Swings and Roundabouts
Chapter Eleven
A week passed, and Spike found that he wasn’t any closer to making a decision about what to do.
He sat back against the wooden steps of the porch, and flicked away his half-smoked cigarette. Occasionally swigging from his beer bottle, he watched as the tip of the cigarette glowed red in the darkness then burned into ashes.
It was a clear night, cool and crisp, the early January air refreshing. Too much light from the city prevented him from seeing the stars in the sky, but it comforted him to know that they were there, even if they weren’t visible. Dru had always liked the stars, and in the last months of her life it had been a treat to go outside to try to see them, a break from the monotony of her hospital room.
Spike stood up and began to pace at the sudden melancholy at the memory of Drusilla. He’d barely thought of her in the last few weeks—months, even. Hadn’t even been back to the cemetery, now within easy driving distance of the house, to visit her grave.
There was a strange kind of guilt bubbling inside of him at the thought, but he pushed it away. Tried not to notice it, because running parallel alongside it was a sort of pride that he’d finally allowed himself to move on.
Except... now his focus was on Buffy. He’d always been a stupid git, ruled by his heart, and now here was the proof: he’d come halfway around the world in the hope that a girl he’d had a one-night-stand with would want to see him again.
Fate, kismet, he didn’t think he believed in such things. But he was here now, in L.A., and he had an address, a place to find her, to see if that connection they’d had—that connection that had been burning inside of him for the last three and a half years—still existed.
He set down his beer bottle on the porch step, stretched, and looked at the starless sky once more before going into the house. He started his new job in the morning, and would need a good night’s rest.
***
The first day at his new job was more like a game of show and tell than actual work. Here’s your shiny new office, there’s where you’ll meet with all the important bigwigs. His boss was a slippery snake of a man, named Snyder, who took great pleasure in informing Spike that the band he was going to be working with had only been signed because of their ‘potential’ and not any real talent. The implication was clear: Spike, as the new boy, had been assigned the least favourable band and would have to work doubly hard to promote their music and arrange gigs.
Spike told himself to reserve judgement until he’d actually met with the band and heard them perform, but it already seemed like he’d been handed the short straw.
After that, his first week was quite laid back; the first meeting with the band wasn’t until the following Tuesday, and so he spent his office hours getting to know the ins and outs of the company and avoiding Harmony, the blonde secretary who clearly wanted to get to know his ins and outs.
“Morning Mr. Giles!” Her chirpy voice was enough to put him off the cup of coffee he’d picked up on the way into the office.
“Harmony.” He nodded to her in greeting before turning back to his desk and pretending to type something on the computer.
“Anything I can do for you, Mr. Giles?”
“Not right now,” Spike said, trying not to roll his eyes.
“All righty, then!” She turned to leave, sending him a flirtatious smile from beneath batted eyelashes. “I’ll just be out here. At my desk. All. Day. Long.”
“Excellent news,” he replied, sarcasm heavy in his voice. “I’m sure Mr. Snyder will be very pleased to know you have such dedication to the job. Not leaving your desk for anything? That’s impressive.”
Confusion spread across her face before her perma-smile was back in place and she backed from the room, closing the door behind her with a wink.
Spike sighed and stopped pretending to type, looking instead through the paperwork left unfinished by his predecessor.
***
Spike shook the bassist's hand with a smile. There was something vaguely familiar about the guy, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
The rest of the band was introduced and Spike cleared his throat to make his own introduction. “Well as you already know, the name's officially William Giles. If you call me William, though, I'll think you're my dad, so it's just Will, or Spike. Lived here, in L.A., a few years ago but I've only just moved back from England.”
“My wife’s a Will,” the bassist—Oz—put in. “Short for Willow. So I'll stick with Spike.” He paused. “Less confusion.”
“Weird nickname, man,” the lead singer said.
Spike smiled wryly. “So I've been told.”
Meeting over half an hour later, the bizarrely named Dingoes Ate My Baby left his office, with Spike promising to attend one of their practice sessions the following week.
The rest of the day went surprisingly well, Spike thought. Snyder had led him to believe that the band were useless ruffians, with no hope of ever going any further than a school assembly hall. On the contrary, they seemed dedicated, put together, and interested in what Spike had to say, as well as in his ideas for promoting the band and getting them gigs at the more popular venues in the city.
He returned home with a smile on his face, relieved that his decision to return to Los Angeles had seemingly been the right one.
Claire was diligently doing her homework when he got in. He eyed her with suspicion. “Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?”
She rolled her eyes. “What, doing my homework is a crime now?”
“Course not. Just didn’t expect to come home and see you all studious-like.”
“It’s interesting,” she said. “And the teacher’s really cool.”
Spike shrugged. He wasn’t going to discourage her from doing her work after all. He ruffled her hair and smiled when she batted his hand away with a frown. “Glad you’re settling in okay.” He narrowed his eyes. “You are, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Dad.”
He sensed her exasperation and smiled. “Good. Spag bol all right for dinner?”
She nodded, her gaze already focused on her book, and he left the room without disturbing her further.
***
Oz picked out several notes on his guitar, pausing before scribbling them down on a piece of paper. The new song was coming along well, and he wanted it done before the new manager listened in on practice the following week.
He was so intent on the music, the sudden touch on his shoulder made him jump. He turned to see Willow standing behind him, smiling a little guiltily.
“Sorry,” she said and set her bag down on the floor next to his chair, before moving around and perching on its arm. “How’d the big meeting go? Gonna get all famous on me now?”
“Doubtful,” Oz replied. “But with Spike’s help, we might actually make it out of Devon’s garage.”
“With whose help?”
“Spike. The new manager.”
“Your new manager’s name is Spike?”
“Yep.”
“Oh.” She paused for a moment. “That’s not really a common name, is it?”
“For a dog, maybe.” Oz shrugged.
“But not for a person.” Willow stood, her hands fluttering nervously in front of her. “Oh God, oh God! Oz, what are we going to do?”
“About what?”
“Spike!”
“We have to do something about Spike?” Oz frowned, wondering when his wife had gone crazy.
“Yes!” Willow sat down abruptly on the coffee table in front of him. “Unless he’s American! Or… or French. Or Canadian!” She grinned. “Or hey, maybe even French-Canadian! Just please tell me he’s not British.”
“As British as the Beatles.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Willow.” Oz put his hands on hers to stop her jittery movements. “What’s all this about?”
“Buffy, and Spike, and the fact that your new manager is quite possibly the one night stand that messed with her head four years ago, and you know what that means, Oz? It means that your new manager is Grace’s dad!” Her words spilled out in a single breath.
“Huh.”
-TBC-
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Once again, thank you so much for the reviews and comments to this fic. This is where I run out of chapters - I have the next one half-written so I hope I can keep up with regular updates. I'll keep you posted, though, at my livejournal. Thanks to Sotia for beta reading!
Chapter End Notes:
Thanks for reading, please let me know what you thought in a review!