"Air Freight, Insured" Giles/Spike, PG-13
Title: Air Freight, Insured
Pairing: Giles/Spike
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 3000ish
Summary: Giles and Spike last parted company on less than good terms. Stubborn Englishmen continue their glacial rate of change. Absense makes the heart grow fonder?
Notes: Continuation of my Giles/Spike arc last seen in "Cuppa." Begins with events dating from "Storyteller" as requested, and spans the next 16 months. Many thanks to kagyakusha for her ever valuable arse-kicking tech beta, and to roseargent for her "incredibly nitpicky" tech and character beta work, research, and insistence on me making Giles all he can be when I'd otherwise have been too uncertain to whip him into shape and make him his fully Gilesian self. Without her, this would have been much shorter, lacking a title, and not nearly as much fun.



"Look, mate--" Spike stopped, shook his head as if to clear it, and visibly changed tracks. "Rupert--I just want to set some things right with us, yeah? We've got a lot of past between us, don't we? And all? And yeah, not all of it's good." Spike paused, patted himself down as if looking for his cigarettes, flicked a glance at his duster draped over the bed, stopped, flexed his fingers, folded his arms over his chest, then unfolded them, and adopted a casual leaning pose against the washing machine.

Study in Laundromat Punk.

"Right, so most of it's actually bad, but -- we got close a few times, didn't we?" Spike grimaced. "Maybe closer than you wanted, and I'm sorry, all right? Know it doesn't make it better. Know it doesn't change anything--not that stupid. Know you maybe deserve a lot more than an apology from me--but I figure it was more of a two-way-street for the both of us. Least you haven't actively tried for dusting me, hey? Cheers. Thanks for that, mate."

"Thing is, and I know this don't excuse anything, but I figured I was lonely. You were lonely. Know you fancied me--could smell that pourin' off you like nothing else. Guess I didn't know-" Spike stopped again, muttered under his breath, and faced the camera more steadily, "didn't care," he amended, "that wanting to shag and willing to shag ain't always the same thing for humans. And I get it--I get you were angry--you are angry. I don't blame you after what I did to you--not even starting on what I did to her. Knew that was too much even without a soul. So I've said my sorry. Don't know what else I can do."

Spike looked away, clean fingernails drumming restlessly on the washer, and when his gaze flicked back, there was a hint of the old Spike there. "Good toy--this camera. Thought about showing you what you missed out on. Got enough tape. Would you've liked that, Rupert?" He nodded his head back to the bunk. "Me pulling this off, and that off, runnin' my hands over me an' trying not to let your name out loud enough for the girls upstairs to hear? Could do. Would've done once." Restless hands were jammed back into Spike's pockets, the posture slumping his shoulders, diminishing him. "Maybe I will--some day when I'm not feelin' so ... Victorian, yeah? Maybe by then things'll be better and it'll be good--" Spike stopped then, completely and abruptly, then stomped forward, his chest filling the view of the camera, voice distorted by proximity to the microphone. "Sodding bloody buggering hell. God. Be better off quoting fucking poetry to him. Thanks for not killing me, mate! Hey--how about a free porn sh-" The camera snapped off in mid-sarcasm, and the television screen bathed Giles's face in blue, leeching natural colour from his skin and leaving him pale and haggard.

"It took more than me to kill you." Giles felt the first nagging heaviness of guilt pulling him to the bottle of scotch in his open suitcase and cursed when the jangling tones of the Liberty Bell March interrupted his plans mid way. Feeling each note stabbing cheerfully at his ears, he lunged for his cell phone, checking the display before accepting the call. "For god's sake, Andrew. Why the Liberty Bell March?"

"It's Monty Python."

"It's not even English!"

"But you are."

Pulling off his glasses, Giles pinched the bridge of his nose against the threatening headache. "I'm too tired to discuss my cell phone and what you've done to it tonight. What do you want, Andrew?"

"Um. Did you find out what was on the tape? If it was one of mine? Because if it was one of mine, it might be really useful now for the training, you know, once we get the new Council set up and-"

"Andrew?"

"Yes, Mr. Giles?"

"It's two in the morning."

"Only London time! And we've been in California for long enough to-"

"Andrew!" Giles sighed, examining his glasses out of habit before putting them back on. "Only call me London time. And no. It was not your tape."

