Every Day I Write the Book - Part Four
DISCLAIMER: The title is Elvis Costello's.
NOTES AND SUMMARY: When we last spent time with our heroes, it was all about the drama: conflict between Buffy and Anya, conflict between Buffy and Spike & Giles, conflict between Willow and the world. Here in Part Four, we're all better. Except for Willow, who cameos. Fluffy, fluffy, and might I say, fluffy interlude. We need a rest before the adventures to come.WHEN IT'S NIGHT-TIME IN SUNNYDALE--
Midnight in Sunnydale was generally unnerving, Wesley thought, but this clear, starry night was rather pleasant. He and Dawn sat out on the Summers front porch, comparing notes on their evening.
"So she was really happy at the movie. Wasn't that kinda odd? Because usually she's all taking notes to have mega-discussion on the themes later? But this time she was just normal. Which is odd." Dawn scratched down her observations on the legal pad Wesley had given her. She insisted they be methodical about this; he was rather taken aback, until she explained that the monks had given her the habit of diary-writing.
"Good, Dawn. I'd add that she kept making nasty double-edged comments. You know, when she said something about the villain being 'so dead' like Spike, then laughed bizarrely and corrected with 'undead, haha.' Seemed sinister."
"Well, it is Willow. But okay, I'll put it on the list." Dawn dutifully inscribed his words.
"So what do we have so far?" Wesley looked over and read through her notes. Double-edged comments, inappropriate moods, hiding something in her bag, weird Xander handling, and last night's leaving-the-scene-of-an-argument and missing demonology text: yes, it was worrisome. Oh, and Dawn forgot the strange occurrence of the missing popcorn. But that could have been Xander.
"So do you know what our next move is? Or--" and Dawn started giggling-- "What Does the Binder Say?"
Wesley chuckled, but he flipped through it anyway. "And The Binder Says... e-mail Giles with information, questions, or comments." He did a double-take at the book spread open on his lap. "Rupert Giles, Luddite, uses e-mail? Since when?"
"Oh, since this Spike and Giles mirror thing. They're all Go England and singing and manly confidences and Doc Martens and online every day, and as far as I can tell they're totally turning into twins. It's just SO weird. But if you mention it to Buffy she gets all 'Aah, my ears, I can never sleep with Spike again,' which yeah right-- and she shouldn't say that to me, should she?"
"It sounds enormously disturbing on a variety of levels."
"No, like it's really not? Which I guess is disturbing in itself." Dawn chewed the end of her pencil. "It's like-- you know how Giles used to look sometimes like he was just strangling on all the stuff he wasn't saying or admitting, like his tie and his, um, role were totally strangling him? Like he was choking on the rules? Well, he says stuff now. In a Giles way, but still." She hesitated, then looked at him. "You were all tense like that too, weren't you."
"Yes." What a wanker he'd been, Wesley thought. Of course, better that than a traitor, no matter how well-intentioned. He dropped the binder onto the ground and watched it fly open. Page 18: rules for play.
But Dawn was continuing. "And Spike is-- exactly the same but really different. You know, hello conscience. Where Spike before was all 'Rules? Show me some, and I'll break 'em!', now he has all these, like, boundaries. It's terrible, he makes up Gilesy rules all the time." She grinned and tapped the fallen binder with her foot. "Exhibit A."
Wesley pulled himself out of the black pit of depression where his thoughts were falling, and he turned to smile at her. "Dawn Summers, you're a very perceptive young woman."
"Thanks for noticing, Wesley." She beamed. "And I think you're okay too."
***
Willow was so engrossed in her task that she barely noticed Xander's tap on the closed bedroom door. "Will? Will, you awake?" She murmured a soft distraction spell, then heard his steps moving away and his bedroom door shutting. Good.
She lit the last candle, then took her place. It was time to give Ternis some serious weapons-- concentrating on Spike and Giles, and by extension Buffy. Those who loved, those who prevented vengeance: they would know the pain she did.
She threw back her head and called to the demon lord with her mind.
