Waiting on a Friend - Part Eleven
DISCLAIMER: *Doctor Who* isn't mine either. Audience-participation: guess what Wesley quotes to Dawnie in the 2nd half!
NOTES AND SUMMARY:This is yet another mad long installment: the first half occurs on the river Wednesday night, and the second half is the aftermath, Thursday evening. When last we met our heroes: Spike and Giles took down the Lady and threw her in the One. The women, aided by Wes, Cumberbatch, and the helpful river-taxi guy, prepared to go get them from Below. This installment: they go get 'em. And the recovery is on-going."Okay, that's it," Buffy said as the Door opened. It was as if someone had turned on a lamp in the midnight Thames. Light-waves and water mingled, shining against black and grey.
Anya thought Dawn's work really impressive, especially for a first non-Glory-hell-related effort: not merely a hole through the dimensions, but a wide staircase down a column of air, around which the dark river swirled. "That's quite lovely, Dawn! Exceptional craft: not just Door, but Hallway as well."
"Ooh, thank you, Anya!" Dawn crowed. "All right, Buffy-- who's the Key, who's the greatest Key?"
Buffy said, "You are, Dawnie. But right now we have to get Spike and Giles out of there, and I have to save London."
"No, you don't," Anya said. Buffy shot her a patented Slayer-glare, but she couldn't figure out why-- oh. Humans didn't have quite the honed perception she did. "Of course we have to get Rupert out immediately, and Spike too, but London's safe. The men must have done something heroic Below, because I just felt the dimensional block go down and the bad magicks end."
Buffy rolled her eyes, and Anya found the more-Slayer-than-thou attitude irritating. Besides, it was past time to find her Rupert. She turned to Cumberbatch, saying, "Do you know the spell to bring them back up, should the Door shut? Now that there's no evil block."
Cumberbatch said, "Why, yes. Although it does take two Watchers-- ever since that incident in Glastonbury, we've all had to--"
"Thank you, Imran. You have ten minutes to teach it to Wesley; if we run into difficulties with the Door, I'll be back up to help you." Ignoring Buffy's yelp about the plan and first getting the guys' attention, Anya teleported to where she felt Rupert's energy.
And she saw him.
Rupert sat on the cold floor of a far too austere cavern, lit only by some quietly glowing chasm. He looked so pale, so worn, leaning back against Spike to support his weight. Anya immediately forgot Buffy-irritation, her recent anguish, and her quite justifiable urge for vengeance. Her man needed her. "Rupie!" she cried, and ran to him.
"Think that answers your question, Giles. We threw the Lady in the One, we destroyed her work, we can get the bloody hell out of here," Spike said with a grin. "And good evening to you, Anyanka, you're a beautiful sight."
"Spike, I'll greet and berate you later," Anya said. "Let me have him." When Spike relinquished his place to her, she held Rupert's poor tired self, her arms enveloping him in love. "You're late," she whispered into his hair.
He shifted awkwardly, not using the arm covered by his coat. Then he turned his head and kissed the closest bit of her he could reach, which was her shoulder. "Told you I'd be back before the wedding, darling. I still have a day and a half, right, or have we lost time while we were down here?"
"It's almost midnight, same day you left. But that's not the point, Rupert. You made me come fetch you, which is very wrong." She brushed her lips against his temple.
"I'll apologize later," he said. "Now turn your head toward me, just a little-- there. Perfect. Hello, Anyanka darling." And he kissed her, his mouth cool and firm against hers.
She'd yell at him in a minute. Just after a few of these.
***
She couldn't decide who she would yell at first. Buffy considered this important question as she clattered down the mystical staircase conjured up by her little sister. Well, obviously Spike was in for the scolding of his unlife, but she reserved the right to tear a strip off Giles too. In fact, maybe it was more Giles's fault. He had no right to drag her vampire into this kind of danger, especially since her vampire didn't have the sense God gave a goose-- although how did people know geese weren't sensible, really?-- and probably enjoyed the whole damn ordeal. She ignored the tiny voice reminding her of Spike's pain and sadness, felt in their link. There was no reason to bother herself with facts when she had a good mad on.
