Waiting on a Friend - Part Six
DISCLAIMER: The Daniel Defoe essay mentioned in this chapter does NOT exist.
NOTES AND SUMMARY: In the last chapter: Spike got all Hamlet about playing William and threw a tantrum to prove it to Buffy; Buffy patrolled badly in Brompton Cemetery, scaring innocent cruising guys and making Wes laugh very hard; Giles said the "w" word, as in his and Anya's Friday party will be to celebrate their wedding. If they get there. This chapter: it's the next day. The boys go to work at last.The flash from the camera almost blinded him.
"Thank you, Dr. Bennet!" the annoyingly soft-spoken librarian said. "Your reader's pass will be ready in a few minutes. If you'd take a seat against the wall--?"
Spike rubbed his eyes behind his spectacles, then half-smiled. So far, so not thrown out into the Euston Road, so not dust. 'Course, this was further horrifying evidence that William the Wanker was all too present under his tweed-overcoated 'disguise'.
He got up and walked over to the row of chairs indicated, where 'Dr. Giles' already lounged. Sitting down next to Rupes, he opened his briefcase, just to check: legal pad, sharpened pencils, a copy of today's *Guardian,* a torch, a thermos which looked like it contained tomato juice but did not. Oh, and a wickedly sharp dagger.
"You got the glamour going on my little toy, Rupert?" he said quietly.
"Yes. And the sword under my coat. Like they're not here at all."
"Not that we'll need 'em. The sharp cutting-slashing things, I mean," Spike said, then pulled out his newspaper. Let's see what the little gits in Parliament are doing about the euro then, he thought, and snapped the paper out so he could read the first page.
Giles chuckled beside him. Pushing his glasses up on his nose, Spike shot a sideways glance. Rupert grinned. "Look at you. And you thought you might not pass!"
Stupid git. Definitely more worried about the ease with which he did. But he doggedly went back to reading his paper.
***
Buffy stared at the pages of small, close type in front of her, and she worried at her bottom lip with her teeth.
See, here's why she hated to argue with Spike: all too often he listened to her. When she'd gotten back at 2 am (after staking three of the seven target vampires in the extremely-embarrassing-to-patrol cemetery), she'd found him in their room printing out this document. "A basic outline, love, of the problem Giles and I will be researching."
"But honey, I trust you now," she'd said. Not that she'd been paying too much attention-- Slayage as usual had revved her system. After she'd changed out of patrol clothes, the sight of Spike in glasses, jeans and nothing else had driven her to sit on his lap and play with his curls, with intent to exceed the speed limit.
He'd pulled her hands away. "No, Buffy. You were right. Although the research is our job, you might have to grapple with the nasties around the fissure once we have more information. So I've written a summary of the initial facts and some conjectures about the threat the wench might pose. You should familiarize yoruself with them while we're off tomorrow, right?"
"Oh my God, Spike. Are you giving me homework?"
He had shrugged those broad shoulders and said, "You're the Slayer, love. I'm the Watcher. I believe this is how the process generally works."
His voice had been much more William-y than Spikish, and she had longed to tease. Still, she didn't want to hurt his feelings more than she'd already done for one night. As a way of biting back her joke, she'd nipped at his bottom lip. "Can I do my reading tomorrow, professor? I'm kinda busy right now."
"You don't listen to a bloody word I say," he'd growled. Then he'd effortlessly flipped her onto her back and slid between her thighs, his jeans rough against her softest skin. Ooh, Buffy thought giddily, the touch the feel of cotton, the fabric of our lives. "I specifically said 'tomorrow', Miss Summers. You know you won't pass the exam unless you pay attention. However shall I punish you so that you'll learn?" His hands had dipped down low--
"Buffy! Buffy, why are you moaning?" Buffy snapped back to the moment. Okay. She was sitting in Giles and Anya's kitchen. And Wes stood in front of her, holding a mug and looking at her quizzically.
"Moaning? No, I was just breathing. No naughty sounds at all." She took a long sip of her tea.
Wesley nodded, clearly unconvinced. "Of course." He sat down at the table. "What's that by your plate?"
Buffy sighed. "Spike wants me to read about the Fissure thingy. In case they find out an apocalypse is near, he said, I should be prepared." She pushed her toast crust around her plate. "What's to prepare-- I'll just kill whatever."
"I should think he'd understand. Isn't he the original king of 'just kill whatever'?" Wesley poured himself a mug of tea, then dashed in milk and sugar with a liberal hand.
"The Big Bad of yore, uh-huh. Spike my soul-boyfriend first quotes history, THEN kills whatever." Buffy stole the sugar-bowl and heaved a cube into her tea. The splash was satisfying.
