Modus VivendiBy Wiseacress
Chapter Six
"It was the strangest thing," he said. "He just leaned over and kissed me. On the mouth."
"Is he a good kisser?" Willow was drinking a coffee and she had a plate of pancakes in front of her. He picked up a fork and started in on them. Man, he was hungry.
"That's so totally not the point, Will." He put pancake into his mouth and started to chew. It tasted rubbery and weird.
Eat it, his mind told him. Doesn't matter what it tastes like. You need food.
"I think it's important," she said, and reached out and stroked his cheek.
He closed his eyes and dropped the fork and pressed his face into her hand. It felt so good. So much what he craved. And that was a weird thought, needy and lame, but fuck, it felt good to be touched. Touched by someone who loved him. It was electric, made him feel like grinning and shaking and maybe crying.
Christ, pathetic, some part of him muttered, and he ignored it and rubbed his cheek over her hand. Her skin was smooth and cool and pale. Willow loved him. Jesus, he loved her back.
"I'm hungry," he said, hoping she'd understand what he really meant. Because he didn't, but it had something to do with her hand on his face and him needing food and having to eat trash, and Spike having kissed him.
That's what he'd been telling her, he remembered. Spike had kissed him, and it was good, it wasn't weird at all, it was soft and warm and Spike had blue eyes. He'd never kissed anyone with blue eyes before. It had been sweet. Spike had held his jaw and shoulder and kissed his mouth, and he hadn't felt surprised at all. Just happy. Loved.
He ate pancakes for a while, alone in the booth, and they got more and more rubbery, and started to taste like burnt plastic. He had to get through the stack, and it was taking forever. Half a pancake to go. His stomach needed it. He laid the knife and fork down in the syrup and sat back for a breather.
Beside his plate was a glass of water and two pills, yellow and red. Tetracycline, probably. Or penicillin. He took the pills and drank the water.
Spike reached out and crumpled up his napkin, dropped it in the center of his plate, on top of the hacked pancake. Because he had many childhood issues.
"Thanks, Spike. I was eating that."
Spike rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. The Goodyear special?"
"I haven't eaten in three days, dipshit. I take what I can get."
"So take this." Spike leaned across the table toward him, evil smile, pure intent, and it was the cheesiest, stupidest, most cringe-worthy moment, and he loved it. He grinned and leaned forward too, and they kissed midway. Spike's mouth was warm and sweet. Just like before. Or maybe it was now. Spike's tongue pushed past his lips and Xander grinned wider, and they gnashed teeth gently. God, amazing. He loved it. Spike loved him.
Then Spike pulled away suddenly and he was left for a second feeling stupid before he could put his face back together and open his eyes. Spike was looking past his shoulder, at something behind him.
"What's—"
He didn't get to say anything else, because someone grabbed the back of his neck and yanked him around. He was standing beside the table, and his shoulder was screaming, and his arm was trapped in gauze against his chest, and there was blood all over his jeans. He was barefoot, bare-chested.
"Little more to that message," Bony Nose said, and punched him in the face.
He fell back into the booth. Bony reached in, grabbed him by the waistband of his jeans, and pulled him back out. He flailed but couldn't get purchase on the vinyl. There was blood everywhere.
"Fuck, Spike—"
Bony hauled him up and wheeled him around, right off his feet, sent him skittering across the floor. Coffee went flying. He tried to pick himself up and run, but his legs were broken. Blood soaking through his jeans, and he was lying on the floor heaving for breath, looking down at his crushed legs. Bony was walking up slowly.
"You're a friend of his, right?"
Blood was running down out of his hair, into his eyes. His legs were on fire. He propped himself up on his good arm and started to drag himself away. Spike—where was Spike?
Bony caught up with him and stepped on his right foot. It cracked, and the world went white.
"You be sure to give him the message," Bony said. "Make sure you remember to tell him."
Spike wasn't there. Because Bony was human, and Spike couldn't hurt him, so he'd got out while the getting was good. Couldn't blame him. But it really was too bad.
Bony stepped to the side and knelt down by his head. For a second they looked at each other, and Bony smiled. Then he reached around and pulled something from the back of his jeans.
A gun.
The muzzle pressed cold against his temple.
He lay silent, trembling, his eyes wide and wet. Tasted absolute terror in his mouth.
Dream it’s a dream it’s a dream wake up wake UP
"Tell him about this, okay?" Bony said.
A brown dog watched solemnly from the corner of the room.
He tried to nod and from the corner of his eye, he saw the tendons in Bony's forearm shift, then unbearable pressure, red black explosion in his skull.
He jerked upright and couldn't breathe. Or was breathing too much, he couldn't tell. No difference. No air. His chest was heaving and there was no air in his lungs, he was choking. Jesus Christ. His left hand was knotted in the blanket. He was soaked in sweat.
It was pitch black in the loft, and footsteps were coming toward him, a long quick stride. He gasped, ducked his head, tried to let go of the blankets. His fingers were cramped and locked. It hurt to uncurl them.
Someone came around the screen, and stopped. He didn't bother to look around. Couldn't see a thing, couldn't reach the gooseneck, didn't want to turn it on anyway. Didn't matter which of them it was, really. The only person he could imagine facing right now was Willow, and she wasn't here.
"Sorry. Go back—I'm fine, sorry. Sorry."
Silence. He wiped sweat off his face and rubbed his hand on the blanket. He was shaking. The blanket was rough, and it felt good against his palm. He was cold. He waited another minute, and still no sound of movement.
