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Lets do the rec first, shall we? It's a lovely, twisty, dark little thing by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
witling called The Assistant Utterly, utterly lovely. The story is complete but she says she'll probably add little snippets here and there. Go, read, and fb!
Also, i'm bouncy since i heard from my one RL New Orleans friend, and she's fine. She's pretty sure everything she owns is toast, but she's safe. Yay!! *hugs her* *in my mind*
A question for those of you who've memorized the BtVS DVDs... Should i watch any of the special features? I've got seasons one through five. I've watched a couple, but they were kinda dull. Stuff like 'here's a tour of the set of Buffy's house' which - okay, kind of neat but then again - not really. I've WATCHED IT for seven seasons, i'm kind of already familiar with it. Any suggestions? Andsweptawaybayou has kindly lent me her Angel series, so - any of the special features there any good?
Now for part two of the fic. :)
Part one is here.
Near the end of May Xander found himself the proud father of two kittens. Well, not exactly proud and not exactly a father, but still - kittens. Someone had abandoned them and the mother in an alley next to his current job. The plasterers had found them and by the end of the day all but two kittens were spoken for. The head plasterer ambushed Xander with their fuzzy little faces and tiny little paws and in a moment of weakness, Xander gave in. Ernie would keep all the kittens until they were weaned.
Now it was the end of June and the kittens were 'coming home' - just weaned that week - and Xander felt... Nervous. It was weird. He'd written to Willow about them and she'd demanded pictures, of course. So the digital camera was added to the arsenal of 'welcome home' things Xander had bought.
Stainless steel bowl for food and a sort of fountain-thing for water. A twisted piece of old tree-trunk for a scratching post and catnip mice. Little cans of kitten food from the vet and little pouches of treats. A cat litter box on the balcony and a cat-door carefully set into one pane of the balcony doors and a prayer to any cat-gods that the kittens wouldn't jump over the rail. A print-out from a website that told him what to expect and what to do and... His palms were sweating.
*How in hell do people stand to have kids? Jesus, this is horrible.* Then there was a knock at the door, and then there was a cardboard carrier with two mewling creatures inside, and then there was about three hours of exploration and hissing and pouncing and eating and litter-box dabbling.
All three of them fell asleep on the couch. Two weeks later it was like he'd never not had kittens. Xander was in love. The kittens seemed to be at least in like. All was right with the world.
Until the first week of August, when Xander met up with Spike again. He'd just finished what he would always privately refer to as 'the kitten job' and was in a sort of limbo until the next one started. Mr. Tubic was deciding between which of three properties to tackle next and Xander took the opportunity to have a small vacation. Staying up late, sleeping in late, watching movies he'd been wanting to see but hadn't taken the time to.
Going out, because he could. With no work the next day he could go to a club and exhaust himself on the dance floor and not have to worry about it. Have a quiet smoke in a back room with a couple guys, maybe even bring somebody home. He was training the kittens to walk on a harness and leash and he took them out to the Arboretum and Discovery Park. He got a lot of weird looks. Kittens on leashes and an eye-patch did make him stand out. But he was having fun and the kittens loved the beach and the trees. Even though the kittens ate amazing amounts of grass only Spot threw it all back up at the apartment. Jerome managed to heave on the sidewalk. They both fell asleep in the middle of the floor on Xander's favorite movie-watching cushion and he got ready for a night out with a light heart.
The club was downtown; it was loud and it was packed. There was a roof-top deck and two dance floors and Xander moved from one to the other, cooling off upstairs when his shirt started sticking to him then plunging back into the fray when he got his breath and his equilibrium back. A tall, lean man from Haiti or Jamaica or - somewhere - bought him a Coke and offered him some coke. Xander took the one and not the other - listened to the lilting accent saying words he could just barely hear and got groped for three songs straight. When he bounced up the stairs to the deck that time, tall and grabby on his tail, the first thing he saw was a blond man up on the rail, looking like he was about to fall. Xander yelled and leaped - grabbed a handful of t-shirt and a thin wrist and yanked and ended up sprawling on his ass on the floor, the blond's elbow in his ribcage and an earful of curse-words that would make a sailor blush. In a too-familiar accent.
"Oh fuck. What the hell is your problem?" Xander yelled, shoving Spike roughly off him. Spike coiled and slid upwards like a snake, teeth bared.
