High Fidelity - an Interlude

This short adjunct to the Giles and Spike Collection takes place between Parts 13 and 14 of "Fortress Around Your Heart," and it won’t make a bit of sense if you haven’t read that fic. If you read it yonks ago and need a brief recap of Part 13: on that December 2007 night of prophecy, Wes and Dawn declared their love, Spike (post-temporary dusting, having come back with, shall we say, a temporary gift) and Buffy renewed their vows with a nice round of comfort-sex, and Giles and Anya made up their fight in the traditional manner.

This fic: Just over two months after Part 13 ...Wesley’s already unusual stag night doesn’t go quite as planned. Comedy, adventure, a dollop of schmoop for dessert. You know the drill.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: May blessings rain down on Elvis Costello and Nick Hornby.

RATING: PG-13ish.

DEDICATION: To my LJ friends, who understand what madness prompted this, um, madness in an AU we all thought was finished, and to Lesley because drinking in Chelsea is fun, if irrelevant to this story.

 

THE VERY END OF FEBRUARY, 2008. LONDON.

The lights of London glittered on both sides of the Thames. Trains roared across the bridge into and out of Charing Cross Station; not too far down the river, cars and foot-traffic streamed across Waterloo Bridge. Despite the cold winter wind, here the South Bank was crowded with late theatre-goers and night people, the chatter of voices and the clatter of feet echoing off concrete and stone.

Even in the midst of the noise and humanity, a group of well-dressed males outside the National Theatre complex stood out. This was only in part because of the hyper-animated platinum-and-honey blond gesturing emphatically toward another member of his group who was throwing the last drops of a can of Stella Artois down his throat.

Spike said a little too loudly, "I’m telling you it’s Number One, always and forever."

Swaying a little, Darren Cunningham turned to give him a two-fingered salute and a bellowed "That’s the kind of bollocks I’d expect from a Man U supporter! It’s ‘Pump It Up,’ mate!" before plunging into the crowd headed toward Waterloo.

Spike turned to his other companions. "Never mind Dazza. Am I right or am I right? ‘Every Day I Write the Book’ has to be Number One on the Elvis Costello Early Years Top Ten."

"Why ask me? You bloody well know I rank it first, for sentimental reasons," Giles said. He took one last drag on his cigarette before crushing it out on the stones of the Queen’s Walk. "Anyone possibly have any gum?"

Spike dug into a pocket of his grey duster and pulled out a stick of sugar-free Wintermint for him, saying, "Don’t think that’s going to fool your wife, tosser. Anyanka can smell your stolen fags a mile away, and the sprog in the oven just makes her more sensitive. I predict vengeance fireworks tonight over Cheyne Walk."

"Thank you for the gum, Will. Now sod off."

"Actually, I thought we were going to the Demon Rum-runner for a round before last call? Wouldn’t you be better served to save the gum until after that?" Imran Cumberbatch said mildly.

"Right, Imran, good thinking." Giles stowed it in the pocket of his black leather jacket, and then gestured toward the Thames. "Shall we cross the river?"

Spike threw his arm around the fourth member of their party. "Yeah, best hurry. Jez is strict – he’ll observe last call to the second. And it bloody well is last call for one of us, ain’t it, Wes? Crossing the Rubicon, old boy."

Wesley smiled at Spike. "So, just to clarify...are you suggesting that my marrying Dawn is the equivalent of closing time at the demon pub, or of the frontier between Italy and Gaul?"

Vampire strength almost, but not quite, throttled him. "Listen, Pomp and Circumstance, don’t try to annoy me any more than you already have. I’m still stunned, sodding stunned, at what you’ve made us endure for your stag night."

"But the groom is having a good time with his mates, Will, and that’s what’s important," Wes said, smile cracking into a grin. He crossed through shadows as he began to walk west toward the Royal Festival Hall, and perforce Spike, Giles, and Imran had to follow.

"Personally I’d put this at least at Number Three for the Worst Idea for Stag Night Ever," Giles said when he caught up. "Making us sit through ‘the Scottish play’? Christ, Wesley. Even if it’s a bit of a hardship having happily married men as your friends–"

"Whose wives are bloody scary–" Spike interposed.

"Er, whose wives have freely and frankly expressed their views regarding their husbands going to strip clubs – even so, what was wrong with my suggestion?"

"First, I really wanted to see this production, and Dawn wouldn’t go," Wes said for the fifteenth time. "Second, you’re the only one who likes to gamble, Giles. I’d say that puts a Mayfair casino quite a bit higher on the Worst list than my choice."

"Hey, I like to gamble too!" Spike said. He pushed Wes past a knot of elegant women just out of the music rooms, then nodded grandly to them. As usual, the mere inclination of Spike’s head caused female hormones to overflow; the women broke into a flutter of giggles and sighs, which as usual he ignored. "‘Sides, we could have had a proper drink or three while the old man fondled the dice."

"Poker’s my game, you stupid git," Giles said with a companionable shove. "And you tossed back two gin-and-tonics during the bloody interval."