"What was on it? Because I'm pretty sure the only blank tapes in the house were mine. I know cause I went looking for more when I ran out."

"It's a blank," Giles answered, his eyes fixed on the blue screen, letting it burn the images of a ghost from his mind. "That's all. I must have packed it by mistake." In the lining of his duffel, safely wrapped and padded by a red silk shirt.

"Oh." Disappointment was unmistakable in Andrew's voice. "Okay. Um. Good night I guess."

"Good night, Andrew." Giles didn't give Andrew time to remember anything else, and this time, turned his phone off before undressing for bed.

*

Watched once, twice if Giles was being honest with himself, the videotape was relegated to the back of a locked filing cabinet in his office, and its contents to the back of the Watcher's mind, pushed aside by the more immediate task of reconstruction.

It was easier, then, not so much to pretend that none of it had happened as to separate life into "before" and "after." Before had little meaning in the world of after, and so had little place in Giles's every day thoughts.

Until, with Hellmouth timing, autumn came and along with it, the first whiffs of everything going to hell.

Beginning with Spike making the cross from comfortably "before" to disturbingly "after."

Winter came, and Giles sent Andrew along to Los Angeles, working harder, longer hours that guaranteed sound sleep without dreams of half hearted seduction attempts tacked on to undeserved apologies. Hours that gave him the excuse not to go to Los Angeles himself. Awake, however, he worked accompanied by a sarcastic little voice in the back of his head, one with an accent that couldn't quite settle down to choosing one part of London to be from.

Cuppa tea... cuppa tea... pile of paperwork... cuppa tea.

It could have been worse.

And then, right on schedule in May, it got worse.

"Was there any word who it's from?" Andrew circled the crate that took up most of the floor space in Giles's office, giving a pointed look to the packing slips Giles held.

With shaking hands, Giles refolded the brief letter and tucked it away inside a pocket. "No. None. Most likely another shipment from Wesley--before everything happened."

Andrew's shoulders slumped. "I thought it was from Angel cause--you know--Angel, LA, but then the thing happened, and the other thing happened, and- But I guess they happened to Mr. Wyndam-Pryce too."

"Yes. Yes, Andrew, many things happened." Giles sat at his desk, regarding the box. "To all of them."

Andrew continued to stand by the door.

Minutes later, Giles looked up at him. "Andrew?"

"Well--aren't you going to open it?"

"Perhaps after I've cleared some of this work. I'm certain you have some reports to finish writing up on your own. And would you mind terribly delivering these to Willow and Buffy?" Reaching into his desk, Giles retrieved two envelopes, holding them out until Andrew took them.

"Sure, I-" Andrew drew to a halt. "Wait--isn't Willow up in Edinburgh?"

"I believe she is, yes."

"But-"

"You are, of course, on the Council accounts. Stay as long as you need to for her reply."

"But last time, that took days!"

"Consider it a brief holiday."

Andrew still hesitated.

"Paid holiday."

Xander's head poked around the corner, and he plucked at Andrew's shirt. "Go ahead--get Willow to show you the castle they turned into Hogwarts."

At that, Andrew straightened, though with a visible effort to maintain what dignity he'd managed to wrap around his new persona as a Watcher. "I suppose it wouldn't do any harm to take a little-"

"Vacation," Xander interrupted. "C'mon. I'll drive you to the station." Gently propelling Andrew down the hall before him, Xander paused. "See you after, G-man. Got word back from Nepal I wanna talk to you about."

"Of course, Xander. ...Thank you."

Xander's eye flicked in Andrew's direction. "Yeah. Any time. Hey, Andrew--hold up. Let me grab a bag and I'll go with you. I could use some Willowtime." He flashed a grin and a cheeky thumbs up to Giles before closing the office door behind him.

Giles all but toppled his chair standing, and hurried to the cabinet, drawing a crowbar from the bottom and attacking the crate with fervent effort until the top flew free, clattering against door and shelves, followed by tufts and tufts of straw stuffing until he found himself looking, panting, at the crate's contents.

Watery blue eyes, dilated almost to black, and glittering in skeletal hollows focused slowly on Giles. "God. I thought he'd never shove off." Bruised, broken, battered, and reeking of old blood--that alone would have been proof enough for Giles of the shipment's identity. But then, cracked lips pulled back from dry teeth in a parody of the wicked grin of old. "What's the matter, Rupert? Didn't you miss me?"

