Xander rubbed a hand
absently up and down Willow’s arm, feeling her press into his chest, leaning
back on him, as they stood looking at the chasm - the great big hole - that had been their home a few short
hours ago. Had it only been hours? One day? Two at most? Xander wasn’t sure. It
felt like years that they’d been battling The First. In a way, Xander guessed
they had. Everything had started to take on a surreal effect with people leaving
Sunnydale, like rats on a sinking ship. Kind of fitting that that’s what had
happened then. The sinking.
Dust should feel
dry. That would be the very nature of dust. Dryness: which allows dirt and
particles to float and become dust. Which is dusty. And dry. The stuff they were
breathing in as they stood near the bus held a dryness that was not. Xander
could feel, even taste, the moisture. Heavy and chalky, it made them all cough
in a distracted way. Concrete dust from the buildings that had crumbled into
nothing. Should be dry. Xander knew from working on site that it never was. Some
kind of chemical reaction, he guessed. Concrete was wet at the beginning, it
sent up wet dust that would harden your lungs over time and could eventually
kill you if you breathed in enough. Concrete dried out. It became hard. Dry. But
when it was smashed, broken up, or used as landfill in a spectacular end of
world abolition, it reverted to type and became wet. Wet dry concrete. It
floated around them, the wet concrete dust that they were breathing in. The
OH&S officer in Xander wondered if he should worry about the potential
damage that could be happening to his lungs.
Willow
held his hand across her stomach. Tight. Her fingers stoked the fine skin across
his knuckles, skittering around the cut on his forefinger that ran down it’s
length and continued onto his palm, sending shocks of ‘don’t touch that!’
through his nerves, which he ignored. He was probably getting her shirt all
bloody.
If
he didn’t feel as dry as the dust that should have been drier, inside and out,
parched and rather crinkly like a rag that’s been rung out and left to harden
out of shape, Xander could have offered more comfort. Would have. But didn’t
want to.
He
thought about Anya. He’d have to make sure his grief was real, he supposed. Cry
the manly tears for the girls’ benefits, that sort of thing, while he waited.
Then, when she came back, he would be as surprised as everyone else. Sure, they
were not together, but that was not a factor. He didn’t want her dead. He
wondered if she’d felt pain, and if she would remember it.
Willow
moved out of his arms with one last run of her hand down his arm, to grasp his
uninjured hand for a tight squeeze, before walking over to Kennedy who looked
buzzed yet drained at the same time.
Xander
let himself take a close look as Buffy turned towards the bus with an extremely
deflated Dawn, starting a shuffling conga line of young girls, Slayers in their
own right now, to following her. Buffy looked younger than she’d ever looked to
Xander, younger and more grown up then ever.
He followed the
last girl, slipping a hand into a pocket to feel the small weight of the thing
he’d sewn into the material two night’s after The First had visited in Jesse’s
skin. He had been worried that they’d notice the fact he wore the same pair of
jeans almost every day, but they hadn’t, had thought about using a pouch around
his neck but gave that up for practical reasons. Had to have it on him almost
constantly, had to keep it secret, had to keep it safe. The promise of a demon,
stored in a stone the size of his thumbnail. Better than any written word, so
Sweet had sworn as he’d handed it over. It was a small miracle that Xander had
managed to get even that. Another that he’d managed to keep it safe and on him
for over a year. The sewing was a new thing.
As
he stepped up into the bus, Xander let his hand slip out of his pocket. As long
as he had the stone, he had Sweet’s promise. He’d just wait until Sweet brought
Anya back.
**********
Waiting was a bitch in
England; the grey sky weighed him down. Africa was better: like a dampener on
his senses. The brightness, the harshness, the ‘ness’ of everything there, the
moreness of everything, worked its way under his skin, into his very
bones, until he couldn’t tell if it was heatstroke or the fact that he and
almost everyone he cared for had survived something that statistically speaking
they shouldn’t have. He felt alive in the corniest possible way, except
it wasn’t corny, because he was alive, and that was a miracle which Africa and
all that he saw there, helped show him. And surprisingly, being alive and
waiting for Anya to be, wasn’t a hard thing, and there wasn’t any guilt either.
It just was.