Which reminded her that Little Miss Teleportation 2002 was going to hear from her as well. But first Buffy needed to defeat the evil still lurking Down, or Below, whatever.
The staircase shimmered to an end at the bottom of the Thames. Bathed in grey-white light, Buffy stomped her foot on the bottom step--
And fell into a dark, cold cavern. That rock floor was really hard, she thought.
"Hullo, my heart," came the voice of her own true love, and she looked up to see Spike's sweetest grin and outstretched hand. She ignored both.
"Spike. So what's the problem? Where's the Lady, if she doesn't have a name by now?" She scrambled up by herself, and his hand fell to his side. Her eyes went over him hungrily: no visible damage, his academic disguise only partially affected by the grubbiness of his tweed and trousers, hair all curly and eyes all blue and-- She leapt into his arms and kissed him hard.
"I'll say it again, for the hard-of-hearing Slayer. Hullo, my heart," he whispered before kissing her back, all lips and tongue and teeth and love. Oh he was fine. He was more than fine.
This Spike-state of fine, after his causing hours and hours of worry and anguish, revived all her anger. She shoved him away, then said, "Lady. Threat to London. Where is she?"
Irritation sparked blue and yellow in his eyes, and he pointed to a red, glowing trench in the floor. "Giles killed her--"
"After your brilliant performance using the Fenris story to draw her in," Giles interrupted from somewhere behind him.
"Yeah, team effort. Anyway, SLAYER, we were trapped, Giles killed the wolf-bitch, I fed her to the One--" his hand presented the trench-thing like he was on a game show-- "fissure-spirit all pleased, threat averted." Then he threw his hands open in a 'Happy now?' way. If a gesture could be sarcastic, she thought, that one would win prizes in the Christmas Sarcasm Rally.
"I thought you were just 'doing research'," she said, with her own Sarcasm Rally entry. Not as good as his, unfortunately.
"We were, Buffy," Giles said. She saw him struggle to sit up, Anya helping. "After we'd done the initial British Library work, we were minding our own business, when--"
"Excuse me? When is it your 'own business' to be poking around some dangerous Portal when you knew bad things were going to happen?"
"'Cause we didn't know they were going to happen TONIGHT!" Spike roared. He came toe-to-toe with her, just in case she couldn't hear him at rock-concert volume. "It's not the Solstice til Saturday, yeah? Full moon not until tomorrow night? Couldn't have predicted it-- there is absolutely no spiritual or supernatural significance to sodding Wednesday evening!"
"That's enough. No more yelling from you two," Anya said. "Giles, Spike: do you promise that you did not intend to get trapped, or scare us, or cause us pain, or make us drag Dawn and Wes and Imran and that nice taxi-person onto an angry Thames? Do you promise it was all an accident, in no way related to the wedding or my previous career?"
With one voice, Spike and Giles said, "Yes!"
"I don't believe you." Buffy stepped back and crossed her arms. "How can I believe you? You have a Slayer here who could take care of any semi-apocalyptic problem much better than you, but for some reason you thought it would be more fun to risk yourself. Which was such a typically stupid idea, you couldn't--" Hearing a nasty note spiralling up in her voice, she stopped. Then she saw Spike's eyes go that sightless grey.
"Right, Buffy. I couldn't do what?" he said quietly. She didn't remember how she was going to finish the sentence, but somehow he'd gotten the wrong idea. He must have. He said even more softly, "Never mind. I think I know."
"Spike, wait, you don't, I don't--" she began, but he'd already turned away. She could feel the waves of hurt from there.
Giles looked at Spike for a second, eyes worried, then said, "God, it's been a long night. Anya dear, what's the plan for getting us out of here? I don't think I could cast another spell."
