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Yup, more Amnesia!Xander! fic! I couldn't wait. I'm having so much fun writing this fic that i just *had* to post more, so...
More!
Yay!
*bounce*
Yeah, okay, maybe it's unseemly to be that excited over *my own posting* but hey! It's my journal and i'll bounce if i want to.
:)
And today is the Superbowl, right? And it's...uh....*runs to check* Steelers and Seahawks? Is that right? I won't watch - gods help me, no - but i have to put in a 'ra ra!' for the Seahawks 'cause i used to live up there. Plus, cool blue and green shirts! I think. Are they still? They used to have that neat Northwest American Indian style seahawk on the helmets...
*ahem*
Anyway, you all who're watching, have fun!!
Now the fic. And yes! S/X! Heee. Previous part is here.
And, of course, all impetuous to write is because of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
reremouse and her browbeating enthusiasm.
It was raining in Hanoi, too and they pulled up to the hotel with nearly twelve hours to wait until their plane was leaving. Spike shook Xander awake from his restless on-again, off-again doze and led him, groggy and stumbling, into the hotel and up to the suite he'd booked. Xander followed him in and then stood there, staring around. Mini-bar and Jacuzzi and a separate bedroom - plush fabrics and polished bamboo and all of it about ten times bigger than the little room he'd been confined to in Son La.
"Wow. Nice. Is this your house? Is this where you live?"
"Nah. Hotel, mate. We're still in Hanoi. I don't live here."
"Oh." Xander wandered over to the French doors and stood looking out at the city. Neon gleamed like streaks of wet, vivid paint through the grey of rain and cloud. "I knew I wasn't in America when I first..." Xander turned around, the plastic bag crinkling in his fingers. "Hanoi's in Vietnam - we're still in Vietnam, right?"
"Yup. Sure are." Spike shed his coat - kicked his boots off, heedless of the streaks of mud they left behind and crossed to the bar. He poured himself some Jack and drank it down and watched Harris trail slowly around the suite - go into the bathroom and run the water, flush the toilet. He came out with drops of water beaded on his mouth, looking pleased.
"I knew I wasn't crazy when I dreamed about toilets that flushed. They didn't have any at - at the hospital."
"Surprised they had runnin' water there," Spike muttered, having another drink and Xander wandered over and watched him. "What - you want some?" Spike asked, and Xander reached out and picked up the bottle - sniffed it. He wrinkled his nose.
"Nooo - I don't think so. Umm... Can I - ask you a question?"
"Sure," Spike said - took the bottle back and poured a little more, disconcerted by Harris' hesitant manner - by the almost deferential way he was acting toward Spike. He was used to sarcasm and snide remarks and - fight. A little bite. This Xander Harris - had none.
"I guess - I mean, you know me and - I know you, I guess, but - what's your name?"
Spike couldn't stop the short bark of laughter that burst out of him. "Bloody hell, man, why didn't you ask before? Should have told you back in the hospital - guess I forgot that you - forgot." He patted his pockets for his cigarettes and then realized they were in his coat still, so he walked around to retrieve them, Harris turning in place, watching him.
"We've known each other for years, mate. Had some wild times too. I suppose you could say we know most of each other's dirty little secrets - helped expose some of them." Spike got his smokes - tapped one out and lit up, inhaling deeply. Harris looked a little troubled, nibbling his lower lip and still - still - clutching that damn bag in his hands. "My name's Spike."
"Spike? Really? That's - different."
"Earned it, I did. You know your name, right? They told you?"
"Oh, yeah!" Harris perked up at that, looking almost relieved. "They told me I'm Alexander Harris and I'm from America and - um - I was doing archeology research? And I got lost and I f-fell..." Xander's voice trailed off and his face went tight - his whole body went still and Spike heard his heart start to pound.
"What is it? Something wrong?" Spike walked over to him, looking at the single, glassy eye that wasn't looking at anything in the suite at all. "Harris? Xander."
"Huh?" Xander blinked - took a sharp, deep breath and seemed to shake off whatever had gripped him. "Xander? Why'd you call me that? I'm Alexander."
"Yeah, but your mates call you Xander."
"They do?" Xander followed Spike over to the couch - watched him as he sprawled down onto the squashy cushions. He settled more carefully in the corner, slipping the flip-flops off his feet and tucking up against the arm - folding and refolding the handles of the bag.
