Waiting on a Friend - Part Three
DISCLAIMER: This chapter includes references to another Jagger/Richards classic and to the Danny Kaye film *The Court Jester.*
NOTES AND SUMMARY: When we last left our heroes: Spike, Buffy, Dawn and Wesley arrived at Giles and Anya's in London; Wesley had a cryptic riverside conversation; Dawn was showered with cash by the guys because she had to go shopping with Buffy and Anya to buy something for an upcoming party. This loose baggy monster of a chapter contains conversations, comedy, and a tuppence-worth of plot.Buffy checked the alarm on the bedside table: 8 am, Tuesday. It definitely was time to leave this warm bed and face a day at Watchers' Central.
She didn't move.
She could hear the shower running in the adjoining bathroom. Spike was awake awfully early; he and his vampire body-clock usually had to be kick-started in the morning. She rolled over and hugged his pillow at the thought of what 'good morning, Spike' normally entailed. Mmm.
But he was out of their bed already. She took a deep breath; his pillow just didn't smell right without the lingering scent of hair goop, and the sooner he got to use it again the better. It was a good thing his assignment was starting today. Whatever it was.
Buffy buried her face against the sheet. She had known all along, really-- Spike wouldn't lie to her again about any Watcher business that concerned her. Why had she accused him of it? It was the very word 'Watcher', she decided: all those associations of surveillance and lack of support and assholes in tweed. Even Giles had betrayed her a time or two.
Spike didn't deserve her suspicion here, though, and he misunderstood it. As soon as she had said the dark-magic incantation "I don't trust you," his eyes had gone sightless grey with pain. Somehow her mouth wouldn't form the words shrieking in her mind-- I didn't mean it, honey, not that way!-- for fear that her double-edged tongue would cut back, slice deeper at their bond, and then where would she be?
The comforter went over her head at the honest answer to her question. Actually, she'd be right where she was, in this comfy bed after a night of good loving and sleep; Spike always accepted her bad behaviour as something he'd earned. She'd seen the marks of his headache on his face yesterday-- some strange side-effect of his soul, she wondered, zapping him with guilt the way the chip had zapped him with electricity?
Guilt hurt worse. This she knew.
Suddenly she heard a growl and felt a familiar weight fall onto the bed. The comforter was pulled away, and there grinned Spike, slightly damp and shirtless. "Who's the laziest Slayer in London, then? Get up, woman, we have business to attend to."
"I love you, Spike. So very much." It was the only thing she could think of to say.
"Love you too, Buffy. Always." His hand caressed her cheek, then he bent his head to kiss her. His mouth was so soft, so sweet, and his tongue traced around her lips.
She opened her mouth, ready to savour him-- then, a bolt of speed and power, he dumped her out of bed onto the cold floor. "Damn it, Spike! You are Such. A. Jerk!"
Surveying her sprawled naked and clutching a pillow, he smirked. "No time for dalliance, my Queen. Appointments! Re-spon-si-bloody-bility!"
Apparently he was feeling better now. Idiot.
She blamed Giles.
***
Giles hummed as he walked toward the kitchen and his first cup of tea. It had been a lovely evening laughing with Spike and Wes, an even more pleasant night calming Anya down (poor dear, having a shouting match with Buffy in the middle of that Knightsbridge shop), and this morning he and Spike would find out their mystery assignment.
He flicked on the kitchen lights, and-- "Bloody hell!" He didn't know who jumped higher, himself or Wesley, standing in the middle of the kitchen.
Wesley recovered first. "I'm so sorry, Giles. I just wondered if there was a spot of tea going, and I came down here..."
"Good God, man, no need to apologize. It was just a small cardiac infarction." Giles smiled, then headed for the kettle. Wesley still stood there. "Sit down, sit down."
Wesley looked at the chair for a moment before he sat down. Hesitant git-- but then it was going to be a hard day for him. Giles put together the tea makings, then asked, "Any preference, Wesley? Royal Blend, English Breakfast? Or maybe a strong pot of P.G. Tips?"
Wes smiled a bit. "I'll know I'm in England if it's tea that could stun a horse."
