Title: Keen Buffy

Description: Aspiring Los Angeles Police Department detective Buffy Summers faces the challenge of her life when she embarks on an exchange program to the Criminal Investigation Division in Yorkshire, England.

Characters/pairings: Buffy/Spike, Wes/Fred, and various others. Actually, this first section is mostly Wesley & Buffy. Not sure how that happened. More chapters to come over the next week!

Rating: Just PG-13 so far; I might change my mind as it goes on.

Thanks to: My many many years of reading British police procedurals. I'm most indebted to Reginald Hill, whose character Peter Pascoe reminds me a lot of Wesley in mid-era Angel. Also a shout-out to Peter Robinson's Alan Banks series and Ruth Rendell's Inspector Wexford books. And of course to the Fox series Keen Eddie, although that really inspired nothing aside from the idea of an American cop detailed to the UK.

Disclaimers: My understanding of British law, procedure, and police hierarchy comes entirely from reading detective novels and may be completely inaccurate or out of date.I. Impending Disasters

"It's the end of the world," said Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.

"Now, there." Winifred Burkle reached onto his desk and gently placed her fingers on the back of his hand. "I'm sure it's not as bad as all that."

"Yes, it is," Wesley insisted, "I can't imagine a way that it could be any worse." But he was already lying. It could easily have been worse. The most beautiful woman he had ever met could not be sitting across from him. She could not be pressing her hand against his skin. As the head of the divisional forensics lab, she could have trusted an underling to bring crime scene reports by the police station. Surely, he thought, the occasion didn't completely justify her presence in person. They had been friends almost since she came to Yorkshire, but lately it had seemed like something more might be growing between them. And today, she had made a point to stop by his office, could she really be sending him a signal, could she be trying to say. . .

"I swear, you remind me so much of cousin Cory from Tulsa." She patted his hand and stood up. "Both of you worry too much."

No, Wesley thought, looking down at his desk and pretending to shuffle papers around, in order to hide the flush rising to his cheeks. This day could definitely not be any worse. "It's not an idle worry, Fred." He heard himself getting testy, but couldn't seem to stop. "I'm at an age where I should be looking at promotion from sergeant to detective inspector. It shows exactly what this department thinks of me that, instead, I'm being assigned to baby-sit a tourist who wants to play detective constable. An American tourist," he added with distaste.

Fred's brow wrinkled, and she didn't sound entirely playful as she said, "You have something against Americans?"

"No," he said hastily. "Of course I didn't mean you. The department recruited you because they had heard such good things about your work in London while you were taking your degree. This Bunny Saunders is no more than that most American of American things, a photo opportunity."

"Buffy Summers," Fred corrected. "And she graduated at the top of her class from the police academy in Los Angeles, and served two years in uniform. . .what? So I read about her in the paper."

"And let me guess, there was a picture. Because it was, as I mentioned, a photo opportunity." He shook his head. "I can guarantee I won't have the chance to do any real casework as long as I'm stuck supervising her." He shook his head. "And it's not as though I'm being punished for anything I've done. It's all about bloody politics."

"Well, you could. . ." Fred spoke hesitantly, and he heard it in her voice, that need to reconcile, the belief in talking things over and solving them rationally and making them better. It was the most American thing about her, and somehow it led into a fantasy where she was lying across his desk, pulling at the buttons of her conservative slacks, guiding his hand into her blouse and saying. . ."You could talk to your father."

"No!" Wesley felt actual pain as he winced from the suggestion. She looked at him curiously, and he realized how loudly he had spoken.

"I just meant because he's in politics," she said quietly.

I'm sure this is the last friendly visit she pays at the office, he thought. And then, Cousin Cory from Tulsa? Wesley tried to sound calmer as he explained, "But you see, that's exactly the thing that I can't do, because if I do it, it only proves that I'm what they think I am. Some berk with a posh education and an influential father."

"Wesley. . ." Fred stepped closer to him, and he couldn't help it, he loved the way she said his name, he wanted it to mean something. "Wesley, you know you're a good detective. What do you care what other people think?"

"I. . ." He started to answer, to say all the very good reasons he had learned that image mattered for a young detective sergeant trying to get the job done, but at the moment he couldn't think of any of them.

Voices started to clamor out in the squadroom, and Fred whirled around and sprinted to the doorway. "That must be her."

Wesley jumped to his feet, not bothering to hide his own curiosity, and came to stand behind Fred. "Oh God," he said. "This is even worse than I thought."

"Why?" Fred asked.

"Look at her," he said. "I think she's wearing leather trousers."