"Listen, you can put that down, you know. I'm not gonna take it, promise."
Xander looked down at the bag and his fingers tightened on it. "I didn't - I mean, I'm sure you wouldn't, it's just..."
"Just what?" Spike craned over the back of the couch for an ashtray and flicked his smoke into it.
"Just - I remember everything in here. Remember where it came from and who g-gave it to me. It's the only stuff I remember that's real, you know?"
Spike thought back - for one shivery moment - to the high school basement and the times he would creep to the balled-up mass of black leather that he'd shoved into a crack between wall and box. Put his fingers on it, press his nose into it. Let it, for one moment, anchor him in reality, even when that reality was unbearable. "Yeah, I know," Spike said softly, and Harris seemed to relax a little. Spike smoked his cigarette down to the filter and squished it out - stretched hard, twisting his neck. "I'm gonna call the front desk - have 'em get you some decent kit. We'll have the tailor come up and get your size, yeah?"
"Uh - you mean clothes? Yeah, okay. I kinda don't wanna wear these pants on the plane." Harris licked his lips and leaned forward a little and Spike wondered what sort of revelation would be forthcoming. "They didn't give me any underwear at the hospital," Harris whispered, and Spike snorted laughter - felt an odd little bubble of lightness tickle its way up through his belly and chest when Harris - Xander - started to laugh, too.
"Don't blame you, mate. Those get wet - you might as well sell tickets." Xander laughed harder, and the plastic bag slipped out of his hands and slithered to the floor, and he didn't even notice.
The flight seemed to take forever and Spike was sick of planes by the time they were touching down in Heathrow - stepping outside into more overcast and rain, Xander looking a little more like himself in new, dark jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. They'd got him a patch for his eye in Hanoi, too, and Spike kept feeling jolted when he looked at it. He'd liked Xander's face better without that black flag.
"Is it raining everywhere?" Xander asked, looking with disappointment at the lowering sky and mass of hurrying black umbrellas.
"Just everywhere we're going. Don't worry; there'll be a clear day or two in June." Spike lifted his arm, signaling a cab, and they both picked their way across puddles to the waiting car.
"Ha ha. Oh, umm...you're probably serious, aren't you?"
Spike shoved their bags into the boot - climbed in after Xander and gave the driver the address for the Council headquarters. "Oh, pretty much." Spike grinned and Xander grinned weakly back - clutched at the door handle as the cab turned sharply into traffic, accelerating jerkily.
"So, June...what month is it, anyway?"
"It's September 29th, 2005. When - did you think it was?"
Xander's fingers kneaded at the jeans, digging in a little. Spike had talked him into packing the plastic bag and Xander had fretted over it and unconsciously reached for it the entire trip. "I - I didn't really think about it. I mean - I knew it was 2005. I don't know why I knew that and not the month." Xander watched traffic and buildings and people go by out the window for a while and Spike smoked and did the same - found the silence disconcerting and finally stirred himself to break it.
"So - what do you remember?"
"That's the $64,000 question, isn't it?" Xander said, and then laughed. "I guess I remember lame TV shows. I remember...umm..." Xander's fingers rubbed over the bracelet on his wrist, twisting it, and Spike watched him.
"Where'd you get that? Remember that?"
"Not - really. It's like - there's little flashes sometimes? Like a movie. But - I know when it's real and when it's, you know - Star Wars."
"Should hope so," Spike said. The cab stopped with a jerk and Spike shoved the last of his cash through the slot - got out and got their bags and led Xander up the stairs and inside. Nondescript sort of building near Finsbury Circus on the City Road. Surrounded by museums and libraries - perfect camouflage for the buttoned-down Watchers. Inside it smelled like books and dust and wet tweed and magic and Spike gave an involuntary shiver as he crossed the wards at the threshold. They were spelled so he could get in, but they still felt like a two-second dip in burning ice.
"What was that?" Xander asked, standing stock-still in the entry, his bag in his hands and his expression a little wild.
"You felt that?"
"Yeah, it was -"
"Nasty, yeah. Tell you in a bit. Mostly it's just - protection."
"Protection from what?" Xander asked and he looked a little - freaked.
"Things that go bump in the night." Spike headed for the lift, pushing back the scrolled gate and waiting for Xander to step in. He didn't seem to want to. "Listen, let's get upstairs and see Rupert - he can tell you what's what, all right?"
