Waiting on a Friend - Part Two

 

DISCLAIMER: This chapter includes the gratuituous taking of Hugh Grant's name in vain (I quite like Hugh).
NOTES AND SUMMARY: When we last left our heroes: Spike, Buffy, Wes, and Dawn were almost to Giles's and Anya's. Someone named Jack disappeared from Cadogan Pier; we know, although others don't, that Jack met a grisly end Below. Spike and Giles will have a special Watcher assignment this week; everybody's waitin' for the weekend (cue bad Loverboy song).

The limousine pulled up in front of the Cheyne Walk house, but Spike was out of the car almost before it stopped. He shouted, "Hey, old man! What kind of bleeding host are you? Not ready for your guests?"

The front door opened, and Rupert emerged. Wesley couldn't help but notice that Giles's shirt wasn't quite buttoned right and his hair was sticking up. He sighed. Oh happy day, now he'd apparently have to deal with two revoltingly affectionate couples, not just one.

Giles caught Spike in his headlong dash, said, "It's raining, mate, you can stay here for a second," then hugged him and thumped his back.

Spike thumped in return and said something in Rupert's ear to make him laugh. Then he pulled free, yelled, "Anyanka, pet, afraid of a little damp?" and galloped into the house. As if vampires could dust in drizzle, please.

Buffy and Dawn got out more decorously-- until Dawn screamed "Giles!" and bolted for his open arms. Buffy looked at Wesley and rolled her eyes. "Nice quiet family, isn't it. Not to mention my guy leaves me with the luggage, and my sister gets to Giles first."

"I'll help you, Buffy--" Wes began, but the driver came up and efficiently began to unload their incredible number of bags. Clearly the situation was under control. His impression was confirmed when Buffy abandoned the luggage and body-checked Dawn out of the way so she could get her own Giles-hug.

Wesley knew that he too would be welcomed, but he felt awkward. He'd been corresponding with or phoning Giles off and on for years, after the initial debacle in Sunnydale, but this would be the first time he'd be there like, well, one of the family. He still couldn't get his mind around the concept. A simple baby-sitting job in August had led to constant e-mails with Dawn and less frequent ones with Spike, then to insistent Buffy-invitations for the weekend; then, somehow, he was going to Sunnydale at least once a fortnight, he had his own room in the Summers menage, and Dawn just assumed that 'big brother Wes' would come with them to Giles's for the Christmas/solstice celebrations.

And that was before the other phone call.

So here he was. He had to ease himself into this new family, though. Thus he hung back, then looked across the small park and the Embankment Road to the river. The waves seemed to call to him.

He walked over, dodging the cars-- easy to forget just which way to look to be safe. He'd forgotten quite a few times in his life. When he got to the river-wall, he put his hands flat on the stone. Cold and perhaps some surface crumbling, he judged, but sturdy.

What could be in the river? He scanned the choppy surface, rougher than wind or tide should indicate. It seemed--

"The Thames is angry." Wes turned around to see the man who had been talking to the police at the pier. A burly fellow in a rain slicker, he was spinning a soaked, wrapped Christmas present over and over in his hands.

"Hello. I'm sorry? You said the river was angry?" Wesley felt at a loss.

"Well, look at it, right. Water's spitting. Furious." The man put both hands on the gift as if to stop it from moving on its own. "Why else would it have taken ol' Jack?"

"'Ol' Jack'?" Great, Wesley thought, I've become a bloody parrot. "I do beg your pardon, I'm just not following--"

"Yeah, sorry." For the first time in the odd conversation, Wes got the feeling that the man was actually looking at him. "Right, my name's Tony Kemp. Drive a river-taxi. And my friend Jack-- he just disappeared from over there."

"Wesley Wyndham-Pryce." They shook hands, then Wes inquired, "Your friend disappeared?"

The words came pouring out of Kemp as if falling down stones. "Yeah, just now. He was bringing by a present for me, see, gonna have a morning cuppa like we did once a week." The man turned his head, markedly not looking at the water. "Jack was a good guy, not my kind exactly, but I'd been married to his sister once and he never forgot it. He was steady, y'see. So he was there on the pier, he called to me but I was puttin' the kettle on, then he shouted he needed a hand, but when I went out..."

"He'd gone."

"After the splash." Kemp's gaze went to the grey waves then. "I called the police, right, that Jack's a brilliant swimmer. Couldn't just be a slip. And there've been others lost in the river this month, others unaccounted for. But the plods think he just left, what with this present on the walkway and all. He doesn't come back, they said, maybe they'll drag the river."

Wes nodded, slowly. "Sounds like official-speak to me, certainly. But, please forgive me-- may I ask why you're telling me?"