"Plus another after the show," Imran contributed. They all turned to look at him, and he shrugged. "Not that I was counting, mind."

"Administrator," Spike drawled.

"Field agent," Imran said sweetly.

"Hang on, hang on." Wes grabbed them both by the collar and pulled them to a stop. "Do you hear something?"

Clearly visible in the white lights strung along the Walk, the demeanor of all four Watchers changed: narrowed eyes, hands to weapons hidden in coats, stilled bodies ready to explode for action. And they all did hear it.

Someone – or something – on the Hungerford Footbridge just ahead of them was screaming. It was an inhuman, unearthly sound, one that reverberated across stone, steel, and water.

The second scream was a woman’s. That was all too human.

***

"Oh, that’s so pretty!" Dawn squealed. She ran a finger over the little bit of soft silk nothing, marvelling at the tracery of lace, then leaned over the coffee table to hug Willow. "It’s the perfect wedding gift. Much better than a setting of china."

Willow returned the hug, grinning. "We thought you’d like it."

"And we suspected your man would too," Camille said.

"I do, I do, and boy, he will. Isn’t this gorgeous?" Dawn held up the night-slip, smiling around at the assemblage. Having Willow and her girlfriend visit for the wedding was so great, she thought, but more important, it also put a useful couple of bodies between the other two females closest to her. A pregnant Slayer and a pregnant vengeance demon who didn’t get along that well at the best of times could be mighty uncomfortable company.

At least there had been no hint of bloodshed so far on this family hen night. Buffy huddled in the corner of Anya and Giles’s couch, pillow clutched in front of her; apparently Slayers were prone to evening rather than morning sickness, as her barely touched crackers and ginger ale confirmed. Swallowing a groan, she managed to say, "It’s cute as cute can be, Dawnie. But when will you use it?"

Willow and Camille looked at Dawn, who shrugged. It wasn’t her fault if Buffy hadn’t yet accepted the idea of her younger sister having sex; the power of Summers denial could explain away any number of otherwise unmistakable noises from Wesley’s loft. "I’m thinking the honeymoon would be nice," she said, rolling her eyes.

Buffy merely whimpered and sank deeper into the cushions.

From the other corner of the couch Anya said, "Not only is the gown pretty, but it’s a good investment. You should get a lot of years out of it, since I suspect it won’t stay on very long at any given time. That’s the way silk nightwear works for me, anyhow."

"Do you have to talk about that?" Buffy snapped.

"About what? Amortising the cost of lingerie, or my sex life with Rupert?" Leaning across Dawn, Anya beamed at Buffy. "Which, even after six years, gets better all the time. Why, just last night he got out the –"

"Stop it, sweetie. You’re just trying to irritate her," Dawn whispered in her ear.

"I’m not, actually," Anya whispered back, but she settled back into her own seat without finishing her story. "Gosh, pregnancy seems to make me hungry all the time now. Willow, could you please pass me an eclair?"

"Oh you have no idea how gladly," Willow said, diving for the plate full of Patisserie Valerie pastries. She put one on a plate and handed it across the table, then went back for one of her own. "These are really blissfully tummy-yummy. You guys always told me how great the goodies were at this shop, but really...it’s like, well...." She dipped a finger into the filling and came up with a swirl of chocolate and cream.

At the sight of the sugary cocoa concoction, Buffy went a very interesting shade of green. "Gack," she mumbled before pressing the cushion over her face.

"Don’t throw up on Rupert’s and my soft furnishings," Anya commanded. "Do you need a bowl? Or perhaps a bucket?"

And Dawn said desperately, "Gee, I wonder what the guys are doing right about now?"

***

The four Watchers pounded up the steps to the east side of the Hungerford Footbridge. A train zoomed by toward Charing Cross on the railway bridge running parallel to it, only a few yards away. Giles could feel the wind from its passing on his face.

Somewhere near the middle of the span, in the half-light between two of the white metal pylons, a woman struggled to escape what looked like tentacles reaching from below. Long waving appendages snaked up, wrapped around her ankle and neck. It was she who screeched in human voice for help, for God, for anybody.

The thing holding her, wherever its heart was, screamed in quite another tone.

Pedestrians fled away from her in either direction, running through fluorescent light to the safety of the dim shores, keeping to the middle of the walkway. Keeping away from the edges where tentacles might creep out and catch.

"Anybody got ideas about what that is?" Spike said as they climbed.

"Entik demon. Not this dimension," Giles and Wes gasped at the same time.

The Watchers made it onto the bridge, where without warning a homeless man stumbled from the shadows of the shadows. "Help me," he said, scrabbling at Imran’s coat sleeve. "My mate, he was took--"

A quick nod was enough to make Wes and Imran drop behind to talk to the ragged, weeping man, while Giles and Spike ran toward the woman. She was slowly being pulled backward over the chrome railings into the black underneath. Tentacles reflected dully green where the overhead lights hit them.

"Entik blood burns," Giles panted. "Careful when you cut."

"Right." Spike pulled a wickedly curved knife out of an inner pocket of his duster. "Does it grow the sodding things back?"

