Modus VivendiBy Wiseacress
Chapter Eight
He realizes with horror that he never paid his parking tickets.
They’re still in the back pocket of the trousers he was wearing the night he ran into Spike, the ones covered in plaster dust from the site, and they’ve probably gone through the laundry by now, and the tickets are toast. The Nova’s going to be towed and scrapped, and then he won’t be able to get to work, and he’ll lose his job. He’s already been evicted, he’s been sleeping on bar floors for a couple of weeks. He hasn’t told the gang about it. They all go for drinks together and then one by one the others leave, and he makes sure he’s always the last to go, because he isn’t going anywhere. He sleeps under the table with the cigarette butts and gum.
He empties his duffel out onto the bar and starts going through it, looking for the trousers he was wearing that night. There’s a huge pile of clothes in front of him, and he catches a glimpse of something that might be them—but it’s gone when he digs for it. He needs the tickets.
“That guy’s a steel cleat bastard,” someone says, and he looks to his left and sees an old guy with an alcoholic nose, a Blue Jays cap, a bottle of Coors. He’s watching the TV over the bar, and it’s Ty Cobb pitching. He’s got an arm like a cannon. The stadium lights gleam on his spikes, and they look about three inches long, like the weapons they are.
“That umpire’s a blind fucking punter,” he hears himself say. “Pardon me, a visually challenged fucking punter.”
Spike laughs and drinks his beer, and Xander smiles. He has a beer too, and it’s cold and good. He spins it on its mat and watches Cobb pitch straight through three Orioles like they’re not even there.
“Throws like a son of a bitch, though,” Spike says mildly.
“Yeah.” He’s trying to remember something, there was something important he had to do. Something unpleasant. It worries him. He catches a glimpse of himself in the bar mirror and looks away. Then he looks back, because Spike’s reflected there too, and that’s just weird.
“Look at that. You show up.” He gestures at the mirror and Spike glances at it, nods, and looks back up at the television. Xander keeps looking. There’s something nice about seeing the two of them there together, side by side.
He finishes his beer and there’s no one behind the bar so he leans over and takes another bottle from the cooler himself. Rosie’s old brown dog is lying back there, watching him sadly. He smiles and tosses a couple of peanuts down.
He wants to leave money, but when he pulls it out of his pocket the parking tickets come with it. That was what he’d forgotten—the tickets.
He stares at the official stamp, the smeared red ink and the savage black scrawl of his own name beneath, the date that’s three weeks passed, the phrase “primary offense.” His heart is climbing up into his throat. What the hell is he going to do? He can’t imagine how he’ll get around this one, how he’ll make it through the beating. He’s just recovered from the last one, he can’t stand another.
He’s fucked. And it’s his own fault.
Spike’s still watching the game, and he pushes his stool back and stands up shakily. As an afterthought, he slides his beer over to Spike’s elbow.
“I gotta go, Spike. You can have this one.”
Spike looks around, at the beer, then at him. “Where you off to, poppet?”
He tries to smile. “Disneyland. I’ll catch you later.”
Spike turns around on his stool and stares at him. “You don’t have to go.”
He laughs a little, off-key. “Actually, I do.”
“You don’t.”
“Spike, come on. I forgot to pay these, I’m fucked. I gotta go get my head caved in.”
Spike looks at the tickets in his hand, then reaches for them. “Give.”
He hands them over and Spike looks at them carefully. Then he rolls his eyes.
“I paid these already.”
“You—when?”
“Got Liv to do it when she took you to the hospital. Tosser.” He drops them on the bar and turns back to the game.
The relief is overwhelming, incredible. He isn’t going to die. He doesn’t have to face another beating. It’s going to be all right.
He leans forward and puts his forehead against the middle of Spike’s back, just rests there. Spike drinks his beer and watches the game.
“That was never ninety miles per hour,” he says absently, at one point.
Xander smiles into Spike’s shirt, then lifts his head and looks in the mirror again, at his own face just behind Spike’s shoulder. He looks happy and calm. It’s going to be all right.
He sits down on his stool again, drinks his beer, and starts to watch the game.
He woke up to arguing, and for a second he was back in the basement. It was hammer and tongs time upstairs, and pretty soon he’d start hearing crashes. Just stay quiet and they’ll forget you exist.
But he wasn’t in the basement, he was in the loft, in the chair he’d fallen asleep in. Spike’s chair. Spike and Liv were somewhere behind him, arguing about something he didn’t understand yet.
He blinked down at himself. He was wearing his old green Oxford shirt, half-buttoned, and blue boxers. His knees and shoulder were throbbing. He was cold.
