Modus VivendiBy Wiseacress
Chapter Five
When he woke up next, his legs were on fire and his shoulder was telling him all its troubles. He was thirsty and cold.
It was still dark in the loft, but the gooseneck lamp on the dresser was turned on. The neck was bent so that the light faced the wall, dimming it, and beneath it was a glass of water and two white pills. An invitation if he'd ever seen one.
He sat up, and the pain didn't stay on the surface this time. It grabbed hold and dug in, and he gasped. His stomach felt like it had been...beaten. Punched and kicked by, say, three big ugly guys. His stomach had a firm grip on reality.
He reached for the glass, trying to keep his hand from shaking. Spilled water over the blanket but managed to get it to his mouth. Drank half the glass and remembered the pills. He had to put the glass back down to pick the pills up, and almost swiped them off the dresser to the floor. He crammed them into his mouth and washed them down with the rest of the water.
Then he lay back and waited.
His right knee felt as if someone were cutting into it with a circular saw. He stared at the ceiling, the crisscross of the pipes, and thought, for some reason, about that time he was nine.
When he was nine they went back east to Wisconsin to visit Granny Harris and her third husband, Glenn. Granny and Glenn had a little house on a few spare acres, way out on a numbered rural route. Glenn made scrap art. He was a fiend for scrap, spent his weekends at the dump and touring estate sales for old farm equipment and machinery. Once he took Xander with him, and let him chuck rocks out the pickup window at passing road signs. Let Xander light cigarettes for him with the bright pink coil that came out of the dashboard.
Not a bad guy, Glenn. A teetotaler.
One day on that trip, Xander climbed up onto one of the piles of scrap in the side yard. It looked solid until it fell through, and then he had something like a machete stuck three inches into his leg. In hindsight, probably a lawn mower blade. It was sunk in the outside of his thigh, just above his knee. At first he thought it was an illusion, a trick of the light. Then he started to bleed, and the blood was thick and black against his skin, and he nearly fainted with fear.
He pulled it out and went to find his parents, who were sitting in the back yard with Granny, drinking Pepsi and rum. Glenn was out in the pickup, looking for scrap. It was around four or five o'clock, and they'd started drinking just after lunch. He could hear them all the way around the house, laughing and talking.
His mother screamed when she saw him. His father stood up and knocked over the little table with the ice bucket and the Pepsi. He remembered watching the Pepsi fizz away into the grass, thinking they should pick the bottle up and save what was left, because soda was a treat.
The nearest hospital was thirty miles away, and they were all hammered. Granny made him lie down with his legs up on a lawn chair, while she knelt by his head and rubbed his hair. Blood coursed up his leg, started to fill his shorts and creep up the back of his shirt. His mother ran into the house to call an ambulance, and his father yelled that she was being an idiot, he'd drive them in. He couldn't find the keys. Granny lit a cigarette nervously and some of the ash fell on Xander's face. She didn't notice. Her hands were shaking in his hair.
Xander lay on his back staring at the sky, at his weeping grandmother, at the flakes of ash falling down on him. He was cold and his leg ached.
Before, they'd been happy and laughing, and he'd been quietly looking forward to when Glenn would come home and show him some new scrap, and there would have been some kind of dinner, probably Glenn would heat up a chicken pot pie from the supermarket. And everything would have been fine.
Now he was lying on the lawn in a pool of blood, while his grandmother cried and his father called his mother a stupid bitch, and kicked a lawn chair over and threw something against the house. His father was demanding to know how he'd cut himself. He tried to answer but his mother came out of the house and said the ambulance was on its way, and his grandmother said thank God, and his father said, way to go, genius, how are we going to pay for that? And where were his fucking keys? And why couldn't they ever have a normal fucking holiday, why was it always a fucking crisis, were they trying to drive him insane?
His mother knelt by his head and brushed the ash away and said, shh, honey, it's okay. Her hands were cold and damp, and she smelled like perfume and rum. Mom smells.
He tried to smile at her but he started to cry instead, because he should have learned by now that there were really only two rules in life. One: you're going to get hurt. And, two: whining makes it worse.
