As If We Should Forget We Have No Hands...part eleven *s/x*

[tabaqui]

But first - a pimp!
:)

pretties_4u did a very cool post about how, exactly, people find him and me online. He lists some of the top search strings and oh, my. People? Are weird. My favorite? cashmere sweater erection. Yes. :)

Also - the Monstrous Bebe turned nine! Nine!!OMG!!1 We had a family party on the day, with cake and her choice of dinner *Micky D's* and time at the park. Yesterday was the 'party with friends' and they had hot dogs, cup cakes, soda-out-the-nose, confettie poppers and rocket balloons and a pinata. All was good.
*nineomgninewth!!!*

*ahem*

Also, I posted another Supernatural ficlet over at kaz2y5. Another Sam pov, which i was very happy with. Sudden Downpour.



And now, 'Hands'! Of course, reremouse gave me much wonderful help and darkhavens gave me some Brit-beta help... This chapter in particular gave me trouble. We'll see how i feel about it later - i'm on the fence! Heh. Previous parts here.






"Te implor, Doamne, nu ignora aceasta rugaminte..."

Spike lifted his head, wincing at the bolt of fiery pain that shot from the top of his skull to the pit of his belly. He was cold - limply weak - wet with blood. *Is this what being born is like? Is this...*

"Nici mort, nici al fiintei..." Familiar voice.

Spike blinked, forcing his vision to clear. Something wet on his face... *Rain. It's raining in the...the window. Should shut that, ruin the carpet...why am I -?*

"Lasa orbita sa fie vasul care-i va transporta, sufletul la el."

The pain grew, moment by moment as the voice chanted on. Stinging, then burning, then something like sunlight and holy water - like acid. Points of fire at breast and back and shoulders and he wondered if this was what if had felt like for St. Sebastian - for Christ. *Christ on the cross...cross he probably made. Carpenter with a death wish.... Xander?*

"Asa sa fie! Asa sa fie! Acum! Acum! Acum!"

The pain became something beyond - incandescent and all-consuming and Spike threw his head back and screamed. Something - touched him. Lips - cheek. Something whispering in his ear, more emotion than words but clear. As crystalline and wrenching as the agony that made his back arch like a Halloween cat's.

"Thank you..."

As abruptly as it had started the pain was gone and Spike curled down over himself, gasping. Retching hard on air he didn't need and jerking away in blind, terrified instinct when hands caught his shoulders - touched his head.

"F-fu-ck - off -"

"It's me, Spike. It's Wesley. Are you... Can you hear me?"

Spike licked at dry lips - pushed himself crookedly upright, hands on his thighs. The mews were lit up like Christmas day and Slayers, Watchers and assorted...others were all swarming around. Two Slayers lay on stretchers, being carried carefully away to the infirmary; the ones that had fallen when the lightning had shattered the roof and floor. Rain was falling through the hole still, a steady cataract that reminded Spike of... *Cora Linn...on the Clyde...bloody Angelus wanted...grouse moor holiday...got lost beating the bloody birds out and that water...Dru said it was like the breath of god...foaming under the moonlight...Dru said...*

"Spike? Spike." A cold, wet hand slapped his cheek, hard, and Spike growled, feeling the demon snap to the surface - hearing the sharp inhale of startled breath and then he blinked and pulled the demon away.

"Percy. Don't need to slap a fellow around, I'm... I'm...fine, just. Fuckin' - hurts, all that -" Spike waved his hand in the air. It was shaking - wet and streaked with dirt and blood, black under his nails as if he'd clawed the ground. *Probably did. Fuck...* "Where's - where's Xander? He all right? Did it work?"

Wesley leaned back a little, awkward in his crouch and Spike struggled to get up, forcing wobbling legs to obey. Wesley looped a hand under his arm and hauled him the last foot or so and Spike stood there, shirtless and shivering. Fiery little aftershocks of pain twisting through him when he essayed a step toward the stairs.

"It seems to have worked. He - he remembers himself. He remembers -" Wesley sighed, a grubby hand going up to massage his forehead and Spike sighed with him. Wished like hell he had his coat and his smokes and...

*Wish I was fuckin' out of here.* "Remembers what he did, doesn't he?" Spike asked, and Wesley nodded.

"He killed the Slayer in Vietnam, Spike. It was how he got away. They - decided together, she told him to. She was..." Wesley shivered - fuzzed - took on a paler aspect. A dust and blood streaked one - one with the grave shining dark and hideous out of his eyes. "She was too far gone and they...decided..."

"Yeah, I can probably figure out the rest," Spike muttered. He saw his coat tossed carelessly over a padded horse and he winced his way over to it, feeling light-headed. His cigarettes, thank Christ, were right where they were supposed to be and he lit one up and smoked, blocking out Wesley's not-quite-right form - blocking out the rubble and the blood stains and the black smear where the demon had been.