A second ago he’d had a good feeling. He’d been dreaming something good—he couldn’t remember what, now. But the tone of their voices stomped the good to jelly. Liv sounded tired, Spike sounded cold. They both sounded pissed off.
“It’s not a sure thing,” Liv said. “It could fall through completely. Or worse.”
“One way to find out,” Spike said.
“It’s dangerous, Spike. How many times do I have to—“
“Pack light.”
“Spike.”
Silence.
“Please. It’s the stupidest possible time for me to go off like this. You must know that.”
“There isn’t going to be a better time, pet. We miss this chance, we might not get another one.”
“We’ll get another one.”
“Nice to be optimistic. But I prefer realism. Carpe diem and all that.”
“I am being realistic. You’re the one who’s—“
“Liv.” Cold warning tone.
Pause.
“If I get killed,” she said, “how will you—“
“If you get killed I’m no worse off than I was before I hired you,” he said calmly.
Xander opened his eyes.
“Then what if something happens here while I’m out—“
“Piss off, Liv.” His voice was hard now, and the anger wasn’t couched in diffidence anymore. “I’ve bagged two Slayers and more nasties than you’ll ever see. Pack a goddamn bag.”
“You’re chipped,” she said immediately. “And if the Slayer turns up, or the plug uglies, I’ll have to sweep you out of the floorboards when I get back.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” He almost shouted the words. “You stupid bint—why won’t you do what you’re told?”
“Because this is dangerous. For both of us.”
“I am going to—if I were any other vampire, I’d break your wrists and make you knit an afghan.” The phrasing was deliberate, obviously, for the chip’s benefit. There was no thud, so it must have worked.
“Spike, we can wait. I’ll put him off, set up another time—“
He broke in harshly.
“You don’t want to go? Fine. Get your coat.”
“My—“
“Get it. Now. And your kit.”
Silence.
“Spike, I—“
“You want to know why you’re going? Why we’re not waiting around any more? Get your fucking kit.”
A pause, and then she walked across the room and pulled her coat from the rack. Xander closed his eyes and watched from under his lashes as she walked back to her room and disappeared behind the screen. When she came out, she was pushing something into the back of her jeans, and she had a small black satchel slung across her chest. Her face was miserable and exhausted.
She glanced at him as she walked past, and he shut his eyes. She paused, then veered off to the kitchen.
“Come on,” Spike said from the doorway. His voice was the coldest Xander had ever heard it. “Stop fucking around.”
“He’s due for more pills,” she said quietly. There was the sound of a glass under the tap, the bottle opening. She walked over and he heard her put the water down in front of him, the tiny click of the pills beside it.
Spike must know he was awake.
But he hadn’t said anything, and Xander wasn’t going to either. He didn’t want to be any part of this conversation, any part of this sudden viciousness. Whatever it was all about, he wanted to steer clear. Spike was evil, yeah, he’d forgotten that somehow. He’d consider this his reminder.
“Come on,” Spike said again, and Liv hesitated a split second at Xander’s side, then walked quickly out the door. It banged shut after them, and there was a small snicking sound. Their footsteps went down the stairs.
He opened his eyes and sat up. He was alone. He looked over his shoulder and saw that the room with the security monitors was still open. Awkwardly, he stood up and gimped over to the wall, leaned panting against it and watched from two different angles as Spike and Liv walked to the Jag. They didn’t speak.
Liv got into the driver’s seat and Spike stood for a moment, staring oddly at the wall, before seeming to collect himself and getting in on the passenger side. The Jag’s headlights came on, the garage door opened, and they were gone.
He was alone. Really alone. For the first time in…how long? He didn’t know. He was cold and in pain, and, frankly, kind of scared. Liv had put something into the back of her jeans, and he may be a small-town boy, but he watched TV. He could put that gesture together with the oil he’d smelled on her before, and come up with one word.
Gun.
Where was Spike taking her?
He stood staring at the monitors, watching the garage door come down slowly, slicing the blackness outside thinner and thinner until it was gone. And that blackness outside, that was the world still turning out there, and he was in here, and this was his chance to get the hell out.
His first thought was for a phone, but he couldn’t see one in the little office. He hopped backward and looked around the apartment. Nothing. Fuck that, there had to be a telephone. Modern man, modern vampire, could not exist without call waiting. He went to the kitchen and scanned the counters, then checked by the stereo. Nothing.
“What are you, fucking Amish?” He turned in a slow wobbling circle in the middle of the room. They must have cells. And they didn’t leave them lying around, apparently.
