Every Day I Write the Book - Part One
DISCLAIMER: The title does belong to Elvis Costello.
NOTES AND SUMMARY: Yep, we're back in the Completely AU Giles&Spikeverse. This fic is set a few months after 'Going Underground' and 'Ch-ch-changes'. Part One just sets up this story's players (most of them); for the purposes of this fic, guest-star Wesley Wyndham-Pryce is still ostracized from Angel Investigations folk."You are such a baby," Buffy said sternly. "Now pass me another roll of bandages."
"Damnit, love, 's bloody embarrassing. Being all swaddled up like Claude buggering Rains in *The Invisible Man*--I do have my pride."
"Well, apparently your vamp-boy pride thought cabin service was better than going cargo. And I don't want you to go poof when the sun rises and we're above the clouds. Hence bandages, now." Queen Buffy held out her hand in manner imperious, which he sometimes thought was her natural state-- Spike, give me the bandages; Spike, don't smoke in the house; Spike, resolve the vampire/demon war in Sunnydale tonight and start in on the India/Pakistan conflict tomorrow. On the other hand, there was always-- Spike, do that, keep doing that, you're so good yess yes YES my darling! Which made up for a lot. Especially the 'my darling'.
He rooted around in his carry-on and found another roll of cotton, but he couldn't just let her comment lie: "'Go poof'? Once again, love, you've confused me with someone with bad hair and a host of brooding-soul issues. None of which I have, being so well-adjusted and what all." Suddenly chill, she raised her eyebrows at that. For the hundredth time this trip (thirteen hours and counting) he cursed his impulsive tongue.
Luckily a flight attendant passed by at that moment, and he could distract himself and Buffy by a polite lunge and an "Oh, miss-- any chance of a brandy?"
Still fresh and tidy after eight hours in the air, the woman (or demon, more like, 'cause that just wasn't human) smiled at him. He started to send his most charming getting-what-he-wanted grin, then felt the first layer of "sun-allergy" bandages pull at his forehead. Oh bollocks, he'd forgotten that Buffy had already started wrapping him up; he must look like a right fool. "Only 2 hours to Heathrow, sir, it's almost breakfast. But--" and she said it flirtatiously-- "I think I can arrange a coffee."
"Bless you. Anything you can do, pet," Spike said, at which he felt Buffy suck in a breath. The flight attendant winked and moved on in the darkened, almost silent cabin. So silent, he could almost hear the ice forming behind him, a thin frozen wall separating their Economy-class seats. Damn, damn, bloody damn.
He turned and put his hand on hers, braving the wall; vampires were impervious to cold, right? "Now, love. What'd I do?"
She just stared at him. Hard. Oh, so he was supposed to guess. Biting his lip, he mentally began preparing an eloquent defense of various crimes as she might define them (Angel-Mentioning, even if indirectly? Asking for Demon Drink? Chatting Up for Better Service?).
Then she burst out laughing.
The ice cracked, and he felt warmer than any mere caffeine beverage could make him. She giggled, "You're so totally adorable. Who knew?"
"Everyone but you, love. Glad you're finally paying attention." He leaned forward, invading her seat, invading her space. Trailing a finger down her collarbone, he started to explore his territory... until the flight attendant's polite cough interrupted him. Bloody sodding hell.
But he turned courteously enough and took the coffee from the openly amused attendant-- damn the bitch-- then settled back in his own seat. He sipped it. No, not as hot or good as a Buffy-laugh.
The Buffy in question said, "Okay, Spikey." He grimaced at the name, and she smiled: anything to put the stake in. "Since I can't wind you up in cotton this second... I'm bored. Amuse me."
And some people thought Drusilla had been demanding. She, crazy and blood-stained Dark Goddess that she was, had nothing on Buffy. Still, one of the million million reasons he loved his golden girl was because she was a challenge. "What would you like, Summers? Tell you a story, share my coffee, rub your feet, kiss you in wickedly inappropriate places here in Seat H?"
"You could tell me what you put in your flight bag for Giles." Each word was laced with mischief.
"No."
