'Under the Mountain' - something new! and a pimp....
First, the pimp. The lovely, lovely txrabbit wrote me a bit of Spander that is just - delightful! So hurry and go read Feeding the Soul.
Thank you, bay-bee!
I also wanted to pimp the strange but compelling The Assistant by witling. You will love it. Mostly. :)
Many many thanks to the folk who nominated me at Primordial Souls and the Raison d'Etre awards.
Last but not least, here we go. A little something i've been poking at. Post-everything, and i may have messed with the season six timeline just a teeny bit. But not so's you'd really notice. Many thanks to reremouse, as always, for her enabling support. *smooch*
Xander yawned - stretched and rolled over, looking blearily at his clock and wincing a little. He never took naps, or almost never, and this unaccustomed sleep in the middle of the afternoon had left him with slight headache. He sat up slowly, pushing the comforter off and climbing to his feet. His flannel pants and t-shirt were twisted around his body and he straightened them and stretched again.
Face washed, toilet used and coffee in hand, he stood in front of his living room window, looking out over the Sound. A grey day and a rapidly-vanishing twilight, with the merest hint of gold and umber in the western sky. Clouds were massing along the horizon, soft and puffy as down and he knew there would be snow by morning - maybe sooner. Snow didn't happen often here - the ocean kept Seattle too warm for that - but occasionally there would be short-lived flurries. He liked it - liked it all; the rain and the wind and the brief, bright summer. Liked the mountain in the east that floated above the horizon-haze like a far and secret kingdom. His second year here, starting last month, and it was...comfortable.
Xander wandered around his apartment, checking for email, watching ten minutes or so of the local news. Wasting time, but then he could if he wanted to. Which was the point. When he'd first taken this job - called England and told the girls on speaker-phone what he was doing - there had been a profound and...incredulous silence. And then babble.
"Oh, but, Xander that's such a mindless kind of job!"
"Don't you want to do something...else? I mean, you hated fixing my house in Sunnydale."
"Why won't you come live with us?" The last - heartfelt wail from Willow - and Xander just sighed, shaking his head even thought he knew they couldn't see him.
"I need to be out on my own, guys. I need...something quiet for a while. No world-saving. Just...this. I like this. I built three schools in Africa, this is -"
"It's just copping out!" Dawn had snapped and left the room, and a minute later Buffy had excused herself, too. Which left Willow on the handset, with a quaver in her voice.
"But you could build things here, Xander, you could - could help fix up the dorms and - and make stakes and -" Willow's voice trailed away to silence as even she heard the desperation - and the pitiful offering she was making.
"Willow...I miss you. I miss everybody. But I just need...some time. Okay? I just..."
"Okay, Xander. It's...okay. I just miss you. You're still my best friend."
"Yeah. You, too. I've got email, okay? I bought a computer. I'll talk to you guys all the time and - and I'll figure out the digital camera thing and... It'll be okay, Wills, really. I just...I've spent years saving the world, you know? I want... I just want to live in it for a while."
A year later and he was still doing his job - doing other things as well and they didn't ask him to come to England anymore. And he was glad.
He got dressed and left his apartment around five. His next job was across town and he knew it would take a while to get there - the streets would be crowded and the bus would take forever. But he didn't mind. He hadn't owned a car since Africa and walked most places. But today he had his notebooks and his camera, and that would be awkward on a long, possibly wet, walk. So the bus, and the people-watching, and the occasional picture that no one ever seemed to deny the shaggy-haired, one-eyed guy in jeans and t-shirt and flannel under a battered bomber jacket.
Africa had changed a lot of things for Xander. Changed how he thought about himself; changed how he viewed the world and his own place in it. Changed how he viewed the Slayers and what they and the Council were doing. He still carried a stake but he was more apt to warn than kill, these days. He just...didn't want to do that anymore. Not the killing and not the judging and not the hate. Africa was the crucible of all Darwin's theories and even though human malice and primate-cleverness had also managed to make some of it hell on earth, it had made some things very clear to him. Hate - was the worm at the heart of all things, and he refused to be controlled by it anymore.
The bus was very crowded and Xander found himself standing near the back, arm around a pole as he tried to take a picture of a listing and denuded Christmas tree propped over a little lean-to of cardboard and plastic sheets. Somebody had got smart and realized it would make a good wind-break or rain-stopper. The left-over tinsel and bit of bright red garland made it sad and somehow brave. The kid in the seat that he was looming over wiped the steamy window with the tail of his scarf and smiled up at him; gold tooth in the front and skin darkly brown, smooth as cream. Xander grinned back, feeling a momentary tingle of interest. But the kid looked all of sixteen, and that was way, way too young. Even if Xander himself was only 24.
*25 in a month. Don't feel that. Don't feel any age, really.* He didn't have a problem with a one-night hook up. Or a long weekend, even. But they had to be at least 21 because otherwise he ended up dwelling on the Potentials and the kids he'd known in Africa - the kids he'd sent to die fighting the Mayor - and that could be days and days worth of brooding. *God. Still want to smack Angel, but at least I understand the urge to brood a little more now.*
The bus lurched and he almost dropped his camera. *Time to put it away.* He stowed it in his bag and pushed toward the door - pulled the cord. A half a block on and the bus ground to a halt and he got off, zipping his jacket against the chilly air. And he'd been right - snow was wisping down, blowing sideways and swirling up and around and Xander took out his watch-cap and tugged it down over his ears. Gloved hands deep in his pockets, he started the six-block, mostly uphill walk to the next job.
Raif Tubic - the man Xander worked for - was part of the mafia. Or something. Had to be. He was from Bosnia, he said, and he'd made noises about the war there - said things in such a way that Xander knew better than to ask about his past. He was a tall, heavy man with crisp white hair and a bushy mustache that he constantly combed with finger and thumb in a nervous tic. He owned something like thirty old buildings and houses in Seattle and had hired Xander to do restoration for him. Xander's first job had been carving delicate rosettes so he could make a mold and then plaster casts to replace smashed and missing ones in the ceiling of a turn-of-the-century house. It was slow, exacting work and Xander wasn't ever part of a crew or a team and he liked that. He liked making the plaster details and carving new molding to match the old. He came home smelling pleasantly of wood and lemon oil and glue, and that beat most jobs right there. Plus, Raif wasn't one to ask questions or delve too deeply into someone's past, and that made him a relaxing man to work for. Xander could be as mum as he wanted on life in Sunnydale and Raif never pushed for explanations or stories.
As Xander got to the right block - the 700 block - his cell-phone chirruped in his pocket and he stopped and pulled it out. It was the phone Raif had given him that he called Xander on at odd hours and always, always right before he started a job. "Harris," he answered, like always.
"Alexahnder. How are you?" The deep, gravelly and heavily-accented voice rumbled out of the phone and Xander grinned.
"I'm fine, Mr. Tubic. How are you?"
Raif liked to be formal, even though he pretended differently. "Please - Raif. I am Raif. We are not so stodgy as all that. So - you see the house?"
"I see it," Xander said, looking up the block. It was a tall brick house, three stories high. The bottom two floors were dark, the top floor brightly lit. He was going to the top floor.
"Now, he works during the night, nobody to come until after six, yah? So, don't knock until after six."
"I won't. His lights are all on, Mr. Tubic."
"But he says after six, we stay away until after six. Now - the second bedroom, second bath, kitchen and study for now, yah? Take pictures, I want to see."
