Modus VivendiBy Wiseacress
Chapter Thirteen
He woke up in exactly the same position, thirsty and sore. The loft was dark and silent, the curtains black. Night. He'd slept all day.
He sat up slowly and reached for the lamp, but his hand met the glass of water first. The pill bottles were beside it, caps off. He fished out two of each by touch, noticing that his hand didn't shake. The water was tepid and flat, and it tasted like heaven. He drank half of it, then took the pills and drank the rest.
As he was putting the glass back on the night stand, the bed shifted, and he jumped slightly in surprise. He looked over his shoulder, and though it was too dark to see he knew Spike was lying there. Maybe awake, maybe asleep.
There was a brief moment while his heart fluttered and his brain tried to cycle up, tried to remind him of how he ought to feel about this—but only a moment. He lay down and stared up into the darkness and waited for the ache to melt away.
It took a while, and he shifted uncomfortably a few times while he waited, and finally a cool hand came out of the darkness and settled on his head. He closed his eyes and let it be. It was still for a bit, and then it ran down the side of his face and turned his head, and there were cool lips against his own. He kept his eyes closed and let it happen.
"You all right?"
It was strange to hear Spike's voice so clearly, so close, in the darkness, and it might have made him panicked or ashamed except for the fact that he'd already burnt that bridge. A quick shifting of ballast, and it was all right again, it was amusing again.
"Fine. I'm fine."
The cool hand moved down his neck and touched his shoulder lightly. "Tired?"
"Tired, yeah."
"Want something to eat?"
"Nah."
Silence, and Spike's hand came up and curled in the hair at the base of his skull. It felt good, and he tipped his head to let Spike's fingers reach him better. The pills were starting to work, and he was falling asleep.
Spike's mouth was on his again, and he let himself be kissed, let Spike's tongue in and smiled when Spike gnawed lightly on his lip. Spike tasted a little bit like blood, a little bit like smoke. Good tastes, really. Spike's hand was on the back of his neck, pressing gently into the muscle. Good feeling.
It went on for a while, until Xander was honestly falling asleep, kissing clumsily and smiling with amusement at it all. He raised his hand and found Spike's face, stroked the cheek and then tapped it lightly. Spike paused and pulled back.
"I'm out," Xander murmured, and lowered his head until his forehead was against Spike's chest. Spike's skin was cool and smooth, good to lean against. He lay absolutely still while Xander sorted himself into a comfortable position; when Xander dropped an arm around his waist, he started slightly.
With the taste of Spike's mouth in his own, Xander fell.
He woke up a couple of times in the night, and each time he had a cool body beside him, a cool hand on his hip or shoulder or throat.
He had no dreams.
He drifted up to the surface and found himself staring at the ceiling, the pipes again. There was a smell of food, and his stomach turned over. He wasn't sure whether he was really awake; he felt strangely loose and insubstantial.
He didn't move, but after a minute or two Spike appeared over him, frowning slightly. "Christ, you're a sleeper when you put your mind to it."
"Division A," Xander said. His mouth felt cottony, and his voice sounded odd. He cleared his throat.
"Head?" Spike put out a hand, and Xander considered. Head, yeah. Good idea.
He nodded and sat up, put his legs over the edge of the bed and took Spike's hand. His head swam a little when Spike pulled him to his feet, but his knees were definitely better. He could put weight on the left one without much yammering. The right one—he tried it, and it flared, and Spike's arm tightened around his waist.
"Look who's practically locomoting."
"Rejoining the bipeds, yeah."
They made it into the bathroom, and Spike unloaded Xander against a urinal and left without a word. Xander pissed, flushed, yawned. The toothbrush and toothpaste were still lying on the towel over on the sinks. It was probably a bad idea, but he stumped across anyway, and brushed his teeth.
When he was done Spike came back in, raised an eyebrow but didn't comment, and hauled him out again. He dropped him back on the bed and stepped back to look him over. Xander yawned and started to sink back into the sheets.
"Hey, Division A. Sit up." Something was being pressed into his hand; he opened his eyes and found it was a spoon. There was a tub of soup on the night table, and it smelled all right but his mouth tasted like toothpaste and he was tired. Later, he'd eat later.
He waved the spoon vaguely to communicate this, and a firm hand took hold of his good shoulder.
"Sit up, idiot. I didn't bloody go and fetch this stuff for my health, did I?"
He sat up and levered his eyes open, and started on the soup. Spike watched for a couple of seconds, then wandered away. It was Thai soup again, the elixir of life. Xander's stomach warmed to it after the first couple of spoonfuls, and he finished half the tub before his stomach shut down and he had to stop. His eyes were closing on their own again. He put the spoon carefully back into the tub, pushed it away on the night stand, and lay down.