***
--IT'S MORNING IN LONDON
"Mind, get out... aaagh," Lord Ternis choked. He'd been up all night strategizing with that strange tweed-bound human traitor, he was trying to get some sleep, and now here was that witch again. Clearly she had no respect for a demon's well-being.
From his mouth, twisted with the effort, came her voice. "Lord Ternis, you requested details for the torture, specifically of the Vampire of the Line of Aurelius and the Watcher Giles? Before you kill them, of course."
"Yes," he managed to growl out. He fell out of his bed and hit the tiled floor; his horned feet scrambled, then he stood. "Yes, I want as much personal information as I can get. Torture always works better when it's personal."
***
"This is bloody torture, is what it is." Spike glared at the offending items in question, while he rubbed his wet hair with a towel.
"And you deserve every atom of pain they might cause," Buffy returned, pulling on her skirt. "You're a big avoidy guy and a conspirator, and it's coming back to haunt you. That's all I'm saying."
He narrowed his eyes at her. She smiled, then tucked in her shirt. "C'mon, Buffy, we've done all that. I've apologized fifteen hundred times for being a secretive, sexist, friend-having dog. Be in the now, love, be in the now."
She moved to him and slid her arms around his bare, still damp torso, then leaned up to kiss him. He kissed back with enthusiasm, lavishing attention on her bottom lip. Her hands slid up his back, traced each indentation of his spine, caressed his favourite place at the back of his neck--then snaked up, wrapped bleached-blond curls around her index fingers, and yanked.
"Ow, ow, ow!" He stumbled back, hand going back to check that he still had hair. At her laughter, he shot her a reproving look. "Apparently someone new is shooting for the title Scourge of Europe."
"Okay, okay, that was the last one. We're square." She danced back and gave him a proper affectionate kiss, her hands petting where she'd hurt. Although bloody hell, Slayer-strength meant every follicle still throbbed. On the other hand, lips of Buffy--
She broke off the kiss just as he was feeling worlds of better. "Ah, love, just a little more?"
"No, Watchers await-- we need to get going. I'll go down and nuke your breakfast; I'll even put in that curry you like." She trailed a finger down his chest, then wiggled her arse as she went to the door. Vixen knew he'd be watching her move, that was clear. Then she turned. "Now cheer up, honey. It's not really torture; they're just loafers. Your image will not be threatened if you don't wear boots and jeans one day in your unlife. I just want to know-- why do Giles and Anya want you to wear those clothes?"
"Business meeting, innit, not involving killing things. Business-like attire." She stared at him, then laughed as if she couldn't even imagine it. And left him.
He felt her absence for a second, then shook it off. Right, let's look at what Anya had provided. The clothes weren't too bad, he supposed. Dark roll-necked jumper-- the thin silk was a bit poofier than he was used to, but acceptable. No tie, thankfully. Dress trousers and matching silk jacket, both well enough. Belt for said trousers. But those Italian loafers, buggering hell!
He walked over and rather gingerly picked up the clothes, then saw the other item Buffy had laid out. Oh no. Oh no no no. They could make him wear dress shoes, but they couldn't make him wear pants.
***
Giles steadied the tray on which rested the teapot and accessories, then proceeded up from the ground floor. He'd only gotten a few steps when Buffy appeared beside him. "Morning, Giles. Are you playing butler now?"
"Good morning, Buffy. No, Anya's been working in her office for a couple of hours already; just thought I'd take up her tea before we left."
"You really take care of her, don't you."
"We take care of each other." He smiled at her tentatively-- last night was still painfully in his thoughts-- and to his relief she grinned back. "Are you and Spike just about ready for our, er, day?"
"Yes. I'm just going to get his blood and grab a bite of my own." He went up a step, but paused at her "Giles, I get why I'm meeting with Watchers. But what's Spike's business?"
Oh, the stupid git. Hadn't told her in all the upheaval, apparently; had the tosser learned nothing? He made himself smile at her. "You'll have to ask him, Buffy. But I promise you that it doesn't directly concern you or your meeting." I bloody well hope, he thought.