"My bloody problem is idiot boys! What, did'ja think I was gonna jump? Still tryin' to be a white-hat, Harris?"
"Not like you'd die - should'a just let you fall. See how good you do with two broken legs." Xander hauled himself upright, glaring at Spike -ignoring the half-circle of wide-eyed gawkers. Mr. Grabby-hands had disappeared.
"I wasn't falling - I was walking on the railing. This place is fucking boring. Anyway, a fall like that wouldn't break my bones, Harris." Spike looked around - snatched up a drink from a table and bolted it, ignoring the squawk of outrage from its owner. He made a face like he wanted to spit. "Christ. Who in bloody hell drinks Drambuie anymore?" Spike tossed the glass in the general direction of a table and some guy in a mesh shirt fumbled for it, barely catching it.
"Hey, asshole, you could have hurt somebody with that!"
"Yeah? I could hurt somebody doing this, too," Spike snapped. He took three fast steps and slammed his fist into mesh-guy's nose and the man fell back, yelping, blood pouring down his lip and chin.
"Fucker!" somebody yelled and a minute later there was a melee of bodies and fists and glasses and Xander caught a fist to the side of his head and a boot to his shin as he fought his way to the stairs.
*Chip's gone - out - something - oh god, no weapons, nothing - what the fuck am I gonna do -* Xander got to the street and looked up and down the block, almost panting. No taxis in sight - no cops in sight - and what the fuck would he tell them, anyway? *Go home. Get a weapon - come back and see if he's still here... Then...* Then probably die. Xander took a hard breath and started to walk, fast. Chilly in his sweat-damp t-shirt, boot heels thudding rapidly on the pavement. Twenty blocks home - more. Christ.
"Where ya goin', Xanderrr?" a voice purred and Xander spun around with a yell. Nothing. He turned again and yelled again, jumping back, because there was Spike. Lounging against a light pole, thumbs in the pockets of his jeans, pulling them down a little. Blood on his lip and on one narrow cheekbone.
"How many, Spike," Xander asked, ignoring the wobble in his voice - ignoring how hard his heart was pounding. Hard enough to hurt - hard enough to make him breathless.
"How many?" Spike pushed away from the pole, his hands going loose to his sides. Shoulders back and chin down, smirk in place. The familiar strut of William the Bloody. "How many what, Xaan-der."
"How many did you kill? Up there in the club, h-how many are they gonna find?"
"Oh, that." Spike shrugged - pulled cigarettes and lighter from the back pocket of his jeans and lit up. He stopped his slow-motion stalk about three feet from Xander - planted his feet wide and lifted his chin. "I don't think I actually killed any of them. Pulled my punches a bit. I might want to go back there, you know?"
"No, I don't. I don't believe you."
Spike shrugged again - plumed smoke over Xander's head. "Don't sodding care. Notice you didn't stay and fight, Harris. What happened - get a little tarnish on your Sheriff's badge?"
"You bastard." Xander's fist seemed to fly up and out of its own accord and Spike dodged back half a step, laughing. *Laughing. Fucker.*
"Ooh, still got that temper, Harris. Still got that urge to knock my teeth down my throat? Go on and give it a try, then."
"I know you got the chip out," Xander said - swung again, lower, and Spike skipped nimbly to the side, lifting his cigarette to his mouth and inhaling.
"Yeah, I got the soddin' chip out. One for you. Now - what're you gonna do about it, Harris?"
"I - I'm -" Xander stopped. Stopped dead. Stood there and stared at Spike, feeling his shoulders slumping down - feeling his breathing even out. "Nothing."
"Nothing?" Spike laughed again, incredulous, and Xander turned abruptly and started to walk away - walk home. Shaking inside.
*Can't do anything. Can't stop him - can't get anybody here fast enough...* And quietly, so quietly underneath it all: *Don't want to die, not now, not...because of him. Won't.*
Spike was at his elbow suddenly, cigarette too close and a scowl on his face. "C'mon, Harris - you're just gonna walk away? Not even gonna try and get a rise out of me? Not gonna give me some excitement?"
"I'm not a fucking peep-show, Spike. No. I'm not. I can't beat you in a fight - we both know it. I'm not looking to die tonight, thank you very much."