"You have two choices, sweetie. You can walk through the lovely Hallway and Door that Dawn made, or you can wait for Imran and Wes to do the spell to bring you Above." Anya helped him to his feet as she outlined the possibilities, then glanced at the coat still plastered to his forearm. "Rupert, what's that?"
Spike and Giles shot quick looks at each other, and that was enough to set Buffy off again. "Oh no. Could there be something you guys aren't telling us? A secret?"
"I hadn't mentioned that the Lady ripped through my forearm before Spike pulled me to safety? Well, she did, and I'd rather like to go to Casualty and get it stitched up. Also, I'm hungry, since I only had extra-strong mints for supper. So if you're quite done, Buffy--" Giles said it coolly, making her feel stupid sixteen again, "let's walk."
***
"Well that should do it, if the Door fails," Imran finally said, after making Wesley repeat the directions for the spell yet again. Kemp snorted at the question, then moved away to do something mysterious to the engine. Probably tired of the odd nature of his passengers, Wesley thought.
Dawn said, "You won't need to, I bet. My Door's a really cool one, shouldn't be a problem."
Imran nodded as he entered something on his PDA. "Yes, it is very cool, Dawn. I hardly can believe you've never done anything like this before."
"Well, like I told you, I opened a Portal once. It was to hell, though, which was totally not my fault, and either Buffy or I had to die to close it." She faltered, and Wes put his arm around her. She wrapped one hand in his coat, then said to Cumberbatch, "I didn't even think about closing it. I won't have to--"
"Oh no no. This is quite a different magick, clearly; you've adapted to your human form now, grown into it perhaps, so there must be something of yourself as well as your energy origins at work here. We'll take you through a meditation spell or two, and I'm sure you can close it. I'd recommend..."
Tuning out the earnest discussion, Wes leaned back against the railing. He tipped his head back, eyes to the sky. He could see the grey clouds thinning, the almost-full moon making them gleam with hidden light.
Behind him he heard footsteps on the Hallway staircase. The sounds of boots and voices harmonized with the plash of gentle waves against the sides, the creaks of the boat. Even Anya's and Buffy's argument about protocol and who should have gotten Below first joined in the night's music.
He looked up again. The grey was disappearing. Midnight often was supposed to be the darkest colour short of black-- the absence of light-- but the sky shone bright, brighter as the clouds fled before the wind.
They could go home safely now.
***
THURSDAY NIGHT AT GILES' AND ANYA'S
"I'm home! Did a quick sweep and the cemetery's clean. So I think I'll go to bed now. Spike's already up there, isn't he?" Buffy said cheerily as she popped her head into the TV room on the ground floor.
Dawn didn't believe the cheeriness for one second-- she'd seen that bruised look on Spike's face again, the wounded-soul one, as soon as he'd stepped onto the boat last night. She'd also seen Buffy tiptoe around him all day (after he finally got up, that is, at like three), even through the raucous 'family rehearsal dinner' that evening. He'd made with the funny, he'd even teased Buffy, but Dawn knew something was wrong.
But she was wise. She could open Doors and make Hallways and stuff. She would let them be stupid together; they'd work it out. "Spike upstairs? Yeah, think so. Giles and Anya have 'retired for the evening' too." Two good reasons to stay downstairs til the sex-games were over; they were all so embarrassingly loud, she thought. To distract herself, she wiggled her fingers at Buffy. "Good night, sis! See you tomorrow morning bright and early for pre-wedding work!"
"Good night, Buffy, sleep well," Wes chimed in from his sprawl in the easy chair.
"Don't make me think about tomorrow's festival of mirth and marriage," Buffy grumbled, then sighed. "'Night, you guys, and Dawnie, don't stay up too long." She waved at them and left.
Dawn settled back on the couch and grabbed a handful of popcorn. Wes had insisted she put in this tape of some *Doctor Who* episode, "Logopolis" or something: "You'll see why, Dawn." Seemed weird. However, she was perfectly content to eat 'corn and watch TV while Wes read some dumb book. It was good family fun. Entertainment.