Glenn came home and his mother and father and he all piled into the pickup and started for the hospital. On the way, they passed the ambulance his mother had called, speeding out to Granny's place. Xander's father insisted that they turn around and follow it until they could flag it down, since they didn't need it anymore. While Glenn and Xander and his mother sat in the pickup, Xander's father stood on the shoulder and remonstrated with the ambulance driver. His face went red and he started to lean forward on the balls of his feet. They watched in silence. Finally he turned and walked quickly back to the pickup, got in, and slammed the door without a word.
Glenn drove with an iron foot all the way. Xander needed twenty stitches, and he still had the scar.
A few years later, he realized that his father had been arguing about money. About whether they had to pay for the ambulance, since they hadn't needed it in the end.
He must have fallen asleep again, because here he was awake, and there were lights on elsewhere in the loft. Someone was moving around, making dish sounds, and there was the smell of food. Something greasy and spicy. And suddenly he was very, very hungry.
He sat up carefully, and God bless the little white pills, because the pain was all on the surface again, and he wasn't cold, or maybe he was but it didn't matter. He'd been lying here thinking about the time with the lawn mower blade. It was kind of funny, him laid out on the lawn, bleeding like a soldier, while Granny Harris smoked Vantage 100's into his face. He smiled, which made his lip hurt. Poor Granny Harris. Died in an oxygen tent.
Not funny, but he couldn't stop smiling. God bless the little white pills.
He heard footsteps coming back toward him, and turned sideways. After a moment, Liv came around the screen. She was wearing blue jeans and a dark green sweatshirt. With her hair in the ponytail, she looked like a college sophomore.
"Hey," he said, his voice cracking. "You're not wearing black." He started to giggle.
She looked at him for a moment, then down at herself. "No," she said.
"How does evil know you're on its team, then?"
She started to say something, then stopped. She held up two Chinese takeout buckets, slightly grease-stained. "Are you hungry?"
He started to laugh again. "Oh, yeah. Yeah, I'm hungry." Christ, it was hilarious. Even though he knew it actually wasn't. Well, he was stoned. And that was pretty funny, too.
She stepped around him and put the buckets on the dresser, put a plate next to them and started scooping food out. Rice and some kind of brown, meaty chunks that shone with fat and sauce. Sweet Jesus. It smelled fantastic. Like...food to a starving man. No other way to describe it, really.
She picked up the plate, turned, and held a fork out to him.
"You think you can use that okay?"
"Yeah, sure. 'Fire', right? No, wait, that's the hot one."
The giggles were gone; apparently, hunger had focused his mind. He knew he was staring at the plate, and that it was probably greedy and unseemly and idiotic, but he couldn't look away.
She put the plate carefully on his legs and stepped back, and he dove in. It was beef, or maybe dog or rat, whatever, it was hot and greasy and meaty and his mouth was actually watering for it, no kidding around, he had to stop and swallow drool. Another time, he'd consider the aesthetics. He crammed another mouthful in and chewed as fast as he could. Sweet Jesus, again. His hand was still shaking and he'd dropped rice on the floor. Save it for later. God bless the Chinese. All four billion souls.
He cleaned the plate in a minute, and looked to see if there was more in the buckets. Liv stepped forward and took the plate and fork away from him.
"Take it easy. You can have more later."
"Or, now."
"You haven't eaten solid food in a while now. You'll just get sick."
"You clearly haven't heard about the patented Xander Harris cast iron stomach. Guaranteed not to refund your deposit." Well, except for half a bottle of JD at a sitting, but who was keeping that score?
"You can have more in a little while." She handed him a napkin. "You need this."
He wiped his face and she folded the buckets closed, took the crumpled napkin, and picked up the plate and fork. "I'll come back later," she said.
"Who are you, Jenny Craig? No fortune cookie, even?"
She stepped around him and started for the opening in the screen. "When I come back we'll take a look at your leg," she said. "And you can eat more. For now, just don't throw up."
"What ever happened to, 'thank you for your patronage, please dine with us again?’”
She walked out without looking back.
He sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the food settle hot and heavy in his stomach, considering the few grains of rice scattered on the floor in front of him, and whether he could reach them if he really stretched. Probably not. He lay back on the pillow and thought about hamburgers, onion rings, French fries. Apple pie, mashed potatoes. Ice cream. His stomach made a baffled, angry noise.
"Tell it to the Chow Mein Nazi."