"Not this demon, no." Giles managed a laugh as he reached for his own weapon. For a heartbeat he thought longingly of his swords left at home, but knew he’d have to make do with a Spanish dagger. Pity swords weren’t in fashion for theatre-going any more, would have been handy.

Spike sprinted ahead, duster flying.

The woman – blonde, lycra-encased, with ripped multi-coloured tights – was barely holding on. One stiletto dug in as she fought off the pull of the demon. She wasn’t screaming any more. Probably couldn’t breathe.

Spike went for the demon-green wrapped around the woman’s neck first. With a slide and a twist, he managed to grab then snap back the tentacle. His knife-edge sliced through next, spattering blue-green acid to hiss against the concrete-white.

One breath, and the woman resumed her screams, babbled cries for help that rang above the inhuman ululation coming from below.

Giles fell to his knees, biting back a curse at the impact of kneecaps on bridge. His dagger sliced through the top layer of scales on the clawed arms around her ankles. The demon skin rippled at the wound, the demon cry rose to a deafening level, but the tentacles slapped away from her body. "Come on," he shouted, one hand going to hers and pulling her away from the clutch of the demon.

"Who the bleedin’ hell – fuckin’ monsters everywhere," the woman got out, then took off running as fast as high heels would allow, toward the South Bank.

The tentacles slapped aimlessly again, the creature’s drops of blood biting away chrome as well as concrete, then withdrew to the underside of the railway bridge. The demon-screams stopped. As far as Giles could tell, the Entik’s body – which according to his recollection should be over ten feet long of ropy muscle, to which were attached the six equally long appendages – hovered there. They’d merely wounded it. Likely made it mad into the bargain.

When he looked over at Spike, he had to groan. "No wonder the poor woman ran. Put away the game-face, you wanker."

"Oh bloody hell, I had no idea," Spike said, shifting back to his human guise. "Explains the plural of ‘monsters’, though. Did wonder."

"You showed your fangs to the woman you rescued?" That was Imran’s annoyed-administrator voice, carrying over the sound of a train rumbling by. He and Wes walked up to join the other two, and Wes helped Giles get back to his feet.

"I said I had no idea. Sorry."

"It was the third gin-and-tonic clouding your judgement, I suspect." With a resigned sigh, Imran got his mobile out of his overcoat. "I should call Scotland Yard."

"Just because I sported a bit of tooth and forehead?" Spike demanded.

Imran didn’t answer; he paced away, phone to ear, already asking for Commander Marks. Wes stepped in, saying, "No, because the man sleeping rough back there said that he saw two Entik demons under the bridge. The other one got one of his friends. Public safety problem requiring the Yard, of course." He looked over at the railway bridge, then added, "Oh dear. Do you see that?"

Giles turned. Underneath the metal siding, a wave of demon-green undulated towards Charing Cross. Tentacles brushed over the darkened sides and empty space, almost touching the footbridge but not quite, before retracting. "At least one of them’s on the move. These are flesh-eaters, obviously; we have to stop it before it gets too close to the station."

"Right then." Spike twirled his knife, a momentary dazzle in the white lights from above and below. "Shall we?"

Without waiting for an answer, he leapt onto the chrome railing. Blond hair and grey leather shone for just a second as he balanced, then negative-flashed into dimness as he slid down onto the white cylinder connecting the footbridge to the rail bridge. Sure-footed as a big cat, he paced along the link until he reached the stone and steel of the other side. In two beats he was on the bridge itself. "What are you gits waiting for?" he called.

"A plan, you pillock!" Giles shouted back. Then he sighed. "Oh, all right. I’m coming."

"Here, let me go first," Wesley said.

"Sorry, Wes, you’re not going anywhere." Giles shouldered him out of the way, moved himself toward the railing –

Until he was spun around. Wes looked determined and annoyed in equal measure. "What do you mean, I’m not going?"

"Wesley, old son, you’re getting married in two days. I’m your best man. It would be against all rules and regulations for the job to let you risk yourself in this fashion, even if I weren’t just a little afraid of what Dawn would say."

"If I might remind you, you took on the Wolf of the Deep two days before your wedding."

Giles didn’t have bloody time for this – he needed to get to the rail bridge, get the job done. Spike’s prowl on the dangerous outside ledge indicated it was a matter of moments before the idiot vampire started hacking away on his own. He said firmly, "That was an accident. Completely different thing. And you’re not going."

"It’s not different–"

"It is. Stay. You and Imran can try to figure out how the Entiks got out of their dimension."

One of said demons was rippling ever closer to the station; Giles could see its tentacles reaching up toward the train tracks, brushing against the sides. Once at the railing he prepared to hoist himself up, but Wesley said, "As you said yourself, don’t you need a plan? Or backup, for that matter? Prudence suggests that you and Spike need more help."

Giles had had enough of discussion. He turned back to Wesley, shooting him a deep-furrowed frown. Then, lifing his hands, he centred himself then incanted, "‘Bind fast, keep safe.’" A shining rope of energy wrapped around Wes’s chest, pinning his arms to his body.

