Modus VivendiBy Wiseacress
Chapter Two
He sat slumped low, watching the streetlights pass over the hood and the windshield, watching the bars of light travel across his arms and legs. It was strange to be a passenger in his own car. He never had been before. Spike laughed at his address.
"Lovely," he said. "I've always mean to see that patch of underbelly."
Staring out the window, watching the liquor stores and gas stations speed by, Xander suddenly felt desperately lonely for Anya. Where was she? What was she looking at right now? Part of his brain told him that she was in the east, it was later there, she was probably asleep. But another part insisted that she was awake, driving somewhere, looking at parked cars and vacant lots just like him, and he hoped she was happy, he hoped she would find whatever she was looking for. He wished she was with him now.
He closed his eyes and thought hard, Anya, I miss you, I love you, come home.
"You gonna puke?"
He opened his eyes and turned to glare at Spike. Fucker was driving with a single finger on the wheel, leaning one elbow out the window, foot through the floor. They were going to get pulled over, and then they'd see whether Spike could produce an actual driver's license. It was a lovely thought, but it would be complicated, would probably mean the car would get towed. He needed the car.
"Slow down."
Spike raised his foot a millimeter and they shot through an aging yellow light. "So what brings you to L.A.?" he asked, reaching for the radio and realizing it was gone. "Fuck, no soundtrack."
"Got ripped off," Xander said, closing his eyes again and turning away.
"Shouldn't wonder, flash car like this."
Xander said nothing.
"Slayer kick you out?"
He didn't reply. The secret with Spike was just to ignore him. He didn't say anything worth replying to anyway.
"Bird ditched you?"
Fuck off, he thought, but somehow managed not to say. It was just knee-jerk anyway. He was an adult, he didn't need to leap up with his fists out at the mere mention of his girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend.
"No—I know. Harrises senior finally killed each other, house got repo-ed, and you're here to drown your pain in Bell's finest."
He stopped staring out the window and looked instead at his feet, sprawled in a midden of fast food wrappers. He really needed to clean the Nova. Maybe take it to a gas station, vacuum it out. Run it through the brushless car wash.
"You're a bloody LaToya tonight, aren't you? Shut up a minute and let a bloke think."
Xander said nothing. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes and maybe he fell asleep or just went off for a bit, but when he looked around again they were in his neighborhood. They were passing the bodega where he bought booze, cereal, milk. His bodega, he thought of it. It was strange how seeing something so crappy could make him feel at home.
"There," he said, pointing to the space along the curb ahead.
Spike said nothing, but pulled into the spot. Xander opened the door and got out as soon as the engine died. The air smelled like garbage, spices, fried meat. Someone was playing a Spanish radio station, lots of fast excited talking and electronic sound effects.
Spike got out and slammed his door, looking around with an expression of distaste. "Oh, this is nice," he muttered.
"Keys," Xander said. Spike rolled his eyes and threw them across the hood. Somehow, he managed to field them. With the other hand he reached over and picked the parking tickets out from under the wiper. He folded them and stuffed them in the back pocket of his jeans.
"Night," he said, turning away and starting to walk up the steps of his building.
"Hey!"
Xander stopped and turned back. Spike was still standing by the car, looking annoyed.
"What?"
"What do you mean, what? I'm not going to turn into mist and seep home."
Xander leaned against the banister, exhausted. "I can't drive you, Spike. Obviously."
Spike raised his hands and glared at the sky. "Yeah, Special Ed," he said. "And that's why God made taxi cabs."
"And public transit," Xander said, turning back around.
"I'm not taking the fucking bus," Spike said.
"There's a phone down at the bodega," Xander said. "They're nice folks." The steps were too steep. He had to haul himself up along the railing.
Spike came up the stairs fast, grabbed his arm and yanked, and there was a moment where Xander was sure they were both going to pitch headfirst down the steps. He seized the railing and Spike's shoulder and waited with interest to see whether he was going to break both of their necks. Spike wrenched away and Xander's hip bashed into the railing, and then he was solidly back on the step again. Spike’s face was inches from his. He smelled like cigarettes, and his eyes were bright.