"Why not?" He counted in his head one, two-- there it was, a pout on her red lips. He took another sip of his coffee; her pout deepened. "Oh, Spike! If I'm willing to be seen in public with Claude Whatever You Said--"
"No."
"Spike."
"No, love. I told you this already. It's between me and Rupert, not you." She glared at him, and he managed to swallow the "don't you trust me?" which was threatening to come out. He knew the answer he deserved, anyway. So he tried again. "Buffy, I'm serious, all right? Giles asked us to come-- required our bloody presence, actually, and in damn English summer with only seven hours of darkness a night-- because he has several items of business to transact with us. One of those items is in my bag. And it's not for Slayer's eyes, not now."
Hazel eyes measured him, but he held her gaze. In this case, he was on the side of the righteous (still shocked him to a shiver whenever he thought that). After a moment she sighed and said, "All right. But I have to say I liked it better when you and Giles hated each other, instead of conspiring against me."
"Conspiring--?"
"Well, you both learned e-mail so you could write each other every day. That's just... WRONG. And obviously it must be about me."
"God, you're a self-obsessed vixen," Spike said, unable to repress a laugh. She pouted harder but failed to stifle her own chuckle. He leaned over and whispered, "And I so love that about you."
He brushed his lips on the sweet spot behind her ear, and she wriggled a bit. This seemed promising; he moved closer. She put her hands on his shoulders, and looked deep into his eyes. Her "Oh Spike" was pleasingly husky. He rumbled a happy little growl. Then she said in quite another voice, "Bandages. Now."
Damn it. Never try to distract a Summers woman.
***
"Rule Number 12. Only a stupid git tries to distract a Summers woman. They will just get you another way. They have focus." Wesley Wyndham- Price looked down at the binder at his lap. Oh, how he had fallen: a once-mighty demon hunter reduced to baby-sitting a cranky teenage Key at Giles's request and now perusing a 50-page instruction manual on the Care, Feeding, and Supervision of Dawn Summers, written by William the Bloody.
Miss Summers currently sat in front of his idiot self and glared quite ferociously. "I can't believe you'd consult some stupid thing SPIKE wrote instead of listening to me. We were talking about my sleep-over at Janice's."
"No, you were talking about it. I was seeking to distract you," Wesley said mildly.
"Well, why can't I go?"
Wesley flipped through the binder to page 32, and turned it so the sulking girl could see the relevant passage: "Dawn will try to skive off dinner to go to Janice's almost every night. Limit it to no more than every fifth night, please, and make sure to check in with Janice's mother. These young women are clever at subterfuge and being obnoxious. If they bring home blokes, check ID and pulses."
She gasped in outrage. "That's just, just, just wrong. And besides, how do you know--"
Wesley flipped to Appendix B: Dawn's Over-nights for July 2002. He showed her the page, with July 30th prominently marked. "Tomorrow is August 2. You have two more nights of purgatory, Dawn."
"Ooh, are those color tabs in a binder? Is that what Spike left? Let me assess the professionalism and execution-- nobody knows color-coding like me," came a cheery voice. Wesley looked up to see Willow and Xander coming up the front walk. Neither looked like the high school seniors of his first, ill-fated Sunnydale stay: now Willow appeared a slightly hard-edged, tired young woman, and Xander must have put on 30 pounds, little of it muscle.
Willow plucked the binder out of Wesley's hands, and started leafing through it. Xander nodded to Wesley, then said with a forced chuckle, "How's it going, Dawnster?"
"Fine," she said. A rather abrupt answer, Wesley considered. Xander must have thought so too, because he frowned as he sat next to her on the porch steps.
Willow burbled, "Well, ol' Spike did a great job. I'd never have thought to alternate opposites on the color wheel like he did, but it works aesthetically and practically." She slammed the binder shut, harder than Wesley had been expecting, and handed it back to him. Then she sat on the other side of Dawn, who quivered.
