Waiting on a Friend - Part One
DISCLAIMER: The title, and the story, reference the Jagger/Richards song 'Waiting on a Friend'.
THANKS: Lesley, who did a quick beta of this part when I was all Lack of Confidence Girl.
NOTES AND SUMMARY: It's those boys again; no amount of screaming "get out get out get OUT" will make them leave my head. Hence, fic. <g> It's now late December 2002 in the Giles&Spikeverse, and for reasons which will become clear to you, Spike, Buffy, Dawn, and Wesley are off to visit Giles and Anya in London. Watcher business will be involved, 'cause of course souled-up Spike is Buffy's Watcher.Geez, and she had thought the plane ride had been awkward. Dawn sighed-- Spike and her stupid sister were totally bringing down her first arrival in London. The grey-pink winter morning (visible through the tinted windows of the enormous chauffeured car provided by the Council of Watchers), the sights of people and buildings not at all Sunnydalian, the sounds of different horns and cars and voices: all very cool, but impossible to appreciate when two bundles of tension sat opposite her.
Buffy was all squirmy, her hands opening and closing as if to flex away whatever she was feeling. Next to her was Spike, his glasses on his nose in order to read the 'Moo files' (as they were jokingly known in the Summers household) spread open on his lap. Thing was? He hadn't actually turned a page in like ten minutes.
Dawn frowned a little. She couldn't get used to his hair, changed specially for this trip although he hadn't said why-- it was a mop of two-toned waves, sand-brown and peroxide-blond. The way it fell over his forehead softened his whole face. He didn't look like the Big Bad, that's for sure, even with his new leather jacket.
Though, boy, he could still go off like old-school Spike. The night before they'd left, he and Buffy had been arguing so fiercely that two pillows and the comforter over her head weren't enough to muffle the explosions. She had still heard his bellowed "I'm not keeping any Watcher information from you! Damn it to hell and back, Slayer, I get that you want to know, I bloody paid attention in England!" And Buffy had shouted in reply, "I can't trust you! You've lied to me too often, Spike, just like a real Watcher would!"
The silence that followed had been worse than the shouting.
And this morning-- no, yesterday morning, time zones were so bizarre-- anyway, Spike's eyes had been that ice-blue, with shadows underneath like bruises. Not surface or physical, but something deeper than what fists could do. Buffy had kept glancing at him, during the ride to the airport, the shuttle to L.A., the long flight to London. For hours she'd been looking at Spike, but only occasionally touching. Scared to touch: that's what Dawn thought. Buffy was probably scared that he'd be colder than his eyes. 'Cause that's when you had to be worried about Spike, soul or no soul-- when he was bruised and cold, not when he was loudly and exuberantly cross.
Dawn sighed, then moved closer to the man who sat next to her and stared out the window. If she asked him, she'd bet all her savings ($97.23) that he couldn't tell her what he was looking at. He was bruised and cold, too, but not from a fight. No, her honourary big brother, Wes, had come back to England because his parents had died; he had "to take care of the paperwork," he'd said.
Wes was an orphan. Not alone in the world, because he was now a part of her completely insane extended family-- he was even going to stay with them at Giles and Anya's-- but not with people of his very own, either. She shivered.
He turned to her, patted her shoulder. "Chilly, Dawn?"
"Is that a double meaning, Wesley? 'Cause it's like freezing and it's just after sunrise, if there were sun--"
"Oh stop, stop. Jetlag has affected you terribly," he groaned. But it was a normal buddy groan, not heart-sick or anything. She smiled: behold Key power!
Buffy let out a little giggle, too. Spike raised his head at the sound, then somehow they were staring at each other in their mysteriously synchronized way (much more soul-matey than the First Relationship with He Who Was A Great Big Poof, as Spike called it). This was their tunnel-of-love-vision-- which Dawn had once said to Spike, earning herself a whap on the head with a pillow, and then a trip out for ice-cream.
Never taking his eyes off Buffy's, he reached out and linked his fingers with hers. Okay, big sister's cue to unhook her seat belt and spring into his lap, Important CoW Documents scattering everywhere. Spike wavered, one hand going toward the files but the other locking around her waist. "Bloody hell! Love, mind the--"
But his protest was interrupted by Buffy's mouth on his, and Dawn was pretty sure that Spike, if given a pop quiz, wouldn't be able to say anything intelligent about those Moo files now littering the limousine's floor. At least not for another couple of minutes.
"Can you believe how goofy they are. But they'd better stop it when they're actually doing Council business, don't ya think?" she whispered to Wesley.