The loft was dim, not dark. Daytime. How many days had he been here?
A weight settled on the side of the bed, and he turned toward it instinctively. Spike was sitting on the edge, an unlit cigarette ready in his fingers, peering into the soup tub.
"You finished?" he asked.
Xander leaned forward and pushed his forehead against Spike's leg. For a moment, nothing. Then cool fingers in his hair, and he let go and fell a little more.
Sometime later, he woke up. Still dim, not dark. Or maybe dim again—maybe he'd slept the night through this time, and it was day again. If he could sleep all the time and never wake up, he would. It was the only thing to do.
But here he was awake again, or partly awake. Enough to know that he needed pills again. And that Spike was in the bed. Sleeping beside him, with him, one bare arm hooked around Xander's neck as if he were about to pull him close and tell him a secret. His face was composed, absorbed. The little scar glowed pale in his eyebrow.
Xander lay still and looked at him for a while, until his eyelids began to fall again. Then he remembered he needed pills.
He sat up slowly and Spike woke up. For a moment he looked confused; then his eyes found Xander and stayed there, watching him steadily.
"Sorry," Xander said. "I just needed—" He raised the Demerol bottle and turned away to look for the water. He wondered briefly whether he should double up on the red-and-yellows, since he'd been missing the schedule lately, decided on three as a compromise, and chased it all with the rest of the water.
Then he lay down again, in the same spot he'd woken up in.
Spike had propped his head on his hand and lay watching with an unreadable expression on his face. Xander paid no attention. There was plenty of room still to fall, and his ears were roaring, he was exhausted.
"Not dreaming, are you?"
Xander pried one eye open and looked at Spike. The dreams seemed a lifetime ago.
"No," he said, and closed his eyes again.
"Hm." Which could mean anything, and that was perfectly all right. Some other time he'd sweat the details. No dreams was good dreams.
"Hungry?"
"Nah."
A pause.
"Not still tired?"
Xander used every muscle in his head to open his eyes, and stared at Spike. "Since you mention it—" he said, and closed his eyes again.
"You're sleeping round the clock, you know."
"Division A," Xander said, and yawned into the mattress.
"Lazy, I call it."
"Blow me."
A pause, and then a cool palm came out of nowhere and lay flat against his throat. He opened his eyes and found Spike staring at him, half-smiling.
"Fuck off, Spike." It was sleepy, bland, barbless.
Spike leaned forward and kissed him, and he took half a second to rebalance himself, to find it amusing and meaningless, and then he was kissing back. Why not.
It didn't take much doing; Spike's tongue was between his lips and all he had to do was open and let go. Cool mouth on his, familiar taste. When had the taste become familiar? He kept his eyes closed and his hand on the mattress, and let himself enjoy it. What the hell.
He expected it to stop after a minute or two, but it didn't. Spike shifted slightly and ran his hand down Xander's chest, found his hipbone and settled on it like a handle. Then it moved lower and rested on Xander's thigh. His fingers were cool on Xander's skin; his thumb moved in a slight absent circle.
Somewhere in the back of Xander's head a voice was crying out in the wilderness. Stop this, stop it, for Christ's sake enough already, stop it— He hesitated, and Spike stopped kissing him and pulled back. He didn't take his hand away, but his thumb went still. They looked at each other.
Xander closed his eyes, raised his arm, and found the back of Spike's neck. He let his hand rest there. No need to do more.
There was a long moment of nothing, and then Spike leaned in and kissed him again. It was harsher this time, there was more bite in it, and Xander smiled. It was good to be kissed, good to be touched. It was just that simple.
Spike's tongue pushed into his mouth, and his hand was on Xander's thigh, pressing it aside. Xander hesitated again, a split second, then let his legs fall open. He was hard, just instinctively from the touch on his legs, and he wanted to push his hips up but he didn't. He lay still and let Spike kiss him like fucking, and tried to find room to breathe.
Spike's mouth came down even harder on his, pushing his lips against his teeth, biting at his tongue, then gone again. Xander didn't move, just lay listening to his heartbeat ram against his skull. Then Spike's hand ran down his thigh and he jumped and pushed a little before he could stop himself. He was caught up in the boxers, the sheets.
Spike's hand came up, slipped under the boxers and Xander gasped. Cool fingers ran over the hollow of his pelvic joint. He pushed again, and Spike's mouth came down and kissed him, bit at him, until Xander gave up and kissed back, raised his head off the pillow to keep kissing when Spike pulled away. Spike jerked his head, knocked Xander's face away, then came back down and kissed him again, lightly at first and then not lightly at all.