"Listen, you sad punter. I am not hanging about in your scabby neighborhood, waiting for a band of wandering Crips to riddle me with small-weapons fire. I am calling a taxi, and getting the hell out of here."
Xander took his keys from his pocket and sorted through them with his head down.
"Okay," he said. He was tired. Somewhere down the block, a woman was cursing in Spanish and English, and a baby was crying.
There was a pause, then Spike stepped back.
"Okay," he repeated, and Xander heard the disappointment clearly in his voice. Spike wanted a fight. Not tonight, Spike. No fighting, just get inside and sleep. His eyes were grainy, heavy, sore. He wanted to fall into bed and never get out.
He opened the front door and led the way down the hall. His place was the last one on the left. The hallway smelled of cooking and diapers, and there were bits of trash all along the hall, noodle buckets and candy wrappers and cans. He stepped over and through them; he was used to it. He'd cleaned it up for the gang's visit, but it hadn't lasted a day. Behind him, Spike cursed and kicked something.
"What's that fucking awful smell?"
Xander reached his door and squinted to fit the key in the lock. "Poverty," he said, opening the door. "And beans."
He walked in, leaving the door open. Tomorrow it would probably bug him that Spike had seen the complete crapulence of his new life in L.A., but right now he didn't care. He needed sleep like he'd need Excedrin and Coke in about six hours. He went to the kitchen and stood stupidly in the middle of the room, trying to remember where the phone was.
"Nice if you'd ask me in. If only for a change of disgusting."
He turned and looked back at Spike, who was standing at the door to the apartment, looking annoyed.
"Nah," he said. "I don't think we've reached that stage in our relationship yet, Spike." He found the phone under a pile of newspapers on the kitchen table, and tossed it through the entryway to Spike.
"Have we reached the stage yet where I hire a large Russian to separate your vertebrae?" Spike dialed a number and stood tapping his knuckles on the doorframe.
Xander turned and went back to the kitchen. Hosanna of hosannas; there was orange juice in the fridge. He was desperately thirsty, and drank a glass too fast, then had to stand holding the sink, waiting for the cold clutching in his belly to let up. In the entryway, Spike asked for a cab, gave the address, paused, then swore.
He heard the phone dial again. Carefully, he poured another glass of juice. Slower, this time. His mouth felt clumsy. The sink was full of dirty plates, a bowl with milk and a few flakes of cereal, and a roach perched on the edge, feelers quivering. Well. That answered the roach question. He leaned against the fridge and drank the juice. When he was done he fished a spoon out of the cutlery drawer and flicked the roach carefully onto the counter. He brought the glass down on it hard—too hard, because it broke in his hand.
Smash.
Spike peered around the doorframe. "Hang on a sec, I'll just run and get a length of pipe from the alley. We can trash the place together."
Xander held his hand up in front of his face, looking for cuts. None. What was it they said—God took care of children and drunkards? Like the time his dad fell down the basement stairs, lay on the concrete pad for a second or two, then got slowly up and brushed himself off. Walked back upstairs without a second look at Xander, who was sitting on the couch watching cartoons. He was maybe eight at the time.
He left the broken glass on the counter and went out to the entryway, where Spike was holding the phone to his ear, jerking his head with annoyance.
"Slight hitch," Spike said. "Taxis won't come to your neighborhood."
Xander laughed. "That's ridiculous."
Spike put his head to one side and pursed his lips, staring at him. "I've called three now." He gave a sudden sneer of impatience and tossed the phone at Xander. "Right, plan B. Keys."
"Keys?" Xander clutched the phone against his belly awkwardly, knees bent, off balance. After a moment he understood that Spike was asking for the car. "Uh, no. No way. And, no."
Spike put his hands on the doorframe and leaned as far into the apartment as he could. "Come on, Xander," he said mildly. "I'm a white hat, here. I drove you home, kept you from plowing wantonly into innocent pedestrians, saved you from the menacing meter maid."
"No," Xander said.
"Oh, grow up. I don't want your crappy car, Harris. I want to get out of this open sore you call home, and that crumpled heap of epoxy is my ride. I'll bring it back."
"And monkeys will fly out my butt," Xander said tiredly, reaching for the door. "Walk, Spike."
"Not keen on that plan," Spike said. "Not 'round here."
