Every Day I Write the Book - Part Three
DISCLAIMER: It's Cover Version Day in the Giles&Spikeverse! They listen to Elvis Costello's version of a Farnell/Jenkins song, and the boys quote from a Sonny Curtis song which they probably know from its famous version by the Clash.
NOTES AND SUMMARY: This gargantuan part: yikes, it's Buffy and Spike's first night in London with Giles and Anya; something peculiar in Sunnydale becomes clearer; Quentin Travers is not a nice person. Now let's chat it out....The front door opened, letting in watery evening light and the man of the house. "Darling, I'm home," Giles called, but softly so as not to wake up potentially napping guests. Loosening his tie and discarding his jacket, he went into the kitchen.
Anya (wearing what he privately considered her home-maker costume of pearls and floral-print silk) stood by the table, focused on unpacking various boxes from which wafted fabulous food-smells. She beamed at him, and his throat closed up with love, as it did every evening when she greeted him. "Come here, gorgeous man," she said, and moved to kiss him with as much concentration as she had given to the boxes.
"Mmm, you taste successful, dear," he said. He threw his arm around her shoulders, squeezing, as he inspected the collection on the table. "I assume you had a good day at work?"
"I made four hundred thousand pounds on two trades," she said matter-of-factly, turning round to set the oven on 'Warm' and then sliding a cooked chicken onto the middle rack. "It's so great that D'Hoffryn has been understanding. He's such a socialist, of course HE thinks the market is unspecified vengeance on humans! I'm having so much fun, Giles--"
"Yes, the Liffe will never be the same," Giles commented. He tried to steal a bit of bread, at which point she smacked his hand. He grinned but stepped back. "This is from Bluebird?"
"Yes, they just delivered," she said, dealing with the other dishes. "And how was your day, honey? Everything ready for tomorrow?"
"What are you getting ready?" Buffy said, from behind them. "And what's this about D'Hoffryn and, um, whatever you said?" Giles turned to see her standing, mouth pursed disapprovingly, in the doorway.
"Financial instead of vengeance markets! I work primarily in futures, although I'm thinking about branching out into bonds as well," Anya replied.
"Oh. Oh, I see. You use your demonic powers to drain people of money-- just a neater method of destruction than maiming or killing, though just as nasty. I should have remembered you're good at alternative means of vengeance. And you allow this, Giles? Profit from it?"
"Listen, I do NOT use my powers! Capitalism is about an individual succeeding through hard work and knowledge, not wishes or magic or the help of the state--"
"You're a good Tory, dear. Thank God you can't vote in this borough yet," Giles interrupted, kissing the top of Anya's head. He took a calming breath before saying, "You're always free to express your opinion, Buffy. But you will treat Anya with respect when you do so, please."
"You're defending her?"
Simultaneously, but louder, Anya cried, "You're defending me. Oh, Rupert." Her eyes misty, she pulled his head down and kissed him hard.
Buffy stood frozen in the doorway. Anya choked out, "I can see why you're surprised. For two and a half years you could say what you liked to me, and Xand-- and your Scoobies would back you up. But now Giles..." The threatening tears burst, and she said shakily, "Excuse me, please, before I forget who I am now." She hurried out, and Giles could hear her footsteps on the stairs, up to their bedroom.
"You're defending her." Buffy repeated it, expressionlessly.
"Yes, that's what one does with one's lover. Especially when she has worked so hard to change, to honour her partner's values." Giles checked over the table; only one dish was left to deal with. Salad-- went into the refrigerator, he thought. He walked over and put it away. As he shut the fridge door, he could hear Buffy's footsteps pounding on the stairs, all the way up to the guest room on the second floor.
He had a nice Merlot somewhere, didn't he? He believed that went well with tears and arguments. Perhaps not approved as an accompaniment to chicken, but what the hell, he'd once worshiped chaos.
"Right. What happened just now?" Spike walked into the kitchen just as Giles located the corkscrew. "We've got feminine tears all over the shop, sniffling and wailing and 'I don't want to talk about it' on all floors. Bloody alarming."
"Buffy and Anya issues. Supper should be interesting." Giles popped the cork. "Merlot?"
"Please." Spike sat down at the table. "And how was the Council? Did you, er, set up the meeting?"
"Yes, Khan was quite impressed with your draft; you have an appointment at 10, same as Buffy. But, Spike... there are murmurs abroad, and even with my new position-- well, I don't know what else they'll throw at you."
"'Long as it's not stakes or swords or sun, Dad, I'll manage."
Giles handed Spike a glass of wine, sipped from his own--quite nice-- then took a seat. "I'd like to propose a toast for your first night, mate. Let's see. How about...'I fought the law'--"
"'And the law won.'" Spike solemnly clinked his glass against Giles's. "And you're a vicious git to remind me."