She nodded, and they went their own ways. In the first-floor office Anya sat in front of one computer, with another flickering on the second desk, a fax machine beeping, and the phone just being hung up. At his entrance she spun the chair around. "There's goodness!"
He came over, set down the tray, then kissed her thoroughly. She caressed his arm, then pounced on the tray. "What is it today, Giles?" He was blinded by her smile, so he mumbled something, and she lit up even more. "You are a wonderful man."
The fax machine started to spit, and she glanced over at it. He passed his hand over her hair, then started to leave her to her work while he still could, but she grabbed at him. "Giles?"
"Yes, darling."
"Have you told Spike about--" But before she could finish, a shriek rang through the house. Came from downstairs. They exchanged glances, then leapt for the door.
At the foot of the stairs Buffy was alternately mooning at and running her hands over Spike, who stood there looking desperately uncomfortable. Giles could hear him growl, "Woman, would you give over? 's not like I was exactly Man of the Wild before, right? Look exactly the same as I did before I put on these clothes."
"No, you don't, you really don't." Giles could swear Buffy had tears in her eyes. "You can't see yourself in a mirror and see how handsome, and polished, and-- oh honey. I can't believe it. You have to wear these clothes every day."
"Giles, make her stop!" Spike pleaded.
"Darling, call you later, I've got to get them out of here," Giles whispered in Anya's ear.
She kissed him and said, "Ring when you know you'll be done," then called, "Spike, stop being such a baby, you look perfectly acceptable," before heading back into her office.
"I haven't even had my brekky yet," Spike said plaintively, as Buffy worshiped his sartorial glory. Honestly, Giles didn't see anything so special about his look. Spike usually looked like an under-fed, overly-high-cheekboned model, now just as if he were from Milan.
However, to say that would cause a riot. So he went down the stairs, pulled Buffy off Spike, told Spike to get a travel mug for his blood, and generally organized them. You'd think they were damn children.
***
"Spike, if you don't stop whinging, I'm dropping you off here and you can bloody well walk the rest of the way."
"And, were it not partly sunny which is flame-inducing for those of my kind, I'd get there faster walking. Said it before and I'll say it again-- tosser, you drive like Grandpa. Like MY Grandpa, in an old carriage with one lame horse." Spike was trying to make himself feel better by needling Rupes, but it was heavy going. For one thing, Giles was actually acquitting himself admirably in traffic which would have to speed up to be snail-like. For another, he felt sick to his stomach. Blood was not settling at all well. Must be the curry.
He tightened his hands around the leather folder he carried, and looked out the window (thank the demon-girl for making enough money to provide fully vampire-proofed tinted windows in the Posh Bastard-mobile). They were almost to St. Pancras and the new British Library; he recognized the mixture of modern and Vic-Gothic rooflines from photos.
Which meant they were almost to Watcher HQ. No, the blood was not settling at all well.
Buffy was nervous too, he was sure, but her coping mechanism had been to stare at him the entire trip, as if he were some alien if well-togged-out creature perched on the leather seat. Bloody insanity-causing. "Love, what ARE you lookin' at?"
"You." She invested the word with all kinds of meanings he couldn't read. Then she leaned over the seat and touched the folder. "What IS this, Spike? And why haven't you told me why you're meeting with Watchers?"
Buggering hell. "Didn't I tell you before? 'm sure I did. Really."
"No. God, you suck at lying, honey."
"Yes, Spike, just tell Buffy what's in the folder." Rupert's voice had that nasty Council of Wankers edge; they must be almost there, Giles was taking on his protective plumage.
Well, right then. Here he went. Here he went telling Buffy. Now. Okay. "I wrote my transformation story, and I'm selling it to the Council, so they have a better understanding of the garden-variety vamp and those with, er, a conscience. How it could happen."
As Giles pulled into the parking garage underneath the Wankers HQ, Spike watched Buffy's eyes widen, go dark. Shadows fell across him as they drove below into the black.
Oh God, this was going to be torture.
Footnote: Of course, in Brit usage, "pants" means underwear. ;-)