"Harris!" There was real exasperation in Spike's voice and Xander looked over at him - studied him for a minute. The same multi-colored hair, standing up wildly all over his head - the same ladder of bracelets up his left forearm except there were leather ones mixed in now, strung with polished stones. Black t-shirt that looked like it was held together by safety pins and a prayer. Expression of irritation as he stomped along in his same old boots, straps and buckles wound around his ankles and his worn jeans torn along one thigh.
"What?" Xander said, and Spike took a last draw on his cigarette - flicked the butt away into the street.
"I'm not going to kill you! Wasn't even thinking about it." Xander felt his eyebrows going up and Spike made his best 'trust me' face, hand to his heart. "Didn't kill anybody in the club, either. It's too bloody easy, killing boys like that. They're all too soft." He kicked moodily at a soda can and Xander had to laugh.
"Yeah, well, sorry I'm such a pathetic excuse for a man. Pardon me if I don't actually believe you." *Jesus Christ. This is weird. So, so weird. I don't want weird, I want to go home and...god help me, snuggle my kittens.* Xander shook his head and Spike looked at him.
"You don't look too soft, Harris." Spike's gaze traveled from Xander's sweat-sticky hair to his boots - lingered here and there and Xander had the uncomfortable feeling that Spike knew Mr. Grabby-hands had got him worked up on the dance floor. Hard and ready for - something - that finding Spike had totally derailed. "Bet you could go a round or two with me." Said with a tilt of the head and a leer and Xander felt the blood rush to his face.
"Jesus, Spike! Tell me you did not just - come on to me!"
"Sure, why not? You don't look half-bad anymore, Harris. And I'm bored."
"So go home and - and - entertain yourself with Sacha." Xander tried to walk a little faster, but Spike easily kept up.
"Oh, Sacha. He's not around. I'm not living there anymore, anyway. Wanted my own flat."
"Not around? What does -?"
"He's on tour, Harris!" Spike shook his head in disgust - lit another cigarette. "He got a part in some show, they're traveling. I never liked that flat, anyway - it was just temporary. Got my own place now," he added, shooting Xander a look from under his lashes and Xander shook his head, a weird little flutter in his stomach.
"Good. Great - I'm happy for you. Look, I'm gonna get a cab, how about you just - just go away, okay? I mean, if you're not gonna kill me you really don't need to hang around." *And I'll believe the not-killing thing when I - uh - wake up alive.* Xander looked around a little frantically and saw a bodega on the next corner, half the signs in Spanish and a group of teenage kids just coming out, carrying drinks and bags of chips. They turned in the opposite direction and Xander dithered for a minute, wondering if Spike would go after them.
"I'm not gonna slaughter the innocent tonight, Harris. Stop being such a prat."
"Oh, fuck off," Xander muttered - strode rapidly up the street, digging for change. He never took Mr. Tubic's cell or his own out when he went clubbing - he'd lost one phone that way, and didn't feel like replacing another.
"Not nice, Harris," Spike said - lounged like a big, pale cat against the phone while Xander dialed the number from memory and gave them his location.
"I don't have to be nice to you, Spike. You were never nice to me or anybody else so just - fuck off, okay?"
"Saved your life a time or two," Spike said, but he said it as if he kind of regretted it and Xander made a small sound of disgust.
"Yeah, in between the death threats and the stealing and the double-crossing you managed to keep me from getting my head ripped off a time or two. Thanks." Spike glared at him and Xander glared back, willing himself to forget the time Spike had been tortured for Dawn's sake - willing himself to forget Spike sitting huddled and shaking, crying so hard he couldn't get up while Xander and Giles had wrapped Buffy's body in a piece of spare tarp. Xander blinked - looked away from that laser-sharp blue stare that - reminded. Turned away all together and pushed into the bodega, heading toward the coolers and a bottle of water.
He grabbed a water - paid for it and nodded to the thin little man behind the counter. Spike hadn't followed him in and he hoped the vampire had gotten bored enough to just leave. *If he's annoying me he's not - slaughtering the innocent, though. Gotta count for something.* As he went outside he glanced around and there was Spike, perched on a Seattle Post-Intelligencer machine, smoking and kicking his boot heels rhythmically into the metal sides. He hopped off when Xander came out and sauntered over, grinning.
"Don't you want to go home?" Xander asked, cracking open the bottle.
"Why would I do that when I've got you to annoy? So how long've you been a poufter, Harris?"
"How long have you?" Xander shot back, then gulped down about half the water. The cold made his teeth ache but he was dry-mouthed and his throat was scratchy.