He smiled at her. "Laying, er, hands on the Slayer was never part of MY training, back in the day when I was a Watcher. But Spike obviously understands the very latest management techniques, judging from Buffy's behaviour. And, um, noises."
Dawn didn't like the sadness around his eyes, even with the smile. "Oh please. Like you would have to rely on smoochies to manage anyone. You're too smart, Wes," she said, and she put her head against his shoulder. It was nice to have a friend, and she kind of thought Wesley needed one much more than she did.
***
Giles drummed a hand idly on the arm of the study's sofa. Half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes, 'til they got here. He sipped his tea, then laid his head against the back of the sofa. And then thumped his head against it, in time to Mick singing on the stereo: "A smile relieves a heart that grieves [thump], Remember what I said [thump thump], I'm not waiting on a lady..."
"Rupie, what are you doing?" Anya asked from the doorway.
"Nothing, darling. Did you make your call to Mr. Yamaguchi?" he asked, holding out his hand to his beloved.
Anya took the hand, then curled into his side. "Yes, I managed to make a nice profit on the Nikkei with the information he gave me. But, honey-- are you sitting here jumping out of your skin because you're waiting for Spike?"
He grinned down into his tea. "You might think so, but I couldn't possibly comment." She looked at him quizzically, and he added, "That was just a very annoying way to answer yes to your question."
"I'm looking forward to Spike's visit too, you're always cheerful now when he's around," she declared, the fingers of her free hand splaying on his stomach. "Buffy and Dawn should behave themselves too, at any rate. Wesley, I don't know, really-- the only times I met him, he was a bit of a brolly."
He laughed at her reference. "I promise you that he's not quite the stick he was, dear. And I thought you were getting along better with Buffy."
"Define 'better'," Anya said, then snuggled her head against him. "Oh, never mind. I'm just excited. About the visitors. And about Friday."
"It will be a long week for me, my darling," Giles said gently. He put down his cup, then framed her face with his hands. Couldn't be a better fit, he always thought. "But we're going to get there together." His thumbs went across her cheekbones, caressing, then he kissed her. The taste of her went perfectly with his last mouthful of Royal Blend. The taste of her went perfectly with everything.
She kissed him back, then put her hands on his shoulders. He stopped, looking at her suddenly solemn face. "I'm just... Rupie, I'm sure the party and everything will be wonderful on Friday. It's what's in between that worries me. You know, with the special mystery project Imran has for you and Spike?" She looked at him expectantly, hoping for explanations he didn't have.
"Um. Yes." Giles sent his thumbs over her cheekbones one last time, then he kissed her forehead and got up to pace. Anya as always understood the heart of the problem: the mystery. Cumberbatch had given them the most bizarre background reading and instructions (Spike was to grow out his hair and not bleach it for a few weeks? What the bloody hell was that?), but he hadn't ever responded to their pointed questions about the actual nature of the assignment. Slightly unnerving, really.
Still, thank God it was Cumberbatch in charge of the Special Projects, however, not the late Travers or the disgraced Khan. Imran was not a bastard; why, he'd even found a project for Buffy this week, understanding full well that she'd drive Spike mad if he was working and she wasn't. Not that a nest of vamps in Brompton Cemetery would exactly test her skills, it was just something to occupy her time while she waited.
While Giles and Anya waited for the end of the week.
He checked his watch, then jumped across a table and footstool to get to her. When he rolled her underneath him, growling, she batted at his shoulders. Not very hard, of course. "Rupert Giles, what do you think you're doing?"
"I'm bloody tense, darling," he said. "And we have thirty minutes."
"Oh. Well, I think we can manage to make you fit for receiving visitors, Rupie," she said. She bit his ear, then rolled the two of them off the sofa onto the floor. Then she kissed him again, and he felt as if he were drowning in pleasure, in Anyanka. God, he loved her.
***
Outside on Cheyne Walk, the clouds were heavy and dripping. December rain was nasty stuff, thought the man, and he ran down the Embankment to the Cadogan Pier gate. He didn't need to use his key; the gate opened easily, and he stepped down. The surface of the water roiled a bit--tide changing?-- and he had to catch himself as waves slapped.
"Oi, Tony! What cheer!" he called.
"Right, Jacko, come on in. Kettle's on." Tony's shout came from inside the small shelter, which suddenly seemed rather far away. The river was angry, seemed like, and the water had made the surface of the bridge very slick.
Jack looked at the early Christmas present in his hand. Hoped Tony would appreciate the good will, if not the actual mugs and posh tea. Liz had picked it out, and like any wife she'd crushed Jack's initial questions about how much a river-taxi driver would appreciate something so fancy. Thought that counted, though, right?