"Are there maybe some stairs we could take?" Xander asked, and Spike sighed.
"No. Just for fires. C'mon, the lift works great - just had the cables oiled."
Xander gave Spike a look that was reminiscent of the old Harris - a look of utter incredulity and 'I'll make you sorry if you're lying' kind of look, damp hair sticking up in tufts and glittering with rain drops. "I don't like - lifts," Xander muttered. But he got in and watched Spike work the gate and the button and then stood there with one hand locked tight around the rail and the other white-knuckled on the strap of his bag. Spike felt kind of bad, but not bad enough to take the stairs. 'Sides - he wasn't hyperventilating or anything, so he was okay. "Is Rupert somebody I know?" Xander asked faintly, eyes on the creeping brass needle that indicated the floors.
"That he is, mate. Known him longer than you've known me - practically your dad, isn't he?" Spike said. Sure, laying it on a bit thick but the man needed a little reassurance.
"Why didn't he come to get me, then? Why'd he send you?"
Spike saw the little flicker of uncertainty in Xander's expression - the hurt - and sighed. That's what he got for trying to be nice. "Dunno, really. Important man an' all, Rupert is. You'll have to ask him yourself."
"Yeah, okay," Xander said. He didn't sound happy about the prospect. Spike didn't blame him.
*Can't remember his life and then I tell him his father-figure can't be arsed to come collect him out of the damn hospital on the other side of the world. Fucking hell.* Spike squashed the guilt handily, though - months and months of practice - and listened to Xander's heart pound. He let him get out first when the lift stopped smoothly on the 5th floor - led him down the hall at a brisk pace, hoping the adrenalin of the ride would wear off. "Here we are, then - Rupert's office," Spike said semi-jauntily, pushing the door open and startling Miss Manners or Miss Marple or whatever the hell her name was. "Get us a couple teas then, ducks, would you?"
"M-mister Giles isn't in," she said, clutching a handful of manila folders to her chest, and Spike - halfway into Giles' office - stopped on one foot and pivoted slowly back around.
"He - what?"
She blinked and took a step back - firmed her chin and lifted her head. "He had - there was an emergency. In Greenwich. At the - the Millennium Dome."
"How in bloody hell could there be an emergency at that bloody useless pile of rubbish? It'd be a mercy if the sodding thing slid into the Thames!"
"Hey, Spike - it's - it's okay, I mean -"
Xander was looking a little upset and Miss Moneypenny was looking near tears and Spike just wanted to kick something. "It's not all right, actually," he snapped and then clamped his jaw shut as Xander flinched and the girl abruptly sat down, straightening her folders with shaking hands.
"He had to - to stop a clan of Grav-somethings from opening a portal. There was a - a scroll."
"Oh, bloody fucking Christ," Spike snarled, but Xander was looking a little more than upset now and the wards kept prickling, prickling, prickling the back of Spike's neck. Reacting to his temper and driving him up the wall. "There's always a sodding scroll. Did he leave a - message or some such?"
"He called. He said - he was stuck on Tower Bridge behind a - a lorry. It overturned and there are - squid everywhere." Xander let out a startled snort of laughter and Spike rolled his eyes. "He said - go over to - to the flat on Elsberry Street and get settled and he'll - call you tomorrow."
"Elsberry?" Wordlessly the girl held up a key and a bright blue Post-it and Spike snatched them and strode out of the office, Xander trailing along behind. Elsberry was where Xander's Watchers Council flat was. *What, you think he'll suddenly remember when he's surrounded by his bits and bobs? Damnit, Rupert - you should have been here!* Spike mentally shook himself. Giles wasn't here, he was, and they'd have to make the best of it. "That's that, then. We'll just go on over to this flat and - get a shower and some sleep. Get some Indian take-away, yeah? Get you a vindaloo to die for."
"Are we going to your house? A scroll of what? What are Grav-somethings?" Xander hurried after him, his bag banging into his knee. This time, Spike took the stairs.
