Every Day I Write the Book - Part Nine
DISCLAIMER: References are to the Jam song 'Tales from the Riverbank' and the Elvis Costello song which gives the fic its title.
NOTES AND SUMMARY: The end of a long, strange trip to the Giles&Spikeverse. When last we saw our heroes, they had saved humanity from demons and Evil Watchers, with the help of Cumberbatch the Good Watcher; Buffy and Anya were mad at them, though. Wesley and Dawn, with accidental help from Xander, had stopped Willow's bad- magic bender. This part: well, you know what to expect. Following will be a very short epilogue.SATURDAY MORNING IN LONDON
He hadn't gotten much sleep. The news from Sunnydale last night had been disturbing, even though Wes had done a bloody good job, and Spike kept flashing on images of Willow threatening Dawn. His wrist still hurt, rapid vampire healing of torn skin and cracked bones notwithstanding. And he hadn't been in bed but alone on the couch in Giles's study. Without Buffy, who'd been happily asleep upstairs, wrapped in her comforter and righteousness.
But she wasn't asleep now, or entirely happy. And how did he know this?
Spike stared at the laptop in front of him, not seeing the words on the screen. He could feel a strange prickle of awareness, an unease which wasn't coming from him. Since his return he'd sometimes been able to sense Buffy's moods-- a link between Buffy and him, a bridge he could cross without paying much toll.
Not that he always paid attention or used the bridge. Obviously not, considering his latest bollocksed-up job, he thought. He'd not handled her properly: should have told her more, included her in the planning, clarified how important this job and Giles's friendship was to him. He wasn't stupid enough to think the link went both ways, after all.
Depressing. He walked over to the stereo and turned up the Jam: Paul Weller was singing about playing truant, about innocence and time spent on the riverbank. Spike couldn't remember a time when he'd been innocent.
Well, water under the bridge.
He sat back down and looked at his writing. Now, what was another word for 'demon'? Kept referring to that git Lord Ternis as a 'demon' or a 'Rexos', got bloody repetitive. He needed to find a new name, or his report would be boring as damnit. Also, he wasn't quite sure about his information re Ternis's ritual for summoning Spigos. Maybe Rupes had a useful reference text around here.
Pondering, he took a sip of his tea-- it'd gone cold. Figured.
***
She couldn't stay in bed any more. Not without him chilling the sheets on the other side of the bed, that weight pressing into the mattress, that pleasure-growl when she 'accidentally' rolled into him in the mornings. Not alone.
Buffy opened her eyes to brightness, for the first time since Spike had returned to her. Last night when she had retired to the guest room-- alone, so angry with him-- she had defiantly opened the curtains to the night sky. Result: morning light pouring in, without danger to her absent bed-partner.
Shouldn't she be happier about the daylight?
She got up and walked over to the window. The view was of Cheyne Walk and the river, and she could see one of the bridges, Battersea or Albert. It rose against a blue-grey sky: not cloudy, not sunny, just somewhere in-between. And not even that in-between quality was fixed. If the wind gusted and moisture blew away, she could see intense blue; if clouds gathered, she could see grey.
The London sky in August was like Spike's eyes, she thought. Then she laughed at herself. Just because you liked poetry didn't make you a poet. Just because you felt safe somewhere didn't mean you were home. And just because you couldn't sleep well without him, Buffy Anne Summers....
She pulled up a chair to the window, so she could see the bridge and the sky. Then she dived over to rummage through Spike's stuff and steal a notebook and pen. Last night on the Embankment, she had almost reached a point of clarity. And she was on vacation, after all, and you should try new things on vacation. So she decided to do something she never ever did if she could help it: she would examine her feelings and write them down.
Pen cap off, a thoughtful nibble at the end-- oh wait, this was Spike's, but he wouldn't care-- and, go.
Item the first: she and Spike had spent every day together since his return with shiny new 'conscience'. (So Spike not to want to call it a soul, always so emotion-driven.) He didn't live with her and Dawn officially, but he was always there or she was always with him. More than her mysterious first love, more than her 'stable' (hah!) college boyfriend, Spike defined her nights, days, twilights. He fought with her, teased her, supported her, took over her space, talked to her, listened to her. He loved her.
Item the second: she never told him she loved him. He told her, over and over, in ways small or theatrical-- a whisper in her ear, a bellow up the stairs during an argument, a touch of his hand. But she never told him. He never asked. He seemed to expect that she didn't want to commit herself past affection and sex, that he couldn't have earned her love. She let him think that.
Item the third: It was weird, but she could feel his moods. Last evening's crisis had revealed something she'd never even noticed beginning. It was as if outside the locked house which was Buffy, a night-prowler stalked--or whistled, or recited poetry, or made with the funny, or wept, or snarled, or bashed things, or laughed, or bounced up and down like Tigger. Often he did several at the same time. She always knew the prowler was there, although she usually slammed her windows down and ignored him. It was the only way to get things done.