Blocking out a lot of things to concentrate on the sizzle of the damp tobacco and the curl and heat of the smoke in his lungs - the slight sting of it on his tongue. The taste, which was too little of good tobacco and too much of chemicals, but... He was used to it. He looked down at himself. At the bloody mess of his chest which really - could have been worse. No broken ribs, no gaping hole. Just five points of heat and pain that still bled sluggishly at every inhale.

"We took Xander upstairs - he had some scrapes that needed cleaning up and...you look like you could use a bit of a wash and brush, yourself. I'm sure he'd like to see you," Wesley added, ghosting out of nowhere, jarring Spike from his daze.

"Huh? Oh, yeah. Right." Spike took another drag and then glared over at Wesley. "Stop feeling so bloody sorry for yourself, mate. Can't go staggering around looking like a sodding extra from 'Night of the Living Dead'!"

Wesley rubbed a shaking hand over his face, smearing dirt and blood - straightened his shoulders and his spine and fuzzed again. Then he was himself, the Wesley who'd gotten drunk in the pub and Spike felt a faint grin tugging at his mouth. "Cheerio, pip pip," Wesley muttered, and Spike almost laughed.

"Best go brew some tea, mate - gonna be a long night."

"It's already been far too long for some," Wesley said, and Spike caught his glance upward.

"Yeah. Reckon I'll just...pop in. Probably needs -"

"Needs a friend, Spike," Wesley said, his hand warm and firm on Spike's shoulder. "He needs to know he's not going to be - abandoned."

Spike heaved a sigh - took a last drag and dropped the butt into the puddle that was forming under the hole. He could hear several people up above, stomping around and shouting - the heavy slither of what was probably a tarp. He folded his coat over his arm, reluctant to foul the lining with blood. "Yeah, okay. Lead the way then, mate." Wesley smiled faintly and headed up and Spike followed along behind, exhaustion in every muscle - lead in his bones. And dread in his heart, that still didn't beat. He wondered if Xander would remember telling him it didn't matter. He wondered if it would matter now.




He could hear Xander before he could see him. Smell him - sweat and terror and blood. Low, broken voice saying...something. Something to Giles and Giles saying something back and Spike didn't really listen, just heard the tone. Desperation and heartbreak and exhaustion - numb misery echoing down the wooden-walled hallway.

"It's in here, it's in here, Giles - all of it's - in here, I c-can't -"

"Yes you can, Xander. You know you can. Here -" Soft sounds - the clink of glass on glass and then the sound of liquid pouring and Spike pushed the infirmary door open. Xander was slumped in a chair, holding a thick mug in shaking hands. Giles was standing beside him, cradling his own mug - capping a bottle of whisky with his free hand. He had a graze on his forehead that had leaked blood down his temple. Xander seemed to be staring down into the mug, his shoulders curled and bowed under his half-buttoned shirt.

"Ah, Spike -"

Xander's head came up fast - his knuckles went white on the mug and Spike stopped dead.

"I remember everything," Xander said. Water was still threading out of his hair - dripping off the ends and wetting the shoulders of his shirt. Blood on his shirt from scrapes - a cut - something, somewhere along his ribs.

"Told you you would," Spike said, and Xander lifted the mug to his lips - seemed to realize what was in it and made a curiously young face, grimacing a little and lowering the cup again. His gaze drifted back down - back to the whisky or his fingers or maybe the floor - maybe the drop of blood that gleamed there. Giles' blood, Spike could tell.

"Yeah. I remember that I...killed -"

"I know, Xander," Spike said, and Xander's gaze rose again, slowly. Rose until they were eye to eye and then Xander was crying, the mug dropping from his hand. Body folding down over his knees, his hands coming up to his face. Hands white-knuckled and shaking and muffling by sheer force of will the hoarse sobs that shook his entire frame.

Spike swayed where he stood - took a half-step forward and Xander's hand reached out, grimed with soot and trembling. Blind reach for comfort and Spike shook his head - went across the floor and sank down cross legged, taking the cold hand in his. Giles retreated around the desk, slumping heavily into his own chair.

Xander dragged in a rasping breath, forcing himself toward calm. Rubbing his wet face on his shirt-sleeve and sniffing. "I remember," he whispered, and Spike put his other hand on the back of Xander's neck, digging into rock-hard muscle and the velvet nap of Xander's hair. Leaning until their skulls were touching and Spike closed his eyes.

"I know, love. It's all right."

"I don't want this in my head. I don't."

"We most of us don't," Spike whispered, and caught Xander as he crumpled forward, trying in vain to fend Xander's cheek away from the mess of his chest. "Xander - don't -"

"Doesn't matter. Not your blood anyway, is it?"

"No, I guess it's not," Spike said finally - watched Xander curl himself down and around, the empty socket pressed to Spike's thigh, his hand finding Spike's and squeezing.

"Just need to - to take a minute. Rest a minute," Xander murmured, and the sudden laxness of his body told Spike he was unconscious.

*Rest and sleep, sleep and dream. If only I did not have bad dreams...* "You rest, then," Spike said softly. A while later, Giles dropped an old tartan rug over Xander and a while after that, Wesley brought Spike hot tea laced with whisky and a clean, white t-shirt. Spike didn't say anything, and neither did they.