"No problem." The place had been vacant until three months ago but Raif's schedule ground on despite the inconvenience it might cause his tenants.
"And then, tomorrow at the 13 Coins, yah? You'll show me."
"Yup. 8:30, just like always." Xander smiled into the phone because really, sometimes Raif was like an old grandmother. Fuss, fuss, fuss. Xander would bring his laptop and they'd go over the job and what he'd need, and how long it might take. And Raif would sit there, in his suit and his wool coat and his mustache, with eyes as cold and shuttered as an empty house. He might come across as a fussy old woman but Xander wouldn't push the man on a bet. His vibe was seriously scary.
"Yes. Well, three minutes after six, time for you to go. Good night, Alexahnder."
"Good night, Mr. Tubic." Xander clicked the phone shut and tucked it away, then went on up the block. He pulled out the massive key-ring Raif had given him and sorted through it for the right key. Dearborn Street House in Raif's scratchy handwriting and Xander walked up the steps to the front door and unlocked it. Inside it was dark and still, with one small light on over the foot of the staircase. The first and second floor residents obviously weren't home from work yet.
Xander crossed the green and black tiles of the lobby and went up. As he got closer to the third floor he could hear music pounding down through the house. Something new, raucous, and bass-heavy. Rap, but he couldn't tell who. Nelly, maybe. He unzipped his jacket and adjusted the strap of his bag and sighed. First-time meetings were always hard. Inevitably his eye - or rather, its absence - was mentioned. Xander got tired of the stares, but he refused to get a prosthetic. He hadn't had one in Africa and getting one now would be a chore. Plus, he just...didn't care. His eye was gone. He wasn't going to mourn the loss anymore, and he wasn't going to hide it, either. But it did make a bit of an awkward first impression sometimes. And the pirate jokes got old. He swept off his cap and tucked it away, pulled off his gloves. Made sure the patch was straight and brushed his hair back.
The third-floor landing was practically vibrating with the thumps and crashes of the music and Xander grinned. Even though it meant adjusting his schedule to accommodate a night-time worker, he thought this job was going to be fun. This neighborhood - Leschi - with its parks and old, old buildings and view of Lake Washington was pretty and interesting and exactly what Xander liked. And having clients who weren't octogenarians or quasi-Yuppies was refreshing.
He reached out to knock but just as his knuckles touched the wood the door jerked open and a tall, auburn-haired man was coming through, shouting something over his shoulder, a trash-bag swinging from his hand. He stepped into Xander hard and Xander was grateful for steel-toed work boots.
"Oh shit - did I hurt you? Damnit!" The man caught at Xander's jacket, laughing, the trash hitting the floor with a thud.
Xander put a hand on the man's forearm, smiling back. "Nah, I'm okay. I'm Xander Harris, I'm -"
"Oh! You're the guy who's gonna fix the stuff. Yeah. Mr. Tubic called about you. Oh fuck!" Xander had to grin again as the man's green-yellow eyes *like a cat's eyes* went wide in shock. He spoke with a faint accent that reminded Xander of - Mr. Tubic, actually.
"Man, we completely forgot you were gonna be here! The place is a wreck, we had a wrap party here last night and - oh, Jesus, I'm making you stand out here in the hall. I'm Sacha, Sacha Dubkov." Sacha stepped back inside, holding the door open and just...waiting and Xander felt a little frission of recognition. Sacha knew. Xander nodded once and stepped over the threshold and Sacha grinned, trash obviously forgotten.
"Hey! The fixing-guy is here! Are you dressed?" Sacha went across a wide, wood-floored room to a rack of expensive stereo equipment. He started stabbing at buttons, frowning, and the music took on a funny quality as he obviously changed something - treble or bass or hell, who knew? A boom-box had always been good enough for Xander.
"Of course I'm not bloody dressed, and you've fucked up the damn stereo again, Sacha, I keep telling you -"
Xander just stood there, his blood going to ice water and his heart pounding, pounding, pounding. Because he knew that voice, and Jesus fucking Christ - Someone - *Don't pretend, you know who!* walked out a dimly lit hallway.
Whipcord body, ratty, faded-white jeans half off his hips, black nails, hair six different shades. White and honey and gold and brown and brass and pale wheat, tousled and spikey and soft-looking. Rings on his left hand, all silver, one gold one on his right, heavy silver chain around his neck, silver bracelets of intricate wirework and complicated chain patterns around his left wrist. Love-bite on his collarbone that was blue-purple-red.
Concentrating on the details so he wouldn't have to look at the face, the face... *No fucking way, no fucking way! Thought he was dead, thought...oh man, what are those scars -?*
"Harris." Spoken in a voice flat and deadly and hostile, and Xander swallowed and lifted his chin.
"Spike."
The music shut off abruptly and Sacha stood there, looking a little embarrassed. "So - you guys know each other?" Spike didn't say anything and Xander took a deep breath.
"Yeah. Uh - yeah, we do. Did. We - lived in the same town for a while." He was amazed at the steadiness of his own voice even though he could feel sweat gathering under his arms and between his shoulder blades. Spike's gaze *Jesus, eyeliner...* raked him from head to foot and back - lingered for one long moment on the patch. And then he jerked his head a little, as if dismissing Xander and Sunnydale from his mind.
"We're gonna be late, Sacha. Why don't you show Harris the rooms?" Spike turned and stalked out and Xander let his breath out in an explosive whoosh, not realizing he'd been holding it until Spike's back - *when did he get a tattoo?* disappeared from view.
"Um, okay. Sorry about that. Did you kill his dog, or something? I mean, should I snub you, too?" Sacha looked like he might be holding back laughter and Xander deliberately smiled - took a deep breath.
"No, no dog-killing. Spike and I... We just - rub each other the wrong way, you know? I haven't seen him in... Damn, like...three years."
"Wow." Sacha looked him over much as Spike had done, but his gaze was interested and friendly rather than coldly speculative and Xander relaxed a bit. "Let me take your jacket and I can show you the rooms. Oh god." Sacha raised his voice. "Is Auntie Vera passed out in the guest room again?"
"Since Sunday, dear," Spike yelled, and Sacha giggled.
Halfway out of his jacket, Xander just stared. *What the hell? This is... Well, it's only Monday evening, but still -*
"Oh - just a joke," Sacha said, catching sight of Xander's expression. "Um - I hope. The party was pretty wild." Xander noticed for the first time that every flat surface had glasses, mugs, plates, napkins and other assorted trash on it. Cigarette butts were everywhere and he supposed the only reason that the place didn't reek like a bar was that every window was open and the place was a weird mixture of freezing cold and heat; the furnace roaring out savannah-hot air and fighting the snow-spangled gusts that were puffing in sporadically. There were also what looked like...flyers? scattered among the tumbled cushions and throws of the big, squashy-looking couch. Flyers, and several newspapers gutted and scattered around.
Xander hung his jacket over the back of a chair and really looked at the apartment. Raw brick on the outside walls and soft cream plaster on the inner ones. The window-frames were wide, with carved molding across the top and decorative braces under the sills. The plaster of the walls had been combed into swirls and the ceiling appeared to be pressed tin, with more plaster molding around light fixtures. He dug his camera out of his bag and followed Sacha out of the living room and down another hall, in the opposite direction that Spike had gone.