He could hear water running, the sound of plates and cutlery and the rustling of a plastic bag. Homey sounds. If he closed his eyes he could imagine himself lying on the couch at Buffy's, dozing after a big Scooby feed, listening to Joyce or Giles puttering in the kitchen. Except there was no Buffy complaining about having to go out on patrol. No Willow and Tara taking turns reading out loud from something magical. Not even any Giles and Joyce talking quietly about...whatever old folks talked about.
It struck him, in a dreamy, quiet way, that he was alone.
The door opened, and boots walked in. It was a quick, long stride and there was a rustle and a soft thump and Liv said mildly, "Wouldn't kill you to hang your shit up once in a while."
"Might just. How's Sleeping Beauty?"
"Probably sleeping. He ate."
The sound of running water, while Spike's footsteps went across the loft and then fell silent. After a moment, Liv spoke again.
"Any luck with Kinbote?"
There was a pause.
"No," Spike said finally. "He was a bit...scattered when I got there."
"Scattered."
"Yeah. All over the floor."
Another pause. The water stopped, and there was the unmistakable sound of a sponge being wrung into the sink.
"I see," Liv said.
"Nothing to worry about," Spike said. "Probably unrelated. Kinbote had a few bad habits, any one of them could have finally upped and bitten him in the ass. Long overdue, really."
"And inconvenient.”
"Yeah. It is."
There was another pause, and Xander stared up at the pipes and tried to think. He didn't know the name Kinbote. Didn't even know for sure what Spike and Liv were talking about, but he'd bet one slightly used patella that it had something to do with the Gleesome Threesome. Someone had wanted to send a message to Spike, and it hadn't been welcome to the neighborhood.
He had a strange feeling in his stomach, a bit like excitement. After a moment's thought, he realized it was fear.
"About that other thing," Spike said, and let it hang.
"Yes?" Liv said after a moment, and her tone had tightened.
"You set it up?"
"Yeah. I booked a flight."
"Good. Be nice if something actually came of it, this time."
"I don’t think I should go."
"You said that already, pet. It’s in the minutes." His steps went across the floor and the television clicked on. Channels started to blip past.
Liv walked to the middle of the room and stopped. "Do you want to ask Nova about the guys?"
"His name's Xander," Spike said. "Sure. Why don't we ask him now?"
"You want me to wake him up?"
"He's not asleep," Spike said.
Xander froze.
"That goosed him," Spike said, and Xander could hear the smirk in his voice.
"I'll do his leg, then," Liv said. Her steps started coming back toward the screen. She didn't sound surprised by Spike's comment, but she still sounded terse. A moment later she pushed the screen aside and looked in at Xander.
"Come on, Nova," she said. "Time to talk."
She came in and held a hand out to him, and he took it slowly. When she pulled him upright his knees sparked, but she took most of his weight and the pills were doing their thing. She turned and walked him out into the loft.
Spike was lying on the couch, one arm propped behind his head, watching a soccer match. His coat was lying in the middle of the floor. Liv walked around it and steered Xander to one of the armchairs beside the couch. They were all black, and they matched. Spike had modular furniture.
Liv dropped Xander into the chair and walked away. He watched her go to the kitchen on the far side of the loft and open a cupboard. She took out a grey tackle box and opened it, then pulled a pair of long, bright scissors out of it. He looked away.
"Oh, bloody offside. Get a sighted ref, you punters."
Xander turned to the television and tried to make himself track. The ball was going back and forth. Yeah, he'd heard it did that. He looked away again.
There was a stereo next to the television, and a little cabinet full of CDs. He looked up at the wall. The picture he'd noticed before was an anatomical sketch, a human torso with the skin pulled away and the muscles bared. The muscles were red and ropy, coiled hard as if in agony. Charming. He looked back at the television.
Liv walked back across the loft and Xander kept himself from looking at her until she stepped in front of him and dropped a pile of stuff onto the coffee table. He looked at the pile. A lot of gauze, a bottle of antiseptic, a roll of tape. And the scissors. He cleared his throat.
"So—who's Kinbote?"
Liv tightened her lips and knelt in front of him. "Take your trousers down," she said, turning to rummage through the pile.
Xander didn't move. Spike looked over and grinned.
"Go on," he said. "She doesn't say that to just anybody."
"Shut up," he said, and realized a second after he'd said it that she'd said it too. Stereo. She paused, but didn't look up from the pile.