"I walk around here all the time," Xander said, which wasn't strictly true. He walked to the bodega, the laundromat, his car.
"Hope you'll keep doing it," Spike said. "But I'm not going to start. Come on, give 'em here."
"Spike," said Xander, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the door. "What you fail to understand is, no. And I don't fucking care."
He expected a quick reply, but there wasn't one. After a moment he opened his eyes and saw that Spike was just watching him. They looked at each other for a long moment.
"Oh, fuck," Xander said. He drew a deep breath and fished the keys out of his pocket. "Give me your jacket."
Spike's eyes widened. "Not bloody likely," he said.
"No jacket, no keys. I want my car back, evil dead. With gas in the tank. Give me your jacket before I raise the ante to shoes."
Spike stared a moment longer, then shrugged and pulled his jacket off. He handed it through the door to Xander, and Xander gave him the keys.
"I want it back tomorrow," he said. "First thing, your time. Sunset's about eight thirty, be here by nine. You don't show, the jacket gets it."
"Better make it nine thirty," Spike said, turning away with a sneer. "I'll want a chance to troll for the ladies in my boss new sled."
Xander stood watching the back of Spike’s head retreat down the dim hallway. The coat was heavy in his hands—leather, stinking of cigarette smoke. He'd just lent his car to Spike. He was an idiot. He was exhausted. He was drunk.
The outside door opened and a big Hispanic guy with a ponytail walked in, shouldering Spike aside. Spike stopped and looked after him, his face deeply pissed, but the guy didn't notice. His eyes flicked over Xander without interest, and he continued on up the stairs, kicking an abandoned soda can down behind him.
"Fucking tip," Spike said clearly, casting a last look down the hallway at Xander. He caught the closing door and slipped out.
Xander stood in the doorway with Spike's jacket in his hands, listening to the sound of the guy's footsteps mounting the stairs, a rhythmic stomping all the way up the flights. That was one thing to be glad of—he didn't have to climb any more stairs tonight.
He woke up—it was dark, the pillow was foul, his head pulsed. Where was he? His hands were dry, his whole body parched and hot. For a moment everything was spun the wrong way, he couldn't find the night table or the luminous face of the clock, couldn't think which way the door was. He listened for the deep quiet of Sunnydale, the overhead footfalls of his parents, the slow rhythm of Anya's breath beside him. Why was he awake?
Someone knocked on the door and he jerked reflexively. Suddenly he could hear city sounds outside the window; cars, a radio, a man laughing hoarsely down the block. L.A. He was in L.A. now, he lived here. Someone was at his door.
He fumbled for the lamp on the night table, almost knocked it down, grabbed it and flicked it on. It was midnight. After Spike had left he'd dropped the coat in a chair, pulled his shoes and shirt off, and fallen into bed. Ceased all radio communication. From the look of the bed, he hadn't moved in the last hour and a half.
He sat up carefully. He was still drunk, in the vilest possible way. He felt raw, nauseated, dizzy.
Whoever was at the door knocked again, a couple of light taps. He put his head in his hands and stood up.
"One of the pleasures of life in the big city," he said aloud, weaving toward the door, "is the all-hours excitement. It's non-stop, and that's how we like it. We city mice. Thrill seekers."
In the kitchen, he couldn't help seeing the broken glass, the leggy brown smear beneath. He had to stop and take a couple of deep breaths. More taps on the front door.
"Yeah, I'll be right with you," he muttered. "Soon as I finish reflecting on the many, many ways I hate my life."
He made it to the door and checked the peephole. Somehow he'd expected it to be Spike, back with some lame complaint about the Nova. Instead, it was a guy he didn't know. Tall, Hispanic, long hair, bony nose. After a second he recognized him as the guy who'd come in as Spike was leaving. The one who'd passed him by and gone upstairs. He was staring away down the hall, looking bored and about to leave.
"Hi," Xander said through the door. "Uh...what can I do for you?"
The guy looked up at the sound of his voice. "Yeah, your friend told me to give this to you," he said.
"My friend?" Xander said, and realized he must mean Spike. "Give me what?"
The guy shrugged, looked down at something he was holding in his hands. "Fuck, I don't know," he said. "I just fucking bring it here, he gave me twenty bucks, said you'd give me twenty too."