“Okay, so I’ll instant message my way to freedom.” He went into the little office, sat down, and stared at the computer screen. It was dead. The power bar was on the desk to his right, and he flicked it on. The tower hummed and buzzed, and the screen blurped numbers. He waited for the familiar green desktop, but it didn’t come. Just lots of numbers, and then a blinking cursor on a black screen.
It must be waiting for a password. He stared at it angrily, then hit Enter. It fidgeted and gave him the cursor again. He typed “spike,” and it just blinked at him. He typed “liv,” without hope. More blinking.
“Fuck you,” he said, and typed it in. Part of him was actually hoping it would be the password.
It wasn’t. The cursor kept blinking and he hit the power bar with his fist. The computer died.
He sat back in the chair and stared at the monitor, trying to breathe normally. Why was he such a putz? If he’d paid attention to Willow at all since eighth grade, she could have taught him the Way of the Computer. He’d be able to geek his way out of here, maybe hack into the Department of Defense and call down an airstrike on the loft after he was gone. That’d teach Spike a lesson.
If Willow were here, she could get him out of this. She wouldn’t even need to use the computer. She’d just cast a spell and pop the locks off the doors. Maybe she even had a spell for summoning taxis in LA.
Think, Xander.
He stared at the security monitors—the landing, the doors, the garage. All places he couldn’t get to. Thanks so much for the view.
Then he looked at the wall just below the monitors, and saw a bank of switches. Numbered switches. He looked from the switches to the monitors. There were numbers in the bottom corners of the different shots—the garage door was number one, the door from the garage to the stairway was number two. And so on.
Sweet fancy Moses, he was going home.
He stood up and reached for the first switch. He flicked it and watched the monitor.
Nothing happened.
He flicked it again, then twice more, then tried the second switch. Again, nothing.
“What the fuck—“ Then he saw the little black keypad on the wall below the switches. With numbers from zero to nine.
“Jesus Christ.” He punched it and took skin off his knuckles. It hurt. He stood shaking his hand and cussing for a minute or two.
At last he hobbled back out to the main room. The clicking sound when they closed the door had been pretty obvious, but he tried the handle anyway. It didn’t move. He went back to the chair, sat on the arm, and stared helplessly at the windows. They were too high to reach. He couldn’t see anything that was tall enough for him to stand on, even assuming he could haul furniture and climb and break a window in his current racked-up condition. Even assuming there was something soft and forgiving to land on outside.
He looked at the pills on the table in front of him, and realized that his knees and shoulder were sending up sharp, angry flares. Maybe he should hide the pills, and just pretend that he’d taken them. Then, when Spike and Liv got back, he could…surprise and overpower them. Yeah. Sure.
He took the pills.
He sat in the chair and waited for the pain to go away, hating himself. Zeppo.
He thought of Liv coming out from behind the partition, tucking the…whatever, the gun, into the back of her jeans. She kept a gun in the room and he hadn’t even known it. He’d never looked through the dresser drawers; he’d been too busy passing out and having nightmares and waking up with Spike’s hand on his head.
Bury that. Whack it with a shovel and bury it.
If she had one gun back there, she might have more.
He was up and hopping in a second. Jumpin’ Jack Flash, that was him. He’d always hated that song.
He must be getting better, or else motivation was the key, because he made it to the partition without once feeling like he was going to pass out. He dropped onto the edge of the cot and yanked the top dresser drawer open.
Underwear, socks, T-shirts. Mostly white and black, a few grey, one with a flaming skull that was actually kind of cool. He rifled quickly to the bottom, not letting himself think about the fact that he was going through Liv’s underwear drawer.
Nothing.
He closed the drawer and opened the bottom one. Jeans, mostly. A couple of sweaters, a pair of low-top sneakers pushed to one side. At the bottom, something heavy and metal that sent a shock through his fingers and straight up his arm to his heart, but when he scrabbled it out, it was a set of brass knuckles.
Brass knuckles. Jesus wept.
He dropped them back to the bottom of the drawer and closed it.
There had to be something lethal in the loft; a knife in the kitchen, or maybe Spike still kept a gun around somewhere. Something he could use to force them into letting him go. Although, now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure exactly how he planned to do the forcing.
If he found a gun, he wasn’t sure he could use it. What was he going to do—shoot Liv? That was his only option. Shooting Spike wouldn’t help, although it would feel pretty damned good. For about three seconds, before Liv eviscerated him.
He was stuck. No phone, no Internet, no way to skitter off into the night and leave this mess behind. And that was really the only way he was going, if he was honest with himself—a quiet, unobserved exit. He sure as hell wasn’t going to fight his way out.