Spike looked amused. "Oh, I've been told," he said, and turned back to the television.
Xander still didn't move, and Liv looked up with an annoyed expression. "You take them down or I cut them off. "
He stared at her for a minute, then slowly undid his fly and wiggled them down.
And he was sitting in Spike's armchair in his boxers, his pants around his ankles, while an angry girl with scissors knelt between his legs. And Spike watched soccer.
His life sucked.
Liv picked the scissors up and he flinched. She rolled her eyes and cut the tape holding the dressing over his right knee. She put the scissors back on the table and started to unwind the gauze. He watched nervously.
"So...Kinbote's dead, huh? Man, that's too bad. Who the hell was he, anyway?"
Liv said nothing. Spike shrugged, his eyes on the television.
"Nobody important."
"You think he had a visit from the Creatine brothers?"
Liv stopped unwinding and looked over her shoulder at Spike. He glanced at her, then looked back at the television.
"Doubt it."
Liv picked up the scissors, snipped the length of bandage off, and started unwinding again. Xander looked at his leg around the bandage. It was black and green.
"Okay, Spike. You want to tell me what's going on? Because, yeah, okay, I'm drugged and pantsless and your girlfriend's inches from making me sing soprano, but that doesn't mean-"
He stopped. Spike and Liv were both looking at him. Liv looked appalled. Spike looked surprised and even more amused.
"What?"
Liv turned her head and stared at Spike, and he raised his eyebrows at her, grinning. She turned back to Xander.
"I'm not Spike's girlfriend," she said. She looked furious. Spike laughed.
Xander opened his mouth and closed it again. "Oh," he said. Liv was glaring at him, and there was colour in her cheeks. She was still holding the scissors.
"Oh," he said again. "Sorry."
She looked him in the eye for a second, then cut another length of the bandage off with a vicious snap. She slapped the scissors back down on the table and started unwinding again, faster and less gently.
"Oh, fucking foul, you blind tosser."
There was a strange, slightly nauseating tugging sensation as the gauze came away from around Xander's knee. He tried to ignore it.
"Spike. What. Is going. On."
Liv pulled the last layer of gauze away and he flinched. She tossed it away onto the floor and lifted the gauze pad over the incision. He couldn't help looking down.
His knee was black and green, swollen like a grapefruit, with a weeping three-inch mouth cut under his kneecap. Jesus Christ. For a second he was nine again, looking down at the machete stuck in his leg, terrified at what he'd allowed to happen to his body.
He wasn't aware that he was gasping until Liv looked up and said, "Breathe, Nova. Watch the game." Her voice was just a little less cold.
He took a deep breath and looked at the television. Spike was leaning up on his elbow, gazing at Xander’s knee with interest.
"Ooh, that's a nice job. Professional."
Liv didn't reply. She was doing something to Xander's leg, and while it didn't hurt, exactly, it sort of...pulled. He swallowed hard and watched the ball go back and forth.
"You should pay attention, pet," Spike said, turning his attention back to the television. "You could learn something."
Xander blinked in confusion. "Okay, I really need some explaining to happen."
Spike held one hand up in a hang-on gesture, watching the screen intently while the players hassled each other around the net. At last the ball squirted free and he sighed and tossed the remote onto the coffee table.
"Well, hell. Right. Tell us about the plug uglies, Xander."
Xander stared. "The—? Oh. What about them? I already did this, at the hospital. She was there." He gestured at Liv, careful not to look at whatever she was doing to his knee.
"Yeah, we got all that. Did you invite them in?"
Xander laughed. "Oh, right, I forgot to mention that. It was kind of a struggle, too, considering that my mouth was duct-taped." He leaned back, wincing as his stomach flashed pain. "They weren't vampires. I think they were just...guys. Humans."
"Not demons."
"I don't know. Neckless, steroid-sucking non-vampire type demons, maybe. Or just, you know, guys."
"They have any tattoos?"
"Yeah, sure, Policeman Spike. They were carnies. I already did this."
"Do it again." Spike was leaning forward on the arm of the couch, staring at him.
He sighed and closed his eyes. Thought about hanging off Bullet and Tan's arms while Bony Nose leaned back for the second kick. Bony's whole body was corded up, his face intent, and when he pulled his chin just a little higher, he showed a dark blue squiggle on the side of his neck.