"Doesn't really work that way for us demons, Harris." Spike looked up the street, headlights sweeping across his face and shadowing his eyes for a moment. "Here's your ride."
"Yeah - great - okay." Xander capped his water and lifted a hand - watched the taxi glide up to the curb and then turned. "Spike, just don't -" But Spike was gone.
When he got back to his apartment, Spot and Jerome came running to meet him, talking excitedly. Apparently, Siamese cats talked a lot. Xander liked it. He bent down and picked them both up - snuggled them up under his chin as he went back to his bedroom. Flopping on the bed, he let them crawl over his shoulders and lap as he got his boots off, then shooed them away so he could undress. He stood for a minute just staring at himself in the mirror. He didn't look like a - coward. But he kind of felt like one. Deep down, where he pushed the quiet hurt that still persisted at every birthday and Christmas that passed without any acknowledgment from his parents. The place where, sometimes, he examined his life and wondered if he'd just copped out. Of everything. *Just trying to live. Like Buffy and Wills and Dawnie are. I'm just not...killing anything to do it.* Spot and Jerome were pouncing on his boots, tangling themselves in the laces. Cream bellies and dark brown points at paws, tail, and face.
"He owes some fish-headed guy forty Siamese kittens." Buffy's voice, from years ago - 'de-toxing' at her house with nachos and Twizzlers and root beer after the Tabula Rasa thing. "Spike plays poker for kittens!" They'd all laughed. Xander reached down and scruffed his hand over Spot and Jerome's backs.
*What if he wants these guys for a pot? Oh, my god. I'm losin' it. He doesn't even know I have kittens. Or where I live.* Xander tossed his clothes into the laundry basket in the closet - went into the bathroom and got the shower going, nice and hot. Tried not to think about milk-pale arms and long, ringed fingers and lively eyes lined in black. Tried and failed, and stood for long minutes in front of the window in his darkened bedroom, looking down onto the street. Nothing stirred, but he still felt uneasy. He dreamed in a random, restless way all night.
witling called The Assistant Utterly, utterly lovely. The story is complete but she says she'll probably add little snippets here and there. Go, read, and fb!Also, i'm bouncy since i heard from my one RL New Orleans friend, and she's fine. She's pretty sure everything she owns is toast, but she's safe. Yay!! *hugs her* *in my mind*
A question for those of you who've memorized the BtVS DVDs... Should i watch any of the special features? I've got seasons one through five. I've watched a couple, but they were kinda dull. Stuff like 'here's a tour of the set of Buffy's house' which - okay, kind of neat but then again - not really. I've WATCHED IT for seven seasons, i'm kind of already familiar with it. Any suggestions? And
sweptawaybayou has kindly lent me her Angel series, so - any of the special features there any good?Now for part two of the fic. :)
Part one is here.
Near the end of May Xander found himself the proud father of two kittens. Well, not exactly proud and not exactly a father, but still - kittens. Someone had abandoned them and the mother in an alley next to his current job. The plasterers had found them and by the end of the day all but two kittens were spoken for. The head plasterer ambushed Xander with their fuzzy little faces and tiny little paws and in a moment of weakness, Xander gave in. Ernie would keep all the kittens until they were weaned.
Now it was the end of June and the kittens were 'coming home' - just weaned that week - and Xander felt... Nervous. It was weird. He'd written to Willow about them and she'd demanded pictures, of course. So the digital camera was added to the arsenal of 'welcome home' things Xander had bought.
Stainless steel bowl for food and a sort of fountain-thing for water. A twisted piece of old tree-trunk for a scratching post and catnip mice. Little cans of kitten food from the vet and little pouches of treats. A cat litter box on the balcony and a cat-door carefully set into one pane of the balcony doors and a prayer to any cat-gods that the kittens wouldn't jump over the rail. A print-out from a website that told him what to expect and what to do and... His palms were sweating.
*How in hell do people stand to have kids? Jesus, this is horrible.* Then there was a knock at the door, and then there was a cardboard carrier with two mewling creatures inside, and then there was about three hours of exploration and hissing and pouncing and eating and litter-box dabbling.
All three of them fell asleep on the couch. Two weeks later it was like he'd never not had kittens. Xander was in love. The kittens seemed to be at least in like. All was right with the world.