Xander's breath was coming loud and short; when he opened his eyes he saw Spike grinning down at him. Bright eyes full of guile and sex, that little scar, and those teeth...maybe a little sharper than usual. Xander took his arm from around Spike's neck and pushed at Spike's canine with his thumb. Spike tolerated it for a moment, then pulled his head away.
"You ever open mail with those things?"
"Mailman, once."
Xander blinked, and Spike's smile turned wolfish, and he came back down for another kiss. Xander closed his eyes and let it happen. Spike's fingers were in his back, under his shirt, pushing at the muscles. It felt good. His lips moved from Xander's mouth to his jaw, and the bite gave a surging little throb, and Xander groaned. In a moment Spike's tongue was on the bite, and Xander was stiff and aching, weeping into his shorts, wanting to clutch Spike's head to his neck and force him to use his teeth.
"Oh, fuck—" He pressed his palm into the mattress and clutched the sheet. Spike's mouth pressed harder to his neck, and his hand dropped down Xander's back. "Jesus Christ, Spike—"
And then Spike's hand was between, behind his legs, he was confused for a second, there was a cool hand on his buttock and then cool fingers between. A light touch, just a suggestion.
"Oh, fuck. Oh, no—" He jerked away and Spike didn't raise his head or stop the working of his mouth, but his hand caught Xander's hip and held him, then slipped inside his shorts and brushed his cock. Just barely, just the back of his fingers.
Xander spasmed and pushed, tried to find the fingers again but they were running over the hollow of his thigh, and Spike's mouth was nursing at his neck, and it was too much to track. He moaned and brought his hand up, placed it deliberately on Spike's back and stared at it as if it could give him self-control.
Spike's fingers moved around again, followed the line of Xander’s spine down between his legs, and pressed lightly.
Xander jerked away again, and Spike's other hand came out of the sheets and touched his cock. Xander squeezed his eyes shut and tried to lie still, tried not to make a sound. Spike's mouth was cool and wet, there was a pulsing ache in Xander's throat, and the fingers were touching him, and the thing was, it felt good. Strange and bare and awful. Good.
Spike tipped his head slightly and closed his teeth around Xander's windpipe, and at the same time the finger pushed a little harder and there was a sweet tight infinitely shameful sensation, and it was inside him. His cock jerked and he gulped air. It sounded like a sob. Spike's teeth were blunt and hard around his throat. Another sob.
Spike let go of his throat, pulled back, and looked at him. His eyes were glazed and lost-looking, too bright. His voice, when he spoke, was thick.
"What's wrong?"
Xander lay still, staring at him, unable to look away. He was shaking, he realized dimly. Spike frowned.
"You all right?"
"F-fine." His lips felt numb. Spike moved the finger, and Xander arched in surprise and revulsion and lust. Spike was smiling again. He looked stoned.
"It's good, yeah?" He pushed a little harder, entered a little deeper, and Xander clenched and flinched and, God save him, pushed back. It felt good. His cock ached. He couldn't look at Spike anymore, so he closed his eyes.
Spike didn't say anything else; he just dropped his mouth back to Xander's neck, and Xander opened his eyes and stared at his hand on Spike's back. It didn't matter. None of it mattered, it was all a joke, it was meaningless. He was being opened and fucked, used and bled. He wanted it. Didn't matter. He closed his eyes and pushed back onto Spike's hand, and felt a fist close around his cock. Spike's erection brushed his leg and they were both jolted, and then Spike was swinging a thigh over Xander's hips, positioning himself, and Xander gasped and tipped his head back so Spike could bite.
He came with Spike's teeth in his neck, Spike's hand on his cock, Spike's finger inside him. A slow brilliant sheet of pain rising up from the bad knee, the one Spike was bracing himself against.
After, there was a long spell of semi-consciousness, lying on his back staring at the pipes, while Spike fed from his neck. His heart felt relaxed and sturdy, capable of anything. Spike's hair was soft between his fingers.
He couldn't remember what his address had been, the one in Echo Park. He fell asleep trying to remember it.
Somewhere in his sleep, he thought This has got to stop. He had a vision of his life as if from above, and it was a series of concentric circles coiling finer and finer, more and more dense until there was nothing but a small dark point in the center. Inert, silent. He was closing down.
This has got to stop, he thought again, considering the circles. I am going to go insane if this continues.
When he woke up there were voices in the loft—Spike and someone else, someone who had just spoken but whose voice he hadn't caught yet, and the two of them were arguing, and he thought, Liv. Back from Disneyland. He'd have to ask her if the log ride was all it was cracked up to be.