"I'm going back to sleep now." He pulled the blanket back, shifted to get it out from under his legs, then folded it back over himself. The sheets were chilly and he shivered. They'd warm up.
He wanted to turn on his side, but couldn't think of a way to do it without hurting. Bony. He'd been dreaming about Bony Nose, and being thrown across a room, and his foot broken. The memory—a few quick clear flashes, like movie stills—dropped a cold stone into his belly. He curled his left arm across his chest and closed his eyes.
Something else, too. Some good, sweet feeling that was also strangely shameful. He couldn't pin it down and he didn't want to. Or maybe he did, but not now. The sheets were warming up, and he was dissolving. Spike, Liv, whoever it was, must have gone back out without his hearing.
Then he heard a little noise by his head, and realized that he was wrong, there was still someone there. Right there. He turned his head and opened his mouth to speak.
A cool hand came down lightly on his forehead, and he jerked. The hand didn't move. He closed his mouth, then opened it again. He could smell bourbon and cigarettes. He could hear his own heart beating too fast.
If he wanted to, he could push the hand away. He still had one good arm, after all. He could turn his head, shake the hand off. Or he could curse the hand out. Evil hand, begone. Back to your lair.
He lay absolutely still for what felt like an eternity, trying to think. While he was thinking, his heart stopped racing and slowed to a walk. He was warm now, and the coolness on his forehead felt good. Strange, but good.
He should do something about it, though. There were appearances to keep up, not to mention reality. He just couldn't think too well right now.
He was warm, dissolving, there was a roaring in his ears, and the terrible sharp dream clips—a gun, there'd been a gun against his head, Jesus Christ—were fading. He should do something about it before he fell asleep. Appearances.
He raised his left arm slowly, through a thick heavy haze, and batted at the hand. It didn't move, and he fastened onto the wrist and pulled weakly. It came away at last. Good. He let his hand fall, but didn't bother letting go. He was dissolving. Warm darkness and roar. He toppled into it gladly.
When the wrist started gently to pull away, he held on.
Because, well, it was something to hold onto.
He woke up hungry, in pain, needing to piss. For a minute he just lay staring into the dimness, wondering how long this would go on. Xander takes his drugs, Xander begs for food. Xander sleeps. Lather, rinse, repeat. Again, he had a sinking sensation in his stomach. What had he gotten himself into?
He sighed, pushed the blanket back, and sat up slowly. The gooseneck was lit again, and the glass and pills were waiting there. Thanks, Liv. He reached for the pills and noticed that his hand still shook, but not as much.
His knees were still cooking, but his shoulder wasn’t as hot, and the rest of him felt better. Stronger. He took the pills and swung his legs out over the side of the bed. He sat for a moment looking at his bare feet.
He’d had strange dreams. Willow had been in them, and Bony Nose. The thought of Willow made him smile, but Bony cancelled it out fast. Bony had broken his foot, he remembered that. And punched him in the face, and basically wiped the floor with him.
Even in his dreams, he was a crappy fighter.
He pushed his toes against the ground to test them, and was about to try some more pressure on his left foot when something else struggled up from the cesspool of his unconscious. It put a cold hand around his throat and choked his breath for just a second.
Spike had kissed him.
In his dream. Or he’d kissed Spike. Or something. There had been kissing, and it had felt good, better than kissing anyone ever had, and he’d felt happy and loved and—
He pushed his right foot down hard and his knee shrieked. Good. That was good. What was it the Marines said—pain is weakness leaving the body? Well, pain was ushering disgust and self-loathing out, stage left. Thank you very much, pain. It’s nice to see a professional at work.
Spike. Jesus fucking Christ. It all had some totally unrelated Freudian significance, it spoke volumes about his toilet training, he knew that. Didn’t mean he had the hots for Spike, or anything suicide-inducing like that. Nothing to get worked up about.
It had made him feel so happy.
Fuck. He’d be walking in a few more days, and then he was dusting this place. Back to his apartment, do a little tidying up, see if he could get the bloodstains out of the sofa. What did Buffy say—club soda? Maybe baking soda. Maybe just a lot of throw pillows.
Then figure out what he was going to do about work. He’d probably lose the construction job. He’d missed at least a day already, maybe more, and he wouldn’t be able to work again until his knees were healed. And what was he going to do for money in the meantime? No fucking clue. He had a little socked away, but not enough. Never enough. And what was he going to do about a new job? He couldn’t imagine where he could work, racked up like this. He wouldn’t even make a decent whore—his knees were ruined.
The thought of money was sobering enough to take up his whole attention, and he was grateful for that. He sat staring at his feet, absently testing weight on first one, then the other. If he lost the construction job, it would be tough to get another one. He knew half a dozen guys with more skills and experience than he had, all going begging for work. The construction market wasn’t what it used to be.
“Are you hungry?”
He jumped half an inch and almost fell off the edge of the bed. Liv was standing at the edge of the screen, looking at him.
“Fucking hell—don’t do that!” He put his hand over his chest and felt the hammering through his skin. He was shaking.
“Sorry.”
He sucked in a huge breath and paused, then let it out. She was wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt, and her feet were bare. Still, he was surprised he hadn’t heard her walking back toward him. How long had she been standing there? He had a momentary flush of guilt—he’d been thinking about the dream, about Spike. What if he’d…betrayed himself somehow?