Until the first week of August, when Xander met up with Spike again. He'd just finished what he would always privately refer to as 'the kitten job' and was in a sort of limbo until the next one started. Mr. Tubic was deciding between which of three properties to tackle next and Xander took the opportunity to have a small vacation. Staying up late, sleeping in late, watching movies he'd been wanting to see but hadn't taken the time to.
Going out, because he could. With no work the next day he could go to a club and exhaust himself on the dance floor and not have to worry about it. Have a quiet smoke in a back room with a couple guys, maybe even bring somebody home. He was training the kittens to walk on a harness and leash and he took them out to the Arboretum and Discovery Park. He got a lot of weird looks. Kittens on leashes and an eye-patch did make him stand out. But he was having fun and the kittens loved the beach and the trees. Even though the kittens ate amazing amounts of grass only Spot threw it all back up at the apartment. Jerome managed to heave on the sidewalk. They both fell asleep in the middle of the floor on Xander's favorite movie-watching cushion and he got ready for a night out with a light heart.
The club was downtown; it was loud and it was packed. There was a roof-top deck and two dance floors and Xander moved from one to the other, cooling off upstairs when his shirt started sticking to him then plunging back into the fray when he got his breath and his equilibrium back. A tall, lean man from Haiti or Jamaica or - somewhere - bought him a Coke and offered him some coke. Xander took the one and not the other - listened to the lilting accent saying words he could just barely hear and got groped for three songs straight. When he bounced up the stairs to the deck that time, tall and grabby on his tail, the first thing he saw was a blond man up on the rail, looking like he was about to fall. Xander yelled and leaped - grabbed a handful of t-shirt and a thin wrist and yanked and ended up sprawling on his ass on the floor, the blond's elbow in his ribcage and an earful of curse-words that would make a sailor blush. In a too-familiar accent.
"Oh fuck. What the hell is your problem?" Xander yelled, shoving Spike roughly off him. Spike coiled and slid upwards like a snake, teeth bared.
"My bloody problem is idiot boys! What, did'ja think I was gonna jump? Still tryin' to be a white-hat, Harris?"
"Not like you'd die - should'a just let you fall. See how good you do with two broken legs." Xander hauled himself upright, glaring at Spike -ignoring the half-circle of wide-eyed gawkers. Mr. Grabby-hands had disappeared.
"I wasn't falling - I was walking on the railing. This place is fucking boring. Anyway, a fall like that wouldn't break my bones, Harris." Spike looked around - snatched up a drink from a table and bolted it, ignoring the squawk of outrage from its owner. He made a face like he wanted to spit. "Christ. Who in bloody hell drinks Drambuie anymore?" Spike tossed the glass in the general direction of a table and some guy in a mesh shirt fumbled for it, barely catching it.
"Hey, asshole, you could have hurt somebody with that!"
"Yeah? I could hurt somebody doing this, too," Spike snapped. He took three fast steps and slammed his fist into mesh-guy's nose and the man fell back, yelping, blood pouring down his lip and chin.
"Fucker!" somebody yelled and a minute later there was a melee of bodies and fists and glasses and Xander caught a fist to the side of his head and a boot to his shin as he fought his way to the stairs.
*Chip's gone - out - something - oh god, no weapons, nothing - what the fuck am I gonna do -* Xander got to the street and looked up and down the block, almost panting. No taxis in sight - no cops in sight - and what the fuck would he tell them, anyway? *Go home. Get a weapon - come back and see if he's still here... Then...* Then probably die. Xander took a hard breath and started to walk, fast. Chilly in his sweat-damp t-shirt, boot heels thudding rapidly on the pavement. Twenty blocks home - more. Christ.
"Where ya goin', Xanderrr?" a voice purred and Xander spun around with a yell. Nothing. He turned again and yelled again, jumping back, because there was Spike. Lounging against a light pole, thumbs in the pockets of his jeans, pulling them down a little. Blood on his lip and on one narrow cheekbone.
"How many, Spike," Xander asked, ignoring the wobble in his voice - ignoring how hard his heart was pounding. Hard enough to hurt - hard enough to make him breathless.
"How many?" Spike pushed away from the pole, his hands going loose to his sides. Shoulders back and chin down, smirk in place. The familiar strut of William the Bloody. "How many what, Xaan-der."
"How many did you kill? Up there in the club, h-how many are they gonna find?"
