Waiting on a Friend - Part Four

 

DISCLAIMER: In this chapter Spike quotes from Rudyard Kipling's 'The River's Tale'.
NOTES AND SUMMARY: When last we left our heroes: extremely exuberant Spike had interrupted Buffy's brooding, Wes and Giles' deep conversation, Anya's work, and Dawn's sleep, in that order. Buffy met icky Mr. Elton, her would-be temporary Watcher; Wes saw Lilah Morgan at his solicitor's office; Giles and Spike learned about their special assignment. Geography Fact of the Day: There really are hidden and/or no longer extant rivers in London, such as the Fleet and the Westbourne. The St. Pancras River, however, is fictional.

The Thames looked angry, its rough water slapping black against grey walls. It felt wrong.

A vengeance demon could sense that kind of wrongness, Anya thought. When a person or place or thing craved retribution, it was as if every vein in her body tuned to the call. Throbbed to it.

She turned away from the window framing her million-pound view of bare-branched trees against the river, and she looked at her warm and cozy home office. Bloomberg information flickered on one computer screen, a data-feed from the Liffe on another. The fax machine hummed, a nice accompaniment to the bass of the Ministry of Sound Ibiza collection playing on the stereo. Chill-out music, they called it.

She preferred the stock-market to the beat of vengeance these days. She much preferred being with Rupert to either.

Anya walked over to the stereo, her fingers brushing over the CD jacket on top. Rupert had given her this after they'd had one of their rare fights, a few weeks ago. What tunes should the DJ play at their big party? Giles had been insistent that there be what he called 'proper music', which apparently required real guitars and a minimum of drum machines; she personally couldn't tell much difference between the synthesized and not. Besides, she liked to dance, and he was even sexier than usual when he danced to an un-proper song. They had argued about it for a whole afternoon, then he'd disappeared right at tea-time. When he'd come back, he'd spilled a stack of dance-music and electronica CDs out of the Virgin Megastore bag and said, "Dance with me always, Anyanka."

Of course he'd won the argument. She'd won him.

Impatiently Anya wiped away unsought tears. He was a wonderful man, her Rupert. She shouldn't be crying, just because he worried her so with his Watcher duties and being mortal and because she was anxious about Friday and everything. Just because she kept hearing Spike's joking "Hullo, Mum" in her head and wondered what it'd be like to hear it for real from a small Giles. Just because the river was wrong.

"Anya? Are you all right?" Dawn stood in the doorway.

"Hello, Dawn. Yes, I'm fine. I assume you've recovered from your trip and from yelling at everyone this morning?"

Dawn half-smiled. "I guess I went a little overboard."

"If by 'overboard' you mean you were screaming like a herd of wild Ciner demons were after you, yes." Anya cleared off a spot on the office sofa. "Come on in."

Dawn entered and sat down. Anya cuddled into her desk chair and idly checked the Bloomberg: good, the Dow had opened strong. Then she turned to face Dawn. "I have to apologize for last night."

Dawn's mouth dropped open. "You have to--"

"Apologize. It's customary when you make a mistake," Anya clarified. "I shouldn't have shouted at Buffy just because she had stolen the sweater I had clearly claimed as the one I was going to buy. Of course I don't mean 'steal' in the same sense as when you took all the merchandise from the Magic Box."

"You're apologizing." Dawn seemed to have had a bump on the head or something, the way she kept repeating words. Maybe the screaming had damaged her brain.

"Yes. I embarrassed you and put you in the middle, and that wasn't right."

Dawn came over and took Anya's hands. "I've never heard you-- did Giles say something to you?"

"No, I figured it out on my own." Anya paused. "Why, did you think Rupert needed to say something to me?"

Dawn sat on the floor, looking up at her, still holding her hands. "No, oh no. Giles never corrects you, does he? It's just you never came out with that stuff when you were with, um, in Sunnydale. You know."

"With Xander? You can say his name. And I'd meant to tell you-- I understand why you're still on his side, since you had a crush on him even after the one the monks gave you. And since I'm a demon again--"

"No, Anya! I'm not on his side! Don't you know I thought he acted like a big jerk to you?" Dawn protested. "And I didn't have a crush on him. Much. Once I was real, you know? See, then I moved on to something much worse, really." She paused, then confessed in a rush, "Anya, I now judge all guys by Spike and Giles and Wes and it's awful."

Anya squeezed Dawn's hands in sympathy. "Oh dear. Yes, I see that would be a problem. Loving and able to commit, smart, funny, ruggedly handsome, and I know that at least Giles and Spike are superb lovers... there are very few men like them, and I would think no other vampires. Such a standard drastically reduces your dating pool." Dawn nodded, and Anya said, "You poor girl. That settles it. I'm taking you to lunch, then buying you something."

As she helped Dawn to her feet, her guest said, "You know what, Anya? I think I love London."

"I'm so glad," Anya said. But she cast a glance back at the window and her million-pound view of the river, and shuddered.