"Here's the guest room - let me get the light - oh, good, nobody in here."
Xander couldn't tell if Sacha was serious or not - the man had a playful air about him that was so different from... *From what? It's obvious they're...together. And while the whole gay-vampire thing is a complete shock, this guy just seems like... Not Spike's type at all. But then...what do I know? Buffy sure wasn't his type but they managed to get it on for months...* The bitterness of that reality still made Xander seethe, from time to time. And not even so much the fact of Buffy sleeping with Spike - she'd slept with Angel, after all so it wasn't as if it was without some sort of precedent - but that she'd lied to them all. That she hadn't trusted them and that... *That she didn't give you a chance to show her you could fix things. Give it up, already!*
Xander sighed and powered up his camera, looking around. The room had a tall iron bedstead, made up, and a wardrobe and that was all. It looked as if someone had attacked the woodwork with chains and there were scars where bolts or something had been screwed into the corners.
"They kept dogs in here. Some kind of fighting dogs. Reeked when I moved in - had to get these guys in Hazmat suits to clean it. They did the damage to the plaster." Sacha leaned in the doorway and watched Xander take pictures. Even the floor - tough old oak - was scarred and torn.
"They really screwed this up. Does the window open?" Xander pushed at the frame a little, looking through the wavy, old glass at a fenced back yard. There was a big sycamore back there and what looked like a crabapple tree.
"Yeah, but the ropes on the counter-weights broke so you have to prop it." Xander nodded and took one more picture and then raised an eyebrow at Sacha, who led him across the hall. This was the room Raif called the study, but for the moment it looked like it was being used for storage.
"Jesus - we're gonna have to move Spike's books. Where the hell are we going to put them?" Sacha started poking at the stacks of boxes as if the work was going to start now, and Xander looked for a beat at the pile.
*Must be eight, ten boxes. Spike's books? Never saw him read in Sunnydale... Well, never paid that much attention, truthfully.* Xander took more pictures, getting up close so he could show Raif the damage done to the marble and cherry-wood of the fireplace and the places in the ceiling where water-damage had rusted some of the tin. Sacha had opened a box and taken a book out and seemed absorbed by it - something Xander had seen Willow do all her life - and he had to smile. Sacha was probably Xander's age, maybe a little older. He was pale but not vampire-pale, and his auburn hair curled loosely to his shoulders. In his high-collared, plum-colored shirt and narrow black pants he had a theatrical look to him, and Xander had to admit that his narrow, sharp features were attractive. *Looks a little like a fox.*
"So - a wrap party? What wrapped?" Xander asked, and Sacha looked up from the book, his eyes a little distant.
"Huh? Oh! A play. The play I was in. A 'modern retelling of Romeo and Juliet'." Sacha tucked the book away, rolling his eyes a little and Xander chuckled.
"You don't like modern retellings? Or you don't like 'Romeo and Juliet'?" he asked as Sacha flicked off the light and they went to the end of the hall to the bathroom.
"I like anything that pays me but this was... Romeo was a crack addict. Pimping Juliet - it was a mess. Thank god it's over - I was sick of those fake home-boy lines. Director thought he was Baz Luhrmann or something. Really not."
The bathroom was long - it was the width of the whole apartment - but narrow and an utter disaster. It looked like - "Was there a fire?" Xander asked, staring in bewilderment at a half-melted fiberglass shower stall and darkly grey walls that were ragged and pocked with holes. A claw-foot tub, blackened and cracked, listed to one side and the sink was broken. The window had boards nailed up over it and the tin ceiling tiles were missing - no - were piled behind the door.
"Yeah. Freakin' meth, man. They were cooking it up in here - lucky they didn't blow the whole block up. It's why the rent's so cheap, although I'll bet Mr. Tubic thinks he'll raise it after all the fixing up."
"I'll bet he thinks that, too," Xander murmured, taking picture after picture. The tiles on the floor were cracked and loose - half of them missing. "Damn, this is a mess. So how'd the rest of the apartment stay in such good shape?"
Sacha shrugged, brushing his hair back out of his eyes and Xander noticed a ring of colored stones on his right index finger. "I don't really know. The front room - living room, I guess - it was just filthy, but they'd left it alone. The big bedroom's mostly okay, too - the floor needs fixing. The people who lived here before us tore out half the kitchen and replaced it with this crap from salvage yards or something - it's a wonder we've got running water in there." Sacha toed disgustedly at a pile of plaster on the floor, sighing. "They only stayed two months - just long enough to screw things up. And the other bathroom - I think somebody turned the water off, or a pipe broke. It was like they never used it. I don't think they really lived here. Which is lucky for us, 'cause no way would I use this bathroom."
Sacha ushered Xander out and turned off the light and they made their way back to the front room. The kitchen was just off of it, open design and Xander could see the ugly seventies-style appliances and the bulky Formica counter tops set crookedly into place. There were a half-dozen trays with the dried remains of cold-cuts, bread, dip - snack food from the party - and ranks and ranks of empty wine and whiskey bottles, plus a nearly full bottle of vodka that someone had put a cigarette out in.
"Jesus," he said, and then checked, hesitating, as Spike walked out of the 'master' bedroom. Tight black trousers, white shirt that fit like a second skin and a gauzy, silky looking black shirt open over it. *He looks like...like some black-and-white movie still that just...got up and walked.* Xander didn't remember Spike ever looking that...unearthly, and he frowned to himself. He didn't want to notice Spike. He didn't want to know Spike.
"Aren't you done? We're bloody late," Spike snapped, and Xander felt himself stiffening - felt himself slipping and he was not going to do that.
He quelled the urge to snap back and lifted his camera. "I've still got to take some pictures. I've got a key, you could -"
"No fucking way," Spike said and stalked over to where Sacha was half-heartedly picking up plates and stacking them. "Leave that for now, love. You're all dressed up," Spike purred, pushing the plates aside and slipping his arms around Sacha's waist. Sacha complied with a pleased little sound and Xander turned away as they kissed, fighting the little flush that washed over him. Differences aside, Spike was very, very attractive and Sacha was, too, and...
*And I need to get laid. Like - now. Damn.* Xander stoically snapped picture after picture, wondering what Raif would say about the mess. Done, he turned the camera off and crossed over to his bag and put it away, then slowly picked up a discarded flyer. It was a play-bill, he saw and he opened it and looked inside at the cast. There - Sacha Dubkov, fifth down. Mercutio. Xander vaguely recalled the play - enough to remember that Mercutio died a drawn-out death, cursing everyone.
*A plague on both your houses. AIDS, if the play was like he said. Ha.* AIDS had been such a huge part of life in Africa it didn't hold quite the terror it once had for Xander. He was careful and sensible and just didn't let it consume his every waking moment. *Nothing to fear along those lines with Spike. And Buffy never had to worry about getting pregnant... Jesus, I need a drink and a good brain bleaching. Except I don't drink, so....bleach it is!* That was something else he'd worn out in Africa - any desire to drink. He'd done it by being drunk for seven months but hey - he was dry now.
He folded the play-bill and put it in his bag then picked up his coat and put it on - slung his bag over his shoulder and fished out his gloves. As he pulled them on he cleared his throat and was rewarded with a coldly hostile stare from Spike. Sacha wiggled out of his grip and came over to him, flushed and obviously aroused.
"Okay, so - you're done? That's great. Uh - Mr. Tubic said the work would start soon?"