The Demerol was starting to rub warm fingers up his spine. Thank you, Pfizer. He sighed and shifted his feet to stand, and his heel struck something under the bed. Something hard. He hesitated, then leaned down carefully and felt around. There was a box under there. Wooden, with a metal handle. He grabbed it and pulled.
It slid out easily and soundlessly, and just from looking at it—solid dark grain, almost four feet long and a couple feet deep—he knew what it was. It smelled like gun oil. His heart started to hammer.
There was no lock on it, thank God. He flipped the lid open and blinked.
Inside there were three guns—pistols. He had no idea what kind. Boxes of ammunition, a couple of holsters. Tucked in one corner, a bottle of gun oil and a clean white rag.
For a second his mind was blank, except for one crazy thought: this was Liv’s hope chest.
Then he reached down, without thinking, and picked up one of the guns. It was heavier than it looked, and cold. It felt uncomfortable in his left hand. He stared at it for a minute, then turned it over and tried to figure out where the safety was. The little metal switch by the trigger; that must be it. And the bullets went… He checked the base of the handle and saw where the clip fitted in.
The metal grip was warming slightly already, and he shifted his fingers a little, put his index finger over the trigger. Something told him it was loaded. No toddlers running around the loft, no reason for Liv not to keep her guns ready to go. All the reasons in the world for her to keep them loaded all the time.
He wondered whether she’d shot anyone with the pistol in his hand. If he smelled it, would he be able to tell? No, that was stupid, guns only smelled for a little while after you fired them. Even Angela Lansbury knew that.
He smelled it anyway. It smelled like metal and oil, sharp and dull.
So, Liv had a gun. No, guns. Several of them. He let his hand dangle and stared into the box, feeling inexplicably hopeless. This was LA, they practically issued you a firearm with your driver’s license. It wasn’t such a strange thing, especially given her line of work. If he worked for Spike he’d want a gun too, if only to make the guy shut up once in a while. And there were the plug uglies to consider.
Suddenly, the box of guns seemed like a very good idea.
He lifted the pistol and tried pointing it in front of him, aiming at the rice paper a few feet away. He’d never pointed a gun before. After just a few seconds, he felt the weight in his wrist and forearm.
He tried to imagine Liv standing there. Him, pointing the gun at Liv. Closed his eyes and held the gun a minute or two longer, until his arm started to shake.
He felt sadder than he’d felt in months. Since Anya left.
He dropped his arm and put the gun back in the box. Closed it and slid it back under the bed, until he thought it was about where he’d found it.
Then he got up and made his way slowly back across the room. His legs looped and wavered. He dropped into the chair that faced the door, hooked the remote from the table, and turned the television on.
Waited.
Two Outer Limits and a Barney Miller later, they came back.
He heard a bang beneath the sound of the television, and when he muted the sound there was another. Car doors closing in the garage. If he stood up and went to the office he could watch them coming up the stairs, but he didn’t feel like standing. He sat in silence and listened to their feet.
A key in the door, the mechanism clicking, and then Liv walked through, glanced at him, and kept walking. Her face was white and taut and her mouth was set in a way that told him she’d either cried recently or was about to now. She walked fast to the kitchen and turned the faucet on full blast, then yanked the fridge open. She pulled something out of her coat and threw it in.
Fast, but not so fast he couldn’t see what it was.
A blood bag.
He blinked, and she reached into the other side of her coat and threw another bag in. Then she slammed the fridge and put her hands under the tap. Steam curled up.
Spike came through the door and kicked it shut behind him with his heel. He looked bright, wired. His eyes skated over Xander quickly, and he smiled.
“Hello, ducks,” he said. “Behave yourself?”
Xander didn’t say anything.
Spike’s smile tightened. He pulled his coat off and dropped it on the floor, then walked around and sprawled on the sofa. His boots went up on the coffee table. Clunk. Clunk.
“What’s this shite?” he asked, staring at the screen. “Remote. Now.”
Xander tossed it at him, and he caught it with a quick snap of his wrist, only half-looking. He started flicking through the channels.
There was some kind of stain on his knuckles and the base of his nails. Something dark and rusty.
A small rusty smear at the base of his throat, almost hidden by the collar of his T-shirt. Like the last trace of something that had been almost completely wiped away.
On the other side of the room, Liv shut the faucet off and went into the bathroom. She closed the door hard behind her.