She watched for a few moments, then shrieked. "Wesley! Wesley, that's our pier!" She pointed to the screen-- the TARDIS had just landed on Cadogan Pier, and the fourth Doctor got out. "Oh, cool!"
"Told you so," he said, eyes fixed on his book.
Well, how irritating. She threw a piece of popcorn at his head; he looked up. "Don't be sniffy and Moo People, Wes," she said sternly.
"I'll try very hard not to moo," he replied. Shifting round in his chair, he hung long legs over the side and went back to his reading.
Dawn snorted, then turned her attention to the episode. It was kinda boring, though-- the Doctor's companion was Adric, who just sucked (he whined all the time), and once she'd seen her pier, the thrill was gone.
She looked over at Wesley again, who seemed totally engrossed. Time to break that up. "What are you reading, Wes?"
"A novel by Jane Austen," he said, not looking up.
Jane Austen? "Geez, that's kind of girly, isn't it?"
He raised his head, then his eyebrows, and she giggled. "Call it a strange whim," he said, then went back to his pages.
She ate a few more pieces of popcorn and spent a little more time with the Doctor, before saying, "Can I read it after you're done?"
"If you like." Then he turned the book over in his hand and said, "Well, no, this is Giles's-- you might forget and take it home with you. Tell you what, I'll buy you an entire set of Austen as your Christmas present."
Of all the horrible-- she was forced to barrage him with several pieces of popcorn. He tried in vain to shield his head from the missiles of buttered death; in fact, a couple lodged in his hair. As he brushed them out, she said, "I canNOT believe you." He shot her a look from under his lashes, and she explained, "Books. For. Christmas. Honestly!"
"Oh Dawn." Wesley shook his head sadly at her. "Better be without sense, than misapply it as you do."
Ho ho, this meant war. Across the room in an instant, she dumped the bowl of popcorn over his head. "Good God, Dawn!" he protested as bits of greasy white and yellow fell on his sweatshirt, and she couldn't help doubling up in laughter. He sat there in shock for a second, then carefully put his book down on the floor-- so he could fire a handful of pieces back at her. He was laughing harder than she was.
Now that was what she called entertainment.
***
Spike paced around the books he'd spread all over the floor, from Shakespeare's Sonnets to Elizabeth Barrett Browning to Pablo Neruda, and sighed. Bloody hell. It shouldn't be so difficult to find a meaningful, lyrical, no-trace-of-religious-significance poem to read at Giles' and Anya's registry wedding tomorrow. It was his important job as witness/best man, and he--
Couldn't. Couldn't think, couldn't read, couldn't bear himself. He'd bollocksed everything up again, without even trying. Buffy'd been mad at him, of course, but then she usually was. Why her unfinished words had bitten so deep last night, he couldn't say. Maybe the day of playing William (and having Giles pick through his brain about it), topped by what seemed like certain dusting, had made him soppier. If that was even possible.
He groaned, shut his eyes, and fell on his back onto the bed; the mattress sagged under his weight. Not like the old sarcophagus. O for the Sunnydale days when all he had to worry about was how and where he'd get to talk to Buffy next and what they'd kill when they were out. Then he'd have a nice wank, and be satisfied with amorality and unrequited love.
This soul thing-- this relationship thing-- was too much for him. That must be why Buffy kept repeating words of disappointment: because he disappointed her, QED. Failure as William, the horror of 120 evil years, a second spectacular failure as a vampire, failure as-- whatever he was now.
God, he really couldn't bear himself sometimes.
Before he could talk himself deeper into depression, he felt Buffy's warm body land next to him on the bed. "Hey, honey. What ya doin'?"
He opened one eye and surveyed her smile. She put an arm across his chest, tucking a leg between his, nestling her head on his shoulder. Buffy the Blanket. "Thinking. And you?"
"Pinning you down. Can't turn away from me now, haha," she said. He wasn't quite sure if it was a joke, or if the joke was on him.
