Modus VivendiBy Wiseacress
Chapter Nine
He woke up to closed curtains and half-light, and Liv setting his pills down on the table in front of him. She was in jeans and a white T-shirt, her hair pulled back in the usual ponytail, the tattoos stark blue against her throat. He blinked at her uncertainly, wondering why he felt slightly sick and sad.
Then he remembered, and he looked at her hands before he could stop himself. Looking for what—blood? Stupid. Her hands looked the same as always. Kind of thin, with short neat nails.
Maybe they looked a little stronger today.
He wondered how she’d filled the blood bags.
She saw him looking and followed his gaze. Then her face twisted, and she pulled her hands away behind her back. She turned and started to walk away.
“Hey—” He had no idea what he was going to say. She paused and waited, not looking at him.
“Uh. Can you—uh. I need…the washroom again. Sorry.”
Very, very smooth. But also very true.
She turned back and put her hand out, and he grabbed it. Her skin was warm and she had a slight callous on her palm. He hadn’t noticed that before. She wouldn’t look at him straight on.
He slung his arm around her neck and they started for the bathroom. It was strange to be so close to her, the side of his body pressed against hers, her arm around him, bracing him. He couldn’t decide how to feel. Part of him was shying away, remembering the smell of gun oil. Thinking of the two blood bags in the fridge, and the death that implied. Someone had died last night.
Liv had killed someone.
But another part of him was thinking of her face as she’d come out from behind the partition—wretched, frightened, angry. Young. And now she looked wasted and sleepless, she wouldn’t meet his eyes, she seemed to be pulling her body away from his even as she hauled him across the floor. Like she couldn’t stand to touch, or be touched.
And that made him want to hang onto her hand, to show her that he wasn’t afraid or repulsed—although he was both. He wanted to tell her that it was all right, but he wasn’t sure it was.
Spike had forced her to do it.
Spike couldn’t force her to do anything. He couldn’t hurt her.
This wasn’t like Cordy answering Angel’s phone, or Wes looking up demons and toting battle axes. This was more like… He couldn’t think what it was like. It was sick, whatever it was. He actually felt sick, like he might like to just sit down and throw up and call it a day.
He thought of Spike punching the air, leaning over his chair, looking at him with that bright purposeful expression—when had that been? Maybe last night, maybe two nights ago. It seemed like forever. He’d been turned on. Spike had leaned in and almost kissed him, and he’d almost let it happen, except sanity had prevailed, and thank God for that. Because Spike was a miserable cruel evil fuck.
With cool hands.
He glanced at the bed as they passed it, and Spike was in there somewhere, half-buried under a pile of sheets and pillows, either still asleep or pretending to be. Xander caught a glimpse of his bare neck and shoulder, a lick of rust across his collarbone. His jeans were crumpled on top of his boots. So he was naked in there.
And that was just how the brain worked, it supplied you with interesting useless facts like that.
Xander looked away, and Liv hauled him through the bathroom door and propped him against the urinals. He looked around and saw that a toothbrush and toothpaste, a bar of soap, and a towel were piled on top of one of the sinks.
“Thanks. I’m okay from here—”
She nodded and walked out, closing the door behind her.
He took a second to wonder whether she was ever going to speak again; then nature paged him and he unzipped in a hurry.
He took care of business and got cleaned up, and everything seemed to be proceeding according to plan, because the trek across the bathroom floor wasn’t too vertiginous at all. He still looked like Frankenberry in the mirror, but the bruises were mostly green and yellow now, and they didn’t hurt as much. The stitches were healing over well; they could probably come out soon. He wiggled the fingers of his right hand while he brushed his teeth with his left.
When he was done he stumped to the door and opened it. Slowly, because it weighed about eighty pounds and he still only had one truly functioning appendage. It was a big old door, from the days when they still made them out of actual wood, and it had good hinges. It opened silently.
He stepped over the sill and saw Liv standing at the foot of Spike’s bed. She wasn’t doing anything. Just looking down at him with her hands hanging empty at her sides.