He opened his eyes and squinted; the loft was dark except for the lamp by the television. It was too bright to look at yet, and he was too thirsty to think. There was a glass of water on the night stand and he sat up and reached for it.
It occurred to him that he was in Spike's bed. He didn't want Liv to see him in Spike's bed. Too late. Amusing, it was amusing. It was all a hell of a joke, and the punch line was the holes in his neck. That ought to be a conversation piece. He hooked the water and turned squinting toward the light.
Something was wrong—now that he was looking he could see it wasn't Liv. It wasn't a woman. It was a man, someone big and broad, and for an instant he saw Bony Nose standing there in the shadows, staring at him with an expression of pity and disgust. His heart jerked, and he almost dropped the glass.
But it wasn't Bony Nose.
It was Angel.
"Oh, fu—" Xander said, and then his throat clicked dryly and he couldn't say anything else.
Angel didn't say anything. His eyes went from Xander's face to his neck, and stayed there for a beat. He looked—not surprised, but stunned.
Xander looked down and away, turning his head to hide the bite marks. He still had the glass in his hand, so he drank some water and put it carefully back on the night stand. Probably he should say something, but he couldn't think of anything to say. Where the hell was Spike?
Something moved on the couch, and that answered the question. Spike was sitting down, facing the television, his back to Xander. He didn't turn around or speak. The silence got very long. At last, Angel shifted and started toward the bed.
"Can you walk?" he asked, holding out a hand. It was always so hard to read the guy's face—was that kindness, or disgust? Xander's eyes slid away, back to Spike. He couldn't help it.
"Xander." Angel was standing by the bed, then sitting gingerly on the edge of it. It was kindness, almost certainly. And disgust. "Xander, come on. Let's go."
Spike still hadn't moved, and Xander’s brain wasn’t firing properly. He looked back at Angel, and honestly didn't know what to do. Everything was moving too fast.
"He didn't do this," he said, and Angel's eyes went to his neck again. Xander flushed. "I mean, he didn't—not the knees, it wasn't him."
"Told you," Spike said flatly, without moving, and just hearing his voice helped kick-start Xander's brain. Angel gave a quick irritated glance over his shoulder at the words, and that was so bizarrely normal, so perfectly what Angel should be, that it made everything else click into place. Suddenly it was all right again, it was all amusing. Xander sighed, a low shaky sigh.
"Where have you been all my life?" he asked when Angel turned back to him. Angel frowned.
"Xander, come on. You need a hospital—"
"Been, done. You should see the cross-stitch. It's like a Pennsylvania quilting bee down there."
Angel stared at him for a moment, his eyes dark and solemn. Xander ran a hand through his hair and rubbed his jaw—he was getting stubble again.
"I don't know what this is—" Angel started to say, and Xander looked away and picked up the water glass again.
"Yeah, get in line." He was thirsty beyond belief, and sore. He drank some water and looked for the pills.
"I don't know what's going on, what's happened to you—"
"The usual. But more so." He reached for the Demerol bottle, almost overbalanced, and caught himself against the table. Angel hesitated, then picked up the bottle, checked the label, and handed it to him. "Thanks."
"You can bring them with you. We're leaving." Angel's hand was under his good arm, cold and hard, and he had apparently ceased to live in a democracy, because he was already being lifted up out of the bed. It hurt, and he had to scramble to arrange himself properly. Angel paused and studied him, then shifted hands so that Xander's good arm was around his neck and he was holding Xander's waist. He did it easily, without effort, as if Xander weighed nothing at all.
There was movement by the couch and they both looked over. Spike was standing up, staring at them. He was in the Big Bad getup, but he didn't look bad. He had a dark purple bruise down the right side of his face, and his lip was split.
"Shit," Xander said. "You fall down an elevator shaft or something?"
"I didn't fucking do that to him," Spike said. He didn't look at Xander; his eyes were fixed on Angel, and his tone was harsh. "I told you that. Go be all Dark Knight somewhere else, why don't you."
For an instant, Angel's grip on Xander's wrist tightened painfully; then he remembered himself, and it loosened. He didn't say anything, just started walking for the door.
"Hey." There was a quick step following them. "Hey, poof. Nobody called you, nobody wants you. He's fine where he is." Spike's voice was loud and sharp and a little desperate. He caught Angel's shoulder and yanked, and Angel stopped walking and turned around. Xander came with him, dangling.
"Spike." For a minute it looked like that was all Angel could bring himself to say, and it hung in the air like a threat. Vicious. Spike stared at him with his chin pushed out. The split in his lip was fresh, still bleeding.
"Fuck off, Angel. Go stop postal fraud."