But he hadn’t. He was sure. He took another deep breath.
“Yeah. I’m hungry. But I also—I kind of need the washroom.” That made him blush, and he hoped it was dim enough that she couldn’t see it. He was such a sissy.
She nodded without surprise, came forward and pulled him up by his good arm, and they started the good old-fashioned Xander Harris Haul. Maybe she was getting better at it, or maybe he was just wasting away, but it didn’t seem to take as much effort and awkwardness this time.
He had time to notice what she smelled like—soap and warm skin and something else, something sort of greasy and metallic. After a minute he recognized it as gun oil. Glenn had an old .22 for shooting rats in the scrap piles, and when he cleaned it he smelled the same way.
He remembered waking up in the hospital, and Liv spilling coffee all over herself as she woke up too, and her right hand going to her waist.
Huh.
They were walking quickly through the loft, and her bare feet made almost no sound, and he made only the slightest sort of dragging and scuffling sounds as he paddled along beside her. His shirt was half-unbuttoned and flapping, and the pills were starting to kick in. God bless them. His neck felt warm and loose, and his knees were getting quieter. Maybe if he had enough drugs, he could go back to work before the end of the week. Sure, no heavy artillery, but he could still drive a hammer.
“What day is it today?”
She frowned and whispered, “Tuesday,” and he smiled. Whispering was pretty funny. Why was she whispering?
He glanced to the right and saw that they were passing the bed, which he hadn’t paid much attention to before. It was just a regular bed, kind of big, with white sheets and a couple of white pillows thrown onto the floor beside it.
Except Spike was in it.
Lying on his stomach with his head turned to the side, his eyes closed, his arms spread out. No shirt—that was crumpled in a pile on the floor by the pillows. His skin just a little less pale than the sheet rucked up to the small of his back.
The cold hand grabbed Xander’s throat again, and he made a little choking noise. Stupid. That was stupid. He made his face neutral and looked away. Spike was asleep. For a second, he’d thought Spike was lying there looking at him, but he was just being an idiot.
Spike was asleep because it was probably the middle of the day, which was the middle of the night for him, and he’d seen Spike asleep plenty of times in the basement, and it wasn’t anything to write home about. He snored when he was drunk. End of story.
Before he could think about that anymore, they were in the bathroom. He looked at the two open showers at the back of the room and wondered absently whether Liv showered in here, and if so, how she got any privacy.
She helped him to the urinals and he steadied himself and stood upright.
“Thanks, I—“
“Call when you’re done.” She turned and walked out without another word. Unlike Spike, she closed the door completely.
He pissed, then turned and looked at the bank of sinks along the far wall. He might be able to make it. Or he might take a header into the tile, knock out a couple teeth, and concuss himself. That would be interesting—he could just keep injuring himself in new and inventive ways, and never get out of here.
He turned slowly, still holding onto the urinal behind him, and put his weight carefully on his right foot. The whole leg shook, and his knee yammered, but it all held together. Good. Now, the left. Left was better. It hurt, but it didn’t feel liable to take vacation days without notice.
Slowly, carefully, he made his way across the floor to the sinks. There was a scary moment in no-man’s-land, nothing to grab onto, the right knee shaking like a palsy and cussing a blue streak. He briefly considered just sitting down and waiting for Liv to come and get him. But that was for guys without Demerol.
When he got to the sinks he was breathing hard and sweating a little, and he had to lean against the enamel to rest. In the mirror, he was still skinny and unshaven and pale, but he didn’t look quite as dead. His eyes weren’t so glassy, and he had a little more colour. Sure, a lot of it was purple and green and yellow, but some of it was the rosy flush of youth and returning health.
Or something like that.
He turned the cold water tap on and cupped his hand under it, then splashed himself in the face. It felt good. He hadn’t washed in days. He drank a little out of his hand, then splashed himself again. He rubbed water over his neck and chest, as far as he could reach. His skin sucked it up and screamed for more.
He drank, splashed himself, drank again. Then he just let the water run and stared at himself in the mirror. He had a beard, kind of. He’d never had one before. He rubbed his fingers through it, feeling how the hairs were soft and bristly, how they wanted to lie a certain way along his skin. It was…strange. It itched.
He was just clean enough now to feel how dirty he really was, and he glanced back at the showers again. He probably couldn’t make it that far, and even if he could, he probably couldn’t undress himself. Or get dressed again afterward, which was more important. And the thought of being naked, and therefore totally defenseless, was not appealing. He was already crippled, drugged, probably a prisoner. There was no need to dig any deeper.
And somehow that raised the thought of Spike again, and he stared at himself harder, trying to see something different in his own eyes. Was he going insane? Was it Stockholm syndrome? The drugs? Whatever it was, it was—
A quick glimpse of Spike asleep, his arms spread out and his head turned to the side, pressed into the bed. Looking pale and absorbed. Unexpected. And yes, there’d been the cold fist in Xander’s throat, but at the same time something else, something sweet and good, in his belly and along his thighs.
—it was fucking insane, is what it was. And dirty and wrong, and Jesus Christ, what was the matter with him? He had a dream, that was all. Like the dream he had once about Mrs. Parmenter from eighth-grade bio, and that was a source of continuing shame and revulsion, just as this would be. He had a dream, and it spun him, and the drugs weren’t helping him shake it off. He needed to shake it off.
He needed to get clean.
The bathroom door opened and Liv walked in. She didn’t seem surprised to see him soaking wet, on the far side of the room from where she’d left him.