"Yeah - probably on Wednesday. He's gonna have to have a demolition crew come up and get that shower and stuff out of the bathroom and that kitchen stuff, too. Plan on eating off of a hot-plate for a while."
Sacha just laughed. "Oh, we hardly ever cook. I hate it and Spike can't so we'll be fine. So long as I can have my coffee and Spike can have his JD, it doesn't matter."
"Yeah. Okay. I'll call you and tell you when everything's gonna start for sure. It was uh, nice to meet you, Sacha."
Sacha's eyes held something like laughter in them as he glanced over at Spike. "Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Blast-from-the-Past."
"Oh - yeah." Xander pulled on his gloves and followed Sacha to the door. Once he'd stepped outside he turned and looked back. Spike was watching him, his eyes as hooded and dark as a hawk's. "Spike, it was...surreal."
"Be careful out there, Harris," Spike said silkily, and Sacha closed the door between them.
*Be careful out there? Jesus.* Xander stomped down the street, thinking furiously. Spike. Spike, of all fucking people. Spike who'd crushed on Buffy and stalked her and - god - done everything to win her. Who'd bled for her - for Dawn. And who had, finally - according to Buffy - snapped one night and attacked her, and tried to... And then run off. Disappeared. They'd all figured he'd gone back to Dru - or gotten himself staked - and in the insanity of the First, no one had really cared. Only Dawn had missed him and mourned him but even now, after all this time, *three years!* she didn't talk about him much any more.
*And I had to be the one who ran into him. God. And what the fuck is he doing here? And who's that guy he's with who...knows? Is he human, or demon? And...those scars -* An ugly criss-cross of them over Spike's chest - scars when Xander was pretty sure vampire's didn't scar. And the tattoo - something vaguely familiar, that was nagging at Xander's subconscious. *Seen that somewhere...*
Xander stood at the bus-stop, jittering a little in the chill air. The snow had stopped after only a light dusting but the breeze was ice-edged and he wanted to be home. *Where it's safe...* Which was a stupid thought, because he was safe. He was more fit and more...aware...then he'd been in years. The First - Africa - life in general had scoured every trace of the happy-go-lucky out of him. *But not in a bad way.* Africa in particular had brought home with astonishing clarity the absolute fragility of life. And it had confirmed for Xander that he wanted to live more than anything else. So he was just - more realistic now and if that meant he didn't go down alleys or run in to save the day like Don Quixote...well, that was the price you paid, sometimes. *Wised up, is all,* he thought. Wised up and gained a much-welcome calm.
From the top of the hill he heard the thud of car doors and then an engine, revving hard. A minute later a sleek black car roared down the street and took the corner with squealing tires and Xander was sure he saw a flash of spikey hair and golden eyes in the driver seat.
He fumed all the way home and spent several hours organizing the pictures he'd taken and listing what he would need, how long it would take - what it would cost. Raif hadn't turned him down yet on a bid, and Xander scowled at the figures and added a bit more. Because he just knew that Spike was going to be a pain in his ass, one way or another.
"So, Mr. Tubic - do you know the people at the Dearborn house? I mean, I know you've met them." Xander was tidying away his laptop and papers and Raif was drinking his second cup of Irish coffee, his mustache catching droplets of cream. He patted at his mouth with a napkin and looked at Xander for a long moment.
"Yes, of course, Alexahnder, I do not rent to strangers. Sacha - you met Sacha? - he is the nephew of my mother's aunt's sister-in-law. She married a dancer from the Kirov Ballet." Raif reached into the breast-pocket of his coat and took out a silver cigarette case - took out a slim, black cigarette and lit it with an expensive wand of black steel. Some sort of Japanese lighter that produced an almost invisible, extremely hot flame. He puffed, his dead eyes fixed on Xander.
"So, okay...family. And...you know his roommate?"
"Spike? Oh, yes," Raif said. Was all he said, and Xander shivered.
*Ookay... That either means he knows William the Bloody or... Well, he knows. And his nephew must be...demon or part demon or...something because... He wouldn't approve otherwise, would he? Which might make him part demon. Which, really, would explain a lot.* Xander realized he'd been staring at Raif and he blinked and looked away - picked up his cup and drank down the last of his tea. *The habits you pick up places,* he thought.
"There is a problem with....Spike?" Raif asked, and Xander shook his head slowly.
"No, not... Well, I used to know Spike. A few years ago. When I...lived in Sunnydale." Raif's rather bushy white eyebrows rose in surprise and he stroked his mustache slowly.
"Ah. Well. You are here, he is here...Sunnydale is not. I would not let it bother you, Alexahnder. He will not hurt you." Those dead eyes held a promise but Xander wasn't sure he liked it, despite what Raif was saying.
"Yeah, well... It'll be fine. As long as he behaves."
Raif's mouth twisted in a smile that was more a grimace and he nodded - slipped out of the booth and tossed some bills down on the table. "Behave. Yah. Goodnight, Alexahnder."
"'Night, Mr. Tubic," Xander said, and watched the man pull a deep-blue muffler out of his pocket and wind it around his neck - shove his hands into his pockets and march stiffly out of the restaurant. *And why do I get the feeling that Mr. Tubic knows more than he's saying?* Xander smiled absently up at the waitress who re-filled his tea - watched something cook in a welter of flames at the bar. And his thoughts circled back to Spike, grudgingly. Thinking of the last time he'd actually seen Spike. Giles had sent him on some errand and he'd been walking down the street. He'd looked over and there was Spike. Leaning against an alley wall, methodically destroying his fists and the bricks. Blood and brick-dust, stench of cats and garbage and stale beer.
And Xander had said - something. Something scathing - something cutting. Like he always did. And Spike had looked up and snarled - twisted features bloodied and bruised, one eye nearly shut but the look on his face had been animalistic in its fury and contempt. All the more horrifying because it was Spike's human face, not the demon. Xander had frozen, staring at him and Spike had spat - blood and saliva spattering to the ground. Stalked out of the alley past Xander, one raking glance and then he was gone. It wasn't until days later that Xander realized that Spike had been crying. A month later Spike was gone and the First had arrived and everything, basically, had gone to hell. And Spike was forgotten. Mostly.
Xander sighed and drank his tea - gathered his things and pulled on his jacket and gloves and walked out. A taxi tonight, because he was cold and tired and feeling a bit...insecure. He just wanted to be home and not mess with buses and standing around in the dark at some deserted bus-stop. For the first time in over a year he felt a little twist of fear down in his belly. How long had that Initiative chip been built to last? Did it still work? Was it still in him?
*Been three years. He hasn't contacted anybody - talked to anybody. Hasn't bothered us so...why would he start now? Can't hurt me...* Xander dialed the number of the taxi company he had stored on Raif's cell and waited impatiently, watching people come and go out of the restaurant - watching cars rush past with the hiss of tires against wet pavement. Watched his breath steam and clenched his fists in his pockets and was absurdly grateful when the cab pulled up and he could climb inside - give his address and just go. *Maybe I should call Giles - tell him about Spike...*
Of course, he didn't call Giles. That impulse, born of nerves and a late night - the beginning aches of a mild cold - was easily forgotten in the day. In the mundanities of coffee and laundry and the utility bill. A mixed-up order from his supplier and a weekend hook-up that left him boneless and breathless and laughing. Spike was - a shadow. Spike wasn't there, and the habit of turning to Giles - or anyone, really, wasn't there anymore either.