Giles nodded. "At your request." He poured the water over the tea, then set the pot down. Leaning back against the counter, he pondered how to start; he'd wanted to talk seriously to Wesley yesterday, but Spike had been there. Giles loved the little bastard, but for a being who didn't need to breathe, in the right mood (like last night) he could take up all the oxygen in the room. "So. You going to the solicitors this morning?"
Wes looked at his hands. "Yes, appointment at eleven. Up in Holborn somewhere, I have the address."
"Hmm. You'll be rather close to us. Why don't you meet me, Spike and Buffy at the Council building for lunch, say, about one o'clock?"
Giles caught his breath at the desolation in Wesley's eyes. "Should I even cross the threshold? Sacked, you know. Alarms might sound. I might be incinerated by the righteous wrath of Watchers past." His laugh was painfully hollow.
Dear God. "Wesley. In Sunnydale-- I didn't help you. You were new in the field, and I was jealous. Didn't make it easy for you."
"You shouldn't have had to. No, Rupert, I screwed it up all on my own. It's a wonder Buffy even talks to me now, much less welcomes me into her home."
Giles checked the tea. He poured out two mugs, then brought them and the milk and sugar to the table. While Wesley murmured his thanks and took a sip, Giles figured out what to say. "We'll have to disagree on your first stay, Wesley. But since then-- you're a different person now, a stronger and more mature man. Yes? I mean, look how well you handled Willow this summer."
"Ah, Willow." Wesley took another drink, then said, "I'm concerned, Giles. She and Xander are off at that Wicca retreat in Marin County, but I can't see that she's really healed yet."
"She's not. But she's trying desperately, she sees her error, and that matters. More, she's supported by her friends."
Wesley looked up at that. "Trying isn't enough, Giles."
At which point Giles lost his temper. "Sometimes it sodding well is, Wesley! Would you stop parroting your father's words! He was a competent Watcher but a cold, intolerant son-of-a-bitch wedded to the worst of the Council's traditions. I know how horribly he treated you, too-- my God." He spun out of his chair. Classic, Rupert, exactly what one should say to a grieving son. Without turning around he said, "Sorry. So sorry. Would you like some toast?"
"Yes, please." As Giles prepared it, Wesley said quietly, "So you think coldness and intolerance are evils?"
Giles pulled the hot slices out of the toaster and heaped them on a plate. "I do. But they're not your evils. Marmalade?"
"Golden syrup, if you have it. I'm craving a little sweetness." Giles winced, but brought the food over.
The two ate for a minute. Then Wesley, "Why do you think I'm not like my father?"
Giles smiled. "Because Dawn likes you. Because you tolerate the controlled chaos that is the Summers household. Because you're here."
Wesley smiled in return. "I'm here because you allow me to be. And I thank you, Giles."
Bloody hell, the man still didn't get it. Giles tried to think of another way to make his point-- but suddenly the room shook with a rock-and-roll bass beat coming from the study, and a familiar guitar lick rang out. Giles bellowed, "Spike!"
The vampire, besuited and with a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, swaggered into the kitchen. "Mornin', gents. I'm that peckish, I could murder a pint of blood." He went to the refrigerator, then lifted his voice along with Mick's: "You know marrying money is a full-time job, I don't need the aggravation I'm a lazy slob, So hang fire--" Packet of blood in his hand, he turned to shoot Giles a truly wicked grin.
Giles sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "And you were worried about crossing into the Watchers' sanctum, Wesley. Behold the face of the New Council."
Wes smiled into his tea, and Spike said, "You going to join us for a visit or luncheon or something, Wes? Brilliant." He put his blood into the microwave and set it, then took a last drag on his cigarette before crushing it out. "So in the shower it struck me: who'll be working with Buffy while I'm running around with you, old man, doing whatever the bloody hell we're going to do?"
"Haven't the faintest idea." Giles kicked back in his chair. If this was Spike's mood, it was best to simply go along with the tide of high spirits. "I'm certainly ready for Cumberbatch to reveal all."
"Not as ready as I am," Buffy said as she came into the room. The microwave dinged, and Spike took out his breakfast. "Morning, Giles, Wes." She walked over to the counter, smacked Spike's arse, then stuck her head into the refrigerator.