Jack pulled his coat up around his ears, then moved out onto the walkway. Two steps, then a gust of wind rattled his teeth. "Tony, a hand here!" he called--
Then, as if the water was reaching up, fist rather than wave, it curled around Jack's ankle. It pulled him in.
The Thames was cold, cold, and it choked him. But Jack couldn't struggle, somehow, and he plummeted through cold and ever darker water to the bottom. Then with a nasty gurgle and a pop, he went Below-- falling past the human traces of cables and tunnels-- below the silt and the earth and the cold, oh God the cold--
Into a dry, fire-licked cavern, bisected by a searing red opening. Jack looked up. The roof was dripping, but no water reached the floor.
"It is a sacrifice for Thou, oh One, eat and grow strong," flowed a female voice, and Jack found himself hurled, as if by an oceanic wave of air, into the fissure.
His final thought was that cold suddenly didn't seem so bad, compared to the pressure and heat which was killing him. And the teeth.
***
"Buffy. Get. Off."
"Oh, Spike."
"One last time, love. Gerroff."
"It sounds like you're growling when you say that. How'm I supposed to move away when you're all rumbly?"
Spike sighed in her ear, and she wriggled in a manner which would make him bloody happy in another time and place. However-- "That's it, Slayer." He shoved her back to her side of the car, then dove for his papers. Thoughtless creature had sent his files all over the expensive plush. "Buggering hell, woman, I need these, and in order!"
Wesley the git and Dawn were chortling to themselves on the other seat. Lovely. Times like these, Spike always had a quick yearning for the days he could wreak chaos and destruction, and the resulting churn of guilt always nauseated him a bit. Swallowing hard, he knelt down and started to collect the documents. Dawn, bless her, left her perch by the window and came to help him. "Bit, no need to assist. You get back up and look at London."
"Right, Dawn, we're almost there. We'll be turning for the Embankment in a moment, and you don't want to miss the sight of the Thames," Wes said.
"I'll help the big baby. I've not only seen the river, I've been in it with him." The love of all his lives crouched down and blithely started crumpling papers into her hands, no regard for the page numbers or the importance of the documents or the fact that she'd hurt him so badly, so badly--
And Spike set down his pages, took off his glasses and started to clean the lenses, just to calm himself down. Bloody damn, he shouldn't be so sensitive about her words: the heartache was his to accept, his by right, whenever she said she didn't trust him. He hadn't earned her trust and never would, not with the things he'd done.
Buffy's little shriek seemed meant to accompany his own surge of self- loathing. Except she grabbed his spectacles away from him and pleaded, "Baby, no. Never, never, never clean your glasses in front of me. Especially when I've done something to upset you. I'm begging you, honey."
He stared at her, brow furrowed. What in the name of nature red in tooth and claw was she on about? Fabulous: now he had a sodding demon headache starting right behind his eyes. In an effort to clear the pain his thumb and forefinger pinched the bridge of his nose, and she shrieked again. He said as patiently as he could, "Buffy. Love. I'm gettin' a bit of a migraine."
"Come here, sweetheart." She pulled him back up on the seat and petted his head. Not where it hurt, mind, but nevertheless, points for the thought. "If you have a headache or you need your glasses wiped, you let me take care of you, okay? Please, Spike. Just don't do the cleany thing or the nose-pinch again."
Her fingers felt so good at his temples that he decided not to press for the reason behind her sudden personality breakdown. And Wesley (un-git) bent down and started to pick up the fallen papers, doing it properly. "Thanks, mate," Spike managed.
Wes made short work of the task, then started to hand the files back. When he saw the top page, he hesitated. "The Council sent you a poem about the Thames, by Kipling? What on earth for?"
"If I knew, Wes, I'd be a happier vamp."
"There it is," Dawn squeaked as the car pulled onto the Embankment. "There's the river. Oh wow, we're like really here. This is so great."
Buffy stopped her ministrations and took his hand. Spike looked out at the grey water, the Albert Bridge coming into view. Water seemed unusually rough, tossing the few boats which dared its surface. Not as warm or peaceful as when he and Buffy had taken their impromptu swim in August, he suspected.
In the near distance and getting closer, he could hear the dissonance of sirens.
The limousine pulled over to let a couple of panda cars go by. The police drove up on the Embankment pavement, just by Cadogan Pier. A man burst out of the pier gate and fell onto the bonnet of the closest car. A wrapped Christmas present was in his hand.
"Do you think that has anything to do with the Council business?" Wesley's voice was quiet, contemplative.
"'Course not," Spike said. But he looked again at the man gesticulating wildly, the police trying to restrain him. An unpleasant shudder coursed up Spike's spine.
And here he'd thought they were home and dry.