-----
The
stone went missing on his trek to meet with a group of Kikuyu, North East from
Nairobi. He noticed its lack of being in it’s sewn-up home in his cotton pants
when he scratched a persistent bug bite on his upper thigh while resolutely
ignoring the idea of tsetse fly courtesy of a month of fruitless searching in
Tanzania. He was travelling in the back of an open jeep over terrain that threw
up rocks into their path just for the fun of it, when bushland didn’t obscure
the road completely. A heart rending moment when he realised that there was no
way to make the driver stop, to let him go back, check the - what? Two
miles of nearly invisible road in the hope of finding a thumbnail sized
stone in amongst all the many other stones and rocks. Not to mention the lions
that seemingly were everywhere. And the fact the group of Kikuyu would only wait
the agreed upon time before leaving the arranged meeting place. He couldn’t
chance it, setting everything up had already cost him enough money for Giles to
have a serious coronary. There wasn’t even a small possibility of getting the
stone back.
With the sun making the horizon seem like a wavy ocean and his eye feeling the strain, Xander felt like someone who’s grip had slipped at the most important time, letting the person they’d been holding onto fall to their death over the edge of the cliff. Because, that’s exactly what he’d just done.
-----
Three months later, newest
and littlest slayer standing solemnly by his side like a carved wooden doll, in
the Nairobi International Airport, Xander ended a phone call back to England. He
stared at his phone. He thought of the stone that he’d lost. But maybe not lost.
Maybe it had been used. And that was not to be thought of. He clenched his jaw.
Sweet was a bastard. Spike was back.
***************
Waking up and wondering where he was, should not have become a reality he had gotten used to. Waking up and realising that he was in England and maybe he wouldn’t have to wonder any more, made him relax back into the clean sheets that he just couldn’t get enough of. Clean things were good things. Almost a year spent in small impoverished places, some which didn’t have names, with hardly any time spent where there were working amenities, or even health regulations, made clean sheets seem blessed. Xander smiled, smelled the deep sent of cloves again. He may not be that far of the mark. Would explain the best night sleep he’d had in days, and was just the sort of sisterly thing Willow would do. She’d mentioned the drawn look on his face the afternoon before.
The
door to his bedroom crept open an inch, something he would not have noticed but
for the fact he was looking straight at it. He quietly pulled the sheets up over
his shoulder and waited. Didn’t even bother with the patch, because whoever was
coming in without knocking, well, it was their own fault, and Xander felt a
certain smugness that if they had a problem with his face ‘unmasked’ as it were,
they wouldn’t be prone to sneaking in again.
Dawn’s face, or rather half
of it, squished around the doorframe and Xander snickered at her eye that was
scrunched closed. At the sound, Dawn smiled and opened her eyes and the door the
rest of the way to allow her to come in and sit on the bed.
Moments with Dawn had never
been awkward the way they’d been at some time or another with Willow and Buffy.
Xander had never noticed that fact until now. He touched her foot gently from
where it lay curled under her leg. She smiled a little.
“Ready for today?” The question was so heartfelt that Xander wanted to give her a hug, but that would mean sitting up and maybe revealing the fact that he’d slept without anything on that night. Something he didn’t want Dawn to know. He sighed,
“Why’s he coming, and how
come it happens to be the day after I arrive? Couldn’t he have come and gone
while I was away?” It was a question he’d been burning to ask since last night
when Buffy had sprung the news on him as he’d been walking up the stairs to go
to bed. As it was, he’d stubbed his toe due to unforseen emotions that he still
hadn’t looked at. Didn’t want to.
“I
have scones and toast downstairs and some of that English tea you surprisingly
like.”
“Dodging. I can do that too,
you know.” They looked at each other quietly for some time.
“Seems to me, his arriving
has upset you more than it should have. Unless I was wrong in thinking you guys
had stopped hating each other before the last battle.”
“No. You’re not wrong.”
“Something
else?”
Xander cursed the fact his
bad eye socket had developed a twitch when he was caught out. Normally not a
problem, but without the patch - a telling sign, which came back to bite him in
the ass as Dawn caught it and her stare narrowed. Not wanting to go into the
whole ‘Sweet Promise, loosing Anya, maybe saving Spike by default thing’, and
the whole slew of mixed emotions that stirred up, Xander decided on evasive
action. He sat up.
“Xander! Are you naked under
there?” Dawn squeaked and made as if to lift the sheet. Xander clamped one hand
down hard and wagged his finger on the other,
“If
you see, I will then have to marry you.”