Right now, if she tried, she could feel him downstairs-- in, well, a state. He started off irritated and depressed, then changed to a focused attention. He was doing something that made him kind of happy.
Item the fourth, a horrible fourth: She hated that he was happy without her. At that truth, she moved out of the sun and back into the bed, dropping the list, hiding under the pillow. But she still knew it.
Spike was supposed to be completely devoted to her, obsessed by her, his every thought given to her. That was the annoying yet comforting bed-rock assumption of her life. Yet since his return, he had had his own plans, his own friendships. Last night, even though he'd said it was so that he could be a Watcher for Buffy, was really Spike and Giles time. That was the real reason for her anger. Yes, he should have told her what he was doing, but pfff, could have been taken care of in one shouting match in Piccadilly Circus.
No, she was jealous of Giles. The very idea made her burrow further under the sheets. She was jealous that Spike would have Watcher-y things to think about, a friend and a calling of his own. She was so very jealous that to punish him, she had sent him downstairs for the night. Banish him now so he wouldn't be tempted to leave in the future. Make him go away so she didn't tell him things that would make him run, things like her love for him.
Really, examining her feelings sucked. She emerged from her cocoon and ripped up her list into tiny tiny pieces that not even a vampire could read. It was time to take a shower and wash this icky introspection away.
***
Giles moved around the kitchen, putting away dishes, not thinking. He didn't want to think.
He had wanted to stay in bed. Unlike Spike (poor sod) who had been exiled to the study, Giles had managed to talk his way into his own bed. Anya was so surprisingly forgiving for a vengeance demon. His beautiful darling had let him sleep beside her, cuddled close.
On the other hand, all they'd done was sleep. A middle-aged man who'd run through half the West End, suffered a vampire bite, then done strong magic was apt to fall asleep before making his beloved happy, and Giles was merely human. Unlike everyone else in his house, he thought sardonically.
And when he awoke to her, all he wanted to do was tell her how much he loved her. The whole point of the exercise, however, was that he couldn't tell her. Not if he wanted to keep her. It was too soon, she still had emotional ties to that little bastard in Sunnydale. Didn't she?
God, he wanted to tell her. He wanted to do something to show her.
But instead he came downstairs and made tea and cleared up and moped. At that realization, he poured himself the last of the pot he'd brewed for Spike and himself. Of course it was stone-cold by now.
***
She couldn't stay in bed any more; it was cold without him. He had gotten up an hour ago, after stroking her hair off her forehead and kissing her gently. She had lain there, trying not to cry, trying not to shout how much she adored him and forgave him and wanted to make sure he was alright and wanted him to take care of her. So he'd gotten up and left her in bed alone, where she could allow herself to cry in peace.
See, men left. That was the lesson of a thousand years, and Anyanka was not a stupid female. Anya had then learned the lesson in a mere three years. Of course Xander wasn't Giles, wasn't anywhere near Giles-- Rupert was a grown-up.
But even grown-ups left. Especially if they knew their women loved them.
Anya got out of bed and went to her closet, filled with lovely clothes bought by the money she'd earned. She couldn't find anything to wear. She raked through hanger after hanger of luxury consumer goods, but they didn't make her happy. Oh God she wanted to wreak vengeance, or make money, or-- do anything other than wait here in her bedroom, crying for a wonderful man who treated her well but didn't love her.
Anyanka was a female who made things happen. And that's what she'd do today, with the other angry woman in the house. Even if she disliked Buffy, which she did, they were sisters in pain.
They were getting out of here.
***
Buffy crept down the stairs. Why she was being quiet, she didn't know, unless it was some ill-formed idea that she'd sneak up on Spike and say, "Surprise! You're forgiven, if you promise to give up all jobs, hobbies, or outside activities besides me!"
She got to the ground floor and headed toward the kitchen, when she was interrupted by her vampire, charging out of the study. "Giles, where's the lexicon? I need a synonym for 'demon,' and your books are bloody disorganized, couldn't find a buggery--" Then Spike stopped. Blinked. Smiled at her.
Ohhh. He'd been playing Watcher, because those adorable glasses he hated were slipping down his nose and his hair was all curly and disheveled like he'd been plowing his hands through it. But he was authentically exhibitionist Spike in the complete lack of shirt or shoes and the top button on his jeans being undone. The combination made Buffy want to squeak, then purr, then give him the handcuffs and let him do what he wanted for as long as he liked.
Worse, it made her want to tell him she loved him. But that was just too scary.
"Buffy? Are you all right?" She registered his concern; oh great, he'd been talking while she'd gone all girly inside. She was the Slayer, damn it, and she needed to act like it.