Well, not just looking. More like staring. Staring like she was going to kill him. Like she was going to open her mouth any second and start to shriek.
Her eyes were wide and dark as burns, and there were two high pink circles in her cheeks. She looked terrified and furious, the way people looked when they found out an apocalypse had been scheduled for the day after tomorrow. Xander hadn’t seen anyone look like that in a long time.
She didn’t say anything or move, just stood there throwing out rage and fear and anguish, and after a moment the door bumped Xander’s back and he winced and squeaked. She jerked as if he’d yelled at her.
Spike lifted his head and gave him a casual glance.
“Look at you,” he said. “Toddling around on your own. Clever lad.”
Xander held onto the door frame and swallowed. Spike was awake. He’d been lying there awake while she looked at him like that. Just looking back at her.
Xander opened his mouth. Closed it.
“Give him a lift back to the sofa,” Spike said, turning back to Liv. She glanced down at him, then back at Xander. For a second he expected her to refuse, to curse or scream or hit Spike. He clutched the door frame in readiness.
But she did nothing. A second later her face closed up, and she started walking quickly toward him.
He tried not to flinch as she took his arm.
Spike sat up and grabbed his jeans as they walked past him, and Xander didn’t look at him again until he heard a zipper. Then Spike was up and walking bare-chested to the kitchen, opening the fridge, and pulling out a blood bag. He dropped it on the counter and started rooting through the cupboards.
“Where’s mugs, Liv?”
She went over, opened a cupboard, and put a mug on the counter beside him. He tore the bag open with his teeth and poured.
He tipped his head back and drank the whole thing cold, without pausing. Liv watched him do it. When he finished he chucked the mug in the sink and shook his head, blinking. His eyes were wide and watering slightly.
“Too right,” he said, to no one in particular. He wiped his mouth with his arm and wandered away into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
Liv and Xander were silent. The drained blood bag leaked onto the counter, then onto the floor.
After a moment, Liv reached out and dropped the blood bag into the trash. She picked up the sponge from the corner of the sink, wrung it out, and started to wipe the counter.
Xander heard himself speak before he knew he was going to.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said. “You can—I mean, I happen to know the Slayer. She’s good at telling Spike what’s in his best interests.”
Liv stared at the counter. She was moving the sponge very slowly.
“Or not,” Xander said. “You could just get a different job, you know? Be a temp, right here in LA. You can type, right?”
She squeezed the sponge out under the tap.
“No thanks,” she said. She knelt and began wiping the floor.
“I’m just making a suggestion. Because you don’t seem so happy doing this. Whatever…you do, exactly.”
She smiled slightly and stood up. “Whatever I do,” she repeated.
He waited a second, but she didn’t say anything else.
“Liv,” he said softly, “I’m sorry, but I really don’t think you’re on the winning team here.”
She rinsed the sponge and dropped it in the sink.
“Maybe not,” she said. “But neither are you.”
He stared at her, then opened his mouth without knowing what was going to come out. She shook her head slightly, a fly-shooing gesture. Her eyes dropped to her watch, and she raised her eyebrows and walked away without another word.
He sat there like an idiot, his mouth still open, staring at the spot where she’d been standing. She disappeared behind the partition.
The bathroom door opened and Spike stepped out, his head soaking wet.
“Liv!” he shouted. “There’s no clean towels!”
Xander blinked and clenched his fist against the hot rush of anger that went through him. Fucking shut up. You evil fucking prick. If Spike had been anywhere near him he would have taken a swing. Stupid, his brain told him. This is stupid. Don’t get involved in this. But he had to fight to control his breathing, and after a second of silence from behind the partition, Spike looked over at him, squinting a little through the water in his eyes.
“Don’t be such a twit,” he said, and Xander felt his superego calmly hand control of his mouth to his id, and every filthy abusive thing he’d ever heard screamed on the first floor of the Harris household took a number and lined up just behind his uvula.
“You dumb fu—”
Liv put her head out from behind the partition. “There are towels in the bin,” she said. “Right hand side. With the sheets.”