Dawn stood up and shrugged
with an unrepentant gleam in her eye, “Say that a few years ago and that sheet
would have been history. But as we are now adults and beyond all this
childishness,” they looked at each other with plain amusement, “we will just
have to count our losses and go down to breakfast instead. Hurry up.” Dawn kept
standing there, looking down at him. Xander grinned and grabbed the sheet around
his waist, making a motion to swing his legs over the side of the bed. Dawn
blushed, her bluff faltering under Xander’s ante up. Stammering an excuse and
making Xander laugh again, she took off out of the room.
“Shut the door!” Xander
called after her. A hand snaked back around the doorframe to grab the handle.
Xander was still smiling when the door shut and he let the sheet drop as he
stood up. The smile left his face when he thought of Spike.
*************
Spike looked good. Xander
would give him that. A little tired maybe, but all in all, good. Africa had
changed Xander in ways that he didn’t know of and some that he did. Seemed like
being burnt to a crispy golden brown on both sides and then getting resurrected
had done something similar to Spike. But Xander wasn’t thinking of the reasons
why Spike was back. Alive. Undead. Whatever. He just wasn’t.
There’d been more than a few
moments of awkwardness when Spike had arrived. The group had milled around the
large living room after he’d been invited in and no one seemed to know what to
do until Giles had suggested tea to which there’d been the almost too-quick
reply of, “Hell, yes, Watcher.” And now here they were. A hug for Dawn, a
slightly colder one for Buffy, a nod to Willow and Giles and a surprising
handshake for him.
To
be floored by a handshake wasn’t pathetic was it? Xander blamed his shock on
being greeted with anything other than contempt, for the reason why out of all
possible sitting arrangements, he’d managed to end up sitting next to Spike on
the double leather seat.
He
stared at Spike. Before everything, he possibly wouldn’t have felt okay with
just looking at him the way he was. Nerves around Spike were normal beforehand.
Now, even with Spike feeling the stare and looking back over at Xander, catching
his eye and raising an eyebrow, Xander didn’t look away. He had the right
to stare, dammit. If it actually was how he thought it might be, and Sweet had
brought back Spike instead of Anya. Bastard. Both of them. Sweet for gypping
him, Spike for sitting there, sipping tea. Making polite talk with Giles. When
did Spike ever do polite?
Xander’s fist connected with
Spike’s jaw with more force than he thought it would, giving the angle in which
it connected. He was mildly impressed, then disgusted with himself as he’d sworn
not to do that anymore. Violent expressions of his emotions were not the way to
deal with things. Only, where Spike was concerned, it seemed it was. There was
shocked silence from everyone, not just Spike, as Xander watched him work his
jaw. Although, come to think of it, Spike didn’t look that shocked.
“Do
that again, I’ll hit you back. And I hit harder than you.”
That was it. Xander couldn’t
help it. He smiled at Spike and agreed, feeling lighter than he’d felt since his
home had been swallowed by hell.
***********
Kissing was something Xander had always liked to do. He missed kissing. He was musing on such topics as Anya and kissing as he sat in the library the next night. Not being someone who read all that much, Xander appreciated the library in the house for purely aesthetic reasons. It’s warm woods and deep cushioned chairs, its bookcases with books he’d never touch, made him feel comfortable. Possibly something to do with the first library he’d spent any worthwhile time in. He twisted the small bit of metal he held in his hands and tried to figure out where to slide the next piece to undo the puzzle. He’d already worked out the three other pieces sitting on the table in front of him and was planning on sitting there until he’d worked out the seven that were left. A surprisingly useful and non-embarrassing, homecoming present from Andrew. Xander had been touched. He didn’t think he’d ever treated Andrew all that well.
Thinking still, slipping the
next piece around another then cursing when it locked the puzzle up tight, he
didn’t look up when someone walked into the library and was only a little irked
when that person paused at seeing him then continued on to the books. That
caught his attention. Moving his eye but not his head, he tensed, watching Spike
seemingly search for a particular book and find it, pulling it out of the
bookcase and running an appreciative finger over the spine. When Spike looked
over at Xander, his eye was back on his puzzle, like it had never moved. Xander
entertained the idea that he’d managed to get away with that move for about one
second. Spike came over and sat down in the chair opposite Xander with a
calmness Xander could not say he shared. Nevertheless, Xander raised his head to
catch Spike’s eyes in acknowledgement, but found himself looking at the crown of
Spike’s head as he opened the book he held. Bringing one foot up onto the chair,
he propped the book onto a knee, the other leg stretching out across the floor,
towards Xander. It was an action that caught Xander off guard for some reason,
and made him think he’d never seen Spike look so content to be around him
before. It made him feel humble and he turned his attention back to his
puzzle.