"Ah," Wesley said wisely. "Watcher. And as we know, All. Watchers. Suck."
Buffy threw a sugar-cube at him, but he ducked. Dawn walked in just as the lump of sucrose skimmed Wes's head, and she pronounced, "Buffy Anne Summers! Mom would be so disappointed in you."
Buffy snorted, and Wes said, "Oh, that reminds me. I have to inspect my parents' house this afternoon-- choose what items I'll take before it's all put up for sale-- and I was wondering if either of you would like to go with me."
Buffy looked at Dawn. Did he just link his parents and disappointment? Dawn came over, gave him a strangling hug around his neck, and said, "I will, I will! I mean, if Anya doesn't need party help or anything." Wesley patted her hands, then yanked on her wrists to off-balance her.
Over Dawn's shriek of laughing outrage, Buffy said, "Anya's in the City, meeting clients for lunch. In case you goofballs care--"
***
She was far too early for lunch, but the maitre d' didn't care; she was a regular. She settled herself in her corner booth and waited for caffeine.
Today she'd be meeting with Linda and Rebecca, whose ex-husbands had not only cheated them out of the lifelong fidelity of marriage but also a goodly chunk of change. Anya had learned of their plights the usual vengeance-demon way; however, she felt that ex-wives's healthy financial portfolios were the best way to stick it to loser bastards. Her amulet never even needed to be touched.
And she had a real man, rather than a loser bastard, she thought. The server brought over her coffee, and at her first taste, she flashed back to that morning. She and Buffy had stood at the front door, saying farewell to their men off to work. Kind of like a situation comedy, except without the overly large couch in the center of the set.
"Let me guess." As he did every morning, Rupert had swirled his tongue inside her mouth, then said, "Mmm. French roast?" Despite his months of practice, the silly man never could tell what kind of coffee she'd had. Years of tea-drinking, maybe? Or more likely, a mere excuse for what he called "snogging."
"Wrong again. Colombian." Then she had gazed up into blue eyes and said, "I hold you to your word, Rupert. No getting into trouble. Back home on time." He'd nodded and kissed her again: not to taste, but to promise.
Buffy meanwhile had grabbed Spike, kissed him hard and long, then said, "You go have a good time, baby. Kill 'em dead."
He caught her around the waist and dipped her, rumbling, "Bloody hell, Buffy, how many times do I have to tell you we're just goin' to the Library!" She'd smacked his shoulder, he'd pretended to drop her, both had laughed-- really, those two were so strange. Nevertheless, it was real love. No loser bastardage here, either.
Anya sipped her coffee again, then folded her hands tightly on her lap. Maybe thinking about faithfulness and love would stop her nerves from screaming, as they had been doing since she'd stood on the Embankment opposite Temple Tube station on her way here. She'd stopped because she'd heard on the radio about two unexplained disappearances from Thames piers in the night. The wind had whipped off the waves, and she'd felt the water surging. Yes, it had fed, but not enough.
Anya wanted Rupert. She couldn't taste her coffee any more.
***
The female figure in the red-sparked cavern growled. She had sent for supplies, and the river had responded. The One had tasted blood, but not enough.
Her head still pounded from the pressure of all those humans in their own dimension: their bodies, their buildings, their bricks ripped from the dust and clay. Their weight grew ever more choking, and the One now coughed out fire and hunger.
It was time. After she put her demons on watch just Above, she would start to call the first wave of pain.
***
Wesley called, "Dawn, come on! We've got to get on with it!"
"It's just for a second!" She turned to glare at him. Then she placed her hand again on the latch of the Cadogan Pier gate. It gleamed wet in the dim afternoon light.
He reached her side. "What do you think you're doing?
Honestly, he could be a dunce. As if talking to an irritating small child, she said, "I thought I'd go look at the pier. 'Cause it's interesting." He silently pointed to the sign indicating that the Pier was only open during taxi-times. Just as silently, she pointed to the boat just docking.
She didn't know why she felt so twitchy, so drawn to the Thames. She'd felt like this ever since she'd gotten up-- a twinge in her joints, a tingle in her fingertips. Kinda creepy, as if the river wanted her for something, although she knew better than to think that inanimate, non-magic objects had what Giles called 'agency'.
The waves did look like they knew what they were doing, though. Dawn stared down at the water curling around the edges of the pier, licking as if it would wash away something nasty. Like a tongue or something.
Two passengers got out of the river-taxi. One was a person whose main thing was that he didn't have a main thing: just emptiness in a trench coat, that's all. The other was a beautiful, well-dressed brunette woman, chillier than the December afternoon.
Dawn could feel Wesley tense up. He found her hand, clasping it tightly. "Dawn, please could we go? I need to get to my parents' house."