***

"It's not that I'm not glad for the work," Buffy said for the tenth time. Giles and Spike exchanged glances but didn't interrupt. There was no point: she'd been ranting since she burst into Giles's office. "But honestly, who's the Slayer here?"

"You are, love," Spike said, also for the tenth time. He examined the pencil in his hand, then cast an eye up at the ceiling. Giles knew exactly what the git was thinking, so he leaned over the desk and took the damn thing away. He bloody well didn't need Spike poking holes in his acoustic tile.

"Yes, okay. I'm the most experienced Slayer ever, so who do they give me as a Watcher? Some idiot who couldn't understand field strategy if it introduced itself politely. And I don't need a Watcher for something so simple, anyway. 'As many as seven vampires,' puh-leeze." Buffy stopped her pacing in order to straighten an already straight picture. "Besides, he gave me the wig. He looked just like a beetle."

"Which one?" Giles and Spike said in unison, then snickered in unison. Oh dear Lord, Giles thought, we ARE spending too much time together... although it'll be helpful tomorrow, once we're... oh, focus. At Buffy's cough, he collected himself and said, "I'm sorry, dear. You're quite right, Elton wouldn't be my first, second, or indeed fiftieth choice. The Council is paying you, however, and keeping records on your successes. It's just that we're a bit understaffed right now, what with the new moon Thursday and the werewolf uprising in the Dordogne; I've had to send all available field agents there. And Cumberbatch said Elton, er, volunteered."

"Well, there has to be another option. Think, Giles, think hard. I'm a second away from going on strike or something."

There was a knock on the office door, and Wesley appeared on the threshold. Giles thought he looked dreadfully pale and shaky-- must have had a nasty surprise at the solicitor's. "In, Wesley, come in."

"Hullo, all. Are you ready for lunch, or do you have more Council business to attend to?" Wesley tried to smile, failed pathetically, then perched himself on a table holding manuals for new field-Watchers.

"Council business later, lunch first. A Scotch egg would go down a treat," Spike said. He cocked his head, assessing Wesley, then grinned. "You know, Giles, if an organization is understaffed, seems like out-sourcing a job to a former employee would be a logical choice."

Wesley looked puzzled. Buffy said, "Scotch egg? Out-sourcing? Honey, you're babbling."

Giles felt a matching grin spread across his own face. "No, Buffy, Spike just notices that fairly close by we have an experienced demon-fighter and report-writer with time on his hands. Don't we, Wes?" .

***

"I appreciate your taking the time," Lilah Morgan said. She pushed her hair back out of her eyes; the wind was gusting out here on Embankment Pier, and it disarranged even her tightly controlled waves. "I'll need your input on the likeliest hot spots for demonic activity-- if you could just mark the dangerous areas in the river as we go."

The Bruxit demon nodded. It pulled its hat further down over the jagged ears which distinguished it from the humans passing by, then muttered, "I can feel the disturbance."

Lilah shrugged. If this demon completed the sentence with "disturbance in the Force, Luke," she was going home to Los Angeles, where she knew all the crazies already.

The Bruxit trailed off, rumbling, and she turned her eyes to the river. It looked evil-- fluidly violent, dark, powerful-- and she should know. The precise nature and degree of the evil was her task now, however, so she could report back to Wolfram and Hart and they could massage their insurance needs and client list. If London was going to have rising water and demons, W&H certainly would need to increase their security holdings.

Lilah put a gloved hand on the rope railing and grasped hard. The resulting creak made her smile. Even with the wind and cold, she rather enjoyed London. And she'd wanted to take a break from the stalled Angel project. The fact that her sources had told her that Wesley Wyndham-Pryce had journeyed to the city of his birth, in company with the Sunnydale Slayer and yet another tediously souled vampire of the Line of Aurelius, had played a part in her volunteering for the mission, too.

He'd looked so funny when he'd caught sight of her in that dusty solicitor's office where she'd tracked him. Those beautiful blue eyes had gone cloudy then sharp, and his brow had furrowed. She'd seen that expression before-- when he had been concentrating on her body and pleasure, a thrust and a twist just right, his hands braceleting hers. Not that she'd laughed at that first moment.

She did laugh now, and the Bruxit demon growled at her. "Sorry," she said. But she wasn't sorry at all, not about the laugh, not about this morning. Wesley had almost fallen off his chair in his haste to find her, and she had waited for him. "Hi there."

"Lilah?" he'd asked. A rough edge caught in that smooth voice.

"Yes, Wesley," she'd said. "I just wanted to wish you a happy stay in London. Give me a call before Saturday, if you'd like." And she'd handed him a card with her Basil Street Hotel room number. Before he could say anything, she'd walked away. She still could feel his eyes on her. Cold blue eyes, making her oddly warm to the bone.

Engine noise pulled her out of her reverie. She checked her watch: Thames Speedy Taxis certainly appeared to value punctuality. The river-taxi she'd booked chugged up to the pier and docked.