**********
Conversations with Spike were never going to be that normal. Or at least, Xander had always thought so. As Spike walked away from where Xander was making a midnight sandwich a few nights later, Xander knew with utmost certainty that Spike had changed. He wondered who this new Spike was, who had come into the kitchen, said hello, heated up blood, drunk it, said goodnight and then left, all to the accompanied deafening silence that was Xander’s own mouth doing a rather unflattering impersonation of a fish. Mentally berating himself for being rude, another thing he was trying to work on, Xander found he didn’t feel all that hungry anymore. He decided to go sit in the library and work on the eighth puzzle.
When he sat down across from Spike and flipped open the puzzle box, Spike merely flipped another page.
*******
Right. Bombshell. Turned out
Spike had been brought back by an evil law firm, not him. Right. Xander could
deal. Hadn’t realised so much had come to rest on the assumption that he’d been
the one to effectively ‘save’ Spike. Except he hadn’t. And it looked like he
hadn’t saved Anya either. But the Spike thing hurt more. He didn’t go looking
for the reason why.
*********
*That I’m the one you’ll
hold forever*
Xander was in his room,
balancing his phone between ear and shoulder, looking at the calendar trying to
work out when he could catch the next available flight to Russia. Seems his days
of rest were over, and he was back on Slayer finding duty. Which was fine with
him really. He liked being useful. He’d been to Russia once before, and was glad
Giles handled all the necessary paperwork for travel insurance and passports.
He
got off the phone after making a booking for the red eye flight in two weeks
time, looking up and jumping a little at seeing Spike standing in the doorway.
“Going?”
“Yeah.”
“St.
Petersburg.”
“Yep.”
There was a noticeable
pause. “Chilly this time of year. If I remember correctly. Humid though. Take an
umbrella.” Spike turned and left.
Xander frowned and looked
down at his bed, dropping the phone near the calendar. Realising as he looked at
the dates, that Spike had been visiting them for close on three months. No one
had said anything.
-----
“Spike’s living here, isn’t
he?”
“You mean you didn’t
know?”
“I
was told he was visiting.”
“For three
months?”
“It’s been known to
happen.”
“So
why ask now? Maybe he’s still visiting.”
“He’s
not.”
“No. He’s
not.”
“He’s living
here.”
“Yes. Problem with
that?”
“Surprisingly,
no.”
“Why
surprisingly?”
“Actually, not so
surprisingly.”
“Good.”
“Are you hiding a
smile?”
“Why would I be doing
that?”
“I
don’t think I want to know.”
“Yes. Living in ignorance
has its benefits.”
“I
hate it when you’re a smart-ass Dawn.”
“Don’t insult me, Xander. Or
I’ll use my smart-ass skills for evil instead of good.”
“You’re smiling
again.”
“Yeah.”
________
The
night before his flight to St. Petersburg saw Xander sitting back in the
library, only this time without Spike. Truth be told, it felt weird. They’d
started a kind of ritual, to Xander’s way of thinking. Spike read, Xander did
his puzzles. He’d finished them all, but at a loss as to what to do to keep
sitting there, he’d started them over again. Tonight, Xander felt at a loose end.
The seat across from him was empty and the puzzles lacked their usual appeal.
His eye fell on the book Spike was currently reading, laying next to the puzzle
box. Leaning over, he picked it up.
A
few seconds later, he sighed and realised no matter what his intentions had
been, here was yet another book destined never to be read by one Xander Harris.
“Sorry ‘Tartuffe’, you and I
are not to be. It’s just not fated.” He reached forward to place the book back
where Spike had left it.
“Surely you’re not giving up
so easily?”
Xander turned quickly to
look up at Spike who, sneaky bastard that he was, had crept up to stand on
Xander’s blind side, his hand resting on the chair’s back, near Xander’s head.
Xander tried to scowl for effect but failed,
“I’m sorry to disappoint,
but yeah, I am. Never been a book person. Not patient
enough.”
Spike scoffed as he moved
around from the side of the chair to his own, “Patient enough for those bloody
puzzles though. Infernal things that they are.”
“You’ve tried to do them?”