So they snuggled together for a minute. He brought up his free hand to take hers, and they entwined fingers. As he relaxed back into the bed, she cuddled closer, her scent and warmth seeping into his skin.
This he could bear. As long as he didn't have to think about-- "Spike? What's going on in your head, honey?" Oh bugger bugger bugger. Whatever happened to Avoidance Buffy? Could she come back, just for a few hours til he felt stronger?
Right. "Well. In my head? Debating whether to write my own poem for the wedding, dust myself, or just give in and use Will's Sonnet 116 like every other uninspired best man in the bloody universe." There ya go, love, and that's not even wholly a lie, he thought.
'Course this was Buffy he was dealing with. She reached up and yanked on his curls-- one more William element to destroy as soon as he could get his hands on either scissors or hair gel. "Listen, big guy, there will be absolutely no jokes about your dusting. You're staying right here with me."
He heard a note of something painful in her voice, something she was trying to hide. Despite his own fear, it was suddenly vital to know what was going on with her too. He rearranged them so they lay face-to-face, hands clasped together. "I AM right here with you, love. Let me feel what you're feeling."
"You have to give me yours in return, though," she said.
He swallowed, nodded, then closed his eyes. It was easier when he wasn't distracted by how pretty, how glowing she was. When he could reach out, fingers on hers, her breath on what passed for his, and feel this mingling of their passions and fears--
Love, so much love, guilt, depression because he/she wasn't good enough, irritation that she/he wouldn't get it this time, dread of being left again, love, so much love--
And he opened his eyes to find tears spilling down her cheeks. "Darling, what did I say to hurt you so?"
"That's what I was going to ask you," she whispered.
"I'm not good enough for you, love. I keep failing you." He traced a tear-track down one cheekbone, following it beyond her chin and into the hollow of her neck, further.
Then she stopped his hand. "You don't fail, Spike. You mess up, then you get back to your feet and make it right. Always, always." Another tear fell, and she blinked furiously. "And I keep accusing you when I know better, I know you so much better than that. It's just-- last night I was terrified you were gone, and I wondered if you really knew how much I love you, and I couldn't do anything to help. I hate being helpless, Spike."
"Shh." His mouth found hers, tasting salt-water and Buffy-savour. "Love you."
"Love you more." They kissed for an endless moment, giving and receiving comfort, then she pulled away and smiled at him. "You know what you were doing when I came in?"
"Yeah. Thinking. Believe we established that."
"No, honey, you weren't." Mischief drew up the corners of her mouth. "You were brooding."
"I never!" He pounced on her, his weight sinking the two of them deep into the mattress. His hands locked on hers and pulled them over her head; she wriggled a bit, then wrapped her legs around his hips. Ah, home. "Take that back."
She managed to lift just a few inches off the bed, and she nipped at his ear before whispering into it, "Make me."
Using every bit of his speed and strength, he had her out of the bed, up against the wall and sans shirt before she could nip again. She moaned as his hands found her nipples and twisted just a bit. Then she purred, "No. Still say you were brooding."
"Not a bleedin' chance." He looked around, saw draped over a chair the thrice-damned silk tie he was going to have to wear tomorrow. One hand still teasing her breasts, he leaned over and picked up the tie. Quickly he had it around her eyes as a makeshift blindfold.
She squeaked, and he used his body to still hers. "Love, I want you to stand right there. Consider this practice in your enjoyment of being helpless. Enjoy what I do to you when you don't know what's coming next." He slid his open mouth down her neck, nipped with his human teeth, then went further down. When his tongue found her breast, she arched into him. Mouth full of Buffy, he said, "Now if I mess up, you be sure to tell me. Bloody well will get back up and make it right."
His hands went to the fly of her leather trousers, flicked open the snap, then slipped underneath to caress. Her hands clutched convulsively on his shoulders, nails digging in, and she breathed his name. He smiled against her skin, then said, "Before the night's done, my Queen, when you can't bear the pleasure any more-- you'll by-damn admit I wasn't brooding."