He looked down at his magic strait-jacket, then vainly struggled to get free. "Giles, what the hell–"

"Come on, old man!" Spike shouted.

"Oh, wait." Frown easing, Giles chanted, "‘Should danger come, binds loosen.’" There, that should do it.... How interesting. He wouldn’t have thought Wes knew most of those curses. For instance, when had he learned idiomatic Arashmaharr? And why the sodding hell could he do better than Giles with that tricky ‘ng’ consonant combination?

However, no time to inquire. With another heavy sigh, Giles lifted himself onto the top of the railing and conjured a rope to lash to one of the metal bridge supports. With the rope held taut, he (far less gracefully than Spike) began to cross the narrow link to the other side. The footing was treacherous, the dampness from the river below causing his dress-shoes to slip a couple of times on the painted metal. Wind was rising.

There was a nasty tentacle edging toward him, too – dull green in the dimness outside the lights.

From above him Spike intoned in manner Shakespearian, "‘Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow....creeps in this petty pace day by day....’"

"Shut. Up. Will," Giles managed, before a strong vampire hand came down to grab his collar and pull him up to the bridge. He brought the rope along, too.

There was a rumble, a shudder in the metal – either a train or the demon –

Just as a train coming from the station blew by, Imran clicked off his phone. At least he’d informed Helen Marks of their problem; she could take care of the access difficulties and red tape. He turned from the vista of St. Paul’s at night to the tableau of Giles and Spike clinging to the outside of the rail bridge. "Good Lord! What on earth do they think they’re doing?"

"They haven’t the faintest idea," Wesley said, voice chilled and soft.

Imran did a double-take: somehow when he was concentrating on his phone call, he’d missed the part where Wes had been bound by magic. "Er... did Giles...."

"Yes, Giles did," Wes said. "He thought he was being helpful, apparently. Hah."

Looking back at the other bridge, Imran saw the other two disappear into darkness. Just visible in the spillover of light from the footbridge, two tentacles crept up into the darkness after them. From the South Bank end came another ululant cry, the sound of a demon seeking solace – or its mate, perhaps.

At the sight and sound, Wesley said, "That’s quite enough. Imran, could you get my mobile out of my coat pocket? I think it’s out of the range of the magic binding, but I can’t move my arms."

It only took a second to extract the mobile, and Imran clicked it on. Seemed to work well enough. "What now?"

"If you could hit Four on the speed-dial, and then hold the phone up for me...."

Imran did so, then waited with Wesley. Wind was rising, river-smells wafting up. There was something else there too, something not readily identifiable. Alien blood, perhaps, to match the low keening from the creature moving toward Charing Cross – toward Giles and Spike. He thought he heard another slap of tentacle, a slither of scales, coming from the South Bank as well.

And then Wesley spoke into the phone. "Hello, Anyanka dear? It’s me, Wesley. Yes....I thought you might want to know what your husband is doing right now."

***

Buffy felt marginally better, in the sense that she no longer wanted to throw up the four sips of ginger ale and three crumbs of saltine she’d managed to keep down. For the moment, anyway; Slayer-hormones made this pregnancy thing so extreme. She also felt marginally worse, since she’d been pampered so thoroughly that it felt as if she were smothering in womanly compassion. She couldn’t handle them. Couldn’t handle herself.

Camille had taken away the evil pastries so she wouldn’t have to look at them, and Willow had very nicely rubbed her temples and possibly done some healing thing, and Anya ... well, Anya had been at least quiet until now, when she’d gotten up to answer the phone.

It must have been a trick of the evening sickness, Buffy thought, that made Anya look all vengeance and veins even from the back. The steel-trap of that voice, however, confirmed the impression. "Rupert and Will are doing what?"

Oh God, the guys were in danger again; Anya wouldn’t be using that tone if they were just making an unapproved visit to some revue bar. Really, she thought, those two shouldn’t be let out of the house together, at any time, for any reason whatsoever.

Buffy struggled to push herself to a sitting position. Getting up would be the first step before going to rescue her darling jerk of a ... oh God. Her head swimming, she fell back against the cushions.

Willow and Camille looked at each other, then Willow took Buffy’s hand. "Now, don’t get excited, it’s probably nothing," she said.

Anya turned so that Buffy could see her face. Yep, she’d certainly gotten her demon on. "Wesley, no – no, don’t tell me any more, it’ll just make me angrier. I’ll be there as fast as I can. You said the eastern footbridge, right? Fine. Be there right away with reinforcements."

She slammed down the receiver, took a breath and went back to human face, then said, "Where’s Dawn?"

"She went to get a glass of – " Camille began, but broke off as the younger Summers in question appeared, carrying an all-too-wide-awake little girl on her back.

"You guys, look who I found wandering in the kitchen." Dawn petted Lizzie’s hand, the one currently almost strangling her.

"Elizabeth Ann Giles. Are you taking advantage of Nanny’s night off again?" her mother said, in a very, very firm voice.

"Sorry, Mummy. I wanted, um....I wanted to be down here." Lizzie slid off Dawn’s back and ran to Anya. "My stomach got twisty, and it all felt wrong and I was scared."