"...Spike."

"Gonna-" Spike coughed, still grinning with upturned eyes as Spike shifted in the crate, revealing the gaping hole where guts should be, veins black in parchment skin. "-gonna need better than pigs' blood this time, Watcher. Reckon we can do without the chains if I promise to be a good little boy?"

*

Giles had never expected to curse Andrew for efficiency, but sure enough, within two days of his return from Scotland, Giles found himself with a clear desk, a beaming Andrew, and no more excuses to stay away from Spike. "How are you feeling?"

Spike opened his eyes, still watery, but more focused, less sunken, and gestured to his midsection. "Bit like I've got a hole where my guts used to be, funnily enough." His voice, though sarcastic, still lacked power, still but a whisper of itself. The smirk, however, was back in full force.

"Very amusing, Spike."

"Y'think so? Worked on it for days." He fixed Giles with his stare. "Didn't have much else to do, see."

"I'm terribly sorry. Did you want someone to wheel you out around the grounds? I believe Nurse Murphy has a free shift at noon."

Instead of rising to the sarcasm, Spike only continued to watch. "Ever going to get tired of that, Rupert? Dust the Spike jokes are feeling a little too ... last year."

Giles found himself sighing, pulling off his glasses and polishing them, more for something to do than any need to see the world more clearly. "All right, Spike. I suppose saving the world allows you a modicum of respect."

"Oh, ta. Very much."

"That's all you're getting, you realize."

"Part of me's worried that alone's sign of an apocalypse." He paused. "You get those around here?"

With a small shake of his head, Giles put his glasses back on, looking over Spike's gaunt frame and still-unhealed wounds. "What happened? You look as if you've gone a few rounds with something particularly large and nasty. And lost."

"Funny you should say that. I did. Dragon."

"Good lord, you're joking. I didn't think there were any left."

"Oh, must have imagined the bloody great teeth then." Spike gestured to the bandages that covered the worst of his missing flesh. "This look like I'm joking? Angel decided we were gonna take a stand against evil--all evil--the big evil. Go out with a bang, y'know?"

"And Angel--woke up one evening and decided to take on the big evil singlehandedly?" Giles asked around the mounting tension in the back of his neck at the mention of Angel.

"Well, he did ask for volunteers."

"And you volunteered."

"We all did." Spike shrugged, then winced. "Wasn't much else to do then was there? Wouldn't have nothing to come back to after that anyhow."

"That doesn't sound like much of a choice," Giles said carefully, reminding himself sternly that Angel was fighting for good. Surely there must have been some chance they could succeed if he were to put his friends in danger on what sounded disturbingly like a whim. "What happened?"

"Mostly, evil kicked our arse without breaking a sweat." So casually said.

"No bang?" Perfectly neutral. Perfectly calm.

"More like a pop."

Several questions, of varying rudeness coasted through Giles's mind before he settled on simple, simmering, disbelieving anger. "Why? What on earth possessed him to send humans up against pure ancient evil?"

Spike shrugged. "Must've seemed like a good idea to him at the time."

"But--to go up against-" Giles shoved the chair back, pacing. "Even for Angel, that is absolutely unconscionable!"

"Suicidal too. Hell of a fight though."

Giles abruptly stopped his pacing, sinking back into his chair. "I cannot believe you've said that with a smile on your face."

Spike gave Giles a Look.

"All right. I can believe it. But for Angel to risk everyone-"

Spike stopped him with a brush of his hand, and Giles suppressed a shudder. It was like being touched by cold kid leather stretched tight over sharp bone. "We did some good, yeah? Took out a few key players--lost a few of our own." His eyes darkened a shade at that, the shadow of a muscle jumping above his jaw.

"Wesley."

"And Gunn. Lost him too in the end."

"Angel?"

"Buggered if I know. I was busy being unconscious."

"Then, how?" Giles indicated Spike's undeniable presence with an encompassing gesture.

Spike shrugged again, and folded his hand over his ribs with a grimace. "Illyria."

"Illyria?"

"Yeah. She's an interesting one--probably turn up here sooner or later. Can't miss her. She's blue."

"Blue?"

"Yeah. Like a ... really strong and incredibly literal-minded smurf." Spike paused, considering. "But if she says I'm her pet, it isn't true."

"I'm fairly certain I don't want to ask."

"Too right."