“I need a razor,” he said. “And a shower. Seriously.”
She reached out and took his left hand, and he started to raise his arm so she could sling it around her neck and start hauling. But she just held his hand up in the air. After a moment she sniffed under his arm and smiled.
“You know, I was just going to suggest that.”
A shower was out, because he had to keep his right knee dry. Later he could use the bath. Not now.
He didn’t ask why he couldn’t use the bath now, because he knew why. Spike was asleep.
He also didn’t ask how he was supposed to take a bath in the middle of the apartment, with Spike watching Manchester United and Liv…doing whatever it was she did. Dusting the fixtures, maybe.
He had a feeling that he wouldn’t like the answer to that question, and that was why he didn’t ask it.
He could shave, though. Liv brought a chair into the bathroom and set him up in front of one of the sinks with a can of Barbasol and a Gillette. Both were brand new, and he supposed she’d bought them for him, since Spike didn’t need to shave. Yet another advantage to being dead. No razor burn.
She left without a word and he sat for a second, staring at the can and the razor, wondering how he was going to do this. It was amazing, how many things took two hands to do right. And reasonably good hand-eye coordination, of the non-drugged kind.
Sitting in the chair, he was too low to see his face in the mirror. He ran his fingers over his cheeks and chin, trying to feel where he had stitches, bruises, healing cuts. Just about everywhere. So that would add to the fun.
He lathered his right cheek and drew the razor down it. It only went a few inches before the blade filled up and stopped catching. When he held it under the tap to clear it, he noticed that his hand was still shaking. Great. He was going to come out of this looking like that guy from Airplane.
The bathroom door opened and Liv walked in with a couple of white towels over her arm. She raised her eyebrows when she saw him.
“I guess you’re all right on your own.” She dropped the towels on the sink beside him and started to turn around.
“Actually, I—“ She turned back and he shook the razor clean and laid it on the basin. “It’s kind of hard, doing this without seeing myself.”
She gave him a little smile, just the mouth. Her eyes stayed flat. She turned on the hot water tap beside her and held her hand under the water. When it started to steam the mirror, she put one of the towels under it.
“Put this on your face.” She handed it to him and he held it gingerly over his cheek. It was too hot for a few seconds, but once it cooled down it felt good.
He heard her walk around behind him, and then the chair tipped and jerked backwards a couple of feet. He dropped the towel into his lap, but she was already walking back around him. She picked up the razor and sat on the edge of the sink, facing him.
“Turn this way.” She held his chin in her hand and tipped his head to the left. Before he could think too much about it, she’d drawn the razor neatly down his cheek and was rinsing it under the tap. He started to turn his head back and she held his chin.
It was strange to be touched like this, her hands on his face, gentle and firm and impersonal. Like the nurses in the hospital. It felt good. It made him want to close his eyes and just be still.
He stared at the far wall, the closed door, the sign that said Employees must wash hands. He wasn’t going to close his eyes. It was the drugs. Things were getting out of hand, and he needed to assert himself.
“So. You work for Spike.”
She drew the razor down his cheek again, pressing firmly, then ran her thumb down the stripe of bare skin. It felt intimate, and he turned his head slightly to glance at her. She was frowning. While he watched, she rubbed lightly at his cheek with her index finger, and he realized that she was considering how to work around the bruises and cuts.
He wasn’t really expecting her to answer him, but she did. In an absent tone, as if this were last month’s topic.
“Yeah. I work for Spike.”
“Vampire butler. That’s an interesting profession. What’s the Meyers-Briggs profile for that?”
She let go of his chin, sprayed some shaving cream onto her fingers, and rubbed it into his cheek. He turned his head again when she brought the razor up, and felt the blade move smoothly down his skin.
“You get benefits?”
She rinsed the razor without saying anything.
“I’m thinking there must at least be dental.”
She looked at him for a minute, still holding the razor under the tap. Then she reached out and pushed his chin to the side again, but he still saw her smile. Half-smile. Maybe three-quarters.
“It has its benefits,” she said.
The razor pulled evenly over his cheek, making a whispering sound. He felt her get close to a welt on his jaw and tensed, but she stopped short and took a few tiny careful strokes that felt, again, strangely intimate. He swallowed and stared at the door.
“So how’d you guys hook up? Personals ad?”
She didn’t say anything. He had a feeling that direct questions were the wrong approach. Too bad, because direct questions were all he could think of right now.
“I bet you could have killer raves in this place.”
She tipped his chin up and rubbed shaving cream along his throat. He stared at the ceiling and this time, when the blade pulled smoothly up his skin, he did close his eyes.
Her fingertips were cool on the skin of his throat. A soft warmth was spreading out from his stomach and spine. The taps dripped.
He wondered if this was what victims felt like, just before the teeth went in.
“It used to be a garment factory.”
He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. ‘Garment’ was a strange and amusing word right now. Liv took the razor away but kept her thumb under his chin so he couldn’t lower his head. He heard the razor under the tap.
“They made coats, mostly. Just after the war, up until the sixties.” The razor tapped against the sink and came back to his neck. “Then other clothes. The parent company folded in ’73. Diversified too fast.”
He laughed, almost choked, and she took the razor away and let him lower his head.
“What’s funny?”
“’Diversified?’ What are you, the Wealthy Barber?”
For a second she looked offended, and that too was amusing. He struggled not to laugh more. She shook her head and he saw that she didn’t know what he was talking about again.