"Bony Nose had a snake."
Liv's hands stopped moving and when he opened his eyes, she was looking up at him, frowning. "You didn't mention that before," she said.
"Sure I did."
She shook her head. "You said Bullet had the snake tattoo, not Bony."
He paused and thought about it. After the kick, and some more screaming, hanging limp in mid-air with his shoulder pulling slowly out of its socket. Looking dazedly to the right and seeing Bullet's thick neck and the snake coiling just below his ear.
"Yeah," he said. "He had one too."
"Where?" Spike asked.
"On his neck. Both of them. Under the ear."
Liv sat back and looked around at Spike. "Snake," she said quietly.
"What about the other one?" Spike asked, ignoring Liv. "He have the same thing?"
Xander tried to think, but all he could remember about Tan was the cruddy vest, and a couple of quick and personal glimpses of his knuckles. And there was something else bothering him, distracting him. His brain fidgeted uncomfortably in the bath.
"I don't remember," he said slowly, and Spike looked disappointed.
"Well, thanks for coming out," he said, and turned back to the television. Liv rolled her eyes.
"Can you draw it?" she asked, facing Xander again. He shrugged and she stood up.
"Snake is a snake is a snake," Xander said, and looked down at his leg. Christ. Was it supposed to be green like that? "Long, icky, sharp at one end. Shouldn't we be...covering this up?"
Liv was walking back to him with a piece of paper and a stubby pencil. She held them out.
"Draw it."
He took them, and she knelt at his feet again. For a moment he searched for somewhere to put the paper down flat, then finally laid it along the arm of the chair. It started to slide and he stabbed at it with the pencil. The point of the pencil went through the paper and into the chair. Spike glared.
"Did I perforate that disgusting Barcalounger you trapped me in? No, I did not."
"Because I would have punched you in the brain," Xander said absently, fumbling to hold onto the pencil.
He grabbed the paper and straightened it, then tried to sketch the snake. He could see it clearly: about three inches long, a simple dark blue outline with a flat head and a forked tongue. It was drawn with its head up and two bends in its body. Not such a scary tattoo, really—more like cave art. Sort of a weird choice for the muscle gang.
His hand wouldn't hold the pencil, and he wasn't left-handed anyway, so all he could make were a couple of shaky lines. After a minute he stopped trying.
"I can't do this. Sorry. It was—you know, a snake. It didn't have legs."
Liv put the cold wet cotton on his knee and he jumped. Spike changed channels.
"Right. The kind of snake without legs. Well, you’ve been a good investment."
"Hey, I didn't realize there'd be a post-beating quiz, okay? And can we pause for a moment to consider the fact that the only reason there was a beating in the first place is that you dropped by? So, thanks. And fuck off."
Liv did something that made his knee flare, and he yelled. Spike smirked.
"Careful," he said. "She's a stickler for foul language." Liv calmly cut a square of gauze from the roll.
Xander clung to the arm of the chair, his heart pounding in his ears.
For the first time, it struck him that he was incredibly, stupidly vulnerable here. That he'd signed onto the Spike-and-Liv show without the faintest clue what it entailed. He'd got used to the chipped Spike back in Sunnydale, the Spike who was posturing and obnoxious and, yeah, evil, but not really bad, or at least couldn’t act like it. He was beginning to think that maybe things had changed a bit.
Because even if Spike couldn't hurt him, Liv could.
In the hospital, he could put in a call to Buffy Central any time. Somehow, he didn't think Spike and Liv would be quite so happy to help him dial that extension.
Liv put a fresh square of cotton over his knee and began to wind more gauze carefully around it. He watched the purple bruises disappear beneath layers of white.
What had he done to get here? How had he ended up half-crippled and a hostage to Spike? As a solo Scooby, he wasn't doing so well. Not that anyone in the studio audience was too surprised by that.
Spike landed on an old movie and hesitated, then let the remote fall. Xander glanced at the screen and was surprised, then oddly pleased, to see that it was Casablanca. He recognized the little guy in the bar.
"Hey, I've been meaning to see this," he said, without thinking.
"'s all right till the end," Spike said. "The end's crap."