"Enough, Spike." Angel started to turn back to the door, and Spike's arm snapped up and caught his shoulder. "Let go."
"Fuck you. Did you even ask him what he wants?" Still too loud, too raw. Cracking. He hadn't looked at Xander at all.
"I don't have to ask." Angel tried to turn again, but Spike didn't move his hand. Angel looked at it. "If I have to put him down, Spike, I will break your hand."
Spike gave a little bark of laughter and jerked at Angel's shoulder, but he let go. "Right," he said. "Well, that brings back memories."
Angel shook his head. "No," he said. "Not this time."
Spike opened his mouth, then closed it. Something went quickly over his face, raw and painful like a spasm, and then he closed it off and just looked bitter. He raised his hand and wiped his lip.
"Whatever you say, mate," he said, examining the blood on the back of his hand.
"We're leaving," Angel said, turning away again. "I'm taking him to the hotel, and then I'm coming back here and you're going to tell me what's going on."
"Am I," Spike said flatly, from behind them.
"You are," Angel said. He hitched Xander a little higher and they were walking for the door again. It was standing open—Angel must have left it that way when he'd come in. For some reason it gave Xander a chill to see the door open like that.
"Wait—" he said, and Angel didn't stop walking, but he turned his head, and his face was angry and preoccupied and maybe a bit sad.
"What?"
Xander shook his head. It wasn't amusing anymore, it wasn't right, but he couldn't think what to say and he couldn't explain why it was wrong to leave like this, without even looking Spike in the face. He still had the Demerol in his bad hand, and he stared down at it as if it were an answer.
"You're going to be okay," Angel said.
Xander looked up to say something smart, but Angel's face was suddenly taut and alert, and he was staring at the open door. A moment later Xander heard footsteps, and his heart jammed in his throat.
"Who—" Angel started to say, and then Liv walked around the doorframe, her bag in one hand, frowning.
Angel stopped. So did Liv. For a long moment there was no movement, no sound, and they simply stared at each other. Liv's mouth was open slightly, as if she had been about to say something when she walked in. Her eyes went over Angel, over Xander, then found Spike. They widened slightly, then went hard.
Angel said, "Who are you?"
Spike said, "Fuck."
She dropped her bag and put her hands to the small of her back, and suddenly there was a gun in her hand, a flat dull silver pistol Xander hadn't seen before. Then he couldn't see anymore, because Angel had turned his body so he was between Xander and the gun.
He didn't expect her to shoot, not really, so the first crack seemed surreal, like something he was just frightened enough to imagine. Angel wrenched left, and something cool and wet sprayed Xander's face. Spike was shouting something—Liv's name. Another crack, and Angel jerked again, crushing Xander tight around the waist for an instant, so tight he gasped and pushed to get free. But Angel was curled around him, holding onto him, and for a moment they seemed to be crouching, the floor seemed very close, and there was blood on it. Angel's arm loosened, and Xander pulled in a breath and they were standing up again, and everyone was shouting.
Then suddenly it was quiet, and the only sound was his own breath, ragged and fast. He looked sideways and saw Angel's face locked tight, a muscle ticking in the cheek. He was staring at the floor, his eyes unseeing and concentrated. After a moment he raised his free hand, the one that wasn't holding Xander's waist, and touched his own chest, just beneath the collarbone. His fingers came away slick and red.
"Jesus Christ—" Xander stared at the blood. Angel's fingers were shaking slightly, and he was staring too, and then he looked up as if Xander's voice had only just reached him.
"Are you all right?"
Xander gaped at him, then nodded. Angel was still holding out his bloodied fingers; they both looked back at them, and then Angel dropped his hand and wiped it on his trousers.
Xander looked away, and found himself looking straight at Spike. He hadn't moved; he was standing in the middle of the floor where they'd left him, staring at Angel. His face was hateful and bleak, and when his eyes passed over Xander they didn't seem to see him at all.
The silence was getting long. Angel touched the wound in his chest again, then flicked blood from his fingers to the floor. He was standing a little awkwardly, and his hold on Xander's waist felt less secure. Well, he'd been shot. You had to cut him some slack.
Xander raised his head and looked over Angel's shoulder toward the doorway, where Liv still stood. She was still holding the gun, but it was pointed at the ceiling, and her face was white. She was blinking, staring hard at Spike, clearly trying to catch his eye. Xander followed her gaze, and at last Spike looked up and seemed to come back to himself.
"Spike—" Liv's voice was ridiculously quiet, or maybe it just seemed that way after the gunshots. Spike gave her a tight smile.
"Hi, pet. Don't think you've met the poof."
Her face registered nothing but confusion, and Spike sighed. "Angel," he said. "Helps the helpless."