Xander's flat was on the first floor, overlooking an overgrown bit of garden. He had a view of St. James Park out the kitchen window and Charing Cross Station was only ten minutes away. A nice flat - in a building gifted to the Council by some long-dead Watcher or other - but one that Xander didn't spend a lot of time in. It was obvious Giles had had someone in to dust and turn the boiler on and there was a carton of milk, soda, some butter, cheese and eggs in the little 'fridge - tomatoes and bread and crackers on the counter. Xander stood in the middle of it all - kitchen, sitting room and bedroom, with a modern bath and toilet in the back - and looked...let down. There was a shelf over the TV with framed pictures of Buffy and Dawn, Anya, Willow and Tara and Willow and Kennedy - a group shot of all of them, Xander in the middle and grinning like a loon. Pre-patch days, probably right before everything and everyone went to Hell in a hand-basket. Spike didn't remember the picture - hadn't been around for it, he was sure.
Xander looked at the pictures and looked away and fiddled with the zipper on his bag and Spike put the take away on the counter with a frustrated little noise. *Bloody Watcher, ducking out on this!* Spike shrugged out of his coat and draped it over one of the two kitchen chairs. They were both hand-made - both completely different. Xander had turned and carved them while recuperating from the broken leg that had ended his Slayer-hunting days. Spike had only heard about them through Andrew - one of his interminable rambles while he told Spike about his next job. They were nice chairs. Spike wondered if Xander would remember how to do that.
"Well, come on; let's have some of this, yeah? Best in the city." Spike peeled the foil back from various dishes, sniffing appreciatively at the fragrant steam of lamb and pork and spices. He dug out forks and searched for beer. There wasn't any. *Bastards.*
"Do I like this?" Xander asked, sitting down and running his fingers over the deep, carved relief of the chair's arm.
"Dunno. Guess we'll find out," Spike said, and dug in.
"Yeah, guess so," Xander said. He poked at this and that - finally took a mouthful and chewed contemplatively for a moment before his eye went wide. "Ow! Damn! Hot - hothot!"
"Yeah, it warms you up," Spike said, tearing off a chunk of naan bread and handing it over. "This'll help."
"Water!" Xander groaned, and bolted for the sink.
"Not a good idea," Spike chuckled.
Xander turned on the tap and stuck his mouth into the stream of water, gulping. After a minute he coughed and turned it back off, looking desperate. "Jesus! That made it hotter! Help!" Xander stood panting, his eye tearing and his face flushed, water running down his chin. His lips even looked a little swollen.
"Not that bad. Well - Percy swore by milk - you've got some in the 'fridge, there. But the bread'll help too." Xander dove for the 'fridge - opened the carton and drank straight from it. He groped his way back to the table, still drinking, and felt for the bread. Spike pushed it into his hand, watching with amusement as Xander carefully sat. Gasping, he finally put the carton down and took a huge bite of bread. "So? What d'ya think?"
"I think -" Xander chewed - swallowed - eyed the food for a moment and then grinned. "I think it's really good."
"Bloody right!" Spike forked up another mouthful, chewing happily, and Xander followed suit, one hand on the milk carton.
They ate most of the vindaloo and Spike finally broke down and opened one of the sodas in the 'fridge, drinking and making a face at the sweetness. The food had been great but he was hungry still and needed to go out. The rain had slacked off and it was dark outside - sometime after eight, Spike was sure. Prime hunting time. He had a few places he went - rounds to make, as it were. A little compromise he'd made with his soul ages ago, and it worked quite well.
Xander was sitting back in his chair, his eye heavy - lid half shut. Looking rumpled and exhausted and - lost. When Spike stood up and pulled on his coat, he stood up, too. "Where are we going?"
"Nowhere, mate. I've gotta step out, is all - be back in half a tick."
"Uh - why don't I come with you? I need to walk off some of that dinner." Xander dug into his bag, pulling out stiff new jeans and shirts, looking for the leather jacket he'd picked out. The one Spike had said looked good.
"Look, Xander, it's really not a good idea that you -"
"Spike." Xander snapped upright, dragging the coat with him and spilling out pairs of socks and the plastic bag. "I really - I don't - Look, I'm not gonna stay here!"
His heart was pounding and under the grim look of determination was fear. Fear in the white-knuckled grip he had on his coat - fear in the sharp, panting breaths he was taking. He didn't want to be left alone in this strange flat - this strange city. Spike got that. But fuck - taking him along was going to be... "Bloody difficult, you are. You were always a pain in my arse, Harris."
"Was I? Guess that's why we're friends then, huh," Xander said. Grinned, and pulled on his jacket - ran his hand back through his hair and all but bounced in place.
"Yeah, that must be it, mate." Spike couldn't stop the answering grin that stretched his own mouth and he shoved the flat's key into his pocket and opened the door with a flourish. "C'mon, then. Got some things to talk about while we walk."