“Head back.” She pushed his chin up, a little less gently, and he closed his eyes. Willow said you could do that with kittens, up to a certain age; you flipped them over and they went comatose. It was a survival instinct. Willow knew the weirdest things.
She finished his throat quickly and in silence, and he began to realize that he might actually have offended her. She was still careful around his injuries, but she seemed more removed. Her face was concentrated and blank.
Well done. Alienate the girl with the razor. Again, he couldn’t imagine Buffy getting into this situation. And if she did, she wouldn’t worry about hurting anyone’s precious sensitive feelings. She’d use her one good arm to knock Liv into a wall, stake Spike, and call a cab.
It was a good thing he wasn’t the Slayer.
“Garments, huh? That’s really…interesting.” Nice save, Xander. Liv gave him a skeptical look and pushed his head to the right.
“No, it really is. I like garments. Garments are good. Maybe not as good as raiments, which is a whole different class of vestment, but for your everyday needs, garments are the go-to…ment.”
It was definitely the drugs, or maybe somehow he was channeling Willow. Liv seemed to pause and consider him, and he shot a quick glance sideways. She wasn’t smiling, exactly, but she seemed amused. Or maybe bemused. He looked away and she started on his left cheek.
“Garments. So how come employees had to wash their hands?”
“What?” At least she was talking again. Her thumb ran down his cheek and he closed his eyes for just a second.
“That sign. They must have been way ahead of their time in the field of kosher clothing.”
She paused.
“Oh,” she said. “Actually, I put that up.”
“You put it up?”
“I don’t know why. It seemed funny at the time.”
Funny? He looked at her, and she was smiling in a private way, as if she didn’t know what her face was doing. It was weird—Spike’s girl had a sense of humor about her job—but he smiled back, and for a second they were almost friendly.
“Turn,” she said, and pushed his chin to the right. He turned. She pulled the razor down his cheek and trailed it with her thumb.
“So why am I here, exactly?” And now he was actually trying to be smooth, trying to ferret out a little useful information while her guard was down, and maybe that was kind of cheap but fuck it. He’d send her an FTD from Sunnydale.
She didn’t say anything, and he stared at the wall, counted to five, then tried again.
“I mean, we’ve done show and tell, right? We’ve established my uselessness. So…maybe it’s time for Xander to make like a tree.”
Silence except for the taps. She let his chin go to clean the razor, and he hazarded a glance at her. The expression on her face was set and neutral, as if he hadn’t said a word. Apparently question period was over. Well, damn.
He stewed for a few minutes, but the pills wouldn’t let him keep that up, and he found himself slowly relaxing. He was warm and light. He thought of the nurse’s hand moving gently in his hair, how good that had felt.
She finished his cheek and he floated with his eyes half-open, listening to the drip of the taps. When she was done she pushed his head to the side to do his jaw, and he snuck a sideways look. She was rinsing the razor under the tap behind her, and gazing at his neck with a critical expression. It was a little like being looked over by a vamp. A vamp with all the time in the world.
He could see the spike tattoo on her neck. She had two, actually. One on each side, up almost behind the ear, and they were neat and crisp, as if she hadn’t had them very long. What if she ever wanted to quit her day job?
She brought the razor back around and pulled it carefully over a couple of spots on his face, cleaning up. He closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again she was staring at his neck. That was strange. He knew it was probably just because she was a conscientious worker, but her expression was so focused, and she had a razor in her hand, after all.
If she was a good little butler for Spike, would he find a way to turn her? Was that what she meant by benefits?
“You’re done.”
She sat back and rinsed the razor a last time, and he straightened up in the chair, a little embarrassed, afraid that he’d looked like he was enjoying it. He blinked and touched his face lightly. His skin was tight and damp and smooth. There were a few rough spots around the stitches on his cheek and the worst bruises on his jaw, but it was pretty good.
“Thanks.”
She turned away, picked up the damp towel, and handed it to him. Again he noticed the circles under her eyes, the tattoo behind her ear. Between the two of them, this was no beauty pageant.
“Here. I’ll go see about some food.”
She collected the razor and shaving cream and went out. He touched the towel gently to his face and winced as it pressed against the stitches. There were a couple of tiny spots of blood on it when he took it away.
Food sounded good, in a theoretical way. He didn’t feel hungry, but he knew he was. Like knowing the gas gauge was on empty even though you weren’t actually sitting in the car at the time.
He sat for a minute with his eyes closed, feeling weak and light and fine. The stitches throbbed, but it wasn’t pain exactly—more like warmth. He could sit here forever, just being quiet and still, feeling his body expand and contract in the chair.
Buffy would be dismantling the U-bend to make a bazooka. Come on, Xander. Some ambition.
He opened his eyes and leaned forward, grabbed for the sink, and hauled himself upright. Somewhere down in the valley, his knees hollered, and he sighed. The whole patella thing was getting old.
Funny—shaving made him look worse. Skinnier and more beat-up, because now his bones poked through more, and every bruise showed. He stared at the thin empty face in the mirror, the eyes glassy again because Lady Demerol was holding court in his pitiful cranium, the lips dry and split. He touched the stitches on his cheek gently. He’d always hated stitches.
“Watch it, pet. Vanity’s a deadly sin.”
Low smooth voice right behind him, practically in his ear, and he turned too fast. His right leg vanished completely and he collapsed at an angle, catching himself with his left elbow against the sink. White flash of pain, and dreamy panic as he scrambled to find his feet again.