Xander rested his forehead against the door and closed his eyes. If it was the transmission, he was going to beat Spike in the head with a claw hammer. He undid the chain and the deadbolts, and opened the door.
"I'm afraid to ask," he said, and the guy smiled at him.
"No, man," he said. "You're not afraid. Not yet."
Xander stared at him, then looked down at his hands to see what he was holding. It was a strip of duct tape, sticky side up.
"Actually, I'm over the adhesive phobia—" he said, and the guy stepped forward and pushed the tape over his mouth.
Xander stumbled back and the guy caught him, stepped around behind him, and wrenched his arms behind his back. Xander yelled through the tape, and a second guy walked quickly through the door and punched him in the face. His head snapped back and something in his neck cracked.
He lost track of things, and when he came back he was being dragged over to the sofa. A third guy had come through the door and was closing it carefully behind him, then deliberately setting the deadbolts and the chain. He and the second guy were dressed in baggy eighties jeans and crappy T-shirts, but they looked like they could bench-press the Nova. The second guy was fake-tanned, with a couple thin gold chains around his neck and a little gold hoop in his left ear. He was wearing a black leather Village People-type vest over his T-shirt, and he took it off calmly and laid it over the back of a chair.
"That's real leather," he said, catching Xander's eye and pointing at the vest. "Notice me taking it off, the better to beat you without messing it up."
"That's a good idea," the third guy said. "I always forget that kind of shit." He carefully unfastened the silver chain he was wearing around his left wrist, and dropped it into his pocket.
The sofa came up to meet Xander very fast, because Bony Nose had kicked his legs out from under him.
"Tape." Xander kicked out desperately and tried to roll off the sofa, and Bony Nose kicked him hard in the ribs. His side exploded and everything slowed down. He ground himself into the back of the sofa, trying to get away from the pain, and at the same time saw the third guy—bullet head, stubby fingers, neck like a tree trunk—toss a roll of duct tape across the room toward him. Out of sight, Bony Nose caught it.
"Hold his arms." Tan came forward with a smile and grabbed Xander's wrists, yanked them behind his back again, pushed so hard that his face was crushed into the sofa and he couldn't breathe.
There was a ripping sound and the tape went around his wrists. He yelled into the sofa cushion. The taping paused.
"You keep yelling, you're going to choke," Bony said. His tone was calm, maybe a little bored. Xander twisted his head to the side and jerked in some quick breaths. Black spots fluttered across his eyes.
He felt a knee in his back, felt one of them grab his bound wrists and yank up. Something in his right shoulder gave way. It was pure white, hot, sharp as a razor. He screamed into the tape.
"Man, he's a baby," someone said.
"Stand him up," someone else said.
He was standing, Bullet holding one side and Tan the other, with Bony in front of him. Bony was looking at him with curiosity and sober patience. Xander's shoulder thumped and screamed. The sound of his breathing—fast, ragged, high—filled the room.
After a moment, Bony stopped looking at him and gazed around the apartment.
"Man," he said. "What is that? A bead curtain? That's really...pathetic."
Bullet laughed, and Xander staggered as the movement sawed his shoulder.
"Okay," Bony said. "So, here's the score. This is a message for Spike." He pulled his right leg back like a star kicker and slammed his boot into Xander's left knee.
Screaming. Again with the screaming. He buckled and Tan and Bullet yanked him up again, and his arm seemed to tear a little further from his body, and he screamed some more. The tape kept most of it from coming out.
"You think you can remember that?" Bony asked. Xander nodded, feeling tears and sweat on his face.
"I'm not so sure," Bony said. He drew his leg back and kicked Xander in the right knee.
Xander caved again and hung for a moment from Tan and Bullet's arms, the pain in his legs worse even than the pain in his shoulder. He couldn't get enough air. His chest had seized. Finally Tan and Bullet pulled him up again. Bony had stepped back and was looking at him with the same bemused expression
"Man, he's like a little girl," Bullet said, from somewhere far away. "Wah, wah, wah."
"Come on," Bony said. "Don't crap out on me yet."