"Oh, that." Spike shrugged - pulled cigarettes and lighter from the back pocket of his jeans and lit up. He stopped his slow-motion stalk about three feet from Xander - planted his feet wide and lifted his chin. "I don't think I actually killed any of them. Pulled my punches a bit. I might want to go back there, you know?"
"No, I don't. I don't believe you."
Spike shrugged again - plumed smoke over Xander's head. "Don't sodding care. Notice you didn't stay and fight, Harris. What happened - get a little tarnish on your Sheriff's badge?"
"You bastard." Xander's fist seemed to fly up and out of its own accord and Spike dodged back half a step, laughing. *Laughing. Fucker.*
"Ooh, still got that temper, Harris. Still got that urge to knock my teeth down my throat? Go on and give it a try, then."
"I know you got the chip out," Xander said - swung again, lower, and Spike skipped nimbly to the side, lifting his cigarette to his mouth and inhaling.
"Yeah, I got the soddin' chip out. One for you. Now - what're you gonna do about it, Harris?"
"I - I'm -" Xander stopped. Stopped dead. Stood there and stared at Spike, feeling his shoulders slumping down - feeling his breathing even out. "Nothing."
"Nothing?" Spike laughed again, incredulous, and Xander turned abruptly and started to walk away - walk home. Shaking inside.
*Can't do anything. Can't stop him - can't get anybody here fast enough...* And quietly, so quietly underneath it all: *Don't want to die, not now, not...because of him. Won't.*
Spike was at his elbow suddenly, cigarette too close and a scowl on his face. "C'mon, Harris - you're just gonna walk away? Not even gonna try and get a rise out of me? Not gonna give me some excitement?"
"I'm not a fucking peep-show, Spike. No. I'm not. I can't beat you in a fight - we both know it. I'm not looking to die tonight, thank you very much."
"Harris!" There was real exasperation in Spike's voice and Xander looked over at him - studied him for a minute. The same multi-colored hair, standing up wildly all over his head - the same ladder of bracelets up his left forearm except there were leather ones mixed in now, strung with polished stones. Black t-shirt that looked like it was held together by safety pins and a prayer. Expression of irritation as he stomped along in his same old boots, straps and buckles wound around his ankles and his worn jeans torn along one thigh.
"What?" Xander said, and Spike took a last draw on his cigarette - flicked the butt away into the street.
"I'm not going to kill you! Wasn't even thinking about it." Xander felt his eyebrows going up and Spike made his best 'trust me' face, hand to his heart. "Didn't kill anybody in the club, either. It's too bloody easy, killing boys like that. They're all too soft." He kicked moodily at a soda can and Xander had to laugh.
"Yeah, well, sorry I'm such a pathetic excuse for a man. Pardon me if I don't actually believe you." *Jesus Christ. This is weird. So, so weird. I don't want weird, I want to go home and...god help me, snuggle my kittens.* Xander shook his head and Spike looked at him.
"You don't look too soft, Harris." Spike's gaze traveled from Xander's sweat-sticky hair to his boots - lingered here and there and Xander had the uncomfortable feeling that Spike knew Mr. Grabby-hands had got him worked up on the dance floor. Hard and ready for - something - that finding Spike had totally derailed. "Bet you could go a round or two with me." Said with a tilt of the head and a leer and Xander felt the blood rush to his face.
"Jesus, Spike! Tell me you did not just - come on to me!"
"Sure, why not? You don't look half-bad anymore, Harris. And I'm bored."
"So go home and - and - entertain yourself with Sacha." Xander tried to walk a little faster, but Spike easily kept up.
"Oh, Sacha. He's not around. I'm not living there anymore, anyway. Wanted my own flat."
"Not around? What does -?"
"He's on tour, Harris!" Spike shook his head in disgust - lit another cigarette. "He got a part in some show, they're traveling. I never liked that flat, anyway - it was just temporary. Got my own place now," he added, shooting Xander a look from under his lashes and Xander shook his head, a weird little flutter in his stomach.
"Good. Great - I'm happy for you. Look, I'm gonna get a cab, how about you just - just go away, okay? I mean, if you're not gonna kill me you really don't need to hang around." *And I'll believe the not-killing thing when I - uh - wake up alive.* Xander looked around a little frantically and saw a bodega on the next corner, half the signs in Spanish and a group of teenage kids just coming out, carrying drinks and bags of chips. They turned in the opposite direction and Xander dithered for a minute, wondering if Spike would go after them.