She blinked. "Oh shit," she said. "I thought—"
"'s all right," Spike said. "He likes being shot. Next best thing to being nailed up on a cross."
Angel made a low aggrieved sound in his chest, and the hairs on the back of Xander's neck rose.
"Spike," Angel said, still staring at the floor. "What is going on?"
"Poof, Liv. Liv, poof. The poof was just leaving. Put him back where you found him, Peaches, and go leak plasma somewhere else."
Angel shifted his grip on Xander and straightened slightly. There was a faint tapping sound coming from somewhere; after a moment, Xander realized it was blood dripping from Angel's elbow to the floor. A dark pool was forming by his feet.
"Who is Liv?" Angel asked, looking at Spike.
Spike smiled. "'bout five ten, brown hair, just shot you. Nice girl, really."
Angel was silent for a moment; then he turned his head to Xander. "I'm going to have to put you down," he said, and his tone was quiet and apologetic.
"Sure," Xander said. "No problem." Cool blood was soaking through the arm of his shirt.
Angel walked back to the bed and lowered Xander onto it, then turned and started toward Spike. Liv tensed and Angel looked at her.
"Liv," he said, and his tone was flat, as though he weren't really speaking to her at all, but just testing the word aloud. "You know who I am?"
She looked at Spike, who said nothing. "Yes," she said after a moment. The gun was still pointed at the ceiling.
"You can't kill me with that," Angel said, nodding at it. She stared at him and said nothing. "But you can piss me off," he said.
She kept silent, and he turned back to Spike. "What's going on here?" he asked.
Spike stared at him coldly, then thumbed his split lip again. "Nothing," he said. "I've got a groupie, don't I? And I paid his bloody hospital bills, small thanks I've had for that. Got himself pulped and I scraped him up and gave him a place to stay, and God knows—"
Angel covered the few feet between them in a second and grabbed Spike by the throat. Liv made a sound that wasn't quite a word, and pointed the gun, and Angel jerked Spike off his feet and collared him against his own body.
"If you shoot, you'll hit him first," Angel said. Liv stared at him, the gun still pointed. "Put it down. On the floor." She still didn't move; her eyes were flickering from his face to Spike's, and they were wide and angry and frightened. Spike tried to ram his elbow into Angel's belly, and Angel caught it without looking and twisted. Spike gave a furious gurgling scream, and Liv's hands tightened on the gun.
"Put it down," Angel said again. "It won't kill me anyway."
She was still looking to Spike for guidance, but he wasn't in the guidance business; he was too busy thrashing, trying to get his elbow out of Angel's grip. He'd gone to game face at some point, Xander couldn't tell when. Everything was happening too fast. He needed slow motion, he needed replay.
"Put the gun down," Angel said.
Liv looked at him, and her face was furious and desperate, and then the gun tipped in her hands, so the barrel was pointing at the floor.
"Good," Angel said. "Now put it right down."
She dropped her arms, but didn't put the gun down. "Let him go," she said. Her voice was flat. Angel looked irritated.
"I told you—"
She raised her arm, and the gun was pointed at Xander now. "Let him go," she said.
There was a moment of silence, while Angel simply looked at her, and she began to walk across the floor to the bed. It wasn't very much space to cover, all of a sudden. The gun was pointed at Xander all the way, and when she got close enough the gun nudged the side of his head, warm and strangely familiar.
"Let him go," she said again.
Xander licked his lips and stared at nothing.
There was a rustle of fabric, and he looked up to see Angel stepping back and Spike yanking himself free, holding his arm as if it hurt. It was strange to see him in game face; hard to read his expression. He still had the bruise and the cut lip, and that was interesting. In a transmission-from-outer-space kind of way.
There was still a gentle pressure against Xander's head, and his cheek itched, but he didn't want to move.
"Clever girl," Spike said. His tone was oddly flat, as if he were merely saying something expected. Xander looked up again; Angel was staring at him with that look that could mean anything, and Spike was leaning against the couch, rubbing his arm. "You really want to earn your keep, you can put a few more rounds in the bastard."
Liv swallowed, and Xander heard her throat click. The gun was shaking slightly against his head, kissing his scalp. That seemed like a bad thing.
"You work for him," Angel said.
Liv cleared her throat and said, "Yeah."
"Why?"
She shrugged; the gun brushed Xander's head.
"Because I bloody pay her," Spike said. "On your merry way, now."
"I can't leave Xander here, Spike."
Spike gave a raw barking laugh and spoke to the floor. "You want to go with soulpatch, Harris?"