Xander laughed, then wondered if he was going insane. A second ago he'd been worrying about whether Spike and Liv had really kidnapped him, whether they might hurt him, maybe kill him. Now it struck him as funny that Spike didn't like the end of Casablanca.
Liv finished wrapping his knee and taped it firmly; it felt warm, and throbbed oddly. She pulled his trousers up to his knees and then started piling up the stuff she'd dumped on the coffee table. He got them up the rest of the way, after some uncomfortable shifting. It took a few tries to get zipped and buttoned, but he managed. Neither Spike nor Liv paid any attention.
After a minute Liv stood up and carried her pile of stuff back to the tackle box, and he had just a second to wonder about why she had such an extensive supply of ER props, when she was back with another glass of water and a couple of capsules in her hand. Yellow and red.
"Take these," she said. He hesitated, and she sighed. "They're antibiotics, Nova. Take them."
"Xander," he said, reaching out and taking the pills. "Just like 'Nova,' but 'Xander.'"
He swallowed the pills and drank all the water, and she took the glass away. He didn't watch her go; he was getting tired again. His eyes were heavy and he was having trouble focusing on the television. Back to soccer. When had they left Casablanca? His leg felt hot and tight, but it didn't hurt, exactly. Spike glanced at him and raised an eyebrow, then went back to the television.
She was back, a plate of rice in her hand, and that woke him up fast. He reached for it and she frowned with annoyance.
"You're too stoned to eat."
"Oh, lady, I'm not. I assure you. I'm...hungry." He reached again and she turned to put the plate on the coffee table and then he saw it. The thing that made his brain sit up straight in the bath and grab for a towel. Why hadn't he noticed it before?
She had a tattoo on her neck; he'd noticed it sometime before, he couldn't remember when. At the time he hadn't seen it properly, couldn't tell what it was. Now, when she turned her head away, he saw it perfectly clearly. It was a nail. A good long flathead nail, maybe two or three inches, in outline. Nice.
Except somehow he knew it wasn't a nail.
It was a spike.
Suddenly he wasn't hungry or sleepy anymore; he was very much awake, very much on edge. A spike. In the same spot where Bullet and Bony had a snake. Spike had been so curious about those tattoos, and interested in where they were. And was that just a coincidence?
Something with a lot of legs crawled quickly up his spine, and he held himself tense so he wouldn't shiver.
She turned and looked at him, and he knew right away from her expression that he wasn't looking too suave. Okay, a bit late for that. Maybe try for some answers instead. He swallowed and tried to smile.
"I'm just noticing your tattoo. Nice work."
She stared at him for a second, and her expression was a little surprised, he thought. Surprised that he'd noticed, or that he'd come right out and mentioned it? Didn't matter; she snorted and stood up, taking the plate with her.
"What is that, a three-penny nail?"
"Sure." She started to step around him. Spike hadn't moved, hadn't acknowledged either of them.
"Because it kind of looks like a spike."
She paused and looked down at him. He reached for the plate again.
"If you look at it the right way," he said. "Kind of like a little, tiny spike. Which is sort of funny, don't you think?"
Her eyes flickered to Spike, who still hadn't moved. She looked back to Xander, and she was so clearly trying to stonewall, it was almost endearing.
"Because, you know," he said, pushing it just a little bit farther and nodding at the couch. "Spike."
She glanced at Spike again—she obviously expected him to start steering, but he wasn't taking the wheel, and after a second she looked back at Xander and raised her eyebrows.
"Nah," she said. "It's just a nail." She started to turn away.
Spike turned the television off and sat up.
"Is it now," he said.
Xander watched Spike. He was sitting on the edge of the couch, examining his boots, one thumb working absently at the fabric of the cushion. After a moment he looked up.
"Give him the plate, luv."
Liv turned back and put the plate down on the table in front of Xander. She didn't look at him.
He paused just a moment, then gave in to his stomach and grabbed the fork. Started to shovel rice into his mouth as fast as he could, not caring if it went onto the floor and the chair as well. Fuck Spike's modular furniture. His belly wanted to leap up into his throat to get at the food faster. Down, boy.
Spike stood up and walked away, and he swallowed and let the fork fall. Oh, good job. Let them distract you with food. Why was he sure this never happened to Buffy?
"Sure, Spike, walk away from the crippled guy. Because he can't get up and come after you. To give you the bitch-slapping you so richly merit."