For a second, he was on the floor with broken legs, Bony on his foot.
Then Spike was hauling him up by his good arm, and his legs were back under him, and he was upright. He didn’t think. Just reached out and grabbed Spike’s throat, feeling for a moment cool skin, muscles, bones under his hand. He shoved hard.
Spike stumbled backward, and Xander grabbed the sink and hung on.
“Fuck off, Spike,” he said, as soon as he could speak. His heart was hammering, and he couldn’t catch his breath.
Spike straightened up slowly and touched his throat. He was wearing jeans and holding a white T-shirt in one hand, and his hair looked like he’d just woken up. His face registered Deeply Pissed. Good. Fuck him.
“Oh, that’s nice. You are a guest here, tosser.”
He laughed sharply, and it hurt his chest. “Yeah, it’s been great of you to let me crash here, Spike, since I don’t have anywhere else to stay. Oh, wait—yes I do. My apartment. So, I’ll just call a cab.”
Spike said nothing, but a familiar look went across his face before he smothered it. The look of Spike with something to hide.
“Yeah, I thought so. What’s the evil plan this time, Spike? Why am I here?”
“Liv’s been nagging us for a pet.” He pulled his shirt on quickly and touched his throat again. “Remind me, if I ever lose the chip, I have to rip your larynx out and make squeaky noises with it.”
“Why am I here?”
Spike went to the sinks and turned the cold tap on full. He leaned over and splashed his face.
“You didn’t have to get me from the hospital in the first place, Spike. Or even take me there. Why did you?”
Why hadn’t he thought about that until now? Buffy would have— He wasn’t Buffy. Obviously.
Which dredged up another thought. How long had Spike been standing watching him? He could have been there the whole time, watching the razor and Xander’s throat, watching him close his eyes and drift. He wouldn’t have showed in the mirror, and Xander hadn’t looked around.
He felt sick and hot, and also, God, a little sweet. It was back to the dream again, the feeling of warm lips, an evil smile, cool hands on his jaw and shoulder. Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fucker. He wanted to kill something. Or be killed.
Spike pushed his head under the tap, then turned the water off. He reached a hand out toward Xander.
“Give us a towel, then.”
Xander looked at the one he was holding. The pinpoints of his blood on it. “It’s…wet.”
“Doesn’t matter, give it.”
“Tell me why I’m here.”
Spike sighed, then shook his head sharply, spraying water. He stood up and walked over to Xander. He was soaked, and his hair was sticking out in little white chunks. Water ran down his neck and soaked the front of his shirt.
“Come on, puppy. Give us the bleedin’ towel.”
Xander put it behind his back, and Spike rolled his eyes.
“Oh, I’ve been bested. You’re here because I wanted to know about the plug uglies. All right?”
“And now you know. So again, cab.”
Spike reached around and he turned his body to keep the towel away, but Spike had already gone round the other side and snagged it out of his hand. Go, Latrell. But it was okay, it got Spike away from him. He really didn’t want Spike getting close and personal right now. His dream, and the hand on his head—fuck, get him out of here. How much could Spike smell on him?
“Thanks, luv.” He scrubbed the towel over his head and smiled. “It’s a big bad world out there, Xander. You’re staying here where it’s safe.”
“I’m touched. But you know what would make me feel even safer? This friend of mine, I’ll call her ‘Buffy.’ She’s a superhero, she loves this stuff.”
“Well, that’s just it. I let you go, you scamper off and call the Slayer, and the next thing you know, there’s Slayer in LA. Nothing brings property values down faster.”
He opened his mouth—So I’m kidnapped, huh? And we can deep-six all the ‘guest’ shit?—but didn’t get a chance to speak.
“Slayer? What the hell—?”
They both turned and looked at the door. Liv was standing there, staring at them. She looked appalled. Like someone had just told her the new black was plaid.
Xander turned and looked at Spike, and he’d be damned if that wasn’t an “oops” expression on Spike’s face. Just for a second, before he found his feet again and smiled.
“Nothing, pet. Just being lads. Get us another towel, will you? This one smells like puppy.”
She took a step into the room. “He’s with the Slayer?” She stared at Xander, then at Spike. “When were you going to tell me this?”
Spike looked at the floor, his lip curling. “Thought you knew.”
“No, I didn’t know, Spike.”
Spike rolled his eyes and sighed. “Okay, right, well now you do. He’s pals with the Slayer. Now, towel.”
She didn’t move. Her face was pale and she was trembling slightly. She opened her mouth, then closed it, and made a visible effort at control. When she spoke, her voice was low and tight.
“He’s friends with the Slayer, and you brought him here. How do you think this will—“ She broke off and started again. “I don’t understand, Spike. You have to explain this to me, because the only way I see this playing out is with you getting dusted and me getting beaten to death.”
“Don’t be soft,” Spike said. He was starting to sound annoyed. “It’s just a Slayer. I’ll make her my hat trick.”
“You and who else, Spike? You’re chipped, and ‘Slayer’ is on the list of things I can’t help you with.”
“Don’t need your help, luv. You just do what you’re told.”
“Sure. I’ll keep doing whatever dipshit things you tell me to do, and we’ll both be dead by the weekend.”
There was a pause.
“Shut up, Liv.” Spike’s voice was cold.
“I’ve been shutting up a lot lately, and every time I shut up, you do something stupid.”