More!
Yay!
*bounce*
Yeah, okay, maybe it's unseemly to be that excited over *my own posting* but hey! It's my journal and i'll bounce if i want to.
:)
And today is the Superbowl, right? And it's...uh....*runs to check* Steelers and Seahawks? Is that right? I won't watch - gods help me, no - but i have to put in a 'ra ra!' for the Seahawks 'cause i used to live up there. Plus, cool blue and green shirts! I think. Are they still? They used to have that neat Northwest American Indian style seahawk on the helmets...
*ahem*
Anyway, you all who're watching, have fun!!
Now the fic. And yes! S/X! Heee. Previous part is here.
And, of course, all impetuous to write is because of
reremouse and her It was raining in Hanoi, too and they pulled up to the hotel with nearly twelve hours to wait until their plane was leaving. Spike shook Xander awake from his restless on-again, off-again doze and led him, groggy and stumbling, into the hotel and up to the suite he'd booked. Xander followed him in and then stood there, staring around. Mini-bar and Jacuzzi and a separate bedroom - plush fabrics and polished bamboo and all of it about ten times bigger than the little room he'd been confined to in Son La.
"Wow. Nice. Is this your house? Is this where you live?"
"Nah. Hotel, mate. We're still in Hanoi. I don't live here."
"Oh." Xander wandered over to the French doors and stood looking out at the city. Neon gleamed like streaks of wet, vivid paint through the grey of rain and cloud. "I knew I wasn't in America when I first..." Xander turned around, the plastic bag crinkling in his fingers. "Hanoi's in Vietnam - we're still in Vietnam, right?"
"Yup. Sure are." Spike shed his coat - kicked his boots off, heedless of the streaks of mud they left behind and crossed to the bar. He poured himself some Jack and drank it down and watched Harris trail slowly around the suite - go into the bathroom and run the water, flush the toilet. He came out with drops of water beaded on his mouth, looking pleased.
"I knew I wasn't crazy when I dreamed about toilets that flushed. They didn't have any at - at the hospital."
"Surprised they had runnin' water there," Spike muttered, having another drink and Xander wandered over and watched him. "What - you want some?" Spike asked, and Xander reached out and picked up the bottle - sniffed it. He wrinkled his nose.
"Nooo - I don't think so. Umm... Can I - ask you a question?"
"Sure," Spike said - took the bottle back and poured a little more, disconcerted by Harris' hesitant manner - by the almost deferential way he was acting toward Spike. He was used to sarcasm and snide remarks and - fight. A little bite. This Xander Harris - had none.
"I guess - I mean, you know me and - I know you, I guess, but - what's your name?"
Spike couldn't stop the short bark of laughter that burst out of him. "Bloody hell, man, why didn't you ask before? Should have told you back in the hospital - guess I forgot that you - forgot." He patted his pockets for his cigarettes and then realized they were in his coat still, so he walked around to retrieve them, Harris turning in place, watching him.
"We've known each other for years, mate. Had some wild times too. I suppose you could say we know most of each other's dirty little secrets - helped expose some of them." Spike got his smokes - tapped one out and lit up, inhaling deeply. Harris looked a little troubled, nibbling his lower lip and still - still - clutching that damn bag in his hands. "My name's Spike."
"Spike? Really? That's - different."
"Earned it, I did. You know your name, right? They told you?"
"Oh, yeah!" Harris perked up at that, looking almost relieved. "They told me I'm Alexander Harris and I'm from America and - um - I was doing archeology research? And I got lost and I f-fell..." Xander's voice trailed off and his face went tight - his whole body went still and Spike heard his heart start to pound.
"What is it? Something wrong?" Spike walked over to him, looking at the single, glassy eye that wasn't looking at anything in the suite at all. "Harris? Xander."
"Huh?" Xander blinked - took a sharp, deep breath and seemed to shake off whatever had gripped him. "Xander? Why'd you call me that? I'm Alexander."
"Yeah, but your mates call you Xander."
"They do?" Xander followed Spike over to the couch - watched him as he sprawled down onto the squashy cushions. He settled more carefully in the corner, slipping the flip-flops off his feet and tucking up against the arm - folding and refolding the handles of the bag.
"Listen, you can put that down, you know. I'm not gonna take it, promise."