***
Dear Lord, the night would be over before Anya came out of the bathroom. Giles groaned a bit, then fell back against the pillows. He wanted her here, damn it.
His good hand went to the bedside table, obsessively checking that the small jeweler's box was still there. Yes. Right. He slid further down in their bed, breathing in the scents of her, of them, surrounding him. They'd surround him for the rest of his life, he thought. And he grinned.
Then the bathroom door opened, and she walked in. He wasn't entirely sure his heart was still beating-- it had seized up completely at the sight of her in a new silk nothing of a gown, gleaming in the lamplight. No, heart still worked. Blood still moved around, just concentrating in one specific place.
"Is your arm hurting, Rupert? You have a funny look on your face," she said, then eased into her side of the bed. His arms went around her, cupping her close. One of her hands wriggled free, brushed down his chest, then found him hard and ready for her. At her finger tracing around the tip, he couldn't repress a moan. She smiled. "I believe this explains the look."
Although he couldn't believe he was stopping this, he took her hand away, then brought it to his lips. "Darling, I'll be more than happy for you to do that in a minute. But I want to talk first."
"All right." Her brown eyes went dark, darker. "Do you want to talk about the wedding? Is it bad?"
"Oh no, no, dear, it's not at all bad." He kissed her deeply, to comfort, to please. "But it is about the wedding." She nodded-- but he couldn't stand the fearfulness on her face, he'd have to make this quick. "Will you give me your left hand, Anyanka?"
When she did, he held it between both of his larger ones. "When Spike and I were trapped Below, we rather thought we weren't going to be able to come home. And I considered what it would mean to miss our wedding. Anyanka, I had the strangest feeling."
"What?" she whispered, eyes searching his.
He smiled. "I thought: the ceremonies we'll have for the human and demon authorities don't really mean much. I'm already married to you in my heart, in my head. The official rituals won't do anything to change that." She sniffed, and his smile grew. "Just hang on, darling."
After placing her hands on the duvet, he reached back-- damn his arm hurt, have to be careful about that-- and picked up the velvet box. Flicking it open, he presented it to her. "I'll have another one for you tomorrow, of course. But this is for our private ceremony tonight." He moved closer so he could rest his forehead on hers. "I know that you had a terrible experience before, and I'd hate that to affect your pleasure in our day. So I thought perhaps we should pledge our bond now, just to each other, before tomorrow. That way you'll know I won't be going anywhere, running away-- because we're already married."
Her eyes shone, and she nodded. "I love you, Rupert. I will love you forever, take care of you forever. And naturally enough, included in our contract you'll get lots of orgasms," she said solemnly. "Now put my ring on, please."
He slid the sparkling band around the proper finger. As he did, he said, "I love you, Anyanka. I will love you forever, take care of you forever." Then he grinned boyishly. "And I heartily endorse the orgasm rider to the contract!"
She looked at the gold and diamonds, and squealed. "Oh, Rupie!" She pulled him skin to silk, and her mouth found hers. Lips and tongues met, hands connected, promises were made.
Then-- "Ow. Hell." He pulled back. "Sorry, darling, caught my bad arm."
She put her hands on his shoulders, then pushed him down onto the pillows. "Rupie, you need to be careful of yourself." Her nails slowly, slowly scraped down his chest and further; he shifted uncontrollably. "Let's see. Did you say something about an orgasm-rider?"
His eyes closed as he laughed, as he felt her weight on him, her silk nightgown pooling around his middle. "I love the way you think, wife." His good hand found her, and he circled, dipped in, tested. Already so warm, so wet.
She raised up, one hand taking him firmly. After a lightning-fast move up to kiss him, she settled back and took him in. With the most glorious smile he'd ever seen, she whispered, "Welcome home, husband."
As they started to move together, he thought hazily-- I defy tomorrow to be any better than this.