Sometime around dawn Xander finally stirred and Spike woke from his own half-doze to help him sit up. Xander was stiff, grimacing as he climbed slowly to his knees and then his feet and stretched hard, making his back and one knee crack like old wood. Spike stood more easily and dug out a cigarette - lit it and leaned one hip on the desk, watching as Xander rubbed his eye and scrubbed his hands back over his skull and then picked up the rug. He draped it over the chair and then finally - finally - looked at Spike.

Shuttered expression, his whole body held rigid, like he was expecting an attack. His gaze skittered and darted and never quite stopped and Spike sighed.

"Guess you'll want to go on home, then? Back to your flat."

"I...guess. Kind of want a shower." Xander plucked at his stained, wrinkled shirt, making a face. Then he took a long breath, looking unhappy. "I should probably talk to Giles first, though. And - Wesley. Tell them..." Xander stopped talking and shook his head - looked around the room again with an expression that clearly said talking to Wesley or Giles - or maybe even Spike - was the last thing he wanted to do. That the thought alone was exhausting him.

"Don't have to, you know. They can wait to get all the gory details."

"Gory, yeah." Xander's mouth twisted in a sort of smile and then it trembled and collapsed and Xander closed his eye and just stood there, arms wrapped around his ribs and his chin sunk onto his chest. Trying for some measure of control. Spike could tell it wasn't working.

"Listen, Xander -"

"I really wanna go home. Can you just - can you get me home, Spike?" Tremble in his voice, too - tremble and catch and Spike knew that shouldn't make him happy but it did. Made the demon sit up and take narrow-eyed interest because: weakness and prey and leverage. Spike battered that aside - pushed down nest, too, because this wasn't Dru after Prague or Angelus after that mess in Bogotá. This was Xander Harris who remembered, and who might very well just spit in his eye.

"Course I can. Got cars here, be home in a trice." Spike stubbed his half-smoked cigarette out on his boot sole and tossed the butt into the trash - stood up and closed the gap between himself and Xander and put a hesitant hand on Xander's shoulder. Xander shuddered, catching a hard breath and leaning the merest fraction into Spike's touch. It was all he really needed. For now.


At the flat, Xander walked in and then stopped dead, staring. The veve on the floor was burned black and the stink of charred wood hung in the air. Spike shut the door behind them and moved across to the kitchen - opened the window to let in the breeze. Xander shed his jacket and then looked at the still-pulled-out couch. At the covers tangled over it and the dents in two pillows. He looked up at Spike - looked like he might say something and then he shook his head and walked away. Bedroom - bathroom - hissing rush of the shower and Spike took his bottle down from the cabinet and took a long, long drink. He draped his own coat over a kitchen chair and took off the stained t-shirt - wadded it into the trash. Xander's dirty clothes were in a heap on the bedroom floor and Spike got a spare shirt out of the carry-all he had stashed by the dresser.

He settled with the bottle in Xander's living room chair and listened to the shower - listened to him turning it off and getting out - drying and dressing and brushing his teeth. Listened to him stand in the hallway and hesitate for long, long moments before going into his bedroom and shutting the door.

It was a rare, cloudless day and Spike was too tired to play hide-and-seek with the sun. Too tired to move except he did - heeling off his boots and spreading the bed up a bit. Laying down on - god fucking help him - his side and staring at the reflected sunlight that danced and dazzled on the tile behind the sink. Staring until the prisms and sparks blurred out into a shimmer of white.

He woke to a hoarse shout from Xander's room - to minutes of heavy breathing and the creak of bedsprings. Then the door opened and Spike lifted his head. Watched Xander walk down the short hall, rumpled t-shirt and rumpled hair, eye red and lashes stuck together with tears. Looking like a child coming into his parent's bedroom - looking like a man with too much on his mind. Xander didn't say anything - just curled down into the sheets and blankets and took Spike's hand in a grip that hurt.

The demon huffed in atavistic pleasure - surge of triumph and satisfaction. Spike didn't quell it this time - didn't even try. *Possession is nine-tenths of the law, so they say. Nine-tenths of your heart...*

Xander shifted a little - adjusted his grip, pulling Spike's hand up close to his chest. "I don't know what to do," he whispered.

"Nothing to be done, love," Spike whispered back, and Xander sighed a shaky breath out and closed his eye, and Spike watched him until they were both asleep again.





The spell was taken word-for-word from a BtVS transcript site and is :
Willow: Te implor, Doamne, nu ignora aceasta rugaminte.
Translation: I implore you, Lord, do not ignore this request.
Willow: Nici mort, nici al fiintei...
Translation: Neither dead, nor of the living...
Willow: Lasa orbita sa fie vasul care-i va transporta, sufletul la el.
Translation: Let this Orb be the vessel that will carry his soul to
him.
Willow: Asa sa fie! Asa sa fie! Acum!
Translation: So it shall be! So it shall be! Now!