“I said, shut up.”
“How long do you think we’ve got before the cavalry arrives, Spike? She could be on her way right now. All she has to do is ask around for the suicidal dipshit—“
He crossed the room in three strides, stood toe to toe with her and yelled.
“Shut up!”
She stared at him.
“Or what, Spike? You can’t hurt me—I’m human. Like the Slayer.”
They stood there for a moment, and then she reached up and flicked him in the forehead.
He went to game face, grabbed her throat, and dropped with a thud. She stood watching silently as he writhed and clutched his head.
“My point, Spike.”
There was blood on the floor by his face—his nose was bleeding. She turned and walked out without another word.
Xander hadn’t moved since she’d come into the room; he stood clinging awkwardly to the sink behind him, his shoulders pulled up, almost on tiptoe. He was breathing in little gasps. For some reason he felt sure that she’d be back in a second, and that she’d bring a gun, and that Xander-friend-of-Slayer would cease to be a thorn in her side a second after that.
Spike was gasping, too. Or making gaspy sounds, at least, as if he’d forgotten he didn’t have breath to catch. He was curled on his knees with his forehead smack against the floor, pressing against the tile with the heels of his hands. The muscles in his neck and back were rigid. His toes were curled. Blood was starting to pool by his head.
The chip was working overtime. Back in Sunnydale, it was mostly dramatic-head-grab kind of stuff, and it never knocked him down or made him bleed. This was different. This looked…wretched. His fingers were digging into the tile, his whole body was shaking, and for some reason Xander thought of the framed print in the loft. The skinned torso. He’d assumed it was Spike celebrating sadism, but maybe it was something else as well. Maybe Spike considering his own situation.
Well, if he didn’t try to put the bad on anyone, it wouldn’t happen.
That was a righteous and unsatisfying thought.
Spike tried to lift his hand, and it shook worse than Xander’s had been doing lately. He dropped it again and his breathing went on in rapid gasps. For some reason that was the worst, the creepiest. He was still in game face. His mouth was moving silently, talking to the floor.
Xander pushed carefully off from the sink and took a step forward. He didn’t know exactly what he was doing yet, but standing around all “eek” by the wall wasn’t going to help him. If Liv came back loaded for bear, he might as well be standing close to Spike, and then maybe she wouldn’t open fire.
Although she didn’t seem too fond of Spike just now, either.
He gimped across the floor to where Spike was lying, and then stopped. He didn’t have the limbs to haul Spike up, and he didn’t even know if it was a good idea to try. Spike had stopped breathing, which must mean he was either dying or getting better. Either way, it was a relief not to have to hear it.
Though it meant Xander could hear a little of what Spike was telling the floor. Later on, he’d have to recommend a thorough mouth-soaping.
He stood wavering for a moment, and then gravity and injury and maybe a little free will took over, and he just folded. His right leg buckled and seemed to disappear, and the left one let him down a little more slowly, and he caught the rest of his weight on his left palm and his butt. To the untrained eye, it might even have looked planned.
Spike hadn’t noticed, or didn’t care. The groveling, cussing, and bleeding looked like a full-time job. He’d dropped the towel, and Xander reached out and picked it up.
“Come on, bleachboy. Save the drama for your mama.” He held the towel out and poked Spike in the shoulder with it. His voice was supposed to sound brusque and jokey, but it came out soft. Why the hell was he down on his butt on the bathroom tile in the first place? What was wrong with walking away from an evil vampire bastard who’d kick dirt over him if he were in the same position?
Except. The hand on his forehead.
Spike raised his hand again, and it still shook, but he managed to wipe his face. Lot of blood on his fingers. He hacked and spat, and that was bloody too. Xander winced and drew the towel back.
“You must have been intending something very extra bad just now,” he said, to fill the silence. “Because I don’t recall this kind of Peckinpah action back in Sunnydale.”
Spike curled his shoulders up, pressed his forehead to the floor a last time, then made an obvious effort and flipped over. He moved awkwardly, painfully, and almost overbalanced and ended up on his face again. The game face was gone, and his eyes were blue and wide and dizzy-looking, the pupils huge. His face was a bloody mask.
For a minute they sat in silence. Blood ran down Spike’s neck and soaked into his shirt. He sat with his elbows resting on his knees, his arms loose and his head bent. His hands were still shaking.
Xander raised the towel again and this time Spike took it. He wiped his face and neck, looked at the towel, and sneered slightly.
“It’s getting worse?” Xander said.
Spike wiped his face some more. There was blood on his forehead.
“I—I need a fag,” he said after a moment. His voice was weak, defiant, angry.
“Cigarette,” Xander said. “Here in America, we call them cigarettes. Avoids silly confusion.”
Spike looked over his shoulder at the pool of blood spreading on the tile, and the hand he was using to wipe his face stopped moving.
“She kind of has a point,” Xander said.
Spike looked back at him, scowled, and blew his nose into the towel.
“Sooner or later Buffy’s going to come looking for me,” Xander said. “And she’ll find me, because Buffy always finds what she’s looking for.”
“’cept a fashion sense.”
“And it’s exactly that sort of comment that’ll get your ass kicked with steel cleats when she arrives, Spike. That, and the fact that you’re holding me prisoner.”
Spike swallowed and looked disgusted at the taste. He started to push himself up off the ground, but his arm shook and he only made it a couple of inches. He tried out the evil smirk. It was weak.
“Leave the Slayer to me, pet. I’m not—not worried.”