Xander opened his mouth, but his tongue was dry and his throat wouldn't work. The pressure against his head was maddening; he couldn't think. He made a sound like a squeak, and stopped. Spike looked up, annoyed. Annoyed game face. Xander stared at him, still trying to make his mouth work. Spike glanced at the gun as if he’d just now seen it, and his lips tightened. Then he was human again, blue-eyed and fangless, glaring at Liv.
"Get that bloody thing away from his head."
Liv shifted. "But—"
"What did I just say?"
The pressure was gone, and she stepped away. Xander hesitated, then raised his hand and scratched his cheek. There was a roaring in his ears, and his body felt light. When he dropped his hand back to the bed, the sheet felt rich and cool beneath his fingers.
"Right," Spike said. "I asked him, he doesn't want to go, so bugger off."
"He didn't answer."
"I am going to fill you full of lead myself in a minute, you thick-necked prancing bastard. You can take your bloody—"
"If he says he wants to go, will you let him?"
There was silence. Xander closed his eyes and drew his fingers through the sheet. Cool and soft. His head was airborne.
"Yeah, all right." Spike's voice was still harsh, but quiet now, for no reason that Xander could see. "He wants to go, he's all yours."
Another moment of silence, and Xander studied his hand against the sheet. His skin was dark from sun, scattered with small shiny scars like candle wax. Work scars, mostly, and he couldn't remember where he'd got any of them. His pinky nail was black at the root, though, and that one he remembered; another guy had dropped a toolbox on it. It had hurt like hell at the time.
"Xander."
Angel's voice, and he didn't look up. His head itched in the spot where the gun had pressed. The barrel had been warm, because she'd fired it just a few minutes before. Again, an interesting transmission from planet Earth.
"Xander, do you want to come with me?"
Suddenly he missed Willow so badly it hurt. He cleared his throat.
"Yeah."
Silence, and he didn't look up, but after a moment Angel's feet started across the floor toward the bed.
"That's nice," Spike said. "Well, let us know where to send the bill, then." His voice was sharp and loud again, and Xander looked up. Spike was still leaning against the couch, nursing his arm, staring at Xander with bright angry eyes.
Xander wanted to say something; It isn't like that, or I don't mean— but there was no way to finish the sentence, or to explain what he did mean. Whatever that was. He was leaving, that was all.
"You'll want to be careful with him, poof," Spike said in a low vicious voice, studying his elbow. "He's the kiss-me-first type. Likes a little hand-holding."
For a moment the words meant nothing; then Xander felt his face break in utter astonishment, too shocked even to blush. Angel didn't react at all; it was as if he hadn't heard. Liv hadn't moved, and Xander couldn't see her face. He didn't want to. He dropped his gaze back to his feet, just as Angel got to the bed.
"You seem nervous," he said, and Xander looked up. Angel was looking at Liv, who was staring back at him with white lips.
"I'm fine," she said. Her eyes went from his face to the blood stains on the front of his coat, and back.
"How long have you worked for Spike?" he asked, beginning to lean down toward Xander. His tone was conversational.
She did the obligatory glance at Spike, then said, "A while."
"A few months," Angel said. His hand was on Xander's arm, but not under it yet. "Not more than that; I would have known."
She shrugged.
"Not very long," Angel said. He looked down at Xander, but didn't really seem to be seeing him.
"Liv—" Spike said, in a warning tone.
At the same moment, Angel took his hand off Xander's shoulder, turned smoothly and took the gun from Liv. He didn't seem to move particularly fast; he just did it. He held her wrist in one hand and dropped the gun on the bed with the other; when she swung her free arm at his head, he caught that too. Then he was holding both of her wrists, and they were standing staring at each other in silence.
"Not long enough, I guess," Angel said.
Liv's face went red, and she tried to kick him in the groin. He sidestepped, yanked her off her feet, and buried his knee in her belly. She hit the floor with a woofing sound, and he put his foot on the base of her skull.
"Back off," he said to Spike, who was already halfway across the room toward them.
"Fuck you," Spike said. His face was splintered, bestial. While Xander watched, his upper lip peeled back and showed fangs in his human mouth.
"Back off, Spike," Angel repeated, and pressed with his foot. Liv yelped and coughed, and Spike's eyes sank to her. He sneered, but stopped where he was.
"I'm taking her," Angel said.
"The fuck you are," Spike said, and started forward again. Angel pressed again, but Spike didn't even glance at Liv. He made it close enough to throw a punch, and Angel caught his arm and took hold of his throat.
"I'm taking her," he said. "I don't know what's going on here, but I'm going to have a talk with her and I'm going to have a talk with you. I'm taking both of them to the hotel, and then I'm coming back here. And you are going to explain."