“Well, bloody get me one, luv. I’m dripping.”
“Do it yourself. I’m in a hurry.” She disappeared.
“Hurry to what?”
Liv didn’t answer. Spike walked over to the screen and pulled it aside. She was standing at the foot of the bed, stuffing clothes into a canvas bag. The dresser drawers were open, and Xander had a moment of panic, wondering whether she could tell he’d been in them. Sorry about rifling through your underwear, Liv, but it’s not what you think. I was looking for a gun so I could blow your head off when you came home last night.
Last night? It seemed like longer, somehow.
“You’re packing.” Spike’s voice was flat, maybe a little satisfied.
“Yes.”
“Good girl.”
She said nothing, didn’t react at all, just folded a shirt and put it into the bag.
“When’s your flight?”
“Two o’clock. I’ll leave the Jag in the parkade by Pershing, you can get it tonight.”
“Fine.”
She turned to the drawer and pulled out a pair of jeans, rolled it up, and stuffed it into the bag. He just stood there, watching her. She picked up a shirt and rolled it tight.
“Towels are in the bin, Spike.”
He turned around and walked back into the bathroom, dripping all the way.
Xander watched Liv zip the bag closed, and step around the screen without bothering to pull it back into place. She crossed the loft without looking at him, opened the door to the little office and went in. He heard the power bar go on, and then typing.
In the bathroom, Spike was showering.
He cleared his throat. “Uh. Can I just—”
She kicked the door closed without looking around.
He sat for a few minutes in silence, listening to the shower and the faint sound of the keyboard. Liv was leaving. Spike was an asshole. He was going to be left alone with Spike.
He could get up right now and limp back to the gun box. Buffy wouldn’t have hesitated, she would have grabbed the biggest piece in there and used it to blow Liv’s head off. Well, that was kind of hard to imagine, actually. But she would at least have used it to shoot the door open—
His mouth fell open and for a moment he couldn’t hear through the rush in his ears. Why hadn’t he used the gun on the door? He didn’t have to actually shoot anyone to get out, he just had to shoot the fucking door. He could be out of here by now. He could be in Sunnydale.
The thought raised a strange jumble of emotions in him—mostly anguish at his own stupidity, his total Zeppo nature, mixed with a weird ribbon of relief. Why relief? Probably because if he’d tried to shoot his way out and failed, if the lock had turned out to be bulletproof or if the door set off an alarm, he’d have been even worse off. It might even have forced him to shoot Liv, once she got home. Or, more likely, she might have shot him.
He fiddled with his bandage and listened to the shower run. A running shower was a good sound. But fuck, he could be out of here by now, he could be listening to a shower in Casa Summers or somewhere, anywhere that was blameless and clean and not here. The YMCA, or his own apartment, or LA county’s finest overnight holding cell. Anywhere was cleaner than here. Because he wasn’t going to think about it even a bit, but he knew the relief wasn’t because he hadn’t had a chance to bungle his own escape. He felt relief because he was still here. Trapped. With Spike.
Some part of him wanted this.
He put that away in a hurry—the root cellar was getting mighty full—and was just starting to think he’d have to get up and at least try for the gun box, when Liv opened the door and came back into the loft. He felt relieved again, and hated himself for it.
She looked preoccupied, tired, unhappy. Spike was an evil asshole. The exact variety of evil was a little unclear at the moment, and it was hard to imagine how the chip would let him hurt her, but… Where there was a will, there was a way. Wasn’t supposed to be, but there you go.
He couldn’t help it, he had to try again.
“That offer? It’s of the standing variety.”
She looked at him as if she’d forgotten he was there. Then her face cleared and she turned away and walked to the kitchen. He kept going.
“I’m just saying. You want a change, want to try life without the evil dead guy, just let me know. I know some people who can make it happen.”
She walked back across the loft and sat down in the chair facing him. Her face was serious and for a moment he thought she was going to accept the offer.
“These are your pills, Xander.” She held up the bottles, her eyes fixed on his. “Can I trust you with them?”
“What do you mean, will I keep them out past midnight and try to get them drunk?”