Taking in the rumpled suits on the men in the squadroom, the pressed khakis and Oxford shirts on the handful of women, Buffy Summers immediately began to suspect that her pants were a mistake. She had spent her two years at the LAPD as a uniformed officer, and she was so excited to break out of the boxy, unflattering blues that she just might have overcompensated in the direction of form-fitting. It was true that the leather was functional; she had opted for a motorbike instead of testing her ever-sketchy driving skills on the wrong side of the highway, and her handful of biker friends on the L.A. force assured her that cowhide was the only way to keep out the wind. Still, she had to admit that the English locale stirred certain Diana Rigg-on-The Avengers fantasies. But based on the looks she got walking into the squadroom, it seemed that her new colleagues were thinking less Emma Peel, and more Mistress of Pain.

The most horrified look came from a tall dark-haired man, who wore glasses and a most definitely non-rumpled suit. Aside from the expression of dismay, he looked like such a photospread from British GQ that, when he offered her a hand and said Detective Constable Summers, I presume? Sergeant Pryce, she almost looked around for hidden cameras to see if she was being Punk'd. She was supposed to be trained by a crochety old man like Inspector Morse or Inspector Frost –- she had watched a bunch of these shows on BBC America while waiting to see if she had won the overseas assignment. Now it looked like she was going to be riding around in a car with Pierce Brosnan instead of John Thaw. Which, considering her history, and the situation that had helped to bring her here, was so very very not funny.

Then the woman next to the sergeant – dark-haired and slim, a few years older than Buffy, perhaps – offered her own hand, and said, "Fred Burkle, it's so great to meet you." Buffy was practicing the new game of trying to place a person's origin based on accent, so it took her a moment to register that this one screamed, "Texas."

"You're American?" Buffy said.

"My, and they told me you were keen," said Mr. British-GQ, so mildly that it took Buffy a moment to be certain of the sarcasm. But the woman called Fred cast a glance at him that told Buffy this wasn't his normal attitude. He seemed to catch the look and then make a redoubled effort at civil behavior. "Dr. Burkle is from Texas," he said with forced joviality. "But we try not to hold it against her."

Dr. Burkle seemed to swerve away from the sergeant's jest. Pryce kept his eyes on her, while she focused on Buffy. "We should have an American girls' night out. I'll bring you the adaptor plugs nobody told you that you would need."

"Great," Buffy stammered, smiling because Fred had anticipated her greatest frustration on moving into her new flat –- the fact that none of the appliances she had brought from L.A. had plugs to fit the outlets. "But don't you need them?"

"Oh," she dismissed, "I make my own. Just a little something I like to throw together."

Pryce cleared his throat. "Fred, I'll need to take DC Summers to the superintendent's office, so. . ."

"It's OK," she said, still looking at Buffy. "Just call me soon." She patted the sergeant's shoulder. "You can get my info from Wesley here." She winked. "We're buds."

"Yes, of course," he said, "Very good," and his eyes followed Dr. Burkle long after he should have turned his attention to Buffy. So that's how that's gonna be, she thought, and had a brief flash of sympathy before he turned his eyes on her. "Constable Summers, you seem to be aware that this is a plainclothes assignment. Perhaps you should consider some clothes that are rather, well, plainer."

"Oh, don't be such a prig, Wyndsley," a voice boomed from behind them. "I think the lady looks quite fetching." She turned to see a distinguished-looking older man in a professorish tweed suit, with a clipped gray beard. He offered his hand, "Detective Superintendent Quentin Travers." His eyes traveled over her in a way that she didn't particularly like, and she decided that she would be wearing khakis tomorrow. The sergeant's disapproval might actually have egged her on, but Travers' praise had the opposite effect. Didn't English people know about reverse psychology? "My office, Pryce," he said, looking over her at the younger man. "Or were you planning on standing out here all day?"

"Of course." The sergeant gave a thin smile that Buffy immediately pegged as his very special English version of "Go fuck yourself." She wondered if Travers knew this.

As the three walked toward the super's office, he explained. "DS Pryce reports to me. Actually, he reports to the Detective Inspector who reports to the Detective Chief Inspector who reports to me. The British system tends toward hierarchy, I'm afraid. But as you present a special case, DC Summers, you should never be afraid to come directly to the top of the food chain. Keep the sergeant on his toes." Then he smiled his own fuck-you smile back at Pryce. Yup,, Buffy decided. This is an old game between them, and neither of them is going to come out and say it.. She wondered what the story was, what kind of long-running drama she had walked into the middle of.

"Don't you agree, DC Summers?" Travers asked her.