A burly river-man held out his hand for their tickets. She surrendered them to him, looking at his name-tag as she did. "Here you go, Mr. Kemp." It always paid to know who served you. In case you had to eliminate them later.

***

"All right, here we go," Buffy said. She took a sip of her sparkling water, then folded her arms. "I know I've been distracted, but I'm ready now. Tell me everything about your new assignment."

Giles, craven bastard, got up. "Excuse me, I think I need more salt for my, er, sandwich," he threw over his shoulder as he hurried away through the crowded Bloomsbury pub.

Spike took a pull on his pint. Here we go indeed, he thought. Okay then, full-type disclosure. "Giles and I have a simple investigation to do, love. Tomorrow we go to the British Library and read, then get to a buried river underneath the Library, then sniff 'round for any information about the vile wench who guards the Thames Fissure and who's feelin' a bit rise-from-Below-ish. We learn what's the what, and bob's your uncle."

Buffy looked at him. He grinned. There, he'd given her a nice precis of their plan, leaving out such irrelevant details as the terror of returning-to-his-William-roots, and he dared her to bloody complain about it. No, wait-- "Spike. First of all, I have no idea what 'bob's your uncle' means, no matter how often you say it. Second, that list of activities seems way too uncomplicated for you and Giles. Third, so why did you have to change your hair?"

Wesley, whose fingers had been playing with some card for ten sodding minutes, piped up, "Well, the bleach-helmet was rather conspicuous, Buffy." He flicked a glance at Spike and said, "Of course he'll have to change his whole manner, not just his clothes and hair, if he wants to fit in without Library security dogging his every step."

"Well, yeah," Spike said. "From there it's merely research and recon, love."

Rupert came back with a fistful of napkins-- lame, really lame. And people said HE was bad at planning. "Are we all squared away, then?"

"No. I want you to explain it to me, Giles. Spike sort of left out all the critical details." Buffy had her I-am-the-Slayer-obey-me face, which never boded well for Spike. He sighed and had another gulp of bitter.

Giles sat down, then took a pull at his own drink. "Right. Tomorrow morning Spike and I, posing as academics, go to the British Library, where, Buffy, we actually have to do research to be convincing. At security shift-change, late afternoon, we manage to sneak down to the lowest level, where we find the door to what was once the St. Pancras River."

"Part of the system which fed into the Fleet?" Wesley inquired.

"Yes. The riverbed is buried, but from the Library there's a drop to a tunnel along its course. From there I'll assess where the Portal to the Fissure is located. We'll also look for other signs of recent or impending activity-- magick traces, for instance--"

"Or bodies." At Wesley's quiet addition, Buffy froze. Damn the git, Spike thought, see if I ever put him in the way of extra cash at Christmas-time again.

Giles apparently shared the thought, judging from the alpha-Watcher stare he shot Wes. "Perhaps bodies, yes. We're also hoping there are unassimilated demons in the tunnel; they might know more about the Lady and any trouble she's planning for the Solstice."

"You keep saying 'the Lady'. Lady who?"

"Guardian of the power inhabiting the Fissure. I assume the story and name's probably Druidic in origin," Giles said.

Spike couldn't let that go. "Oh no, Rupert, the story's much more likely Germanic." At Giles's affronted stare, he continued, "I'm thinking of Grendel's mother here. Consider the Kipling poem: 'But I'll have you know that these waters of mine were once a branch of the River Rhine, when hundreds of miles to the East I went and England was joined to the Continent'. Who better to guard a dimensional rip aeons old than a nasty mother-figure? Originally Germanic, I'm sure."

"Well, it's a lovely theory, Spike, but it's far more likely that 'Lady' comes from a Druidic assertion about a feminine source of power, located in the London--"

"Germanic. Put a fiver on it."

"Done, you stupid pillock, and I look forward to a couple of pints on your money." They shook hands on the wager.

Buffy whimpered softly at Spike's side. "Oh please please please, stop being so twinny and Watchery. Just promise me you won't get hurt."

Spike took her hand and raised it to his lips. "Love, I can only promise you that we won't take any unnecessary chances." He kissed the palm of her hand, then moved to her ear to whisper, "I love you. Rupes loves Anya. We're not fools, and we'll be wanting to come home to you every second, all right? No bloody river-thing's going to keep us away, my Queen."

***

Almost home. Full of good food and carrying a bag from Whistles, Anya and Dawn reached the corner of Royal Hospital Road and Flood Street. While they waited for the traffic to pass, Dawn swung up on a lamp-post to get a clearer glimpse of the Thames. "Wow, Anya, you and Giles live in such a cool place. Is it romantic, you two being so close to the river?"

Anya tried to see through Dawn's eyes. The Albert Bridge gleamed pink in the dim afternoon light, and a river-taxi bumped along in the choppy waters, heading toward Chelsea Harbour. Not so bad-- then a blast of wind powered off the waves, and Anya pulled her coat tighter around her throat. "Sometimes, Dawnie. Sometimes." When the river didn't scream so loud, she silently added.

Oh how she wanted Giles and the others safe at home.

 

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