Xander looked down at the bag and his fingers tightened on it. "I didn't - I mean, I'm sure you wouldn't, it's just..."
"Just what?" Spike craned over the back of the couch for an ashtray and flicked his smoke into it.
"Just - I remember everything in here. Remember where it came from and who g-gave it to me. It's the only stuff I remember that's real, you know?"
Spike thought back - for one shivery moment - to the high school basement and the times he would creep to the balled-up mass of black leather that he'd shoved into a crack between wall and box. Put his fingers on it, press his nose into it. Let it, for one moment, anchor him in reality, even when that reality was unbearable. "Yeah, I know," Spike said softly, and Harris seemed to relax a little. Spike smoked his cigarette down to the filter and squished it out - stretched hard, twisting his neck. "I'm gonna call the front desk - have 'em get you some decent kit. We'll have the tailor come up and get your size, yeah?"
"Uh - you mean clothes? Yeah, okay. I kinda don't wanna wear these pants on the plane." Harris licked his lips and leaned forward a little and Spike wondered what sort of revelation would be forthcoming. "They didn't give me any underwear at the hospital," Harris whispered, and Spike snorted laughter - felt an odd little bubble of lightness tickle its way up through his belly and chest when Harris - Xander - started to laugh, too.
"Don't blame you, mate. Those get wet - you might as well sell tickets." Xander laughed harder, and the plastic bag slipped out of his hands and slithered to the floor, and he didn't even notice.
The flight seemed to take forever and Spike was sick of planes by the time they were touching down in Heathrow - stepping outside into more overcast and rain, Xander looking a little more like himself in new, dark jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. They'd got him a patch for his eye in Hanoi, too, and Spike kept feeling jolted when he looked at it. He'd liked Xander's face better without that black flag.
"Is it raining everywhere?" Xander asked, looking with disappointment at the lowering sky and mass of hurrying black umbrellas.
"Just everywhere we're going. Don't worry; there'll be a clear day or two in June." Spike lifted his arm, signaling a cab, and they both picked their way across puddles to the waiting car.
"Ha ha. Oh, umm...you're probably serious, aren't you?"
Spike shoved their bags into the boot - climbed in after Xander and gave the driver the address for the Council headquarters. "Oh, pretty much." Spike grinned and Xander grinned weakly back - clutched at the door handle as the cab turned sharply into traffic, accelerating jerkily.
"So, June...what month is it, anyway?"
"It's September 29th, 2005. When - did you think it was?"
Xander's fingers kneaded at the jeans, digging in a little. Spike had talked him into packing the plastic bag and Xander had fretted over it and unconsciously reached for it the entire trip. "I - I didn't really think about it. I mean - I knew it was 2005. I don't know why I knew that and not the month." Xander watched traffic and buildings and people go by out the window for a while and Spike smoked and did the same - found the silence disconcerting and finally stirred himself to break it.
"So - what do you remember?"
"That's the $64,000 question, isn't it?" Xander said, and then laughed. "I guess I remember lame TV shows. I remember...umm..." Xander's fingers rubbed over the bracelet on his wrist, twisting it, and Spike watched him.
"Where'd you get that? Remember that?"
"Not - really. It's like - there's little flashes sometimes? Like a movie. But - I know when it's real and when it's, you know - Star Wars."
"Should hope so," Spike said. The cab stopped with a jerk and Spike shoved the last of his cash through the slot - got out and got their bags and led Xander up the stairs and inside. Nondescript sort of building near Finsbury Circus on the City Road. Surrounded by museums and libraries - perfect camouflage for the buttoned-down Watchers. Inside it smelled like books and dust and wet tweed and magic and Spike gave an involuntary shiver as he crossed the wards at the threshold. They were spelled so he could get in, but they still felt like a two-second dip in burning ice.
"What was that?" Xander asked, standing stock-still in the entry, his bag in his hands and his expression a little wild.
"You felt that?"
"Yeah, it was -"
"Nasty, yeah. Tell you in a bit. Mostly it's just - protection."
"Protection from what?" Xander asked and he looked a little - freaked.
"Things that go bump in the night." Spike headed for the lift, pushing back the scrolled gate and waiting for Xander to step in. He didn't seem to want to. "Listen, let's get upstairs and see Rupert - he can tell you what's what, all right?"
"Are there maybe some stairs we could take?" Xander asked, and Spike sighed.