"OW!" Spike protested rather theatrically. "You hit me!"
"Payback's a bitch, babe." Buffy pulled out a bowl of strawberries. "Honey, could you find me a spoon?"
Grumbling, then chugging his blood, Spike rummaged around in the flatware drawer. Giles said, "Buffy, he's been making an ungodly noise. Can't you control him?"
"Sure, Giles. You got any elephant-tranquilizer?" she said. Spike bowed low and presented the utensil to her; she inclined her head graciously and accepted the offering, then dug into her fruit.
Wesley offered, "Shall I look for some when I'm out this morning?"
"Haha, you git," Spike said amiably, then he began to bang his hand against the counter in time to the Stones.
"WHAT in the name of D'Hoffryn is going on here?" Anyanka, hands on hips, stood in the doorway. She looked a bit veiny. Giles, Wesley, and Buffy all fell silent.
"Hullo, Mum. Is something wrong?" Spike double-banged on the counter for emphasis.
"I'm upstairs trying to work when suddenly all this noise interrupts an important call to the Exchange! Yes, something's wrong!"
"Darling, we'll make him shut up," Giles said, crossing over to kiss her. "We were thoughtless, I'm sorry."
The music suddenly snapped off, and heavy footsteps pounded down the hall. Dawn, still in pajamas, pushed Anya aside to announce, "I was trying to sleep, people! I'm a growing girl, I had to separate a Slayer and a vengeance demon in the middle of the Nicole Farhi store last night, and I'm jet-lagged! Be quiet be quiet be QUIET!" Then she stormed off.
Spike delicately licked the last of his blood out of his mug, then put it in the sink. "I believe my work here is done." He moved across the kitchen, saying in an absurdly posh voice, "My love, my brother Wankers, you don't want to be late for our appointments, do you? I trust you will stop procrastinating and join me in the Posh Bastard-mobile shortly. Anyanka dear, do let me escort you upstairs."
Wesley burst out in a howl of laughter, bubbling from somewhere deep inside. Giles joined in. It would be all right, he was suddenly sure.
***
Oh sure, it's perfectly all right to abandon me, Buffy thought.
She cast a look back at Spike and Giles as they disappeared round a corner in Watchers Central, then sighed. If she had to have a Watcher shadow her movements, they were the only two she wanted. It was just like the Moo People in Charge to make her break in some stupid, um, person.
She opened the door to which she'd been directed, and a bug-like, supercilious man looked up. "Right, you must be Miss Summers. Do come in."
Oh no. Oh no no no. But she went in. "Hi. Yes, I'm Buffy Summers. And you're--?"
"Mr. Elton. John Mungo Elton, to be precise." The man with the insane name motioned her to a chair, then sat down himself. "I'm very pleased to be working with you on this case, Miss Summers. There are as many as seven vampires operating out of Brompton Cemetery, and they need to be eliminated rather quickly."
"'As many as seven.' Uh-huh." Because she was a Slayer, she had the strength of will not to bang her head on the desk in front of her or laugh in his face. "If I might ask, er--"
"Mr. Elton."
"Right, Mr. Elton. If I could ask... what do you usually do with the Council? Work in the field at all?"
He puffed up a size or two. "I collate the reports on vampire activity in Eastern Europe and the former Soviet Union states. That area includes Romania, you know, which makes my job very important. I've produced two monographs outside my usual reports, in fact." He gave what she was sure passed for a smile in his insect-world.
Oh no. Oh no no no.
***
God, no. Wesley looked at the pages of the will, stacks of legal documents which reaffirmed that he was indeed the son of Edgar and Sonia Wyndham-Pryce and had the requisite responsibilities. He felt sick for just a moment.
THe solicitor asked, "Are you all right, sir?"
"Of course. Sorry." Wesley swallowed. "What are my immediate tasks, Mr. Sebastian?"
The solicitor rearranged his papers. "Your father left meticulous instructions, Mr. Wyndham-Pryce, so your duties are few. Sign the papers I give you, choose any small mementos from the family home in Kensington, then sell the lot. As he described, er, here. Your percentage will fetch a tidy sum, I'm sure, but the bulk of the estate goes to, er, the Council of Watchers. For library acquisitions."