Xander leaned over and took the towel out of Spike’s hand.
“You’ve got some right here,” he said, and wiped blood off Spike’s temple.
Spike started to jerk his head away, winced, and held still. He closed his eyes, and Xander found a clean spot on the towel and wiped a little more blood off Spike’s forehead.
It was strange. Spike’s eyelids were trembling, and he’d laced his fingers together between his knees, and they were trembling too.
Strange to see him like this, and to be sitting so close, wiping his face. Xander’s heart was beating too fast, and he knew he should stop and move away, because Spike could probably hear it. But he didn’t stop. It was something to do with the dream, some lost combination of blood and warmth and Spike’s closed eyes, and where the hell was he going to go, anyway? He couldn’t stand up.
But he could change the subject, and hope Spike was too busy clotting to listen to Xander’s pulse.
“How’d you piss this special someone off so much, Spike?”
A pause, while Spike gathered his resources, or came back from wherever he was murdering Liv.
“No idea.”
“Deprive any Mafia daughters of their virtue lately?”
“Oh right, yeah. That Corleone bird, I knew she was trouble.”
A thin line of blood was still running from Spike’s nose, and Xander stared at it a second, then wiped it away without thinking. Spike’s head tipped woozily sideways, as if he didn’t have strength in his neck to hold it straight. The towel was a mess.
“So this Kinbote guy, he was supposed to help you find the mystery player, right? But he got—“
“Kacked,” Spike said, and opened his eyes.
“Okay, don’t get all bumpy on me, Spike, but maybe you should consider getting a little help with this.”
Spike pressed the heel of his hand to the side of his head and looked at him. His eyes were bloodshot.
“A little help,” he said. “That’s an idea, mate. Except I already have a little help, a VERY LITTLE HELP—“ he tipped his head back and shouted the words hoarsely, “—and that’s quite enough assistance for the moment, THANKS VERY MUCH.”
They sat for a moment. There was no sound from the loft.
“Maybe she didn’t hear you,” Xander said.
“Stupid bint.”
“Or maybe she’s too busy picking your clothes up off the floor to answer.”
“You fuck off.”
“I’m just saying.”
Xander tossed the towel over the pool of blood behind them. He sat for a moment watching the red soak through.
“Maybe Buffy could help,” he said.
Spike snorted. “If by ‘help’ you mean ‘try to drive a stake through my heart,’ then I’m sure you’re right.”
“No, really. I can explain about…why I look like this, and it’s not your fault really, and you did take me to the hospital. Well, Liv did. It’s not as bad as it looks. And Willow’s queen witch of Eastwick these days, man, she’ll just consult the karmic yellow pages—“
Spike was staring at him.
“What?”
Spike shook his head slowly. “Congratulations, Harris. You continue to amaze me.”
“With my ruthlessly perceptive mind,” Xander said, but he had a familiar sinking feeling, and he heard the words come out flat. Stupid idea. This wasn’t Sunnydale, they weren’t a gang, Spike wasn’t a pal. Stupid.
“With your endless naiveté,” Spike said, and stood up. He wobbled for just a second, then tensed and stood straight. When he spoke, his voice was hard. “It’s charming, really. I mean that.”
Xander stared at the floor and said nothing. His face was hot.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” Spike said. “I need to have a chat with the help.” He turned and took a step, then turned back. Xander didn’t look up.
Spike’s hand came down on his head and he jumped. His heart surged—so stupid, all of it, get him out of here, get him home. Spike tipped his head back. Xander forced himself to look up into Spike’s face. To look angry.
Spike looked exhausted and bloodshot and weirdly dazed. He still had the slight, sardonic smile, the one he wore when he was going to say something cruel and usual. But then the smile disappeared. The cruel look went away and was replaced by something else. Surprise. And…
Spike leaning across the table toward him, evil bastard, smiling, eyes bright. So take this.
The fist was back in Xander’s throat, and he stopped breathing but didn’t look away. Fuck off. He was shaking, just the slightest bit. He wanted to groan. Enough. He’d had enough. He didn’t look away.
They stared at each other until Xander’s eyes watered, and he blinked and looked away. His face was hot, the skin on fire. He didn’t want Spike to think he’d started to cry.
Spike ran the back of his hand down Xander’s jaw. Cool hand.
So take this.
Xander jerked his head away.
“Pretty clean,” Spike said after a second. His voice was light. “She can open up a barbershop, after I fire her.”
Xander stared at the floor. His heart was racing, he was breathing hard. Spike must smell it on him. Fuck, Liv could probably smell it in the next room. What was he supposed to do now? He might as well wear a sandwich board.
He waited for Spike to say something, get in his face, start to laugh. Nothing.
I want to go home.
The silence went on. Almost like Spike was waiting for him to say something. Or just giving him a chance.
He stared at the floor and said nothing. What did Emily Post say about awkward silences like this? He’d have to remember to look that up.
I want to go home.
Spike shifted, seemed to hesitate, then walked out without a word. He closed the door behind him.
Funny, how that gave him a lonely.
He sat there for a minute, until he started to hear low voices in the other room. Liv’s angry, Spike’s cold. He couldn’t hear words. He closed his eyes and lay back on the tile. It was kind of like being in the basement, listening to the arguments upstairs.
He cried a little bit, only because he was sure he’d be alone for a while. He was right. By the time the door opened and Liv came in, his eyes were dry and he was breathing fine.
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