"Fine, Spike." He thought she didn't know he sometimes called her Queen Buffy, but she not only knew it but used it ruthlessly when necessary. And it was so necessary at the moment. "Did you have a nice night?"
He frowned. "No, not particularly. Like I said, missed you. Love, are you ready to talk to me yet?"
As if. Who knew what she'd say? Then, in what she would call a miracle of timing if anything about Anyanka could be considered miraculous, the lady of the house clattered down the steps.
"Buffy, there you are." Anya stopped. "I was thinking. We managed not to kill each other shopping yesterday. Would you like to try for two days in a row?"
Giles emerged from the kitchen at the sound of Anya's voice. "Hello, Buffy. Morning, darling." He kissed Anya, then said, "You'd like to go shopping?" He looked down at his sweatshirt, jeans and bare feet. "Let me change, and I'll escort you two."
Spike leaned against the wall and folded his arms, Mr. Petulance. "Oh right, leave the flammable vampire at home while you lot disport yourselves around the bloody town. Go ahead. I don't give a toss, really."
"You have a report to write, sonny--"
But Anya interrupted Giles. "This is by invitation only, sweetie. Me and Buffy, girls' day out." Buffy threaded her arm through Anyanka's and held tight. "Of course we will require a blood-oath that you two will not get yourselves killed while we're gone."
At that moment Buffy loved Anya. And she added in a voice of saccharin, "We'll be back at sun-down."
***
Giles saw their mini-cab drive off, then he shut the door. An itch had started between his shoulder-blades: not physical, really, but a need to change, to burst out. This morning he'd been consumed with brooding and terror, but that was transmuting into something else. He just needed inspiration.
So he went into the shuttered, lamp-lit study where Spike stared glassily at the laptop. Giles peered around at the screen. "I think you'll find it works better when it's turned on. Even I know that."
"Oh, shut it, wanker." Spike flopped back in his chair, throwing his arm over his eyes. What a little drama prince.
Hmmm. Drama. "Did Buffy say anything to you?"
"Beyond 'Did you have a nice night?'" The mimicry was pointed, just this side of dark. "No, the Queen had nothing to say to her subject today. He's cocked things up good and proper." Then he opened his eyes and looked at Giles. "I noticed that the fair Anyanka is not as all-better as you'd hoped last night."
"No." And he couldn't stand it any more. He was going to have to do something.
Giles got up and paced the length of the room. He'd not spoken before, and his silence had hurt Anya terribly: it had left her open to that git Xander's ill-treatment. Perhaps it was time for a statement. For some drama. He said, "Spike. I think I have a plan."
"Great. I'll alert the media." Then Spike shifted, sat up. "Do you really, Rupes?"
Giles smiled, a hint of Ripper. "I really do. And I think you'll love it."
***
MORNING IN SUNNYDALE
"I'm sure I'll love it," Wesley managed. He had come downstairs to find a whole breakfast spread before him. Dawn had clearly been working for an hour. It was just-- he had no idea what any of this food was.
She smiled. "Well, you dig in!" She came around the kitchen island and poured Wesley a glass of grapefruit juice, which he loathed. He picked it up and sipped it with every appearance of enjoyment.
Dawn transferred what looked like a Mexican foodstuff, only made with peanut butter, onto his plate. "This is my specialty. It's got berries and peanut butter in a whole-grain pancake stuffing! So it has protein and fruit as well as your carbohydrate goodness?"
Just kill him now. "Mmm, looks great." Wesley picked up a fork and poked at the concoction, then said, "Dawn. I truly appreciate what you're doing. I'm just wondering WHY you're being so nice to me."
She looked at him until he took a bite. Dear God, it was awful; the berries were still frozen. But as he struggled to chew, she said, "I was-- you were just so great yesterday, Wes. I mean, Willow was totally scary, and Xander was all not getting it, but you knew what to do to take care of her."
Wesley gulped down some of the vile juice, so he could speak through the peanut butter. "Dawn, I didn't do enough, I'm afraid." He had a vivid flash of Willow, magic drained, crying helplessly in the middle of her apartment. Xander had picked her up, cradling her like a child, then he'd asked Wesley to drive them to the hospital. She probably had every tranquilizer in Sunnydale General in her system by now. "We haven't really dealt with the problem yet. But we will. And besides, what about you! You crushed the crystal before she could get to it-- that was brilliant!"
"That's what I like about you, Wesley. You appreciate my genius." She giggled. "And that leads me to my next point. It's kind of a favour, really?"
Oh no. Spike's manual had instructed Wesley to avoid her Blue Cow Eyes, the expression wherein she used every teen emotion in her arsenal to get a poor unsuspecting bloke to do what she wanted. He tried not to look, but-- damn. Blue Cow Eyes, as powerful as described. "I'll do what I can, Dawn. What would you like me to do, or help you with?"