Liv shifted beside him and he shot her a sideways glare.
"Right, you don't like it when I’m mean to him. I get it, already. Cancel the memo."
Spike was walking back to the couch, carrying a glass and a bottle. Automatically, Xander checked the label. Jim Beam.
"You know that stuff'll kill you." Actually, it sounded kind of good just now.
Spike poured himself a healthy two fingers and sprawled back on the couch. "She works for me," he said simply.
Xander blinked, then glanced reflexively over his shoulder at Liv. She was standing still, her arms crossed over her stomach, looking slightly sick. He guessed that she hadn't been expecting Spike to say that.
"Uh, okay. She's like...a butler?" Part of his mind was whirling madly over what else she might be. Escort service? Procurer? Was there a French maid outfit around here anywhere? Now he was feeling sick.
"A butler," Spike repeated. He leaned his head back and smiled at Liv; slow evil handsome smile. "Sure, like a butler."
Liv was breathing oddly, and Xander pushed the plate of rice away. His hands were clammy.
"So, I'm having an SAT moment here. That nifty tattoo—if that makes her your...butler, and the Creatine brothers had tattoos in the same place, then they're...butlers for—" He paused. "Someone else."
Spike sipped his drink and looked at Xander. Long, quiet, considering look. Was it him, or was Spike a little scarier these days?
"You're not as stupid as you look," he said.
"Thanks. I'll take 'People who ordered Xander's ass beaten into the ground' for a thousand." He paused, and when Spike just stared at him, said, "I'm dominating the round here, Spike. The question is: 'Who is that special someone?'"
Spike looked at Liv and smiled slightly. "Good question," he said. Liv swallowed hard; Xander heard her throat click. She was white and her lips were pressed together hard. "Any thoughts, Liv?"
"Sure," she said. "I think I want a raise."
Spike tilted his head to the side as if considering. "No," he said after a minute, and tipped the rest of the bourbon down his throat.
Xander stared at his plate of rice and tried to ignore the heat in his knees. Spike poured himself another, and it smelled good. It felt like ages since he'd had a drink. Jim Beam was basically paint thinner, but—what the hell. Without thinking too hard about it, he leaned forward and took the glass out of Spike's hand.
"Hey—" Spike's voice was startled and annoyed, and that made Xander smile. That was more like the Spike he remembered. He closed his eyes and tried not to breathe in as he lifted the glass. Shot it down fast and dropped the glass back on the table.
"Okay." He had to blink hard to keep tears out of his eyes, and his throat felt burnt. For a second he thought the patented Xander Harris cast iron stomach was going to kick back. Then the burn scaled down and opened two big wings of warmth in his chest and back, and that was just fine.
"Okay. So, she's your butler. This must be an LA thing. Because I don't remember ever hearing about humans…butlering for vampires before." He was sinking back into the armchair, but a thought struck him suddenly and made him sit up. "Hey—she knows you're a vampire, right?"
Spike picked up the glass and filled it again, holding it well away from Xander. "Can't recall. Liv, did I mention that bit?"
"You mentioned it."
Xander turned to look up at her. The warmth in his chest had spread up to his face now, and either Spike was drinking gasohol or he was even weaker than he'd thought, because he was buzzing. Liv looked down at him, clearly pissed off. Well, if he worked for Spike he'd probably have issues too.
"Man, I thought my job sucked," he said, and laughed.
"I'm sure it does," she said.
"You're aware, aren't you, that vampires eat humans? Eat them. Us. You might want to check and see if your job description has 'human resources' anywhere in the title."
"You finished with that?" She pointed at the plate in front of him, and he looked at it. Cold, greasy rice. Yeah, he was finished. He was warm all over, and light, and didn't care that she was changing the subject. She was Spike's butler, okay. Whatever. He nodded, and she scooped the plate up and walked away.
"So, does she do windows?" He watched Spike swirl the bourbon in his glass. Another drink would be nice, actually. And if Spike weren't such a low-class prick, he'd offer. "I'm just asking, because it looks like she's not too keen on picking up your shit, so I'm wondering...you know, what her actual job is."
Spike glanced at him, then leaned up on his elbow and looked over the back of the couch. His coat was still lying in the middle of the floor where he'd dropped it. Liv was at the sink, rinsing Xander's plate.