The man straightened. "Dunno, really." He coughed, then looked Wes straight in the eyes. "'Cause you look like a bloke haunted by something. Figured you'd understand haunts of a different kind."

"You're an observant man, Mr. Kemp." Wes looked down at his fingers, again spread against cold stone. "And for what it's worth, I do believe you. I'm sorry about your friend, and I hope you find out what happened."

Kemp nodded. He paused, waiting for something Wesley couldn't imagine, then moved towards the pier. Over his shoulder he said, "You staying 'round here?"

Wes motioned at Cheyne Walk. "Back there, yes."

"Come by and see me. Thames Speedy Taxis. But be careful of the river, Mr. Wyndham-Pryce." Kemp walked away, the present dangling from one hand.

Wes turned back to look at the grey waves. He could hear them slapping hard against the river-wall, and he shivered. But that could be just his California-thinned blood's reaction to the wind and the rain, he thought.

"Wes! Wesley!" Dawn stood on the other side of the road, waving her arms at him. "Geez, you are such a goof! Come in and get warm with the rest of us!"

***

Spike bent his head towards Anya to catch her whispered "I think it'll work out beautifully, as long as you two don't do anything stupid beforehand. If you don't get Rupert in trouble, I mean."

"Anyanka, you wound me. Would I do anything of--"

"Tosser, get your hands off!" Giles' bellow resounded in the kitchen, and Spike jumped a foot. Not that he'd admit it.

Giles, his arm around Buffy, mock-glared at him from the doorway. Spike couldn't let that go; he turned to Anya and said, "Look at that sodding hypocrite. Draped all over MY woman, yet he objects to a pleasant familial embrace between a boy and his step-mum."

Giles's eyes glinted menacingly, and Spike grinned. Knew that would get him. "You can be sent to bed without supper, sonny."

"Can Buffy come too?"

"Shut up, honey." Buffy walked over and hugged Anya. "Hey, good to see you. Thanks for opening your home to my loud, obnoxious family." Then she pointedly removed Spike from Anya's orbit and backed herself into his arms, winding them firmly around her waist. "There. Is that better, Giles?"

"Marginally."

Anya was staring at Spike and Buffy, puzzled. "I just noticed. Spike, why do you have Hugh Grant hair? It's quite different from the bleach-helmet."

"Hugh Grant hair? Hugh Bloody Poofter Grant hair?!" Buffy giggled up at him, and Spike thought Rupes would give himself a damn hernia with his belly-laugh. Sweet bloody hell. He detached himself from Buffy, found a wooden spoon in a jug on the countertop, then presented it to Giles. "I'd take it as a great kindness, old man, if you'd stake me now."

"Glad to oblige, you little twerp." Giles took the spoon and whacked him on the head with it-- which hurt, actually, wanker wasn't holding back much. Spike's sag to his knees was only partially feigned.

"I don't know what your problem is, Spike. I didn't say it was unattractive," Anya protested.

Buffy rescued him, pulling him to his feet then running her hands soothingly through the floppy mess. "Yeah, baby, I think it's adorable. And you know I like Hugh Grant, I made you watch *Notting Hill* like five times."

"Love, vamps can sleep with their eyes open; I can bloody assure you I've never actually watched any such filthy waste of film, thank you very much. And the second that Imran tells me the special assignment's done, my hair's goin' back to the way I want." Well, he mentally qualified, at least one of those statements was true.

Buffy sparked at his completely stupid reminder of the 'assignment', but before she could re-open their argument, the front door slammed. "Where is everybody?" Dawn, with Wesley securely in tow, appeared behind Giles.

Rupert turned to give Wesley a hand-shake and a pat on the shoulder. "Welcome, welcome. Glad you could stay."

"Thank you, Giles." Wesley stood, looking as if he wanted to shift his weight from foot to foot or run screaming from the room. Poor old sod. "And... and I appreciate the card about my parents."

Spike couldn't read the look exchanged by the two, but Giles nodded. "If I can help in any way, let me know." Then, clearing his throat, he led Wesley into the kitchen. "I'd like you to meet my, er, Anyanka. Anya dear, this is of course Wesley Wyndham-Pryce."

And suddenly the nervous wanker became Mr. Suave, bending to kiss Anya's hand. "Pleasure is all mine. Thank you for welcoming me, Anya."

"Now that's a fine greeting," Anya said approvingly. "I'm glad you're here, Wesley. The more the merrier for Friday's party."

Buffy and Dawn shouted "Party?" as if they'd never heard of such a custom, Spike thought. His head really did hurt now, what with Giles's tender ministrations and all, so he leaned over and rested it on Buffy's golden hair. Much better, that.