"No. Just for fires. C'mon, the lift works great - just had the cables oiled."
Xander gave Spike a look that was reminiscent of the old Harris - a look of utter incredulity and 'I'll make you sorry if you're lying' kind of look, damp hair sticking up in tufts and glittering with rain drops. "I don't like - lifts," Xander muttered. But he got in and watched Spike work the gate and the button and then stood there with one hand locked tight around the rail and the other white-knuckled on the strap of his bag. Spike felt kind of bad, but not bad enough to take the stairs. 'Sides - he wasn't hyperventilating or anything, so he was okay. "Is Rupert somebody I know?" Xander asked faintly, eyes on the creeping brass needle that indicated the floors.
"That he is, mate. Known him longer than you've known me - practically your dad, isn't he?" Spike said. Sure, laying it on a bit thick but the man needed a little reassurance.
"Why didn't he come to get me, then? Why'd he send you?"
Spike saw the little flicker of uncertainty in Xander's expression - the hurt - and sighed. That's what he got for trying to be nice. "Dunno, really. Important man an' all, Rupert is. You'll have to ask him yourself."
"Yeah, okay," Xander said. He didn't sound happy about the prospect. Spike didn't blame him.
*Can't remember his life and then I tell him his father-figure can't be arsed to come collect him out of the damn hospital on the other side of the world. Fucking hell.* Spike squashed the guilt handily, though - months and months of practice - and listened to Xander's heart pound. He let him get out first when the lift stopped smoothly on the 5th floor - led him down the hall at a brisk pace, hoping the adrenalin of the ride would wear off. "Here we are, then - Rupert's office," Spike said semi-jauntily, pushing the door open and startling Miss Manners or Miss Marple or whatever the hell her name was. "Get us a couple teas then, ducks, would you?"
"M-mister Giles isn't in," she said, clutching a handful of manila folders to her chest, and Spike - halfway into Giles' office - stopped on one foot and pivoted slowly back around.
"He - what?"
She blinked and took a step back - firmed her chin and lifted her head. "He had - there was an emergency. In Greenwich. At the - the Millennium Dome."
"How in bloody hell could there be an emergency at that bloody useless pile of rubbish? It'd be a mercy if the sodding thing slid into the Thames!"
"Hey, Spike - it's - it's okay, I mean -"
Xander was looking a little upset and Miss Moneypenny was looking near tears and Spike just wanted to kick something. "It's not all right, actually," he snapped and then clamped his jaw shut as Xander flinched and the girl abruptly sat down, straightening her folders with shaking hands.
"He had to - to stop a clan of Grav-somethings from opening a portal. There was a - a scroll."
"Oh, bloody fucking Christ," Spike snarled, but Xander was looking a little more than upset now and the wards kept prickling, prickling, prickling the back of Spike's neck. Reacting to his temper and driving him up the wall. "There's always a sodding scroll. Did he leave a - message or some such?"
"He called. He said - he was stuck on Tower Bridge behind a - a lorry. It overturned and there are - squid everywhere." Xander let out a startled snort of laughter and Spike rolled his eyes. "He said - go over to - to the flat on Elsberry Street and get settled and he'll - call you tomorrow."
"Elsberry?" Wordlessly the girl held up a key and a bright blue Post-it and Spike snatched them and strode out of the office, Xander trailing along behind. Elsberry was where Xander's Watchers Council flat was. *What, you think he'll suddenly remember when he's surrounded by his bits and bobs? Damnit, Rupert - you should have been here!* Spike mentally shook himself. Giles wasn't here, he was, and they'd have to make the best of it. "That's that, then. We'll just go on over to this flat and - get a shower and some sleep. Get some Indian take-away, yeah? Get you a vindaloo to die for."
"Are we going to your house? A scroll of what? What are Grav-somethings?" Xander hurried after him, his bag banging into his knee. This time, Spike took the stairs.
Xander's flat was on the first floor, overlooking an overgrown bit of garden. He had a view of St. James Park out the kitchen window and Charing Cross Station was only ten minutes away. A nice flat - in a building gifted to the Council by some long-dead Watcher or other - but one that Xander didn't spend a lot of time in. It was obvious Giles had had someone in to dust and turn the boiler on and there was a carton of milk, soda, some butter, cheese and eggs in the little 'fridge - tomatoes and bread and crackers on the counter. Xander stood in the middle of it all - kitchen, sitting room and bedroom, with a modern bath and toilet in the back - and looked...let down. There was a shelf over the TV with framed pictures of Buffy and Dawn, Anya, Willow and Tara and Willow and Kennedy - a group shot of all of them, Xander in the middle and grinning like a loon. Pre-patch days, probably right before everything and everyone went to Hell in a hand-basket. Spike didn't remember the picture - hadn't been around for it, he was sure.