After his years in Los Angeles, Wesley had gotten fairly skilled at reading a situation going bad, and all the signs were here now. Of course, if he'd been more skilled, he wouldn't be trapped on Revello Drive with a Key, a witch in recovery from darkest magicks, and... whatever Xander was. He'd be in L.A. where he had been valued, before the grievous mistake which had cost him his career and his friends. The woman he loved, of course, he'd never had. He sighed.
Willow eyed him speculatively. "Why the sigh, Wes? Did you think of something Giles forgot to mention to us, when he was arranging for Spike and Buffy's Summer Vacation and importing you as Dawn's sitter? When the three of them wouldn't let her stay at our place, with the people who've cared for her for years?"
Wesley looked at her glittering surface smile, at Xander's sulky eyes. In between the two, Dawn threw that unnaturally shiny hair in front of her face, shielding her expression. And then, as if possessed by Cordelia at her most L.A.-actress false, he said, "Hey, I know. Let's all go for ice-cream!"
He was a thrice-damned idiot. And he would kill Rupert Giles next time he saw him.
***
"Are you trying to kill me, darling?" Giles panted. He idly wondered if his heart would ever stop hammering.
"No, no, Rupie, I'm enjoying you. If you haven't figured out the difference yet, I'll just have to show you again," his preternatural love purred, then rolled back on top of him. So soft yet strong, so warm, so-- stop, Rupert. Stop.
He kissed her throat, then moved her off him. When she protested, he wound one hand through her hair-- he loved to do that with the now mink-brown strands-- then propped himself up on his other elbow. "Anyanka, my dear, it's almost 5:30."
"Demons CAN tell time, honey. What is the significance of this time?"
"I have to leave for the airport in 90 minutes, to pick up Spike and Buffy. And don't you have a rather busy day at the Exchange? I thought you told me you had to be in by 7:30 this morning."
She smiled at him. "See, this is why it's so pleasurable to live with you. You not only give me hours of orgasms, you pay attention to my schedule."
That's because I love you, Giles thought but didn't say. He didn't say it because he was sure she didn't love him, and he wouldn't pressure her with feelings which might upset her (which might make her leave him, their bed, their new home here in Chelsea). Shaking off the bleak thoughts, he returned her smile. "I pay attention to everything about you, dear."
"And I pay attention to you, too," she said. Her brightness faded a little, and one hand began to stroke absently up and down his chest. Brush, brush, brush. "I know that the Council is interested, but do you really think it's a good idea? Asking Spike to--"
He cut her off with a kiss, then said, "Now, Anya, I haven't asked him yet. I'm planning to talk to them after supper, so if you could wait to voice your question until then, I'd be grateful."
She kissed back, tongue tracing his lips. Then she smiled. "Okay, Giles in command." She twisted a little closer, pressing where he wanted her most. "And I think the Commander can spare twenty minutes, don't you?"
He growled and jumped on top of her. As she squealed, he said in Ripper-voice, "Can make you happy in less than that and still get you to bloody work on time. Just do what I tell you."
***
The sun was coming up, it wasn't cloudy enough, the sun was coming up: this was the only thought in the vampire's mind. He sprinted through the grey-pink-tinged quiet before full sunrise, pounding up Sloane Street toward the Square. Pushing aside the old man setting up his newspaper stand, the vamp smacked his fist against the closed door almost hidden between the entrance to the Sloane Square tube station and the Royal Court Theatre.
The door cracked slightly open, and the vampire scrambled inside. The thud of the shutting door unnerved him, but not as much as the demon- fist slamming down on his skull. He dropped onto the floor, and a horned foot set itself on his chest.
The vampire closed his eyes. "Lord Ternis?"
"Do you have what I requested, leech?"
"No, I couldn't find it, the map wasn't--" he began babbling, then his words were cut off by a sword flashing down. The blade stuck in the vampire's throat, twisted, then severed.
As the dust settled, a heavy, hissing voice said, "I must choose my servants better. But perhaps the second fool will succeed in his appointed task."
Footsteps moved away in the darkness.
FOOTNOTE: There actually is a street between the Tube Station and the Royal Court, but then, there's no Lord Ternis either. As far as I know. ;-)