NOTHING
IS FOREVER 1
by
flaming
muse
Xander sank back into the soft leather chair and enjoyed being off of his feet
for the first time that day. The interior of the restaurant was cool and quiet
compared with the humid, sun-baked city outside, and he let his eyes drift shut
for just a moment as he opened the menu that the server had handed him. Yes,
going out to dinner with his new co-workers was definitely going to be more
relaxing than striking out in a new city and trying to find something to eat on
his own after such a tiring day.
He had arrived in Boston the previous
day and had been stunned by the oppressive heat that had greeted him as he had
walked off of the airplane. Wasn't New England in September supposed to be all
autumnal and filled with colorful leaves? Instead it was hotter than his home in
Los Angeles, and he briefly reconsidered the wisdom of taking this
job.
No, it would be good. He had been brought in as a consultant and
project leader to supervise the renovation of the historic Fogarty building. It
was more than an honor to have been chosen to head up the important project; it
was an absolute joy. He had wandered that day through the musty floors of the
grand old office building and had cheered his luck even as he had cursed the
awful weather. It would be amazing when it was finished, and he was delighted to
be able to be a part of the restoration.
It wasn't like there was much in
LA to hold him back, anyway. His apartment was merely a place to sleep, and his
friends were now scattered all over the world. When this opportunity had
filtered down through the corporation he had worked for, he had jumped at the
chance. All of the work that he had done in the past two years to prove that he
was an asset to the company despite his vision impairment had paid off. Here he
was in Boston, doing what was nearly his dream job. He loved working with
historic buildings, and this Art Deco masterpiece was going to be glorious even
if he had to hammer in every nail with his own two hands. With or without a
hammer.
So Xander relaxed into dinner, letting the calm atmosphere of the
restaurant wash over him as he and his companions perused the menus. Cold
Comfort was set below ground level in a large cellar, but it felt airy with its
high arched ceilings and slowly rotating fans. The walls were lined with panes
of stained glass lit from behind, and the main lights were dim enough that the
sprawling room seemed to bask in a multicolored glow. The clientele varied from
groups of college students at the polished mahogany and brass bar to more sedate
groups of business people like Xander's own. Chest-high dividers of carved
mahogany and scatterings of potted plants allowed for privacy without the room
feeling cluttered.
The food was good, too, as Xander learned over the
course of the evening, as was the excellent selection of imported and domestic
beer. He and the other two managers chatted casually about their work and their
personal lives as they got to know each other, and Xander was at ease and nicely
full when his attention was suddenly caught by a familiar profile across the
room.
A tingle shot up his spine as he saw the elegant arch of neck and
sweep of golden hair above a proud forehead. The same broad shoulders were clad
in sleek black leather, and the nose was… no, of course not. Xander sat back and
let the adrenalin rush from him as the man turned further away and was swallowed
up in the far corner of the restaurant. It wasn't him. He was dead, dust. It was
just his mind playing tricks, turning familiar shapes into faces, like seeing
the man in the moon or catching a glimpse of your grandfather walking down the
street two weeks after he had died. Although, in Sunnydale, that was entirely
possible.
But this wasn't Sunnydale, and that man wasn't Spike. Spike was
dead. It couldn't possibly be him. Not this time. Not here.
And yet, when
Xander and his friends left Cold Comfort, he glanced once more at the back of
the restaurant and saw the same familiar profile and felt the same tingle of
recognition before he was dragged out into the muggy night.
No, Spike was
dust, dead a second time to save the world. No amount of hopeful thinking or
gazing upon attractive young men would bring him back.
*
Well, he
had to eat somewhere, Xander thought to himself as he washed his face in the
washroom sink. Why go through the trouble of finding someplace new if he already
knew that he liked Cold Comfort?
He smiled wryly at his reflection. So
what if the man wasn't Spike? He was still undeniably pretty, and if Xander had
one weakness it was looking at pretty men. Despite Caleb's best intentions, he
wasn't blind, and, despite his own best intentions and inhibitions, he wasn't in
the closet anymore, either. Why not look?
Xander adjusted his eye patch –
black, of course; the sparkly ones that Dawn had made for him were like Father's
Day ties and only to be worn while the giver was present – and set out. He
brought his portfolio of papers with him to the restaurant, fully aware that the
man wouldn't be there and that he wouldn't speak to him even if he were, and
settled into a cozy booth near the rear of the restaurant. He ordered his dinner
and set to work, keeping half an eye out for the blond but mostly just enjoying
the peace and getting his work done. He didn't really expect anything more than
a nice meal and a reprieve from his hotel room.
When his steak arrived,
Xander dug in and turned more of his attention to his fellow diners; there was
no point in spilling something on his papers. He mused over the flirting couples
and happy families as he enjoyed his meal. Then, a piece of potato halfway up to
his lips, a laugh behind him caught his ear. It was a deep, rich laugh, and it
sent shivers all the way to his toes. He knew that laugh.
"… keep him
away from the dishwashers, then, if he's such a flirt. Tell Maurice that he can
use his cleaver on him if he gets out of line." That rumbling voice. That
accent. It couldn't be…
A waiter stepped around the corner, a man
following close behind. Short blond hair. Black leather coat falling to lean
hips. Skin like alabaster. Gleaming blue eyes framed by dark lashes. Smile to
melt a man's heart.
Sure, the coat was shorter and the hair was maybe a
shade or two more golden, but there was no question it was…
"Spike?"
Xander said, his voice high and tight. He dropped his fork and scrambled to his
feet, halfway to the vision in front of him before he realized that he had even
spoken.
Those piercing eyes met his, and they conveyed a range of
emotions from surprise to dismay to resignation in a flash.
"I'll go tell
Maurice," the waiter said and disappeared.
Spike just stood there for a
moment, his eyes now guarded as they raked over Xander's form. Finally, he
spoke.
"Hello, Xander."
PART 2