Buffy. Buffy was going to bust through the door in a second, rescue him, wipe the floor with these cheap fucks. Maybe throw in a little extra Slay-fu and egg rolls for the little girl comment. Buffy always knew where the trouble was. Buffy was the Slayer. These guys were Alpo.
Bony stepped forward and Xander flinched before he could help it.
"Little more to that message," Bony said, and punched Xander in the neck.
His head went sideways into Bullet's shoulder, and Bullet went, "Hey," and punched him in the kidney. Tan said, "Oh, does that mean we can—?" and Bony shrugged, and Tan grinned and switched hands on Xander's shoulder to punch him in the stomach. His head went down and someone kneed him in the chin, and there was blood on the floor, and he couldn't breathe. Bullet and Tan weren't holding him up anymore, so he fell down, and they started kicking him.
Buffy was in Sunnydale.
He was in L.A.
City mouse.
"Take the tape off his mouth."
"He'll fucking scream."
"He's got a message to deliver. Can't do that if he suffocates."
"Man, he's going to fucking scream his ass off."
"Take the tape off. Don't close that all the way. Just—yeah, just leave it like that."
The light was halfway gone, and his father was pacing in the kitchen upstairs, which meant his mother was out and there was nobody to yell at. Which meant it was best to just lie low. Yeah, lie low. Don't move a muscle, just watch the light go halfway across the room and shhh.
He was floating. He could breathe. Not much, but some. It was so sweet. He wanted to tell someone about it, tell Willow, breathing is the best, you have to try it, but Willow wasn't there. His father's steps went across the ceiling and back.
The square of light that came down the steps when the door at the top opened, he hated that.
The silence that descended when the footsteps stopped.
The basement door opened with a creak, and the light was all gone now. He wasn't floating anymore. He was stuck to the floor, heavy and dark, a crushed insect. His hands were still taped behind his back, he was wearing only his jeans. He was cold. He couldn't feel.
"Fucking Christ."
British. Giles. Giles was here, he wasn't in the basement, he was in L.A., he was on the floor of his apartment, it was dark. Giles—Buffy, Willow, they were here.
"Ask me in."
He tried to lift his head but his neck didn't work. When he worked his mouth he found it was crusted and salty.
"Ask me in, Xander."
Bad time to be British, Giles. Just fucking let yourself in, I'm a little tied up here. Taped up. Half-dead. Whatever.
"Come on in," he said, and his voice was weird, cracked, the voice of some crazed wooden ventriloquist's dummy. He cleared his throat and tried to lift his head again.
Giles came in and put a hand on his shoulder. Cold hand. "Fucking Christ," he said again. Xander smiled.
"G-man," he said. "Sound like a sailor."
Giles stood up and walked into the kitchen, rummaged in a drawer, then came back. He knelt down behind Xander and started to cut the tape on his wrists. Xander's shoulder shrieked, and he doubled up and yelled into the floor.
"Shit, sorry. Look, can you get up?"
Xander closed his eyes and pressed his cheek to the floor. "Nah," he said. "Just—I'm just gonna lie here a bit."
The tape came off his wrists, boring another molten hole in his shoulder. He writhed and knocked his forehead against the floor.
"Upsa-daisy," Giles said, and lifted him.
It was strange to be carried. Giles was a lot stronger than he looked; apparently, shelving books all day built a guy up. He smelled like cigarettes.
"What a fucking mess," Giles said, putting him down on the sofa.
"Whoah," Xander said. "Hey, don't—this is going to stain. It's not Scotchguarded."
There was a pause. Giles seemed to have moved away a few steps. "Sorry," he said. "Kind of a moot point."
The light clicked on, and Xander winced. Suddenly his face felt hot and stiff, his eyes were crushed almost shut. He couldn't breathe through his nose, and there was blood in his mouth. He blinked and ducked his head from the brightness. His chest and stomach were dark and swollen, and his jeans were bloody. The floor was smeared with drying blood, pulled in loops and arcs where feet had moved through it.
"Wow," he said. "That's really...before was better. Without the seeing." His mouth was bleeding, it was hot at the corners and he could taste blood. He could feel it running down his chin and neck.
There was a snapping sound, and he looked over to see Spike standing by the door, lighting a cigarette. He was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, and there was blood down the front of both. Xander's blood, he realized after a second.