Thank you, bay-bee!
I also wanted to pimp the strange but compelling The Assistant by witling. You will love it. Mostly. :)
Many many thanks to the folk who nominated me at Primordial Souls and the Raison d'Etre awards.
Last but not least, here we go. A little something i've been poking at. Post-everything, and i may have messed with the season six timeline just a teeny bit. But not so's you'd really notice. Many thanks to reremouse, as always, for her enabling support. *smooch*
Xander yawned - stretched and rolled over, looking blearily at his clock and wincing a little. He never took naps, or almost never, and this unaccustomed sleep in the middle of the afternoon had left him with slight headache. He sat up slowly, pushing the comforter off and climbing to his feet. His flannel pants and t-shirt were twisted around his body and he straightened them and stretched again.
Face washed, toilet used and coffee in hand, he stood in front of his living room window, looking out over the Sound. A grey day and a rapidly-vanishing twilight, with the merest hint of gold and umber in the western sky. Clouds were massing along the horizon, soft and puffy as down and he knew there would be snow by morning - maybe sooner. Snow didn't happen often here - the ocean kept Seattle too warm for that - but occasionally there would be short-lived flurries. He liked it - liked it all; the rain and the wind and the brief, bright summer. Liked the mountain in the east that floated above the horizon-haze like a far and secret kingdom. His second year here, starting last month, and it was...comfortable.
Xander wandered around his apartment, checking for email, watching ten minutes or so of the local news. Wasting time, but then he could if he wanted to. Which was the point. When he'd first taken this job - called England and told the girls on speaker-phone what he was doing - there had been a profound and...incredulous silence. And then babble.
"Oh, but, Xander that's such a mindless kind of job!"
"Don't you want to do something...else? I mean, you hated fixing my house in Sunnydale."
"Why won't you come live with us?" The last - heartfelt wail from Willow - and Xander just sighed, shaking his head even thought he knew they couldn't see him.
"I need to be out on my own, guys. I need...something quiet for a while. No world-saving. Just...this. I like this. I built three schools in Africa, this is -"
"It's just copping out!" Dawn had snapped and left the room, and a minute later Buffy had excused herself, too. Which left Willow on the handset, with a quaver in her voice.
"But you could build things here, Xander, you could - could help fix up the dorms and - and make stakes and -" Willow's voice trailed away to silence as even she heard the desperation - and the pitiful offering she was making.
"Willow...I miss you. I miss everybody. But I just need...some time. Okay? I just..."
"Okay, Xander. It's...okay. I just miss you. You're still my best friend."
"Yeah. You, too. I've got email, okay? I bought a computer. I'll talk to you guys all the time and - and I'll figure out the digital camera thing and... It'll be okay, Wills, really. I just...I've spent years saving the world, you know? I want... I just want to live in it for a while."
A year later and he was still doing his job - doing other things as well and they didn't ask him to come to England anymore. And he was glad.
He got dressed and left his apartment around five. His next job was across town and he knew it would take a while to get there - the streets would be crowded and the bus would take forever. But he didn't mind. He hadn't owned a car since Africa and walked most places. But today he had his notebooks and his camera, and that would be awkward on a long, possibly wet, walk. So the bus, and the people-watching, and the occasional picture that no one ever seemed to deny the shaggy-haired, one-eyed guy in jeans and t-shirt and flannel under a battered bomber jacket.
Africa had changed a lot of things for Xander. Changed how he thought about himself; changed how he viewed the world and his own place in it. Changed how he viewed the Slayers and what they and the Council were doing. He still carried a stake but he was more apt to warn than kill, these days. He just...didn't want to do that anymore. Not the killing and not the judging and not the hate. Africa was the crucible of all Darwin's theories and even though human malice and primate-cleverness had also managed to make some of it hell on earth, it had made some things very clear to him. Hate - was the worm at the heart of all things, and he refused to be controlled by it anymore.
The bus was very crowded and Xander found himself standing near the back, arm around a pole as he tried to take a picture of a listing and denuded Christmas tree propped over a little lean-to of cardboard and plastic sheets. Somebody had got smart and realized it would make a good wind-break or rain-stopper. The left-over tinsel and bit of bright red garland made it sad and somehow brave. The kid in the seat that he was looming over wiped the steamy window with the tail of his scarf and smiled up at him; gold tooth in the front and skin darkly brown, smooth as cream. Xander grinned back, feeling a momentary tingle of interest. But the kid looked all of sixteen, and that was way, way too young. Even if Xander himself was only 24.
*25 in a month. Don't feel that. Don't feel any age, really.* He didn't have a problem with a one-night hook up. Or a long weekend, even. But they had to be at least 21 because otherwise he ended up dwelling on the Potentials and the kids he'd known in Africa - the kids he'd sent to die fighting the Mayor - and that could be days and days worth of brooding. *God. Still want to smack Angel, but at least I understand the urge to brood a little more now.*
The bus lurched and he almost dropped his camera. *Time to put it away.* He stowed it in his bag and pushed toward the door - pulled the cord. A half a block on and the bus ground to a halt and he got off, zipping his jacket against the chilly air. And he'd been right - snow was wisping down, blowing sideways and swirling up and around and Xander took out his watch-cap and tugged it down over his ears. Gloved hands deep in his pockets, he started the six-block, mostly uphill walk to the next job.
Raif Tubic - the man Xander worked for - was part of the mafia. Or something. Had to be. He was from Bosnia, he said, and he'd made noises about the war there - said things in such a way that Xander knew better than to ask about his past. He was a tall, heavy man with crisp white hair and a bushy mustache that he constantly combed with finger and thumb in a nervous tic. He owned something like thirty old buildings and houses in Seattle and had hired Xander to do restoration for him. Xander's first job had been carving delicate rosettes so he could make a mold and then plaster casts to replace smashed and missing ones in the ceiling of a turn-of-the-century house. It was slow, exacting work and Xander wasn't ever part of a crew or a team and he liked that. He liked making the plaster details and carving new molding to match the old. He came home smelling pleasantly of wood and lemon oil and glue, and that beat most jobs right there. Plus, Raif wasn't one to ask questions or delve too deeply into someone's past, and that made him a relaxing man to work for. Xander could be as mum as he wanted on life in Sunnydale and Raif never pushed for explanations or stories.
As Xander got to the right block - the 700 block - his cell-phone chirruped in his pocket and he stopped and pulled it out. It was the phone Raif had given him that he called Xander on at odd hours and always, always right before he started a job. "Harris," he answered, like always.
"Alexahnder. How are you?" The deep, gravelly and heavily-accented voice rumbled out of the phone and Xander grinned.
"I'm fine, Mr. Tubic. How are you?"
Raif liked to be formal, even though he pretended differently. "Please - Raif. I am Raif. We are not so stodgy as all that. So - you see the house?"
"I see it," Xander said, looking up the block. It was a tall brick house, three stories high. The bottom two floors were dark, the top floor brightly lit. He was going to the top floor.
"Now, he works during the night, nobody to come until after six, yah? So, don't knock until after six."
"I won't. His lights are all on, Mr. Tubic."
"But he says after six, we stay away until after six. Now - the second bedroom, second bath, kitchen and study for now, yah? Take pictures, I want to see."
