Spike took Ilona’s offer of the Wolfram and Hart jet. Overall, he felt it was probably easier, given the broken ribs and general discomfort. Besides, Ilona really wasn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer and Spike had been quick to learn that resistance was pretty much useless. At Heathrow, he found she’d even arranged to speed him through customs and had a car waiting for him, complete with liveried driver. He shook his head bemusedly as the driver held open the door of the sleek black Jaguar. Friends in high places – or maybe, given the discreet Wolfram and Hart pin in the driver’s lapel, low places – clearly had its benefits. Although he wasn’t totally convinced there wasn’t a hidden agenda in Ilona’s solicitous concern for his welfare. If she organised everything, then she, and presumably Wolfram and Hart, knew exactly where he was. Still, right now it suited him to be whisked eastwards in comfort. He sat back in the soft leather of the car’s seat with a sigh, watching the old country pass by through windows spangled with the amber of streetlights reflected in rain drops.
Despite himself, he felt a stirring of excitement at being in the old home town again. When they’d talked about coming here, he’d imagined doing the tourist bit, showing Buffy some of the city, some of his old haunts – if any of them still existed – maybe take her to the theatre, a club. And now… He frowned at himself. Will you get a grip? Last thing he needed right now was to get maudlin. Needed to focus. Needed to face up to… Bugger. Not nearly ready.
Partly to combat his suspicions about Wolfram and Hart and partly because it would delay the inevitable, Spike asked to be dropped at the nearest underground station when the driver asked for an address. To give the man credit, he seemed completely unruffled by the request – and by Spike asking him for a few quid for the fare. Spike stood on the pavement and watched the car pull away and disappear into the night. Maybe he’d misjudged Ilona.
He rode the underground with the late night revellers, re-familiarizing himself with the names of the stations, following the comfortingly regular coloured lines of the map on the opposite wall. They’d built new stations since he was last here with Dru – whole new lines. What the hell was a Canary Wharf anyway? But rattling along on the District Line, nothing had changed. The scents were the same – the smell of ozone and age-old dirt, of too much humanity in too small a space, anger and frustration mixed with the late night smell of alcohol and perfume and the drunk in the corner’s spilt take-away. A pair of girls, slightly the worse for drink, giggled behind their hands and threw him flirtatious glances. He winced. It had always been good hunting down here in the old days with Dru. Things really hadn’t changed. His thoughts were interrupted as the train lurched to a halt at a station. Sloane Square. His stop. The two girls looked distinctly disappointed as he got down from the train.
He wandered along the Kings Road, disconcerted by its unfamiliarity, bemused by the expensive designer shops that had replaced the shabby boutiques of…hell, forty years ago. Even so, he was surprised at the strength of the memories. He and Dru had come here during Dru’s hippy phase. She’s fitted in real well back then, with everyone stoned out of their minds half the time, and there had been easy pickings amidst the free love and the even freer use of pot. He caught a reflection of someone in a shop window – a girl, strolling confidently along the almost deserted street, hair in a swinging black bob. A sudden searing flash of memory hit him, of another girl with a smooth black bob, sobbing and pleading for her life as he and Dru… He swallowed down the bile in his throat, gritted his teeth and strode on. Maybe coming home wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
Just off the Kings Road was a warren of elegant terraces, their layout still familiar, but very much smarter than they had been. He walked rapidly, scanning the street names, finding the one he wanted in an area of smaller, narrower streets. Now, number 13 - he grinned - naturally. And there it was; a tall, slightly shabby house with an understated dark green front door. He climbed the flight of stone steps, took a deep breath and pressed the bell.
“Have you any idea what time…” The door opened suddenly on a clearly angry watcher. “Oh. It’s you.” Giles frowned unhappily.
“Lovely to see you too, mate.” Spike grinned “Now, you gonna invite me in or what?”
******
The room was just so Giles, more like a comfortable gentlemen’s club than an actual home. Walls lined with bookcases full of dusty volumes, piles of papers and parchments on every available surface, curios everywhere. Spike was stunned to see a shiny new computer sitting in the midst of it all, until he looked closer and saw the film of dust over monitor and keyboard.
“Nice place.” He prowled around the room, picking up and putting down objects and books. “Next time you play the penniless librarian card, remind me to laugh in your face.”
“Well, it’s not... it belongs to the Council. Residence for the Council Head and… ah, that would be me. Look…” Giles caught a falling Egyptian statuette that Spike had rearranged and placed too close to the edge of a shelf. “Spike…it’s really rather late…”
Spike snorted. “It’s barely midnight.”
“Yes, well, maybe.” A crystal ball fell to the floor with a muffled thump. “Spike!” Giles moved to stand in front of Spike and held up his hands. “Please. Sit down.”
Spike shrugged and sat on the worn leather sofa. “Where are the girls?”
“Buffy and Dawn? Asleep.”
“Are they OK?”
“They’re fine. Buffy’s fine." He reconsidered. “Dawn is somewhat distressed, but hiding it well.”
“And Buffy still has no memory?”
“Of you? It would appear not.”
“And I’m sure you’re breaking your heart over that.” Spike snorted. “Where’s Willow?”
“She’s with the coven, in Westbury. Dawn called her earlier today. Naturally, she’s concerned. She’ll be here tomorrow morning.”
Dawn called her? Spike looked at Giles with a frown. Why didn’t you call her as soon as you knew? He rubbed his eyes wearily and decided to let it go.
“What happened to you?” Giles gestured to the bruises on Spike’s face.