She felt suddenly horrible. Wes the orphan had a nasty job ahead of him, she'd volunteered to do the friend thing, and here she was slowing him down. Just because of some stupid twinges and stuff. She swung their joined hands and said, "Sorry, Wesley. Sure, let's go."
He took off almost running toward the Albert Bridge and Oakley Street, never letting go of her hand. Behind them Dawn could hear the woman's dark laughter, carried on a gust of wind. And she could almost swear the woman called, "Have a good day, darling!"
***
It had been a good day so far, Giles thought. Now they really could get to work.
Once given their photo IDs, he and Spike had stowed their magically- blanketed coats and bags in the cloakroom, then gone up the two levels to the Rare Books Room. Spike had been initially jumpy, but they hadn't had a problem at the security desk or anywhere else. Giles thought that was hardly surprising; his friend looked just right as Dr. William Bennet, specialist in 18th-century literature about landscapes. There was only a lingering trace of something uncanny in his eyes, a hint of power in his movements-- enough to draw women's eyes, not enough to create suspicion amongst Library staff.
Giles grinned to himself. He wouldn't tell Buffy about the women's attention. Spike hadn't even noticed, after all. He'd been too busy at Desk #72, reading an early Defoe tract about humans' reworking of the Thames channel. Whenever Giles had looked up from his own book about 19th-century sewer systems, Spike would have his hands plunged into his hair, the glasses nearly slipping off his nose. He was a model reader-- until he'd passed Giles a note: "Wanker, no wonder the bloody river Lady wants to chew up everything. Enough to make a bloke a sodding environmentalist."
"What are you smirking about, mate?" Next to him in the cloakroom queue, Spike fixed Giles with a steel-blue stare.
"Nothing, Will. And you're up." Spike moved to hand the attendant the little plastic tag which identified his belongings. Then it was Giles's turn. This was a potentially tricky moment, if the glamour slipped. The two attendants came back to the long desk then handed back the goods without looking at either of them, completely oblivious to the concealed dagger and sword. Giles silently gave thanks.
The two of them stopped at a convenient table to wrestle on their coats; Giles wanted it noted that it was damn hard to put on a chesterfield with a sword inside. Spike watched the struggle, then said, "Aren't you the magic man, then. Can do spells til Christmas but can't bloody dress yourself."
"Might I say to you, Dr. Bennet-- sod off." Spike muffled his laughter (one didn't laugh too loudly in these halls if one wanted to be inconspicuous), then walked over to a door hidden along a far wall. The door was marked 'Staff'.
Working quickly, Spike picked the lock then ushered Giles inside. They found themselves in an echoing hallway. Giles caught a quick look at his watch-- security change. Voices could be heard around the curve of the corridor, complaining about their tea.
Giles said under his breath, "Here," and he opened a door to a dimly lit concrete staircase. He and Spike nipped in and closed the door; the voices got louder, then passed.
"This is our road, yeah?"
"Think so." They soft-footed it down the stairs, going down four levels until the staircase ended. Spike opened that door into a huge field of cold concrete, crates stacked high all around, books being loaded and unloaded onto lifts built into one wall. Banks of fluorescent lights hummed.
The door to the St. Pancras watercourse would be at the other end of the space. Spike looked at Giles, then prowled around two huge flats of boxes. Giles followed him, squeezing in where Spike had merely slipped. Was he getting fat, he wondered; must watch that, Anya wouldn't like it.
Spike stopped him halfway down the space. "Hell," he mouthed. Then Giles heard what vampire ears had caught first. An alarm was sounding in the distance.
Pounding footsteps echoed down the space, as library staff headed toward the staircase they'd used. "Phew, damn good luck," Spike said, and he started moving again, nearly crawling, toward the end of the giant room. Giles followed as best he could.
They reached the end of their cover-- there was still a good twenty feet of open area. Giles pushed past Spike and said a word to reveal the doorway; blue sparks flew as the outline of their exit glowed.
"Oi, what's that down there?" came a shout.
Giles and Spike looked at each other. "Damn, damn, damn," Giles said, "better go."
"Stop!" several voices called, but he and Spike bolted to the opening and pushed through the door into an earthen space lit oddly by phosphorescence. They threw their weight against the door, shutting it fast, then Giles said "Close." To his dismay, the doorway sparked bright red, and then the flash of magick light disappeared.
No trace of a door remained.
Spike put down the briefcase he still held and folded his arms. "Now, wanker. What the bloody hell did you just do?"
***
Not far away, in the twisted opening of earth which once had been the St. Pancras River, one demon turned to his mate. "Do you hear that? The Lady's calling," he said.
"Intruders. Need to be killed," said the other. Two sets of teeth flashed in the tunnel's gloom.