"No problem." The place had been vacant until three months ago but Raif's schedule ground on despite the inconvenience it might cause his tenants.
"And then, tomorrow at the 13 Coins, yah? You'll show me."
"Yup. 8:30, just like always." Xander smiled into the phone because really, sometimes Raif was like an old grandmother. Fuss, fuss, fuss. Xander would bring his laptop and they'd go over the job and what he'd need, and how long it might take. And Raif would sit there, in his suit and his wool coat and his mustache, with eyes as cold and shuttered as an empty house. He might come across as a fussy old woman but Xander wouldn't push the man on a bet. His vibe was seriously scary.
"Yes. Well, three minutes after six, time for you to go. Good night, Alexahnder."
"Good night, Mr. Tubic." Xander clicked the phone shut and tucked it away, then went on up the block. He pulled out the massive key-ring Raif had given him and sorted through it for the right key. Dearborn Street House in Raif's scratchy handwriting and Xander walked up the steps to the front door and unlocked it. Inside it was dark and still, with one small light on over the foot of the staircase. The first and second floor residents obviously weren't home from work yet.
Xander crossed the green and black tiles of the lobby and went up. As he got closer to the third floor he could hear music pounding down through the house. Something new, raucous, and bass-heavy. Rap, but he couldn't tell who. Nelly, maybe. He unzipped his jacket and adjusted the strap of his bag and sighed. First-time meetings were always hard. Inevitably his eye - or rather, its absence - was mentioned. Xander got tired of the stares, but he refused to get a prosthetic. He hadn't had one in Africa and getting one now would be a chore. Plus, he just...didn't care. His eye was gone. He wasn't going to mourn the loss anymore, and he wasn't going to hide it, either. But it did make a bit of an awkward first impression sometimes. And the pirate jokes got old. He swept off his cap and tucked it away, pulled off his gloves. Made sure the patch was straight and brushed his hair back.
The third-floor landing was practically vibrating with the thumps and crashes of the music and Xander grinned. Even though it meant adjusting his schedule to accommodate a night-time worker, he thought this job was going to be fun. This neighborhood - Leschi - with its parks and old, old buildings and view of Lake Washington was pretty and interesting and exactly what Xander liked. And having clients who weren't octogenarians or quasi-Yuppies was refreshing.
He reached out to knock but just as his knuckles touched the wood the door jerked open and a tall, auburn-haired man was coming through, shouting something over his shoulder, a trash-bag swinging from his hand. He stepped into Xander hard and Xander was grateful for steel-toed work boots.
"Oh shit - did I hurt you? Damnit!" The man caught at Xander's jacket, laughing, the trash hitting the floor with a thud.
Xander put a hand on the man's forearm, smiling back. "Nah, I'm okay. I'm Xander Harris, I'm -"
"Oh! You're the guy who's gonna fix the stuff. Yeah. Mr. Tubic called about you. Oh fuck!" Xander had to grin again as the man's green-yellow eyes *like a cat's eyes* went wide in shock. He spoke with a faint accent that reminded Xander of - Mr. Tubic, actually.
"Man, we completely forgot you were gonna be here! The place is a wreck, we had a wrap party here last night and - oh, Jesus, I'm making you stand out here in the hall. I'm Sacha, Sacha Dubkov." Sacha stepped back inside, holding the door open and just...waiting and Xander felt a little frission of recognition. Sacha knew. Xander nodded once and stepped over the threshold and Sacha grinned, trash obviously forgotten.
"Hey! The fixing-guy is here! Are you dressed?" Sacha went across a wide, wood-floored room to a rack of expensive stereo equipment. He started stabbing at buttons, frowning, and the music took on a funny quality as he obviously changed something - treble or bass or hell, who knew? A boom-box had always been good enough for Xander.
"Of course I'm not bloody dressed, and you've fucked up the damn stereo again, Sacha, I keep telling you -"
Xander just stood there, his blood going to ice water and his heart pounding, pounding, pounding. Because he knew that voice, and Jesus fucking Christ - Someone - *Don't pretend, you know who!* walked out a dimly lit hallway.
Whipcord body, ratty, faded-white jeans half off his hips, black nails, hair six different shades. White and honey and gold and brown and brass and pale wheat, tousled and spikey and soft-looking. Rings on his left hand, all silver, one gold one on his right, heavy silver chain around his neck, silver bracelets of intricate wirework and complicated chain patterns around his left wrist. Love-bite on his collarbone that was blue-purple-red.
Concentrating on the details so he wouldn't have to look at the face, the face... *No fucking way, no fucking way! Thought he was dead, thought...oh man, what are those scars -?*
"Harris." Spoken in a voice flat and deadly and hostile, and Xander swallowed and lifted his chin.
"Spike."
The music shut off abruptly and Sacha stood there, looking a little embarrassed. "So - you guys know each other?" Spike didn't say anything and Xander took a deep breath.
"Yeah. Uh - yeah, we do. Did. We - lived in the same town for a while." He was amazed at the steadiness of his own voice even though he could feel sweat gathering under his arms and between his shoulder blades. Spike's gaze *Jesus, eyeliner...* raked him from head to foot and back - lingered for one long moment on the patch. And then he jerked his head a little, as if dismissing Xander and Sunnydale from his mind.
"We're gonna be late, Sacha. Why don't you show Harris the rooms?" Spike turned and stalked out and Xander let his breath out in an explosive whoosh, not realizing he'd been holding it until Spike's back - *when did he get a tattoo?* disappeared from view.
"Um, okay. Sorry about that. Did you kill his dog, or something? I mean, should I snub you, too?" Sacha looked like he might be holding back laughter and Xander deliberately smiled - took a deep breath.
"No, no dog-killing. Spike and I... We just - rub each other the wrong way, you know? I haven't seen him in... Damn, like...three years."
"Wow." Sacha looked him over much as Spike had done, but his gaze was interested and friendly rather than coldly speculative and Xander relaxed a bit. "Let me take your jacket and I can show you the rooms. Oh god." Sacha raised his voice. "Is Auntie Vera passed out in the guest room again?"
"Since Sunday, dear," Spike yelled, and Sacha giggled.
Halfway out of his jacket, Xander just stared. *What the hell? This is... Well, it's only Monday evening, but still -*
"Oh - just a joke," Sacha said, catching sight of Xander's expression. "Um - I hope. The party was pretty wild." Xander noticed for the first time that every flat surface had glasses, mugs, plates, napkins and other assorted trash on it. Cigarette butts were everywhere and he supposed the only reason that the place didn't reek like a bar was that every window was open and the place was a weird mixture of freezing cold and heat; the furnace roaring out savannah-hot air and fighting the snow-spangled gusts that were puffing in sporadically. There were also what looked like...flyers? scattered among the tumbled cushions and throws of the big, squashy-looking couch. Flyers, and several newspapers gutted and scattered around.
Xander hung his jacket over the back of a chair and really looked at the apartment. Raw brick on the outside walls and soft cream plaster on the inner ones. The window-frames were wide, with carved molding across the top and decorative braces under the sills. The plaster of the walls had been combed into swirls and the ceiling appeared to be pressed tin, with more plaster molding around light fixtures. He dug his camera out of his bag and followed Sacha out of the living room and down another hall, in the opposite direction that Spike had gone.
"Here's the guest room - let me get the light - oh, good, nobody in here."