Wesley expelled a breath which, if the solicitor were feeling charitable, could pass for a chuckle. He supposed he should be grateful he'd even been included in the will, given his father's disappointment with him. His mother-- well, she'd never really bothered, had she. She wouldn't have cared one way or the other. "I assume you have the keys to the house, Mr. Sebastian? I'm afraid I've been gone rather a long time."
The solicitor pursed his lips, then turned to the box containing the Wyndham-Pryce effects. As the man shifted items, Wesley turned his eyes away from the reminder of his first and most lasting failure; he looked at the walls, then idly shifted his gaze to the window overlooking the office hallway. Then he blinked. Eyes must have gone wonky.
He could have sworn that Lilah Morgan, half-smile quirked on red lips, was framed in the office window.
***
The window-blinds clattered down, hitting the sill with a bang. "Sorry. I just felt that perhaps William would be more comfortable this way, even on such a foully rainy morning," Cumberbatch said.
"No worries, Imran," Spike answered. He and Giles took their seats at the conference table and opened their leather folders.
"Good to see that you're ready to work." Cumberbatch was usually much more Cumberbatch-y, Spike thought, then cursed at himself for picking up Buffy-speak. He watched the administrator shuffle through papers, seeming not to see them.
"Are you all right, Imran?" Giles asked.
Cumberbatch sat down heavily in his chair. "Not really." He rubbed at his forehead, then said, "I was just talking to Elizabeth Sheringham, wife to Jack-- he was the British Prophecies specialist."
"I'm acquainted with Jack, yes," Giles said. "Last time I saw him, he was working on something in conjunction with the Thames Fissure." To Spike he added, "Remember Lord Ternis?"
"Yeah, right, you got me the literature." Spike looked down at his files. The Kipling poem about the river was on top, just where Wes had put it. "Wait, I think I'm getting a bloody psychic vision. Our work has to do with the Thames?"
"Yes. Indirectly." Cumberbatch flipped to a page in his own folder, then hesitated. "Giles, William: Jack Sheringham was lost to the river yesterday. At Cadogan Pier. He just disappeared." Spike's eyebrow went up: he remembered sirens, police outside the pier, Wes's "Do you think that has anything to do with Council business?" Points to L.A. Boy, Spike thought.
Cumberbatch was still talking, though. "Before he disappeared, Sheringham had uncovered a set of pre-Roman prophecies that said the Lady who guarded the One-- the ancient name for the spirit inhabiting the Fissure?--would rise at the solstice this month. Or somewhere around there-- Jack hadn't finished restoring the 9th-century transcription of the old words, and it's all rather murky."
"So the Council fears what, exactly?"
"We're not sure, Giles. We need a couple of investigators to patrol the only known opening of the Fissure to check for clues, and I immediately thought of you two: the combination of your knowledge and magic, Giles, and your strength, William, seemed ideal. Of course it didn't seem worthwhile to send you down much before the solstice."
"Yes, we're a fearsome team," Spike said impatiently. "Two questions, though. What do you mean, the 'only known opening'?" And what sodding reason would I have to change my hair, if we're just patrolling?"
"Ah. This is rather special." For the first time, a hint of a smile was found on Cumberbatch's mouth. "Well, William, the Fissure is not directly accessible from our dimension. Or at least, not that we know about. The portal to the Fissure-- wait, I have it here..." And he looked at his files.
Giles whispered to Spike, "The portal to the Fissure? Is that like the vessel with the pestle?"
"The chalice from the Palace? The flagon with the dragon?"
They chortled like overgrown schoolboys, until Cumberbatch cleared his throat. "If you two are quite done. The portal to the Fissure lies somewhere in the underground course of what was once the St. Pancras River, one of the lost tributaries of the Fleet. And the only way to get there"-- here Imran's smile grew positively gleeful-- "is through a small drop at the bottom of the new British Library. You will pose as academics, do a spot of research, then steal your way down to the doorway to Below. Hence, William, you will have to pass unnoticed, as a boring, unstylish, untheatrical professor boffin."
Bugger. William, indeed. Fate and the Council of Watchers could be very cruel.