"I want to turn the tables on Buffy and Spike." And she leaned forward and started outlining her plan. As he fought his way through the inedible breakfast food, he marveled at her wicked idea, laughed, and offered a few suggestions of his own.
He forgot for a minute or two what loss and failure he'd been running from. He was succeeding here.
***
SATURDAY EVENING IN LONDON
It was just past dusk, the pinky-grey sky darkening, and the taxi was driving them home to their men.
Buffy had actually had a pretty good day with Anya. The first thing they'd done was to go to a cafe and make a specific list of things they could talk about without tears, shouting, Slayage, or a desire to inflict vengeance. Sure, after an hour of discussion there were only five things on the list: food, clothes, shoes, Dawn, and sight-seeing opportunities (without personal historical anecdotes from the thousand-year-old). However, left to their own devices in a city just chock-full of food, clothes, shoes and sights, Buffy and Anya had done alright.
The taxi turned off Beaufort Street before the bridge-- "Battersea," Anya said, not that Buffy would remember-- and onto the Embankment, heading toward Giles and Anya's house. Buffy felt strangely excited, a hum of anticipation.
A small crowd had gathered on the riverside pavement, just past the Kings Head and Eight Bells pub. The taxi slowed to let a couple of people cross the street toward the group, and Buffy looked at whatever was causing the commotion. Her hand gripped Anya's arm, and she said "Stop the taxi here!"
Anya looked too, then said even more shrilly, "Oh. My. God."
The cab stopped, and Anya threw a couple of bills at the driver. They fell out of the taxi, just barely managing to collect their shopping bags, and they goggled. Spike (wearing his designer suit) and Giles (also dressed up) were singing. In public. For people. And Giles was playing the guitar.
As the last note of their song rang out, Spike saw them. He nudged Giles, and the two of them smiled at the women. Anya clutched at Buffy's arm.
Spike leapt up on the retaining wall, his hair shining in the light from the street-lamp, and announced, "My mate here and I have a little song we'd like to sing for two special women."
"The women we love," Giles said firmly. Anya stood completely still. Buffy couldn't breathe.
"This is for Buffy," Spike said, and Giles added, "And for Anya." Then Spike nodded to someone at the edge of the crowd, Buffy couldn't see who; a drum track started playing, a sort of reggae-ish thing. Some of the more drunk people began clapping along, badly. Buffy's heart skipped along with the beat.
"Don't tell me you don't know what love is, When you're old enough to know better..." they sang in harmony.
And Buffy and Anya said as one, "Oh. My. God."
"When your dreamboat turns out to be a footnote," Spike sang, and Giles continued, "I'm the man with a mission in two, three editions..." Together they went into the chorus, "I'm giving you a longing look, every day, every day, every day I write the book--"
He was such an idiot. Buffy couldn't believe what an embarrassing, show-off, swaggering idiot he was, singing up there to half of Chelsea. She had to tell him.
When she made it through the little knot of sighing women at the front, Spike and Giles were trading off lines in the second verse. He smiled down at her, but kept singing. And she climbed onto the wall beside him and hissed, "Stop it, Spike!"
He arched the scarred eyebrow but just kept right on going. Yet she could feel a churning uncertainty-- from him? from her?-- and a desperate need to make him understand. So she said more evenly, "Stop it, honey. So I can tell you I love you."
He stopped singing, heart in his eyes. She tried to speak, but she just leapt at him, completely forgetting they were on a wall above the Thames. He caught her, but they fell, intertwined, into the river.
Yep, it was wet. And kind of cold. Yet he held tight to her.
She could see the bridge from here.
***
Giles dimly noted the byplay on the wall, then the splashes, but he kept singing. Anya had crept closer, moving through the crowd which was now singing along, and he fixed his gaze on her. Only on her. He sang his heart, giving her every kind of longing look, just like Elvis wrote.
She came within a foot of him and said, so he could barely hear, "Rupie?"
Then he got to the lyrics which always made him think of her, "Even in a perfect world where everyone was equal, I'd still own the film rights and be working on a sequel--" And she was there, moving aside the guitar, her mouth finding his.
"Love you so much," one of them said to the other. It didn't matter which one. They felt the same.
***
The song wasn't done, though, and the crowd-- the ones left not peering over the wall at the laughing fools in the river, or staring at the enthusiastic snogging session being conducted even with hindrance of guitar-- had started rumbling. It needed someone to finish.
And with a polite cough Imran Cumberbatch moved to the front, from where he had been tending the little drum machine. "Come on, everyone," he cajoled, and in a rich, deep voice, he took up the chorus: "Every day, every day, every day I write the book..."
--EPILOGUE TO FOLLOW--