"Liv, hang up that bloody coat. Fucking tip in here."
She was standing with her back to them, and she didn't move for a minute. Then she turned and walked across the room, wiping her hands on her jeans. She picked up the coat, carried it to a hook on the far wall, and hung it up. She didn't look at Spike or Xander as she walked back to the sink.
Spike settled back into the couch and lifted one boot onto the coffee table. It made a loud, proprietary thump. "Her actual job," he said, smiling at Xander, "is whatever I tell her to do."
Xander stared at him.
It was stupid, totally stupid, but some part of his brain half expected Spike to split in half and then out would pop his father, one foot up on the coffee table, boozy fume in the air, snarling that he hadn't married the woman so she could sit around the house reading Family Circle all day. She was a wife, she had a job. And you know what it was? It was whatever he fucking told her it was.
Another bug went up his spine, and this time he shivered. Just a bit, but enough for Spike to see. They looked at each other for a minute, and then Spike's mouth tightened and he looked at his boot.
"She does a job, is all." He said it loud enough for Xander to hear, but probably not Liv. His tone was...what? Conciliatory? Apologetic? Those words weren't in Spike's vocabulary, as far as Xander knew. And if he knew he was creeping Xander out, shouldn't he be gloating?
Things were getting weirder by the minute.
It was too fucking complicated. Worse, he was tired. The booze was pulling his eyes closed, pushing his brain deeper into the bath, and he thought absently about all the pills he'd taken in the last few hours, and wondered when the idiot train would stop so he could get off. Maybe he'd die a rock star death in Spike's guest room. Would Liv's actual job include disposing of his body? Probably. Seemed like the kind of thing she'd enjoy.
"Okay," he said, struggling to sit upright. "So, you're moving up in the world, Spike. You're a vampire of means. You've got staff. Congratulations. Can we talk a little more about the dinks who broke my knees?"
"Nothing to talk about."
"I kind of disagree. Who are they butlering for?"
Spike swirled his glass.
"You don't know. But you don't seem too surprised about any of this, either."
Spike did the evil smile. "Nothing surprises me, pet."
"I surprised you when I took your drink away, Spike. I bet Liv surprised you when she picked up your coat. You're eminently surprise-able."
Spike scowled. Again, a flash of the old Spike, and maybe he wasn't so far beneath the surface of this new, slightly icier, more together model. In his little black heart, Spike still loved cheap shots and flash. And it just took the Amazing Xander Harris to bring it out in him. Thank you. Thank you very much.
"Why'd they pick me?" He was starting to lose track of his thoughts; everything felt fluid and soft and he knew he was slumping back in the chair. Fuck.
"Dunno. Probably thought you were a friend."
"Why would they—I'm not. We don't...hang, Spike."
"They saw me drive you home, I imagine."
He laughed at that. It all went back to The Summer Place, and too many whiskeys, and Rocker on the mound. And how stupid was his life?
Spike was smiling a little, too. "Wrong place, wrong time. Sorry 'bout that."
Was he serious? With the apology? Too weird.
"Should've let her tow me," he said, but he was mumbling now, and his eyes were closed. He felt as if he were being pressed backward slowly, then with increasing speed.
Someone reached into his shirt and started pressing the fingers of his right hand, and he opened his eyes to see Liv there, looking critically at his fingernails. He was still in the armchair, but Spike was nowhere around. The bottle and his empty glass were still on the table.
"Come on," she said after a minute, and pulled him to his feet. "Back to bed."
He knew time had passed, but his brain was in denial, still working on the conversation he'd been having a minute—hours?—before.
"Why not you?" he asked, hanging loosely off her shoulder, letting her shift his weight onto her hip.
"What?"
"Why'd they bust on me? I hardly know him now. You're his live-in."
She glanced at him and gave a little snort of laughter. "Your mouth never gets tired, does it?"
"I'm just saying."
"I don't open doors to strangers in the middle of the night." They were halfway back to his room, and no sign of Spike anywhere in the apartment. Silent and dark. He nodded. They got to the screen and she pushed past and turned and dropped him onto the bed. It would have hurt if he'd cared about pain. She reached over and clicked off the gooseneck.
"Night, Nova."
Then she was gone, and he lay awake on top of the covers for maybe ten seconds before the roaring came up in his ears and he was gone.
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