"Yes, sir." Buffy nodded, wondering what she had just agreed to. She had been busy trying to unravel the dynamic between these men, while the superintendent was talking. And talking. And talking. All right, so she had never been a very good listener. She would be able to process everything better by doing it. And she could get the crib notes from Sergeant Pryce. Somehow she imagined that, if there were any important no-nos in the speech, she would be hearing them from the sergeant. Repeatedly.

But now she tried to tune in, as Travers seemed to be speaking about their first assignment. ". . .in order to ease the constable into her new duties and familiarize her with procedures, you'll be assigned some old cases to review. Re-canvass with a fresh set of eyes, see if there is anything the original investigators missed." He nodded toward a box of files on his desk. "I'd like you to start with Ethan Rayne."

"Old cases," said Pryce. "Of course, sir." At least, his voice said this. His eyes said Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. "We'll just need to speak to the original investigating officer so that we don't duplicate. . ."

Travers waved a hand dismissively. "When I say fresh, I mean fresh. I would prefer to leave Sergeant Harker completely out of this."

Now came the first crack in Pryce's perfect composure. "Harker??" He said. "You're asking me. . .us. . .to go over ground that's been trod by William Harker? I don't suppose --" Casting a look at Buffy, he said, "Sir, I would prefer to discuss this in private."

"You have nothing to say to me," Travers said coldly. "That cannot be said in front of Constable Summers. If she hasn't heard, she certainly will."

"Well, then," Pryce continued. "I don't suppose this has anything to do with avoiding massive lawsuits and the possibility of every case that former Sergeant Harker touched being thrown out of court? You see, Miss Summers," he said. "Even in Yorkshire we have our little one-man Ramparts scandal."

"Sergeant Harker had his differences with Yorkshire CID," Travers said. "But we parted on amiable terms, and there is no reason to poison our new trainee against him." He leveled a finger at her. "Don't believe everything you read in the newspaper." Looking up at Pryce, he said, "I don't buy this William the Bloody nonsense for a moment."

"Speaking respectfully, Sir?" said Pryce. "That's because you don't know Will Harker the way I do."

"Oh, yes, Wyndsley," Travers answered. "You know everyone, don't you? Which reminds me. . ." He reached into his pocket and drew out an old-fashioned men's watch. "Nine twenty-two, Greenwich Mean Time. You have your assignment. I'll be interested in exactly how long it takes for me to hear from your father."

Buffy hadn't thought it would be possible for the sergeant to grow any stiffer, but he managed to straighten his tall form even more, and his face went white as he said, "That won't be happening, sir."

"See to it, then," he answered. Rather than dismissing them, he simply looked down at his desk and started writing, as if they weren't there. Buffy looked at Pryce for a cue. He nodded at the box of files, then the door, so she lifted them, then followed him.

When they were in the hall, she said, "Brass, huh? Jackasses on either side of the pond."

"What's that?" He kept walking, briskly, letting her struggle to keep up with his long legs. Over his shoulder, he said, "I'd advise you to show a little more respect."

"Hey, if I could do the 'say polite things but obviously want to rip each other's throats out' kind of respect as well as you guys? I'd be all over that. But I'm not British enough to compete, so I just have to say what I think. Who's your father?"

Pryce stopped so that Buffy and her box ran into him. He turned the sharp eyes on her now. Blue, she saw, they were very blue. "You're joking, right?" She shook her head. "You've met him. Had your picture taken with him. The local member of Parliament? It was his bright idea for Yorkshire to participate in this exchange program."

"Oh, him?" she said. "That Roger Windmill guy?"

"Wyndam-Pryce, though I've managed to avoid using the whole ridiculous moniker. Most of the time." He shook his head to dismiss the subject, and pointed at her box of files. "Let us talk about these cases."

"OK," said Buffy. "Who's William Harker?"

"Someone for us to avoid. And by us, I particularly mean you." He shook his head. "Will Harker could get his teeth in a case and worry it like a terrier with a rat. And leave it in about as big a mess. But then, if it didn't tie in to one of his pet obsessions, there's a chance he never looked into it at all. So as for this Rayne case, it may be a Chernobyl or a Siberia."

"Any chance it's something we can actually solve?"

"That," he said, looking at her file. "Is what we'll have to see about, Detective Summers."

"You know, you can call me Buffy."

"No," Pryce said, with the first hint of a smile that wasn't exactly a 'Fuck-you.' "Not with a straight face, I can't. Will Summers do?"

"Yes, Wyndsley." She smiled with false innocence.

"If your blasted colonial informality can't get wrap your tongue around sergeant, 'Wesley' will be fine."

"Any chance this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship?"

Wesley leveled his gaze at her. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

TBC

5 merry-makers or make me merry