Buffy, still trying to sit up without getting sick, could relate.

Anya bent to kiss her daughter, then said, "I understand, sweetheart. But you shouldn’t have gotten up."

"I know, but it’s not nice up there. I don’t want to go back to bed yet," Lizzie said, clinging to her mother’s legs.

"All right. You may stay here with Aunt Buffy and Willow and Camille, if you promise to be very, very good," Anya said. "Auntie Dawn and I have an errand to run, but we’ll be right back."

"Wait a second, I can go," Buffy began, before having to clutch the pillow to her belly again. Nausea slapped her down harder than the worry and fear. God, she felt totally out of control – unable to manage her own body, her own feelings, her own husband....

"If Entik demons were best Slayed by your vomiting on them or possibly fainting on their tentacles, certainly you could lead the charge. As it is, Dawn and I can check on the men." Anya’s voice softened, just a little. "I’ll make sure Will is safe."

"Um, what did I miss?" Dawn asked.

"Out-of-towner demons on the Thames, and stupid, stupid husbands. Your betrothed seems to be behaving sensibly enough, however. But we should hurry." Anya kissed Lizzie again, told her to join Buffy and the others on the couch, and then grabbed Dawn’s hand.

Lizzie’s bounding across the room and jumping onto the sofa made Buffy’s stomach turn, so much so that she almost missed Willow’s "Do you need me to go too? I could help with any magics needed."

Holding Anya back, Dawn inclined her head toward Lizzie, who was snuggling against Buffy’s side. "Um, actually we need a person who has your gifts here to watch the little one. You know?"

Willow looked at Buffy, who pulled herself together enough to mouth over the little girl’s head, "She can teleport. Not supposed to, but can."

Anya added briskly, "Oh, and Camille? Even if Lizzie asks politely, don’t tell her what ‘wish’ is in Spanish. We don’t want any untoward incidents." Then she and Dawn did something that Buffy couldn’t quite figure out, hadn’t been able to in all this time; they disappeared in a surge of energy.

Giles and Anya’s living room went all quiet ... until Camille said, "Willow, querida, I apologise for ever calling Xander and Faith strange. Now that I’ve met the rest of your extended family, I think for all of you people, strange is normal."

‘Normal.’ Buffy shuddered, fighting back another wave of weakness, and clutched her cushion more tightly. She had learned to hate the word that had used to be her touchstone.

Right now she wanted her errant Spike home. And she wanted him to know exactly what she was feeling.

***

The rail bridge shuddered under their feet again. Unfortunately, Spike didn’t hear a train. Had to be the Entik, hopefully only the one.

With a hand to the old man’s back, Spike urged Giles forward along the tiny ledge on the outside of the bridge. They were very near the Embankment; they’d agreed that it would be useful to trap the creature there, although they hadn’t the faintest idea how they’d do that. A quick glance also showed a nice collection of panda cars, lights flashing but sans sirens, on aforementioned Embankment. "So, Rupes, where d’you reckon this ranks on the list of Most Idiotic Things We’ve Ever Done?"

"High, very high. Top Five at least."

"Probably should have waited to formulate a plan, I suppose."

"Oh, now you consider that. Well done." But the Giles-sarcasm was automatic. Spike could see that Dad was thinking hard, scanning that database of a brain for...something. He was worrying the rope he’d conjured between his hands, as if the harder he rubbed at the interwoven strands of magic, the sooner he’d figure out the connection.

From underneath the bridge came another of those demon-cries. Spike tried to find the right word for it: not quite a howl, not quite...mournful? No, that wasn’t it. Then he heard a tentacle slap behind them. Looking back into city-night darkness, he could just make out the shine of scales heading their way.

"Careful," he whispered. "It’s coming."

Not waiting for Giles, Spike turned, leapt, and sliced through the tentacle. Acid-blood spit from the wound, but he managed to jump back in time. There was another Entik-moan, one that echoed off the waves below, and then the creature slunk back down.

"That sound. It means something specific," Giles said thoughtfully as he got out one of his innumerable handkerchiefs and gave it to Spike to wipe his hands. "It’s...."

But it didn’t matter what it was, because at that moment a much more familiar, piercing, and worrying voice hit them. "Where is he, Wesley, and what the hell do they think they’re doing?"

"Oh dear Lord. Anyanka," Giles said. He and Spike both grabbed hold of a conveniently placed support rail, and then turned around. Yes indeed, Mrs. Giles stood with Imran on the footbridge, glaring up at them: her hands on her hips, her jaw set, and even from this distance, the distinct flicker of veins. Dawn was there too; she was kissing poor old Wes over those magic bindings, though, so not an immediate threat to male relatives caught in the act of what the women would consider reckless endangerment.

Spike didn’t see Buffy, which, while very very good in the not-being-immediately-staked-by-angry-hormonally-overcharged-wife way, was bad in another. She’d been having terrible evening sickness, poor love; he swallowed an icy ball of guilt at enjoying himself so much while his Queen was miserable.