***
Wesley reminded himself that he'd agreed to do this as a favour, he couldn't blame anyone. It was just-- discomfiting not to know what to do. Where was that binder? Maybe Spike would have an answer and dear Lord that was just terrifying.
He located his manual in the living room, checked the table of contents. "Eliciting Facts about Possible Wrong-doing" was on page 33 (oh, quite sensible, right after the Dawn-misdeed-with-Janice section). Flipping through, he committed the remarks to memory. Then he went to find Dawn.
She was sitting in the kitchen, eating a brunch consisting of three kinds of cereal mixed together. Didn't young women today avoid carbohydrates? He vaguely remembered Cordelia saying something-- but no, on task, Wesley.
He sat down next to her at the kitchen island. "Hello, Dawn."
"Hey, Wes." She crunched a mouthful, then swallowed noisily. Then she looked at him sideways, clearly weighing him. "Something on your mind? Because I have to be at work, you know, shelving library books which is so not exciting, in an hour?"
Okay, he was supposed to be firm but kind, not accusatory. Yes. Then he met her blue eyes, and with a flash-image worthy of a seer, he realized that she wasn't the one he should be accusing. He said slowly, "Dawn, I'm rather worried about Willow. Especially because, well, my copy of *London Demonology* went missing sometime between last night and this morning. And she was in here by herself during that time."
"What's *London Demonology*?" Dawn carefully put down her spoon.
"Er, a compendium of, obviously, famous London demons. Habits, how to call them. This is just a bit worrisome since Buffy and Spike are there, and..." he trailed off.
"And we can't trust Willow," she nodded, looking frighteningly adult. When he looked his puzzlement, she said, "I've known. I've known since, oh, I don't know when. A while. But Buffy seems okay with her? And I'm just a kid, and I didn't know what to say."
"Buffy can't be truly okay with her, Dawn," Wesley said. Thinking it through. "This is why I'm here to take care of you, isn't it."
They looked at each other. "Better check Spike's manual, then, he's probably covered Willow going nuclear," Dawn said cheekily, and Wesley grinned.
***
Willow smiled at Xander, who'd just finished his lunch. "Do you have a long afternoon ahead at the site?"
"Yeah, some extra hours. Money will be nice." He took his plate to the sink and rinsed. Then, his back to her, he said, "Will? Do you think that... I was wondering about what Wesley said."
"What, Xander?" she answered. Then she dragged her right palm slowly over her forehead and blew through her fingers.
"Oh, nothing!" Xander said. He turned, smiled, then headed out the door, saying, "See you tonight. Maybe we can spring Dawnie from the Brit jailer and have some real Scooby time!"
The front door slammed behind him. She made sure it was locked, then went into her bedroom. The space was Spartan, organized, suitable for the work she wanted to do. After pulling the shades and lighting candles (more for atmosphere than because she needed them), she sat cross-legged on the floor.
Wesley's little book had given her a name. Her power, which fed her like a poisoned spring, had given her a method. And she was going to use it.
Those who had fought against her would pay double what she had. Those who loved had to die.
***
"Well done," Lord Ternis said, taking the herb from his minion. Then he used his blue, clawed hand to decapitate the servant.
While the remains wisped up in clouds of smoke, Ternis put the herb into an urn he'd kept for the purpose. The walls rumbled-- Tube train next door, so inconvenient-- but he stayed steady. This job had been in the planning stages for months, and he had three crucial ingredients to collect. No room for error.
"How will you manage the vampire?" Travers inquired. His feet held fastidiously away from a puddle of dank water near his chair, he watched Ternis work.
"I'm not sure," Ternis admitted. "I think I-- Aaaah!" He fell to his knees, claws going to his head. "Voice... a voice inside... wanting out, out--"
Travers saw Ternis writhe, and quite another voice-- one Travers vaguely recognized, female and American-- echoed in the chamber. It seemed to emanate from the demon, but clearly it was not the creature. "Lord Ternis, there is a Slayer in your dominion."
Ternis's voice emerged from deep in his chest. "I know this. Who are you and what do you want?"
"I want to bring pain. Pain to the Slayer, pain to her vampire." The female voice speaking through him twisted Ternis's features. "Pain to him, once her Watcher."
And that brought a twisted smile of his own to Travers's face. Assistance was always welcome in matters of vengeance.
***
"I'm just trying to help, Buffy," Giles said.