Xander couldn’t help the pleased thrill that thought gave him. Spike shrugged,
“One or two. Would say I’m
not patient enough for them,” he replied glibly, picking up his book and opening
it to the bookmark. He looked at Xander with a half smirk. Xander held up a
hand,
“Fair enough.” He brought
the puzzle box closer to him, “Maybe I’ll teach you one
day.”
“Teach me
now.”
“Huh?”
“Teach me now.” Spike didn’t
wait for a reply, book back on the table and big comfy heavy chair making a
remarkably easy transition closer to Xander’s own, so they were touching. Spike
ended up staring at Xander expectantly, his knees almost resting on Xander’s,
while Xander tried to ignore the hot flush he seemed to be experiencing.
“Uh, sure.” Managing to open
the box and pick up a puzzle, he then nearly dropped it when Spike’s hand closed
around his and picked the pieces out of his suddenly nerveless fingers. Spike
leant over the table,
“Started alright with this
one, then the bugger got stuck. Didn’t want to break it on you, so I left it.”
Xander could see what Spike meant when he looked down from Spike’s face to the
puzzle in Spike’s hand.
“Yeah, good thing. Vamp
strength would have twisted it into something that couldn’t be fixed if you’d
forced it. Better to just do it gently like this,” Xander let his fingers slide
over Spike’s palm as with a slow turn the puzzle twisted, ready for the next
step, “See?” He was feeling a bit breathless. He looked back up at Spike, who
seemed very close. Spike was looking back at him, then shifted his gaze to the
puzzle,
“Don’t force it, go slow,”
looked back up at Xander, “Got it.”
“Good.”
Xander realised their knees
were touching now as they’d both leant in to the puzzle. Spike
smiled.
************
The
red eye flights were easier for Xander than normal flights for some reason.
Never would have thought that all those years of staying up late saving the
world, training his body with long periods of disturbed and sometimes
non-existent sleep would eventually come in handy for flying. Xander was just
glad he didn’t look like a zombie from ‘Night of the Living Dead’ when he
stepped out of the tunnel into the arrival area, like the rest of the passengers
did. He’d been there for real, almost done that. And if he felt a smile showing
on his face before he could stop it, at the sight of Spike coming forward to
meet him, he could blame it on the non-jetlag and no one, except possibly Spike
with his answering smile, would be any the wiser.
“No
Slayer?”
“False
alarm.”
“Just us on the way home
then.” Xander’s smile grew bigger if that was at all
possible.
Xander liked clean sheets. The thought was always there on his first morning waking up back home. How strange that it wasn’t strange to be calling England that anymore. Home. The smell of cloves wafted over him again as he buried his face in his pillow and breathed it in. England, home, would forever be connected to the sent of cloves for him.
“Love?” And how surprising
was the feeling of comfort that swept over him whenever he heard that word, or
spoke it. Surprising that it felt so good.
“Yeah?”
“Go
back to sleep.” A hand stole over his bare back and tugged him closer with a
gentle grip on his side.
******
“Don’t
go.”
“Come with
me.”
“To
Prague? Bad memories, Love. No.”
“I
know, but. It’s only for a few weeks.”
“Few weeks too long. Don’t
go.”
“I
have to.”
“Do
not. Bloody Watcher.”
“Not his
fault.”
“It
is if I say it is.”
“Come with me. Spike?
Please.”
A
grumbled, “Few weeks only?”
“Yeah. Willow said Giles
promised and that he really is sorry about landing himself in the hospital but
they really need this thing and I’m the only one who...”
“Not the only one, there’s
plenty of others...”
“The only one he
trusts, Spike. He trusts me. I want to go.”
“Bloody
Watcher.”
“You said that
already.”
“I’ll say it again too,
because it’s true. Frickin’ bloody pompous arsehole plank of a
Watcher.”
“Come with me. Only a few
weeks.”
“Promise.”
“Willow said it would only
take...”
“I
don’t ruddy care what Red told you. You. Promise. Me. Only. Two.
Weeks.”
“What if
it...”
“No.”
“No?”
“Two
weeks.”
A
sigh, “Two weeks.”
“Promise.”
“I
promise.”
A
pointed look. Another sigh, “I promise, Spike, we will only be in Prague for two
weeks.”
“Alright then. Get
packing.”
“Just like
that?”
“Just like
that.”
“Really?”
“You promised. Good enough
for me.”
“Spike...I....”
“I’ll show you the Kinsky
Palace in Old Town, Love.”
“Yeah?”
“Most beautiful Rococo
building in Prague. Reckon you’ll like it.”
****