Back."

Giles didn't even care that he had given away his secret, if indeed it had been one. He choked back anger and heartache and a terrible disappointment-- not in her but in himself. If he had been there, he could have stopped her... could have told her... "Go on."

"Take another drink, yeah?" Spike got up and moved to the window, looking out at the mist. One finger followed a teardrop tracking down the pane. "She tried to get vengeance, did some stupid things, in every sense of the words--" Giles didn't understand the bitter little laugh-- "but she hadn't actually punished him by the time I left." He turned back and held Giles's gaze. "She probably still needs someone to talk to her. To give her a lead, right, to reassure her that she doesn't bloody have to be like that. You know?"

Yes, he knew. And he would take care of his wounded girl. But he couldn't think about Anya right now, because Spike looked as if there was more to tell. "We'll come back to this. What else, Spike? Is it Buffy?"

"Keep in mind I've been gone myself for nigh on two weeks." Spike sat, then rested his arms on his open legs, hands clasped, head down. "She's not right, Giles. Hasn't been since before you left." He shook his head at Giles's involuntary protest. "No, not your fault. Although if you'd asked me in November, I'd have cheerfully ripped out your liver with a sodding dessert spoon. It's like-- it's like part of her didn't come back. And what's left is pain and rage. Or numbness."

Of course, not only the wrongly resurrected could define their days like that, Giles thought. He'd lived it for months.

"I tried to help. God, I tried." Spike raised his face, and Giles bit back an exclamation at the anguish written across it. "But you know me, right? Big Bad Wanker of a Screw-Up. Everything I did just made it worse. Challenge her or roll over for her; get her to fight back or make her stop fighting; protect her or make her face her own mistakes-- it all hurt her and then she'd hurt me, and...." He buried his head in his hands.

"You really do love her. Even without a soul, you really do." Giles said it quietly, as if reciting a dry-as-dust fact gleaned from an ancient case study.

"Ah, now you're getting ahead of yourself." Restless, Spike rose to his feet and returned to the window. "But the answer is yes. So when I made the biggest mistake of all, and no, I'm not going to tell you more than she was okay, I knew I had to leave."

"I'm familiar with the realization." Giles took a calming sip of his drink. He could still taste it, which was good. Meant he hadn't retreated yet. He still could feel things.

"Decided I'd go back. Go back to who I was. Perhaps you're familiar with that kind of bollocks too." Giles nodded. Spike paused, then said as quickly as he could, "So I went to Africa and met a shaman and had a vision quest thing or something I'm not sure what and anyway I have a conscience now. Oh, and the chip doesn't work, but that doesn't matter because of the aforementioned conscience. Which is buggery painful, believe you me."

"A conscience."

Spike fiddled with the curtain cord. "Well, that's what we're going to call it, because I refuse to be lumped with that pillock with hair issues and a doctorate in brooding who happens to be my grandsire. But in the event, it's not only painful but inconvenient as well, because although I'd felt perfectly fine thieving my way TO the Dark Continent, suddenly it didn't seem like such a good idea to steal my way BACK." Giles couldn't help but chuckle, and Spike turned to glare at him. "Oh yeah right, laugh at the vamp struggling with ethics. Do. It'll make you feel better, and it can't bloody well make me feel worse."

Now that he had permission no matter how sarcastically given, Giles collapsed in mirth. The insulted look on Spike's face--! Five minutes ago he'd have thought he could never laugh again. Yet here he was almost choking with it, despite a splitting head. And then came something he'd never ever imagined he would think about Spike: bless his undead heart.

When he finally stopped chortling, he looked back at the evening's activities. "So in the Underground, when you had... a problem?"

"Just a flashback. We'll never speak of it," Spike said. "Anyway, had enough cash left to get me here. Came to Jez-- cousin of my mate Clem back in Sunnyhell, d'you know him?-- got the room, then busked for a couple of days, trying to put together the return fare."

Giles took a deep breath. A lot to do, then. A lot to set right. "Fine. It seems as if time is of the essence. After I call in Travers' little spot of attempted manslaughter, we can put together-- "

But Spike was goggling at him. "Did you just say 'we'?"

"Yes. I'm getting older, Spike, and my head hurts more by the minute, but I do retain short-term memory. First we should--" He stopped again when a look of hurt flashed across that expressive face. "Now what?"

"Nothing. Nothing. Let's get a-planning." Spike got up and rather over-heartily rubbed his hands together. "So, should we make a list or--"

"Spike!" People with headaches should not shout. He instructed himself to learn this precept by heart before the next Scooby rumble. "What the hell is it, before I punch you into next Tuesday?"

"Like to see you try, Watcher," he said half-heartedly. Then: "Just have to get used to it, is all. Conscience gets consideration, evil thing gets rejection, 's perfectly understandable."

"Oh why don't you just shut it." Giles let his irritation rip. "Am I not drinking with you? Did I not join with you in defeating the Shrod? Most telling of all, did I not BUSK with you? All of that before your grand revelation, so just be bloody quiet and let me work. Well, first tell me where the sodding phone is. We're needed." He pulled a pen and note-pad out of his leather jacket, and started his notes.

Spike took a couple of breaths, then smiled at him. "This is a bit of an odd turn, innit. Bet you never expected us to be friends."

"We're not friends now, you little twerp, I'd rather be shot." But he slung his arm around Spike's shoulder and gave him a grin, just to make sure Spike knew he was lying, before turning again to the comfort of work.

He'd been tired and lonely. It was better just to be tired. It made going home a little easier.

 

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