Xander couldn't tell if Sacha was serious or not - the man had a playful air about him that was so different from... *From what? It's obvious they're...together. And while the whole gay-vampire thing is a complete shock, this guy just seems like... Not Spike's type at all. But then...what do I know? Buffy sure wasn't his type but they managed to get it on for months...* The bitterness of that reality still made Xander seethe, from time to time. And not even so much the fact of Buffy sleeping with Spike - she'd slept with Angel, after all so it wasn't as if it was without some sort of precedent - but that she'd lied to them all. That she hadn't trusted them and that... *That she didn't give you a chance to show her you could fix things. Give it up, already!*
Xander sighed and powered up his camera, looking around. The room had a tall iron bedstead, made up, and a wardrobe and that was all. It looked as if someone had attacked the woodwork with chains and there were scars where bolts or something had been screwed into the corners.
"They kept dogs in here. Some kind of fighting dogs. Reeked when I moved in - had to get these guys in Hazmat suits to clean it. They did the damage to the plaster." Sacha leaned in the doorway and watched Xander take pictures. Even the floor - tough old oak - was scarred and torn.
"They really screwed this up. Does the window open?" Xander pushed at the frame a little, looking through the wavy, old glass at a fenced back yard. There was a big sycamore back there and what looked like a crabapple tree.
"Yeah, but the ropes on the counter-weights broke so you have to prop it." Xander nodded and took one more picture and then raised an eyebrow at Sacha, who led him across the hall. This was the room Raif called the study, but for the moment it looked like it was being used for storage.
"Jesus - we're gonna have to move Spike's books. Where the hell are we going to put them?" Sacha started poking at the stacks of boxes as if the work was going to start now, and Xander looked for a beat at the pile.
*Must be eight, ten boxes. Spike's books? Never saw him read in Sunnydale... Well, never paid that much attention, truthfully.* Xander took more pictures, getting up close so he could show Raif the damage done to the marble and cherry-wood of the fireplace and the places in the ceiling where water-damage had rusted some of the tin. Sacha had opened a box and taken a book out and seemed absorbed by it - something Xander had seen Willow do all her life - and he had to smile. Sacha was probably Xander's age, maybe a little older. He was pale but not vampire-pale, and his auburn hair curled loosely to his shoulders. In his high-collared, plum-colored shirt and narrow black pants he had a theatrical look to him, and Xander had to admit that his narrow, sharp features were attractive. *Looks a little like a fox.*
"So - a wrap party? What wrapped?" Xander asked, and Sacha looked up from the book, his eyes a little distant.
"Huh? Oh! A play. The play I was in. A 'modern retelling of Romeo and Juliet'." Sacha tucked the book away, rolling his eyes a little and Xander chuckled.
"You don't like modern retellings? Or you don't like 'Romeo and Juliet'?" he asked as Sacha flicked off the light and they went to the end of the hall to the bathroom.
"I like anything that pays me but this was... Romeo was a crack addict. Pimping Juliet - it was a mess. Thank god it's over - I was sick of those fake home-boy lines. Director thought he was Baz Luhrmann or something. Really not."
The bathroom was long - it was the width of the whole apartment - but narrow and an utter disaster. It looked like - "Was there a fire?" Xander asked, staring in bewilderment at a half-melted fiberglass shower stall and darkly grey walls that were ragged and pocked with holes. A claw-foot tub, blackened and cracked, listed to one side and the sink was broken. The window had boards nailed up over it and the tin ceiling tiles were missing - no - were piled behind the door.
"Yeah. Freakin' meth, man. They were cooking it up in here - lucky they didn't blow the whole block up. It's why the rent's so cheap, although I'll bet Mr. Tubic thinks he'll raise it after all the fixing up."
"I'll bet he thinks that, too," Xander murmured, taking picture after picture. The tiles on the floor were cracked and loose - half of them missing. "Damn, this is a mess. So how'd the rest of the apartment stay in such good shape?"
Sacha shrugged, brushing his hair back out of his eyes and Xander noticed a ring of colored stones on his right index finger. "I don't really know. The front room - living room, I guess - it was just filthy, but they'd left it alone. The big bedroom's mostly okay, too - the floor needs fixing. The people who lived here before us tore out half the kitchen and replaced it with this crap from salvage yards or something - it's a wonder we've got running water in there." Sacha toed disgustedly at a pile of plaster on the floor, sighing. "They only stayed two months - just long enough to screw things up. And the other bathroom - I think somebody turned the water off, or a pipe broke. It was like they never used it. I don't think they really lived here. Which is lucky for us, 'cause no way would I use this bathroom."
Sacha ushered Xander out and turned off the light and they made their way back to the front room. The kitchen was just off of it, open design and Xander could see the ugly seventies-style appliances and the bulky Formica counter tops set crookedly into place. There were a half-dozen trays with the dried remains of cold-cuts, bread, dip - snack food from the party - and ranks and ranks of empty wine and whiskey bottles, plus a nearly full bottle of vodka that someone had put a cigarette out in.
"Jesus," he said, and then checked, hesitating, as Spike walked out of the 'master' bedroom. Tight black trousers, white shirt that fit like a second skin and a gauzy, silky looking black shirt open over it. *He looks like...like some black-and-white movie still that just...got up and walked.* Xander didn't remember Spike ever looking that...unearthly, and he frowned to himself. He didn't want to notice Spike. He didn't want to know Spike.
"Aren't you done? We're bloody late," Spike snapped, and Xander felt himself stiffening - felt himself slipping and he was not going to do that.
He quelled the urge to snap back and lifted his camera. "I've still got to take some pictures. I've got a key, you could -"
"No fucking way," Spike said and stalked over to where Sacha was half-heartedly picking up plates and stacking them. "Leave that for now, love. You're all dressed up," Spike purred, pushing the plates aside and slipping his arms around Sacha's waist. Sacha complied with a pleased little sound and Xander turned away as they kissed, fighting the little flush that washed over him. Differences aside, Spike was very, very attractive and Sacha was, too, and...
*And I need to get laid. Like - now. Damn.* Xander stoically snapped picture after picture, wondering what Raif would say about the mess. Done, he turned the camera off and crossed over to his bag and put it away, then slowly picked up a discarded flyer. It was a play-bill, he saw and he opened it and looked inside at the cast. There - Sacha Dubkov, fifth down. Mercutio. Xander vaguely recalled the play - enough to remember that Mercutio died a drawn-out death, cursing everyone.
*A plague on both your houses. AIDS, if the play was like he said. Ha.* AIDS had been such a huge part of life in Africa it didn't hold quite the terror it once had for Xander. He was careful and sensible and just didn't let it consume his every waking moment. *Nothing to fear along those lines with Spike. And Buffy never had to worry about getting pregnant... Jesus, I need a drink and a good brain bleaching. Except I don't drink, so....bleach it is!* That was something else he'd worn out in Africa - any desire to drink. He'd done it by being drunk for seven months but hey - he was dry now.
He folded the play-bill and put it in his bag then picked up his coat and put it on - slung his bag over his shoulder and fished out his gloves. As he pulled them on he cleared his throat and was rewarded with a coldly hostile stare from Spike. Sacha wiggled out of his grip and came over to him, flushed and obviously aroused.
"Okay, so - you're done? That's great. Uh - Mr. Tubic said the work would start soon?"