She said nothing, and after a moment he shrugged.
“Yeah, sure. You can trust me.”
“I can take out most of the Demerol, and only leave you enough for a day or two. That’s not enough to hurt you if you take it all at once.”
“You can trust me.”
“You can’t drink while you’re taking them.”
“Okay.”
“You don’t seem so good at not drinking, Xander.”
He paused, and dammit, he blushed. She stared at him without expression and he had to look away.
“I’m not going to go Montgomery Clift on you. I like living.”
It came out sounding weak and far from true, and she didn’t say a thing. She just let the silence flatten and draw out, and the sound of the shower seemed very loud. He glanced at her, and her expression was oddly sympathetic.
At last she gave a tiny shrug and set the bottles down on the table.
“Take the Demerol when you need it, not more than two every four hours. The amoxycillin twice a day, two at a time.”
He nodded, staring down at his bare feet. He still wasn’t wearing any pants. Why wasn’t he wearing any pants?
“I’ll tell Spike what to do about your knee, but you’re in charge of the pills. He’ll never remember.”
“My knee’s fine.” He said instinctively, before he could stop himself, and it came out too loud. He blushed harder and stared a hole through the floor.
“No, it’s not. The bandage has to be changed, and he’ll probably forget that too. Remind him.”
He didn’t reply, and after a moment she said, “Remind him, Xander. You want to walk, right? So remind him.”
He nodded, thinking of the little doctor and his shaking head. Infection was an ugly word. But the thought of Spike touching his knee was almost more distressing.
“Xander.”
He looked up, surprised to hear her use his name. She’d been using it the whole time, he realized. No more Nova.
“Your offer—” She left off and he stared at her. Her face was drained but calm. “I understand that you mean it to be…helpful. I appreciate it.”
He leaned forward, a little shocked that she’d said even that much, but quick to grab the opportunity. “So…?”
“So, nothing. I appreciate it, but I don’t need it.”
“You really think you’re going to retire on this?”
She actually looked surprised. “No, of course not. It’s just a job, Xander. He only needs me until—” She trailed off and he waited, but she shrugged and didn’t finish.
“Last night,” he said slowly, “maybe I don’t understand, but it seemed—”
“You don’t understand. So don’t talk about it.”
He paused, unsure what to say. The moment passed.
“Xander,” she said, “Spike is my employer. He’s a fair employer and I do my best to meet his expectations. I also do my best to make sure he doesn’t get staked. I’m going to be away for a while, and normally I wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving a stranger behind with him. Someone who could try to hurt him while he can’t fight back.”
He straightened up in the chair and met her gaze. He’d missed her tone at first, it was so even. Now he understood what it was—a warning, or a kind of matter-of-fact threat.
“You’re injured, and that makes me feel a little better,” she went on.
“Thanks,” he muttered. She ignored him.
“And there’s the fact that if you did hurt him, or kill him, you’d be trapped in the building. You need a key and a pass code to get out of here, and you don’t have either of those. If something did happen to Spike, Xander, you’d still be here when I get back. And I’d kill you.”
“That seems fair,” he said.
“There aren’t any sprinkler heads, Xander. If you set a fire you won’t get the fire department, not until the building’s well along. You’d be dead by then.”
“This is fascinating,” he said, “but your point is…?”
“I appreciated your offer,” she said, and he saw she was sincere. “I thought you should know how things stand, before I go. So nobody gets dead.”
“You’re very kind,” he said, thinking of the gun box and wondering which gun she’d leave behind. Fuck the key and pass code both, he’d shoot the locks off tonight while Spike was out getting the Jag. Right now, the thought didn’t give him a pang at all.
“Xander,” she said, and something about her tone made him look straight at her. She was looking straight back at him.
“The guns will be gone.”
It sent a chill up his neck and arms. Could she read his mind? No, of course not. Stupid. But she knew he’d been into the box. She hadn’t said anything before, but she’d known. Suddenly everything she’d been saying seemed more real and important. He couldn’t hurt Spike, couldn’t try to escape. If something happened to Spike, he’d be trapped in the loft until she came back.