And maybe he actually shouldn’t have had that third gin-and-tonic, vampire capacity notwithstanding. Felt rather peculiar all of a sudden.

Apparently the emotion Giles was feeling was not guilt at all, much less nausea. In a ringing, self-righteous tone: "I bloody don’t believe it. Wes grassed! He grassed on me!"

"Looks like it. Wesley Wyndham-Nark, eh?"

"See if I give him the case of Scotch I bought for his wedding present," Giles said darkly.

"Well, you can always pass it along to me, Rupes." Even as Spike said it, he pressed a hand to his stomach. While ordinarily the old man’s taste in single-malt couldn’t be faulted, at the moment the very thought made him queasy. He closed his eyes for a second, only a second.

When he opened them, Giles was gone – falling, a tentacle whipping round and hurling him off the rail bridge. Scales scratched metal from below, the bridge shook, and Spike had to dance to avoid another tentacle catching his own ankle. His stomach churned again.

Oh sodding hell, he thought.

When Giles felt the painful grip of alien muscles around his leg, he had just enough time for him to throw one end of his rope blindly at the footbridge railing and say "Hold fast." The rope caught, knotted itself on the chrome. He plummeted down below the footbridge – his wife crying out his name as he fell – but snapped back before he hit the Thames or one of the concrete supports.

Hurt his shoulders and hands like a bugger, but he was okay.

Then the rope was yanked upward, not by magic but by human strength, and he found himself being dragged onto the concrete-white by Imran and Dawn. "Thanks. I think," he gasped.

From underneath the rail bridge came once more that horrible demon-cry. While on his knees he struggled for breath, its keening nagged at him. It was important, it was ... oh, he remembered now. He knew what to do.

Wesley was shouting at Spike, "Jump, Will! Over here!"

"Give us a second!" Spike shouted back. "Just a bit busy dodging bloody demon arms. Damn grabby thing."

Giles felt the slide of his wife’s hands over his back, a swift caress before she jerked him to his feet. There was a brief anger-and-chocolate-flavoured kiss, after which came the lash of her voice: "Rupert, what the hell were you thinking?"

"Er, Will jumped onto the bridge, hunting the demons, and I thought he needed backup –"

"Oh, did you? If he jumped off the bridge, would you follow him then too?"

"Possibly. If it were part of the mission. After all, I’ve still got your charm, haven’t I?" He kissed her again, then said, "Never mind, darling, you can shout at me later. I figured out the problem."

He turned, just as Spike leaped over the edge of the rail bridge and seemingly without effort swam through air and the waves of demon-lament.

With a crash of knees and a clatter of falling knife, Spike landed on the footbridge. Clutching his stomach, he said, "What the bloody hell was in those drinks? I feel terrible."

"Buffy feels sick. Maybe she’s projecting her feelings to you, since she can’t be here in person to bitch," Dawn said sweetly.

Spike tilted his head up at his sister-in-law and surveyed her falsely innocent smile, which widened under his scrutiny. She moved back against still tied-up Wesley, whose eyes were trained on the rail bridge.

In the shadows between bridges, the border-space between havens, the two Entiks intertwined until it wasn’t clear there were two at all. Six appendages reached, as if yearning, toward the human/vampire/vengeance-demon population.

Giles said, "Sorry to interrupt, but I know what those demons want...besides a post-theatre snack, I mean. Can’t believe I didn’t figure it out before."

"Obviously they want to go home," his wife said. "Can’t you hear them crying? They got lost somehow. They don’t want to be here."

"Like slipping through a crack in a foundation," Dawn agreed. "I can feel the instability."

"Of course, they killed that homeless man and tried to kill others," Wes said quietly. "Does that warrant our dispensing rough justice? Or do we send them home?"

For the space of several heartbeats, London noise faded away. There was only the lapping of the Thames below, the whisper of the wind, the ululation of the out of place.

Dawn finally spoke. "So where do we send them, exactly? I’ll open a portal if you show me where."

Imran, who hadn’t spoken earlier, waved the PDA he’d pulled out of his coat and said, "According to my notes, the coordinates would be here." He showed Dawn the hand-held, and she took only a second to look at it before she nodded.

Giles took that opportunity to move to Wesley and release him from the bonds. As the gleam of magic dissipated into the night, the two exchanged frowns and then grins. "Serves you right, you know," Wes said.

"Oh it’s not over yet, old son," Giles said.

Wes raised his eyebrows: that was fairly ominous, he thought. However, his attention was distracted by Dawn clutching his hand. He bent his head to hear her soft "I think I’m going to need everyone for this."

With Dawn as close to the centre as they could get, they all linked hands: Imran, Spike, Dawn, Wes, Giles, Anya. Wes could feel the hum of magic all around, even though he himself wasn’t gifted that way. She could pull it out of even him, he thought with a private smile.

"Everybody concentrate," she said. Wesley obediently closed his eyes and breathed in. A jolt of power from Giles and Anya on the one side of him almost made him lose control, but he regained focus with an effort. Dawn was the still point for him, he knew, and he gave everything he had to her.

"Raise hands, chest-high," she said.