"Yeah - probably on Wednesday. He's gonna have to have a demolition crew come up and get that shower and stuff out of the bathroom and that kitchen stuff, too. Plan on eating off of a hot-plate for a while."
Sacha just laughed. "Oh, we hardly ever cook. I hate it and Spike can't so we'll be fine. So long as I can have my coffee and Spike can have his JD, it doesn't matter."
"Yeah. Okay. I'll call you and tell you when everything's gonna start for sure. It was uh, nice to meet you, Sacha."
Sacha's eyes held something like laughter in them as he glanced over at Spike. "Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Blast-from-the-Past."
"Oh - yeah." Xander pulled on his gloves and followed Sacha to the door. Once he'd stepped outside he turned and looked back. Spike was watching him, his eyes as hooded and dark as a hawk's. "Spike, it was...surreal."
"Be careful out there, Harris," Spike said silkily, and Sacha closed the door between them.
*Be careful out there? Jesus.* Xander stomped down the street, thinking furiously. Spike. Spike, of all fucking people. Spike who'd crushed on Buffy and stalked her and - god - done everything to win her. Who'd bled for her - for Dawn. And who had, finally - according to Buffy - snapped one night and attacked her, and tried to... And then run off. Disappeared. They'd all figured he'd gone back to Dru - or gotten himself staked - and in the insanity of the First, no one had really cared. Only Dawn had missed him and mourned him but even now, after all this time, *three years!* she didn't talk about him much any more.
*And I had to be the one who ran into him. God. And what the fuck is he doing here? And who's that guy he's with who...knows? Is he human, or demon? And...those scars -* An ugly criss-cross of them over Spike's chest - scars when Xander was pretty sure vampire's didn't scar. And the tattoo - something vaguely familiar, that was nagging at Xander's subconscious. *Seen that somewhere...*
Xander stood at the bus-stop, jittering a little in the chill air. The snow had stopped after only a light dusting but the breeze was ice-edged and he wanted to be home. *Where it's safe...* Which was a stupid thought, because he was safe. He was more fit and more...aware...then he'd been in years. The First - Africa - life in general had scoured every trace of the happy-go-lucky out of him. *But not in a bad way.* Africa in particular had brought home with astonishing clarity the absolute fragility of life. And it had confirmed for Xander that he wanted to live more than anything else. So he was just - more realistic now and if that meant he didn't go down alleys or run in to save the day like Don Quixote...well, that was the price you paid, sometimes. *Wised up, is all,* he thought. Wised up and gained a much-welcome calm.
From the top of the hill he heard the thud of car doors and then an engine, revving hard. A minute later a sleek black car roared down the street and took the corner with squealing tires and Xander was sure he saw a flash of spikey hair and golden eyes in the driver seat.
He fumed all the way home and spent several hours organizing the pictures he'd taken and listing what he would need, how long it would take - what it would cost. Raif hadn't turned him down yet on a bid, and Xander scowled at the figures and added a bit more. Because he just knew that Spike was going to be a pain in his ass, one way or another.
"So, Mr. Tubic - do you know the people at the Dearborn house? I mean, I know you've met them." Xander was tidying away his laptop and papers and Raif was drinking his second cup of Irish coffee, his mustache catching droplets of cream. He patted at his mouth with a napkin and looked at Xander for a long moment.
"Yes, of course, Alexahnder, I do not rent to strangers. Sacha - you met Sacha? - he is the nephew of my mother's aunt's sister-in-law. She married a dancer from the Kirov Ballet." Raif reached into the breast-pocket of his coat and took out a silver cigarette case - took out a slim, black cigarette and lit it with an expensive wand of black steel. Some sort of Japanese lighter that produced an almost invisible, extremely hot flame. He puffed, his dead eyes fixed on Xander.
"So, okay...family. And...you know his roommate?"
"Spike? Oh, yes," Raif said. Was all he said, and Xander shivered.
*Ookay... That either means he knows William the Bloody or... Well, he knows. And his nephew must be...demon or part demon or...something because... He wouldn't approve otherwise, would he? Which might make him part demon. Which, really, would explain a lot.* Xander realized he'd been staring at Raif and he blinked and looked away - picked up his cup and drank down the last of his tea. *The habits you pick up places,* he thought.
"There is a problem with....Spike?" Raif asked, and Xander shook his head slowly.
"No, not... Well, I used to know Spike. A few years ago. When I...lived in Sunnydale." Raif's rather bushy white eyebrows rose in surprise and he stroked his mustache slowly.
"Ah. Well. You are here, he is here...Sunnydale is not. I would not let it bother you, Alexahnder. He will not hurt you." Those dead eyes held a promise but Xander wasn't sure he liked it, despite what Raif was saying.
"Yeah, well... It'll be fine. As long as he behaves."
Raif's mouth twisted in a smile that was more a grimace and he nodded - slipped out of the booth and tossed some bills down on the table. "Behave. Yah. Goodnight, Alexahnder."
"'Night, Mr. Tubic," Xander said, and watched the man pull a deep-blue muffler out of his pocket and wind it around his neck - shove his hands into his pockets and march stiffly out of the restaurant. *And why do I get the feeling that Mr. Tubic knows more than he's saying?* Xander smiled absently up at the waitress who re-filled his tea - watched something cook in a welter of flames at the bar. And his thoughts circled back to Spike, grudgingly. Thinking of the last time he'd actually seen Spike. Giles had sent him on some errand and he'd been walking down the street. He'd looked over and there was Spike. Leaning against an alley wall, methodically destroying his fists and the bricks. Blood and brick-dust, stench of cats and garbage and stale beer.
And Xander had said - something. Something scathing - something cutting. Like he always did. And Spike had looked up and snarled - twisted features bloodied and bruised, one eye nearly shut but the look on his face had been animalistic in its fury and contempt. All the more horrifying because it was Spike's human face, not the demon. Xander had frozen, staring at him and Spike had spat - blood and saliva spattering to the ground. Stalked out of the alley past Xander, one raking glance and then he was gone. It wasn't until days later that Xander realized that Spike had been crying. A month later Spike was gone and the First had arrived and everything, basically, had gone to hell. And Spike was forgotten. Mostly.
Xander sighed and drank his tea - gathered his things and pulled on his jacket and gloves and walked out. A taxi tonight, because he was cold and tired and feeling a bit...insecure. He just wanted to be home and not mess with buses and standing around in the dark at some deserted bus-stop. For the first time in over a year he felt a little twist of fear down in his belly. How long had that Initiative chip been built to last? Did it still work? Was it still in him?
*Been three years. He hasn't contacted anybody - talked to anybody. Hasn't bothered us so...why would he start now? Can't hurt me...* Xander dialed the number of the taxi company he had stored on Raif's cell and waited impatiently, watching people come and go out of the restaurant - watching cars rush past with the hiss of tires against wet pavement. Watched his breath steam and clenched his fists in his pockets and was absurdly grateful when the cab pulled up and he could climb inside - give his address and just go. *Maybe I should call Giles - tell him about Spike...*
Of course, he didn't call Giles. That impulse, born of nerves and a late night - the beginning aches of a mild cold - was easily forgotten in the day. In the mundanities of coffee and laundry and the utility bill. A mixed-up order from his supplier and a weekend hook-up that left him boneless and breathless and laughing. Spike was - a shadow. Spike wasn't there, and the habit of turning to Giles - or anyone, really, wasn't there anymore either.