What if something happened to both of them?
He swallowed, wondering if he should make something up about the gun box, he’d been looking for a Tic Tac, trying on her underwear, his hand had slipped. But it was too late, he’d already admitted it by his stupor and silence, and if she hadn’t known already she did now. No point in lying now.
He ducked his head and muttered, “Right,” and she stood up.
He was trapped here. Really still trapped, no way of getting out, and it was ridiculous how easy it was. In a little while Liv would be gone, and he’d be alone with a dead guy who couldn’t even slap him, but he’d still be trapped. It was agonizing.
The shower turned off with a bang and he jerked. The pills had kicked in some time ago without his noticing, but he was hungry and exhausted and he felt sick. His eyes were grainy and wouldn’t focus. He hadn’t slept enough in the chair.
A hand touched his shoulder and he pulled away with a start, sure it was Spike. Liv was still standing over him, her hand held out, her face calm.
“You’ll be all right,” she said. They looked at each other for a moment, and then she patted his shoulder again, lightly.
She’d just finished telling him she’d shoot him if he stepped out of line. Was she psychopathic? He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He was doing that a lot. She half-smiled and dropped her hand.
Then she walked away to fuss with her bags, and he let his eyes slip closed.
The bathroom door banged open and he didn’t open his eyes. He might have dozed a bit. The next things he was aware of were out of synch, too abrupt.
“Don’t touch the accounts.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“I’m serious. Don’t touch them.”
“Any other orders?”
“Call me if anything happens here.”
“Get out already.”
“This is still a bad idea, Spike.”
Silence. Footsteps moving to the door, the sound of a key. The door opened.
“Spike—”
Xander peeled one eye open and saw a smear of white standing in the door. Liv, her bag in her hand, her jacket over her arm. Spike was standing waiting to close the door after her, wearing a put-upon face. She looked all around the loft once, as if memorizing it, then looked back at him.
“Well, all right,” she said.
“Get some sleep on the plane,” he said. “You look like holy hell.”
She nodded, turned, and disappeared. Spike didn’t close the door immediately; he leaned against the doorframe, watching her down the stairs. After a moment her steps rang on the landing, and he turned away and toed the door closed.
Xander sat absolutely still, wondering whether he should shut his eyes again. No point—Spike knew when he was awake.
He swallowed and tried to clear his throat, but his mouth was too dry. Sweet Jesus, he was tired. His joints felt filled with sand. He had the bad, sliding feeling that he’d pulled into the breakdown lane on the road to recovery.
“You too. The pair of you, you’re letting down the side.” Spike was regarding him critically from a few feet away, and Xander nodded, staring down at the bruises on his legs, not really paying attention.
So far he’d been worrying about getting out, about figuring out the locks or getting hold of a gun. Suddenly he realized that Liv had just walked out, and Liv was the one who’d been taking care of him so far. Not Spike, apart from the initial haul to the head. Liv had given him the pills because Spike wouldn’t remember, or wouldn’t give a shit. She’d told him to remind Spike about the knee because they both knew he’d forget that too. Liv was the one who’d got Xander this far, and now she was gone.
He had a feeling that dead guys didn’t make very good nurses.
Spike slung a leg over the back of the couch, sank down into it, and said, “Remote.”
It was on the table in front of Xander, where he’d left it the night before. He hooked it carefully and tossed it over. The effort made his arms ache.
Spike flipped the television to soccer—there was always soccer, he must have satellite—and leaned back into the cushions with a frown of concentration.
He should talk, ask questions about Liv or the blood bags or the chip or something, but he couldn’t find the energy. He should get up and haul his ass back to the cot, where he could sleep lying down instead of in chair purgatory. The very thought was a joke. His limbs were made of lead. Had he taken the antibiotic? Did he need to take it now? He didn’t even know what time it was. He tried to ask.
“What?”
“—time is it?”
“Morning. Christ, pet, you look like three dead men.”
That was a new one. He half-smiled despite himself, and dissolved.
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