Spike kept flicking channels fast, too fast to see what he was flicking past, and Xander fingered the bottom of his shirt and glanced at the screen, then back at Spike’s hand. There was more reddish rust in the web of skin between his finger and thumb, the one he was using on the remote. Xander was getting a chilly feeling in his stomach. He wished he was wearing trousers.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Spike said conversationally, not looking away from the television. “It’s flattering you find me so bloody fascinating. But maybe you could go be all big-eyes somewhere else for a bit.”
“You killed someone,” Xander said. He hadn’t meant to say it. He’d been thinking it, but he hadn’t meant to say it. He’d meant to play dumb and keep his eye on the prize: getting out alive. So much for that.
Spike didn’t look at him. “Nah,” he said. Kept flicking.
For some reason, that was maddening. There was dried blood on Spike’s fingers, on his throat. Liv had just put two bags of it in the fridge, then cauterized her hands. And Spike looked…full. How stupid did he think Xander was?
“How stupid do you think I am?” Nothing like speaking your mind.
“Points off for guessing?”
“You’ve got blood on your hands, Spike. Way subtle, there.”
Spike glanced at his hand and scowled. He clicked the television off and threw the remote onto the table. In the sudden quiet, Xander could hear the shower running in the bathroom.
Spike raised his arms, closed his eyes, and stretched. His shirt rode up, and there was something that looked like a rusty thumbprint smeared across his belly.
“It’s four in the morning. Aren’t you supposed to be kipping?”
“I’ve been kipping for days,” Xander said. “I’m all kipped out. I’m ready for parlor games and explanations. Like, for instance, how you managed to eat someone just now.”
“Fell on my fangs,” Spike said, and smiled. It was unnerving to see his teeth, his human teeth, just now. “Poor sod.”
“Come on, Spike. Since when do you pass up the chance to brag about killing someone?”
Spike gave him a butter-wouldn’t-melt smile. “Chip, luv. Keeps me from kacking you lot, remember? Should we go back to how stupid I think you are?”
“So you just hit the drive-thru, huh? A couple chalupas and a large AB negative to go?”
“Sure. Know what? It’s been a long night, I’m knackered. Think I’ll turn in.”
“How come Liv’s taking a shower?”
“I don’t know. Ask her.” He stood up and started to walk away.
“Spike—“ He let it hang, and Spike didn’t turn around or answer, just yanked his shirt off and dropped it on the floor. There were a couple of dark red streaks around his ribs and back, like dragged fingertips. He walked straight to the bed and fell into it, toed his boots off with his face planted in the mattress. Clunk. Clunk.
Xander stared at him, at the dirty soles of his feet, the dried blood stripes on his white skin. Such a skinny little bastard, just muscle and bone. His spine was a line of knobs up the middle of his back. Hard to imagine him ripping anyone’s throat out.
Well, no. Not hard, really.
He knew what Spike looked like with the blood mask. He’d seen it just a little while ago, on the floor of the bathroom, bright red and dripping.
He’d wiped it away.
But that was different—that had been Spike’s own blood, and Spike’s eyes had been crazy and cracked like blue marbles, and he’d been hitching for breath like a dying man. This time, the blood was someone else’s. Someone who patently had not fallen on Spike’s fangs, but who nevertheless had parted with a few pints at least, and how the hell had that happened? The chip would blow Spike’s lobes out before he could put the bite on anyone.
Xander stared at Spike’s back and listened to the shower run.
He was starting to have an idea.
He really didn’t like it.
“Spike,” he said quietly. “Tell me it’s not what I’m thinking.”
There was a silence. Spike turned his head slightly to the side.
“’s not what you’re thinking,” he said. His voice was muffled and sleepy.
“I’m not kidding, Spike. Tell me.”
“Just did, pet. Shut up now.”
Xander stared at the bandage on his knee. He was toying with the tape, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger, just mindless touching.
After a minute Spike shifted up on one elbow and looked around at him. He stared back.
The shower went on.
“You take the couch tonight,” Spike said finally. “Let her have the cot. She’ll want some…privacy.”
Xander stared at him. After a moment he opened his mouth to speak, and Spike frowned and put his face back into the mattress.
So he didn’t say it. Didn’t confirm it out loud, because he didn’t need to. Spike had just done it for him, without actually saying the words.
The shower went on and on, and after a while he was sure Spike had fallen asleep, and he turned on the television but kept the sound off. An old Rockford Files was on, and he watched it with his hand on his knee, toying with the tape. He wasn’t tired, but when the shower finally shut off he closed his eyes and lay breathing quietly.
Her footsteps came out, paused, and went to the bed. They stayed a long time there.
Then they moved away, and they were soft and slow and regular as she went around the loft, turning out the lights.
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