"But what did she do?"

"Picked me up and walked, best I can guess. Kinda hard to stop her once she's put her mind on something." A small fond smile tugged at Spike's lips, and Giles was relieved to realize that it was looking more like a smile than a grimace each time. "Bit like Dru there, but a lot better at making it happen."

"And why would she want to come here?"

"Hasn't got anywhere else to go either--kinda got to be friends with her around the end." Spike held Giles's gaze, matching him eyebrow lift for eyebrow lift. "Alright, and she might still be under the impression that I'm her pet vampire."

"And this would bring her here?"

"You ever lost a pet, Rupert?"

The sudden image of Spike on a leash with a bowl of blood was more interesting than Giles was prepared to entertain. "But what is she?"

"Older'n dirt--and she hits like a boulder." Spike smirked.

"I've found that most demons that old do tend to hit rather harder than most," Giles said dryly. "Please be more descriptive, Spike."

"Really big boulder?"

Giles sighed. "Spike..."

"She's a demon, Rupert. One of the oldest ones. Me n' Angel went down into her tomb, found out she was free, things happened-"

"And she's coming here?" Old, demon, and coming to London looking for Spike suddenly caught up with each other with alarming clarity.

"Calm down, Rupert. She's been," he paused, a faint wry smile touching his lips, "kinda neutered. Y'know how that goes."

"You realize I am going to need to know more about this, don't you, Spike?"

"Better ask while I'm around then, mate."

An unhappy chill sank into Giles's belly at the casual words. "You're not here to join us, then?"

"No."

"No?"

"'S what I said."

"But you have a soul now."

"Me and billions of you lot. It's your turn. I've done my bit. And I'm three for four on the world saving which isn't bad." Spike tucked a hand behind his head, the movements still sluggish, just a little awkward. "Specially as the first two were before the soul. Not many vamps can make that claim."

"You could be of use here, you know."

"Yeah? Suppose I could. Too bad I'm retired now."

"Then why did you come here at all?"

"Told you." Spike tilted his head to one side, giving Giles a particularly considering look, and then nodded. "'S what a bloke does when he's hurt that bad--goes where he knows he'll be taken care of."

"What made you think you'd be taken care of here?"

"Got nowhere else."

"You could have gone to Drusilla."

Spike's laugh was purely incredulous. "With a soul? You lot don't know much about my Dru, do you? She thought I'd gone soft back when I was still kidnapping impressionable teenagers and clocking them over the head with lab equipment."

"I see."

"Congratulations, Watcher. You're still a better haven than an insane soulless vampire."

"I'm flattered you think so," Giles said dryly.

"Ought to be. It was a toss up for a bit."

"What made you choose me?"

"Didn't know Dru's current address. Think I'd fancy being lost in the post in this condition?" Spike's words were tempered with mild tone, and an almost-smile.

"It's a miracle you weren't held up by customs."

"Oh. Yeah, about that--how much'd you end up paying for me in customs fees?"

"Twelve pounds."

"Twelve?! Bloody hell! What was my declared value? No! No--don't tell me. Save the world and I'm worth less than a sodding pair of shoes."

"Would it help if I suggested you might be priceless?" Giles offered with the smallest smile, surprised at his own relief when Spike returned it.

"Rupert?"

"Hmm? Yes, Spike?"

"Glad I chose right."

"Are you certain you did?"

"Pretty much. Not dust yet, yeah?"

Giles found himself smiling despite his best efforts, and cleared his throat, executing the time honoured Tactical Change Of Subject. "So will you ... be staying in London?"

"Guess I could do. If the right person asked me."

"Good." Giles said, and rested a hand over Spike's, the coolness of the skin marked contrast to the warmth of his palm. Turning Spike's hand over, he laced their fingers together, this time welcoming the cool dryness of Spike's skin, and watched as the vampire's eyes slowly closed, and emaciated fingers tightened around his.

"Course, I'll expect you might need my unique perspective, time to time, like."

"We very well might."

"Or help training the new girls. Show 'em what a real vamp can do."

"We are short-handed still. And you're uniquely suited to that sort of work."

"Guess the soul won't let me out of that one--seeing as I'm needed."

"It won't?"

"Nah. More trouble than it's worth. Worse than the bloody chip. But you get used to it. Things change. People change."

"I see."

"...Y'know, I think you do."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Bout sodding time too."