Spike gurgled something. Angel shook him.
"If you aren't here when I come back I'll make you very, very sorry. Understood?"
Spike gave him two fingers, and Angel punched him in the face. Liv made a frantic getting-up gesture, and Angel frowned and flattened her with his foot. Spike's head was rolling on his neck. Angel studied him a moment, then lowered him to the ground.
"Stand up." At first Spike's knees didn't seem to hold; then he stood shakily, blood running down his chin into his shirt. He wiped it, stared at his hand, then looked up at Angel.
"Fuck," he said weakly. "Just like old times, eh?"
Angel looked at him in silence, then turned away and picked up the gun from the bed. He slipped it into his pocket.
"Xander," he said, putting out his other hand. Xander paused, then put his good hand in it, and was heaved to his feet. He tried not to look at the blood on Spike's shirt, the expression on Spike's face.
"Don't interfere, Spike," Angel said, and started to stoop to pick up Liv. Spike held still a moment; then his face twisted and he took a step forward.
Angel came up swinging, and jacked Spike straight in the chin with a snap like a hammer on slate. The impact jerked through his body and into Xander, rattling his teeth. Spike landed five feet off in a messy heap.
They stood there a moment, watching to see whether he would move. He didn't. Liv gave a low dismal moan and Angel bent down and hauled her to her feet.
"Come on," he said. "We're getting out of here."
They took the Nova. Angel's Plymouth was nowhere in sight, and Liv refused to produce keys to the Jag. The Nova's keys were in the ignition, and Xander reflected that, hey, if they drove it out at least he'd have it back. And that was probably all the silver lining he was going to get.
"How'd you get here?" he asked, as Angel was lowering him into the passenger seat. "Carpool?"
"Sewer," Angel said, nodding his head at the corner of the garage. Xander looked; there was an open drain by the DeSoto.
"Beats the bus, I guess."
"Do you have any rope?"
"Do I—" He looked back; Angel was still holding Liv by the neck, and as he said the words, she started to struggle. He shifted his grip with an annoyed expression. "Uh, no. No rope." Angel turned away to look around the garage, and something occurred to Xander. "But duct tape. A couple of rolls, in the trunk."
"Duct tape works," Angel said, and walked around to pop the trunk. When he leaned through the driver's side door, Xander could hear Liv breathing hard. Her forehead smacked the back seat window as Angel leaned, and she jerked and winced.
"Ow."
"Don't shoot me next time," Angel said calmly, and popped the trunk.
Xander sat still and waited while Angel went around behind the car and taped Liv. She said something short and sharp, and Angel didn't respond except with a loud yank of tape. Xander flinched slightly at the sound, and studied the Nova's dash. Dusty, and the interior smelled like work clothes. He really should clean it out.
The back passenger door opened, and Angel dropped Liv in, her hands taped behind her back. She bounced sideways and tried to kick the door into his legs, and he stepped out of the way, then scooped her legs up and tossed them in after her. She rolled off the seat and into the footwell.
"Don't shoot me next time," he repeated, and slammed the door on her.
Xander stared at the dust on the dash and listened to Liv's fast sharp breathing. His stomach rolled. He expected her to say something, but she didn't, and after a minute Angel got into the driver's seat and started the engine.
"Seat belt," he said, and Xander just stared at him. Angel put the car in reverse and looked at him. "Do you need help with it?"
"Oh. No." He pulled the seat belt across his chest and clicked it closed. The sound of the lock was like the completion of some delicate mechanism, and now he felt fully surreal. He could look into the back seat and see Bony Nose or Buffy, it wouldn't matter. He could wake up at any moment. That would be fine.
"How does this open?" Angel asked, backing up and pointing the car at the door. "Liv?"
She didn't say anything, and after a moment Xander said, "It just does. It's an electronic eye."
Angel gave him an odd look, but pressed the gas, and they rolled forward. The door started to open. It was dark outside.
As they were creeping out, Xander turned and looked around at the garage. The Jag parked neatly by the door to the stairs, the DeSoto sagging on its blocks, the shadowed piles of old tires and canvas tarps and dusty oily garage crap. His eyes went back to the door to the stairs; he half expected it to open, half expected to see Spike appear and come after them.
They started up the ramp, and Liv moaned. From somewhere in the piles of trash and dirty work shirts on the floor of the car, she said, "Please—you don't understand."
"Don't understand what?" Angel said, without looking around.
She was silent, and then she said, "You have to let me go."
They were out under the door now, and Angel pulled into the street, looked both ways, and turned left. When he put his foot down the engine bitched, but got to work. He glanced down behind the seat.
"Don't shoot me next time, and I'll think about it."
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