"Thought you were Giles," he said softly. No Giles, that meant no Buffy, no Willow. Just...Spike. Putting his lighter back into his pocket. Dragging on his cigarette and looking at him through narrowed eyes.
"Flatterer," Spike said.
Xander let his head fall back on the sofa and closed his eyes. He was floating again, and that was good, it was vastly preferable to being battered and crushed and bloody. His body felt hot and light, transparent. Like he could lift off the sofa and zoom away to wherever he chose. Sunnydale. Go see Buffy and Will, spend some time rehashing the glory days, maybe put a movie in the VCR. Casablanca. Everyone said it was a classic, and he still hadn't seen it. And hey, you guys, the weirdest fucking thing happened to me in L.A. You'll never guess who I ran into, and what happened next.
"Friends of yours?"
He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. There was blood on it. For a second he thought his eyes were deceiving him, and then he focused, and he was right; there was a fine spray of blood up there, a little Gothic airbrushing. Just to open the place up a bit. He started to laugh, his chest hitching.
"They take anything?"
He rolled his head to the side and looked at Spike, who was still standing by the door, smoking and staring at him. Something was strange—Spike seemed anxious. He had the look he got when he knew something, and was trying to pretend he didn't. When he lifted the cigarette to his lips, his hand shook a little.
"Friends of yours, actually," Xander said. "There was a message—something about a message for you."
"Yeah? What was it?"
"I forget. Oh yeah, beating. That was the gist, I think. No wait, that was all of it. Just the beating."
Spike pulled on his cigarette until it sparked, staring at him. Xander met his eyes for a moment, then rolled his head back and stared at the ceiling. It was blurry. He tried to lift his hand to wipe his eyes, but neither of his arms would work. Deadwood. He gave up and closed his eyes, ground his teeth, felt blackness rise up through him.
"Right, come on." He opened his eyes—Spike was standing over him, holding his leather coat. He stared at it stupidly, astonished that Tan and Bullet hadn't taken it on their way out. Probably too small. Spike was a wiry little devil. Why was he thinking about the coat?
Spike sighed and put an arm around his shoulders, pulled him gently forward and then to his feet. His legs buckled and Spike caught him.
"Jesus Christ—"
The pain in his legs was furious, nauseating, all the way up to his belly.
"Knees, huh?" Spike said. "Simple, effective. Maybe a bit derivative."
Xander waited for the bright dots to stop swimming through his vision. "Thanks. So much. For the audio tour."
The coat was around his shoulders and Spike had his left wrist in a tight grip, holding him up with an arm crooked around his waist and under his left elbow. With Spike taking his weight, they made it to the door. Spike flicked off the light and they were out in the hall, the door swinging closed behind them. Xander flinched as it slammed. The sound was final, like the closing of a book for the last time.
"Where we going?"
Spike was still smoking with his free hand; he dragged hard on the cigarette and blew the smoke off to the side in a jet.
"My place," he said.
They were out the door, into the hot dark stinking night, down the stairs in a second. Spike tossed the cigarette away, looked left and right, fished the keys out of his pocket and opened the passenger door of the Nova. Xander realized dimly that he wasn't wearing shoes. It didn't matter; Spike was holding him up. His feet hardly touched the pavement.
"Watchyerhead," Spike said, leaning down and folding him into the Nova's front seat. The car smelled like cigarettes, maybe blood. But that could just be him.
Spike slammed the door and walked around the front of the car. At the driver's side he paused. Xander could just see his bloodied T-shirt, his hand resting on the door handle, the slight backward turn in his body. He looked like he was listening for something, or smelling the air.
Slowly, Xander closed his eyes. He was light again, and sleepy, and everything hurt. His mouth had started bleeding again, and he swallowed the blood with a vague feeling of disgust.
The car door slammed and Spike was sitting next to him, scowling, jamming the key into the ignition. The Nova started with a shudder.
Xander raised his left arm and fished painfully in the air over his right shoulder as Spike pulled out. After a moment, Spike looked over with his eyebrows raised.
"What are you doing?"
"Seat belt," Xander said.
There was silence. "Sure," Spike said at last. He reached over, pulled the belt across Xander's chest, and clicked it closed.
Lightly, Xander fell backward into nothing.
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