"I'm not gonna slaughter the innocent tonight, Harris. Stop being such a prat."
"Oh, fuck off," Xander muttered - strode rapidly up the street, digging for change. He never took Mr. Tubic's cell or his own out when he went clubbing - he'd lost one phone that way, and didn't feel like replacing another.
"Not nice, Harris," Spike said - lounged like a big, pale cat against the phone while Xander dialed the number from memory and gave them his location.
"I don't have to be nice to you, Spike. You were never nice to me or anybody else so just - fuck off, okay?"
"Saved your life a time or two," Spike said, but he said it as if he kind of regretted it and Xander made a small sound of disgust.
"Yeah, in between the death threats and the stealing and the double-crossing you managed to keep me from getting my head ripped off a time or two. Thanks." Spike glared at him and Xander glared back, willing himself to forget the time Spike had been tortured for Dawn's sake - willing himself to forget Spike sitting huddled and shaking, crying so hard he couldn't get up while Xander and Giles had wrapped Buffy's body in a piece of spare tarp. Xander blinked - looked away from that laser-sharp blue stare that - reminded. Turned away all together and pushed into the bodega, heading toward the coolers and a bottle of water.
He grabbed a water - paid for it and nodded to the thin little man behind the counter. Spike hadn't followed him in and he hoped the vampire had gotten bored enough to just leave. *If he's annoying me he's not - slaughtering the innocent, though. Gotta count for something.* As he went outside he glanced around and there was Spike, perched on a Seattle Post-Intelligencer machine, smoking and kicking his boot heels rhythmically into the metal sides. He hopped off when Xander came out and sauntered over, grinning.
"Don't you want to go home?" Xander asked, cracking open the bottle.
"Why would I do that when I've got you to annoy? So how long've you been a poufter, Harris?"
"How long have you?" Xander shot back, then gulped down about half the water. The cold made his teeth ache but he was dry-mouthed and his throat was scratchy.
"Doesn't really work that way for us demons, Harris." Spike looked up the street, headlights sweeping across his face and shadowing his eyes for a moment. "Here's your ride."
"Yeah - great - okay." Xander capped his water and lifted a hand - watched the taxi glide up to the curb and then turned. "Spike, just don't -" But Spike was gone.
When he got back to his apartment, Spot and Jerome came running to meet him, talking excitedly. Apparently, Siamese cats talked a lot. Xander liked it. He bent down and picked them both up - snuggled them up under his chin as he went back to his bedroom. Flopping on the bed, he let them crawl over his shoulders and lap as he got his boots off, then shooed them away so he could undress. He stood for a minute just staring at himself in the mirror. He didn't look like a - coward. But he kind of felt like one. Deep down, where he pushed the quiet hurt that still persisted at every birthday and Christmas that passed without any acknowledgment from his parents. The place where, sometimes, he examined his life and wondered if he'd just copped out. Of everything. *Just trying to live. Like Buffy and Wills and Dawnie are. I'm just not...killing anything to do it.* Spot and Jerome were pouncing on his boots, tangling themselves in the laces. Cream bellies and dark brown points at paws, tail, and face.
"He owes some fish-headed guy forty Siamese kittens." Buffy's voice, from years ago - 'de-toxing' at her house with nachos and Twizzlers and root beer after the Tabula Rasa thing. "Spike plays poker for kittens!" They'd all laughed. Xander reached down and scruffed his hand over Spot and Jerome's backs.
*What if he wants these guys for a pot? Oh, my god. I'm losin' it. He doesn't even know I have kittens. Or where I live.* Xander tossed his clothes into the laundry basket in the closet - went into the bathroom and got the shower going, nice and hot. Tried not to think about milk-pale arms and long, ringed fingers and lively eyes lined in black. Tried and failed, and stood for long minutes in front of the window in his darkened bedroom, looking down onto the street. Nothing stirred, but he still felt uneasy. He dreamed in a random, restless way all night.
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Either way, most people tend to overwrite scenes in clubs, too much description of lights and people and music. I go to a club to dance and everything else is superfluous to me. Also I do the thing where you go hard for a bit then out to cool off then dive back at full throttle again, so that sounded right.
Can't guarantee that it worked for everyone, but it did for me:-)
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I'm glad it worked. That's cool. :)
Thanks for breaking it down for me!