"Yes, party. Rupert and I are giving our first big party as, as, as a couple. In the Chelsea Town Hall, with music and food and everything. Business and pleasure combined." Anya beamed, and Giles took her hand. "In fact, I thought that if everyone takes their jetlag-induced naps now, Buffy and Dawn and I could go shopping this afternoon. We need nice outfits for the occasion, right?"

Damn. At the emphatic "yes" coming from his girls, Spike winced. Slayer really needed to tone it down for her man with a migraine.

***

Pound. Crunch.

The Lady of the caverns crouched over the searing red fissure, tossing in bone after bone. Flesh was still attached to some of them. With each one given to the fire, the One signaled its pleasure in red and orange light.

She began to hum as she worked. Even with the painful pressure from above, the weight coming from those insignificant creatures good only for sacrifice, she could feel the change. The moon and sun were almost joined, and if all her plans went well, she could release the One.

Then the pressure would end. The weight would ease. The rivers would run freely.

And so would the insignificant creatures' blood.

***

"I'll hold your blood for you, Spike."

Cradling a cordless phone between his neck and ear, Spike handed his mug to Dawn then dug into his wallet. Oh, she always liked when he did that. As he fingered his cash, he said into the phone, "Yes, Imran, I'll get the necessary clobber together. If you're really truly bloody sure it's necessary." He pulled two twenty-pound notes out, then replaced the wallet. Taking back the blood and giving her the money, Spike said into the receiver, "Right. Okay, okay. We'll find out at the meeting tomorrow morning. Yeah. And a good evening to you, too." He clicked off the phone.

Dawn smiled at him. "I appreciate it, sweetie."

"Now, Bit. Don't tell big sis I gave this to you." He kissed her on the forehead, a cool fraternal peck. Then he whispered, "You'll need the combat pay, being in the middle of Buffy and Anya smack-downs. Get yourself somethin' pretty, right?"

"Love you, Spike." As he took his blood, the phone, and himself off to the kitchen, Dawn hastily stowed the money away in her purse. God, Spike was So. Easy.

From the study Giles peered out. "Ah, Dawn. There you are." He looked up and down the hall, then walked softly to her. "You're waiting for Anya and Buffy? The shopping excursion?"

"Yes, Giles. It'll be great!" She sounded as innocent as she possibly could.

"Well. Don't tell them, but--" and he brought two twenties out of his pocket. "You might need this. Not that you won't have fun with them, but sometimes they, er, well-- anyway, dear, you have a good time and buy yourself something nice." He closed her fingers over the money.

"Thank you, Giles. I've missed you bunches." Dawn kissed him on the cheek, and he pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. Boy, he was much better at the soppy stuff than he used to be. Also freer with the cash.

"Is Spike in the kitchen again? Little bastard's going to eat me out of house and home." He headed off, saying over his shoulder, "Now you have fun! And tell Anya to say goodbye to me before you all leave."

Eighty pounds. Anya would know how much that worked out in dollars, Dawn thought, then hid the money away when she heard footsteps. Wesley came downstairs. "You waiting for the girls, Dawn?"

"Yes, Wesley. If you're looking for Spike and Giles, they're in the kitchen."

"Oh. Thanks." He looked a bit hesitant, then his hand dived into his pocket. "I understand that Buffy and Anya can be rather, um, trying together." He gave Dawn a couple of bills. "Don't say that I gave this to you. Just buy something you like."

Spike shouted from the kitchen, "Hey, Wes, that you? Got a lager with your name on it in here, mate!"

"Wesley, tell this little piss artist that you want something better than lager!" Giles called, just as loud.

"You'd better go mediate. And thanks, big guy." Dawn hugged him, and he hugged back. Then, as if he couldn't quite believe it, Wes went into the kitchen.

Dawn frankly couldn't believe it either. Please, she'd seen Buffy and Anya perfectly friendly upstairs, consulting over shopping-trip clothing choices. The guys were totally insane.

But she had to say it. So far, she just loved London.

***

Inside the warm, bright kitchen of the house on Cheyne Walk, the two men and the vampire laughingly argued over the proper drink for such a rainy Monday twilight.

The woman, the vengeance demon, and the teenager went out the front door to the waiting mini-cab at the curb.

Beyond the park and across the road, police officers knocked at the gate to Cadogan Pier. Jack Sheringham had not gone to work that day, nor had he come home; Sheringham's wife had made a panicked phone call to the Met. Perhaps they might need to investigate this Tony Kemp's story a bit further. Might need to drag the Thames.

Waves chewed viciously at the river-wall. It was almost as if the river was hungry.

 

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