Spike took another swallow of his wine. Rupert was trying, but Buffy wasn't listening. He counted off three seconds before she exploded, "You're not helping! You bring me here and tell me that I have to meet with Council people, Watchers who don't like me at the best of times--"
"Buffy, no." Giles's face betrayed his tension, and silently Spike poured the last of the bottle into Rupert's glass. The dinner had been so bloody awkward, what with Buffy and Anya all but building My Side/Your Side fortifications with the food, the conversation, the attention of their lovers. But this was all kinds of worse. Spike fought down his anger, the instinctive drive to destroy what frustrated him, and tuned back in: "You need money. The Council has money. This isn't a test like a year and a half ago, when that evil bastard Travers showed up with his lackeys. I just need you to go in and talk to the financial people, explain--"
"I don't care what you need." Buffy stood up, throwing her napkin onto the dinner table. "You're doing it again, lying to me. From my eighteenth birthday on. You and Spike together, now."
"All right, that's enough." Spike surprised even himself with the harshness of his words. He hadn't meant to-- bugger. In for a penny, in for a pound. Flexing his fingers (he would not make a fist, he would not make a fist), he faced her. She had crossed her arms across her chest: the fortification was up against him now too. "Buffy, love. I'm sorry you feel blindsided. I'm sorry that I miscalculated, that Rupert did. We should have told you more--"
"You knew." It was flat, dangerous. If she'd had a stake in her hand, Spike figured he'd be dust. "This is really just more of the bizarro Giles and Spike show. The two of you have this creepy best-friends thing, you make decisions for me, and I just have to go along." She sat back down in her chair and gulped down some of her sparkling water. "Well, news-flash. I'm not going."
"I didn't know, not exactly," Spike said. "But I knew he was working on making the money situation right. You've been so tired, love, so bloody tired, and I can't help you like I want to. I'm working on something, something legitimate to make it better for us and Dawn, but-- it's not about me. You're strong, you can take care of yourself. That's all this is. Giles is finding a way for you to take care of yourself."
"You're making decisions for me." The repetition was just as hard as the first time. "Both of you. And I won't have it."
"Bloody hell." He spun away, restraining himself from punching the wall or shattering the glassware Anya had displayed around the room. Breathe, breathe. He walked to the French windows, placed his hands flat against the cool glass. The candles on the table and the sideboard reflected weirdly, all shadows and distortion. God, he was still bollocksing things up.
When he turned back, he saw Giles turning his wine glass obsessively in his fingers, Anya supportive and quiet (buggering shock, that) at her seat by his side. Buffy fiddled with the remains of her dessert. "We've all hurt each other." Where his words were coming from, he didn't know, but everyone was paying attention. Better make it count. "I love you, but I've hurt you. Giles loves you, but he's hurt you. Hell, the pain's gone round this table a dozen different ways, a dozen different times. It's got to stop." He knelt by Buffy's side. "We could start counting up crimes and not be finished by Christmas. In my case, Christmas ten sodding years hence. Buffy, can you let go of the history and just be here now?"
Her eyes looked away from him. Ice. He knew that mode of hers, and there'd be no more talking to her.
Giles got up and said, "Buffy, you don't have to talk to the Council if you don't want to. I'll try to find another way. I'm-- I'm sorry to have put you and Spike in this position." He hesitated, then said, "I'm going to sit in the study for a bit. Listen to some music."
"I'll clear the table," Anya said quietly.
Buffy said nothing, looked at no one. She'd gone away again. Spike bit back useless protests, shouts, words, then said, "I'll join you, Rupes, if I may."
They took their wine glasses into an incredible room he hadn't seen yet: deep colours, rich furnishings, walls of books, peace. Spike sat down and put his head back against the leather of his chair, then closed his eyes. He could hear Giles messing about with something, then an old Elvis Costello song began: "Why must I be so lonely..." Giles sank into the chair next to him, leather and middle-aged bones giving a bit of a creak.
They sat for a minute. Then Spike said, "This is mid-80s shite, isn't it."
"Yeah. A bit pop for my taste." The sweeping chorus started, with Elvis imploring that he wanted to be loved.
"A bit poncy." They sat, finishing their wine, listening but saying nothing.
Buffy came in. After a moment of hesitation, she walked to Spike and settled into his lap. Angling herself, she reached over and took Giles's hand. The three of them linked. Anya stood in the doorway, then at Giles's nod came over and took her own place with him. Rupert kept hold of Buffy's hand.
The saxophone wailed, and in counterpoint Elvis crooned, "I... just wanna be loved..."
"I'll meet with the Watchers tomorrow." Buffy's words were casual, and Spike couldn't have said why he buried his face in her hair, choking on what were insanely and embarrassingly poofy tears.
Notes: Giles's reference to 'the Liffe' is to the London futures exchange; 'Bluebird' is one of the famous Conran restaurants.