Like the undulation of the tidal waves below, the six of them lifted hands high. A slice of blue – a door opening on the horizontal, rather than the vertical – sparked between the rail bridge and the footbridge.

With tentacles furled and one last doubled, mournful cry, the Entik demons sprung from the bridge into the portal. Their lament echoed even after Dawn let go of the others and erased the sparks.

And then the lights at the tip of the pylon under which they stood went mad, a flashing of white too intense to look at. It was like a sunburst at midnight – until all every light in the vicinity went out. They stood in a pool of darkness.

"Okay, come on, so who did that?" Dawn demanded.

No one had. Or admitted to it, at least.

When the members of his boisterous family began to argue about what had happened and who was responsible for what, Wes stood quiet, his arm around Dawn’s waist. The stress was beginning to catch up with him, and it was all he could do not to start shivering. At least it could be put down to the chilly February wind off the river, he thought.

Of course Dawn noticed the almost imperceptible shudders. "Are you all right, sweetheart?"

"Yes, dear, I am." He smiled at her through the dark. And he was, he really was. Underneath. His arm tightened around her.

Giles, seeing the exchange, with one hand stopped the disagreement between Imran and Spike regarding Watcher policy on gameface and civilian contact. He said, "I suspect we all should be on our way. Shall we go?"

"Yes indeed. Although we’ve certainly missed last call," Imran said before stumbling on a realisation. He looked at his watch, then yelped, "‘Call’ – I was supposed to call Rosemary half an hour ago! Oh dear oh dear oh dear."

"You’d better go on home," Wesley said, grinning. "Thank you for joining us for my stag night, Imran."

"I wouldn’t have missed it for the world." That Cumberbatch warmth was there in the brief handshake he gave Wes, the smile he bestowed on the rest of the group. Then with a panicked White-Rabbit scuttle (Wes thought, mentally begging Anyanka’s pardon for the image) Imran took off running toward the Embankment and the first black cab he could find.

The rest of the group followed more sedately into the better-lit part of the bridge. As they walked, Spike began to rub his stomach. "Now that the excitement’s died down, must confess that I feel like hell. Sodding hell."

"I told you, Buffy was feeling sick. Bet you a thousand pounds that there’s some marital projection going on," Dawn said.

"Classic. Just bloody classic," Spike muttered. He did look rather queasy.

"Speaking of marital things... Rupert, have I indicated just how badly you behaved tonight?" Anya reached around with the hand he wasn’t holding and smacked his shoulder. "Wes told me that you and Will went off after those demons without a plan in the world. Complete reckless idiocy."

"You said all that already!" Giles protested. "And also, Anyanka, that hurt."

"I’ll keep saying it until you demonstrate your understanding that the mission must be balanced with good sense."

"Fine, fine. I understand that I behaved recklessly. I did mention at the time...but no one listens to me. Fine. However, might I also note that the only reason Wesley wasn’t with us on the bridge was because I stopped him from going? Not because he thought it was a bad idea."

Wes had a sudden sinking feeling that Giles was about to get him into deep, deep trouble – and yes, Dawn went rigid under the weight of his arm and said, "Say that again, please?"

Giles sent that wise, paternal, annoying smile of his in Dawn’s direction. "It’s just that although Wes has claimed the moral high ground in grassing on us –" oh no, he should have paid more attention to the hint of Ripper in that smooth voice earlier, Wes thought –"the only reason he wasn’t madly plunging into danger was because I stopped him. He had no more hesitation about the bad judgement than either Will or I did."

"Yet he tattled on us, regardless. Unfair, I’d say," Spike put in.

Wes could feel the bite of two females’ sharpest gazes. "Well, I did tell them that it wasn’t clever without a plan...." he began, but trailed off when it was perfectly clear that no words of his would do any good. His betrothed was not pleased.

The group was almost to the staircase down to the Embankment; it was very bright here, too bright. Wes idly noted that Commander Marks of the Yard was dispersing the uniformed police presence below. Wind was really blowing off the water, too. Chillier here.

And Dawn stepped away from him, saying, "Anya, would you mind if I stayed the night in your guest room?"

"Of course we don’t mind," Anya said. She moved away from Giles, ignoring his protest, and threaded her arm through Dawn’s. "Shall we be off?"

"Yes, let’s. Good night, Spike, Giles. Wesley, I’ll talk to you tomorrow when I’m less irritated," Dawn said.

He said nothing, because he couldn’t figure out how it had gone so terribly wrong in such a very short time.

"‘Night, Will and Wes. Rupert, I’ll see you at home," Anya said, then squeaked when Giles reached out and dragged her back against him for a kiss. Wes averted his eyes in time – gift of many years’ practice with those two – but looked back when he heard her exclaim, "Oh good grief! You smoked a cigarette at some point this evening, which you know isn’t --"

"See you at home, darling," Giles said, taking a strategic step back.

With a flair Wes would have admired at any other time, Dawn and Anya disappeared. That left just the three men of the family staring at each other under the streetlights.