Xander looked at the pictures and looked away and fiddled with the zipper on his bag and Spike put the take away on the counter with a frustrated little noise. *Bloody Watcher, ducking out on this!* Spike shrugged out of his coat and draped it over one of the two kitchen chairs. They were both hand-made - both completely different. Xander had turned and carved them while recuperating from the broken leg that had ended his Slayer-hunting days. Spike had only heard about them through Andrew - one of his interminable rambles while he told Spike about his next job. They were nice chairs. Spike wondered if Xander would remember how to do that.
"Well, come on; let's have some of this, yeah? Best in the city." Spike peeled the foil back from various dishes, sniffing appreciatively at the fragrant steam of lamb and pork and spices. He dug out forks and searched for beer. There wasn't any. *Bastards.*
"Do I like this?" Xander asked, sitting down and running his fingers over the deep, carved relief of the chair's arm.
"Dunno. Guess we'll find out," Spike said, and dug in.
"Yeah, guess so," Xander said. He poked at this and that - finally took a mouthful and chewed contemplatively for a moment before his eye went wide. "Ow! Damn! Hot - hothot!"
"Yeah, it warms you up," Spike said, tearing off a chunk of naan bread and handing it over. "This'll help."
"Water!" Xander groaned, and bolted for the sink.
"Not a good idea," Spike chuckled.
Xander turned on the tap and stuck his mouth into the stream of water, gulping. After a minute he coughed and turned it back off, looking desperate. "Jesus! That made it hotter! Help!" Xander stood panting, his eye tearing and his face flushed, water running down his chin. His lips even looked a little swollen.
"Not that bad. Well - Percy swore by milk - you've got some in the 'fridge, there. But the bread'll help too." Xander dove for the 'fridge - opened the carton and drank straight from it. He groped his way back to the table, still drinking, and felt for the bread. Spike pushed it into his hand, watching with amusement as Xander carefully sat. Gasping, he finally put the carton down and took a huge bite of bread. "So? What d'ya think?"
"I think -" Xander chewed - swallowed - eyed the food for a moment and then grinned. "I think it's really good."
"Bloody right!" Spike forked up another mouthful, chewing happily, and Xander followed suit, one hand on the milk carton.
They ate most of the vindaloo and Spike finally broke down and opened one of the sodas in the 'fridge, drinking and making a face at the sweetness. The food had been great but he was hungry still and needed to go out. The rain had slacked off and it was dark outside - sometime after eight, Spike was sure. Prime hunting time. He had a few places he went - rounds to make, as it were. A little compromise he'd made with his soul ages ago, and it worked quite well.
Xander was sitting back in his chair, his eye heavy - lid half shut. Looking rumpled and exhausted and - lost. When Spike stood up and pulled on his coat, he stood up, too. "Where are we going?"
"Nowhere, mate. I've gotta step out, is all - be back in half a tick."
"Uh - why don't I come with you? I need to walk off some of that dinner." Xander dug into his bag, pulling out stiff new jeans and shirts, looking for the leather jacket he'd picked out. The one Spike had said looked good.
"Look, Xander, it's really not a good idea that you -"
"Spike." Xander snapped upright, dragging the coat with him and spilling out pairs of socks and the plastic bag. "I really - I don't - Look, I'm not gonna stay here!"
His heart was pounding and under the grim look of determination was fear. Fear in the white-knuckled grip he had on his coat - fear in the sharp, panting breaths he was taking. He didn't want to be left alone in this strange flat - this strange city. Spike got that. But fuck - taking him along was going to be... "Bloody difficult, you are. You were always a pain in my arse, Harris."
"Was I? Guess that's why we're friends then, huh," Xander said. Grinned, and pulled on his jacket - ran his hand back through his hair and all but bounced in place.
"Yeah, that must be it, mate." Spike couldn't stop the answering grin that stretched his own mouth and he shoved the flat's key into his pocket and opened the door with a flourish. "C'mon, then. Got some things to talk about while we walk."
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