“Had a bit of a run in with the git who fucked with Buffy’s memory. Turns out he wasn’t open to reason.”
“Reason? This would be the fists and fangs school of reason, I imagine?” Giles gave an exasperated sigh. “I suppose you just launched yourself into the fray? Do you ever think first?”
“Oh, you know me,” Spike leaned back on the sofa and gave Giles a needling grin.
“Yes. I think I probably do.”
“Well, maybe that’s your problem – you think too much.” Spike’s grin faded. “You don’t know me, watcher.” He sat forward suddenly, and frowned as Giles leaned back abruptly. A tingle of annoyance ran through him. “For God’s sake, I don’t bite - well, not any more.”
Giles looked at him levelly. “I know all I need to know. You’re a vampire. What more do I need to know?”
“And you’re a watcher, which means you’ve got the right to sit in judgment, then, have you Ripper?” Spike smiled grimly as Giles winced. “Yeah, I know a little about you, too.” He leaned back. “And naturally you had the right to help Principal Woodentop try and off me.”
Giles hesitated. “I… had my reasons.”
“Buffy being the reasons, naturally.”
“Your relationship with Buffy was… was becoming a problem…”
“Buffy didn’t think so.”
“She refused to see it, and so did you. Angel left her because he realized how harmful their relationship was. You, on the other hand...”
“I’m not Angel. What if I had left her? What if I’d been like Angel and not been with her at the end?”
“That’s not the point. Besides, she sent Angel away.”
“She kept me close!”
“She…” Giles removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing wearily. “Look, Spike, I’m tired, you’re overwrought. There’s little point to this. I think it’s best we leave it for now.”
“Overwrought? What the hell do I have to do…?” He shrugged and bit down hard on his anger. “Like you say, no bloody point.” He went to stand. “I’ll find a place to stay. Catch up with you tomorrow, when Red gets in.”
“Stay here.” Giles’ voice was tight, the offer reluctant.
“Oh, yeah, right.” Spike snorted. “Thanks for the invite, but…”
“Dawn was insistent.” Giles sighed. “I mean…” he relented “you’re welcome to stay here, of course you are. It’s just we… ah… only have the one room left… bit of a full house, you see.”
Spike considered and shrugged. “Whatever – don’t mind where I lay my head.”
“It’s just this room – well, it’s… ah…” Giles gave an embarrassed cough.
“Let me guess.” Spike raised an eyebrow. “Basement, right?”
“Ah… well, yes. It’s quite comfortable, really. And nowhere near a Hellmouth, so we won’t be risking your delicate sanity.”
“Chains?”
“What?”
“Any chains?”
“No, of course not.”
“OK.” Spike frowned in thought. “Best if I stay out of the way tomorrow – out of Buffy’s way at least.”
“I think that’s wise.” Giles nodded in agreement. “Buffy feels she is here at my request, to help with the new Council. I thought of taking her over to meet some of the new Watchers tomorrow. I’ll leave Andrew here. Damn boy is just about exploding with the effort of keeping quiet about all of this. You’ll have some company.”
“Oh, cheers.” Spike grimaced.
“You’re welcome. Let’s discuss things when Willow arrives. We can think about where to go from there.”
Spike nodded curtly and stood up. “Show the cellar-dweller to his room then. It does have a minibar, I assume?”
“Ah… not exactly.”
“Right.” Spike picked up a bottle of decent-looking brandy sitting on a table by the door and hid it under his duster. “So, I suppose room service is out of the question, then?”
“You’re getting a room. Service is not included.” Giles lead Spike through the kitchen and opened a door. “Down there.”
Spike glanced down the stairs. “Home from home.”
“There’s a door in the far wall that opens into the yard, should you need it.” Giles stood aside to let Spike past. “Have you… ah… everything you need?”
“Perfect host, aren’t we?” Spike looked around the cellar, shaking his head.
“You have no luggage?”
“Kind of got left behind, what with one thing and another.”
“Then you have no pyjamas. Oh.” Giles was obviously struggling. “Well, I suppose…”
“Never wear them. Your flannels are safe from contamination.” He took the brandy from under his duster and showed it to Giles. “Have everything I need. Chin chin.” He uncorked the tear-shaped bottle and raised it to his lips.
“That is a very fine Courvoisier Imperial, not cheap rubbing alcohol!” Giles spluttered.
“Not half bad, for all that.” Spike looked at the bottle appreciatively, and then held it out to Giles. “Care for a swig? Go on, let your hair down. Unfreeze that stiff upper lip of yours. You might even enjoy it.”
Giles looked at him coldly. “Goodnight, Spike.” He closed the kitchen door behind him.
Spike sighed and re-corked the cognac. He sat down on the camp bed and looked around at the bare, whitewashed walls and worn concrete floor. Someone, he had to assume Dawn, had put a colourful rug on the floor and a small vase of cheerful yellow tulips on a table next to the bed. He smiled and reached out to touch a soft petal. Yellow tulips. He gave a short laugh. Of course, Dawn was hardly likely to know the Victorian language of flowers, but “hopeless love” was an unlucky choice. His smile faded. Somehow, he was beginning to get the feeling that things weren’t going to be as straightforward as he’d hoped. But then, when it came to Buffy, when were they ever? He stood up and wandered over to the door to the yard, opened it and took a deep breath of the cool night air rich with a thousand scents, familiar and unfamiliar, homely and exotic. He glanced back at the cot, then up at the moon breaking through the clouds. Closing the door behind him quietly, he let himself into the yard, climbed the high brick wall and disappeared into the night.
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