"Why did you tell Dawn that, Giles?" Wes burst out. "Honestly, if Imran hadn’t already left, I’d be asking him to be best man instead of you."

"Told you it wasn’t over, mate. You want to play with the big boys, you take the consequences of your actions." But Giles threw a companionable arm around his shoulder, softening the harshness of the words.

Spike fell into place on Wesley’s other side. "Bit’s not that mad, anyhow," he said with all the wisdom of a brother-in-law and an old married vampire. "Just teaching you a lesson or some such."

"Besides, what bloody good’s a stag night if you don’t irritate your women in the process?" Giles said.

As they clattered down the steps to Embankment Place, Wes admitted that this was a point well taken. "And at least we have the comforting knowledge that we didn’t actually do anything wrong. No debauchery, no drunkenness...except for Will..."

"Hey. This damn queasiness isn’t the sodding drink; this is my wife’s revenge," Spike said.

"Ah yes, angry wives and wives-to-be. You know, lads, I have an idea that I think will help us all. Tell you on the way home." Giles pulled them both to the kerb, and then raised his hand imperatively. "Taxi!"

***

Dawn looked around the softly lit guest bedroom in the Cheyne Walk house, and sighed. It was probably better that she stay here tonight as well as tomorrow, anyway. Tradition – well, that is, tradition outside her family – suggested that sleeping with one’s groom before the wedding wasn’t done.

But she wanted him, damn it, even if he’d made her mad.

One more time she petted the silk slip that Willow and Camille had given her; it flowed through her hands like water. No use wearing it now, of course. Clicking off the bedside light, she slid into the lavender-scented sheets. They were too cool without a warm body next to her. The lavender scent wasn’t refreshing without those accompanying notes of woodsmoke and sex. Without Wes.

She punched the pillow a couple of times, then buried her face in it. The goose-down fluffed so deep around her ears that she almost didn’t hear the dulcet tones of her ringing mobile.

She smiled into the dark when she saw the number of her caller. And she said, "Hello, Wesley."

"Dawn." His voice was so soft that she almost couldn’t hear it, so warm that she threw off the covers. "Are you still angry?"

"A little. Not too much."

"Good." There was all the relief in the world there, she thought.

"I said ‘a little,’ though, mister. Don’t get cocky."

"Yes, of course. Perfectly understandable, I behaved like an idiot." She could actually hear his smile. Then that soft voice dropped down into the range that made her toes curl. "Would you like to know why I called?"

"I assumed it was to apologise for being an idiot." She stretched, letting cool air flow over her. Sheets wrapped around her legs, and she sunk further into the bed. "Was there something else, honey?"

"Mmm. I wanted to tell you the Top Five reasons I love you, Dawn. Number Five...."

***

"Number Four. The way you kick the baddies, either the roundhouse or the lovely high one. That snap of your leg, the grace of it just mesmerises me, Buffy-love."

Enthroned in their bed, cosy under the comforter, she snuggled back against Spike. He was rubbing her stomach in long, slow circles; she still had nausea-waves rippling over her, but it amused her to no end that he had taken on her pain even after she stopped projecting it to him. She hoped he now felt as loved and warm as she did. Or maybe not: "The Number Four reason you love me is because of a Slayer-move? Seriously?"

"Well, I...right, bad choice. Let me try another. Um...."

She rolled her head against one of his encircling arms, giggling against his skin. "It’s not like you to stumble like that, William."

"I blame the churning in my gut. Thank you for that, pet."

"Oh you did it to me first, what with our magic miracle child cooking away and everything. So shut up."

His mouth brushed against her hair in response. His arms tightened, and she slid her hands to cover his forearms where they rested. And she waited. After a moment of sweet silence, she said, "Well? What’s the new Number Four?"

"Told me to shut up, Buffy. I always do what you tell me."

"William. Proceed."

He laughed, a rumble in his chest that soothed her more than the hypnotic movement of his hands did. "Number Four is that queenly tone you get when you’re angry. It’s a bloody wonder of the world, love."

She turned her head just enough to kiss his shoulder. And she said, "Much better. Now, Number Three, and Number Two, and – "

***

"Rupert, could you repeat that?" Anya moaned. "I couldn’t quite hear you...oh God, that’s nice... hear you with your mouth full of my breast."

After one last swirl of his tongue, which threatened to send her over the edge again already, Giles said, "Number Two, my darling, is because you always challenge me, keep me on my toes." His smile, a flash in their candlelit bedroom, was rather wolfish, she thought. "Now let me work."

This apology session was going extremely well, she thought.

Using the bedframe, he slowly pulled himself up over her, but he didn’t settle in quite yet. No, he kissed her again – she could still taste that unapproved cigarette, but she couldn’t quite formulate her rightful complaint, what with the dizziness and impending orgasm. When he released her mouth, she whispered, "So what’s Number One?"

"I could tell you the Number One reason I love you, Anyanka, but I rather think I’ll show you instead," he said. Producing a feather from out of nowhere, he trailed it up her inner thighs –

And just before she lost all capacity for thought, Anya decided that despite the male bad behaviour, Wesley’s stag night had been a stunning success.

 

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