tabaqui | Tumble, Turn, Overflow...part three and Douse

Tumble, Turn, Overflow...part three and Douse_House!

Wednesday, May 24th, 2006 01:17 pm

Hullo!
First, a little pimp of the

douse_house! The teaser trailer for episode three 'Normalization' is up.

In which Spike is bored and visitors happen.

Now, fic! S/X of coz. Previous parts are here.
*i'm such a dork. the song-quote is in *this* part. sheesh*

Xander gave Spike two more of his Oxycontin and all but carried him onto the plane - waved faxes and questionable doctor's papers at the crew and got Spike belted in, half-drowned in the folds of his coat. The flight attendants hovered and fluttered and even unconscious and looking like an advertisement for anorexia, Spike still had...it.

*Whatever the hell 'it' is. Something I only have with geeks and girls under the age of sixteen. Oh, and guys with a death-wish, can't forget that...* Xander ordered a Bloody Mary and crunched his celery morosely all through take-off. Four hours to Chicago, then they had to change planes to get to Cleveland. Xander hoped the pills would last until they were safely in his car - safely headed home, to normal October weather.

*I am out of my mind. Completely out of my mind. Worse than Spike, even!* Spike shifted sluggishly - muttered something unintelligible, his eyes slitting open for a moment in the dimness of the cabin. Xander downed the last of his drink and signaled for another. *Just get me home...maybe I'll figure out why the hell I'm doing this once I'm home...*

But he didn't have any more of a clue driving down I-90 - taking his exit into Tremont - heading east toward the river and home home home like some sort of migrating bird. Spike was a little brighter, sitting slouched but eyes open in the passenger seat.

"Where're we at?" he asked finally, his voice a little slurred, his eyes narrow and blue and different. Spike's stare had never been that...old before.

"We're home. Well, my home. Cleveland."

Spike blinked and looked out the window again - hummed for a moment, ghostly scratch of a voice. "'Cause the Cuyahoga River...Goes smokin' through my dreams..."

"Yeah, exactly," Xander said softly, and turned onto Third Street. His street. *Almost there, almost there...* He wasn't sure, exactly, why he wanted to be home so badly. But his little voice was telling him that it was the best - the only place to be right that minute, and he didn't fight that little voice. Good or bad, it was the only direction he had in his life anymore, and he didn't ignore it. Much.

"This is me," Xander said, pulling his car into the driveway and up in front of the ramshackle garage. He hadn't gotten around to fixing that up too much yet. The house was an old frame house - two stories, wrap-around porch, gingerbreading and little, scrolly details in every corner. Even a couple of panes of old, leaded glass in the upper story, stained a faded blue. A lot of it Xander had fixed, and more than fixed. Saved - rebuilt - polished smooth and perfect. It kept his mind off...things.

Kind of like the beer. And the pills.

"Posh digs, Harris," Spike mumbled, squinting against a stray shaft of sunlight, peering at the house. White and green and grey with a touch of scarlet here and there - day lilies and hastas and iris and other easy, self-propagating plants in the beds flanking the porch and foundation. Things that girls with lives that moved too fast had planted and left behind.

"Yeah - used to be the Slayer house, when the Hellmouth here was open." Xander turned the car off and got out - dragged carry-on and briefcase over the seat and out. "Let's get inside."

"Sure. Wouldn't want the neighbors to see me," Spike said, fumbling with the seatbelt.

"Oh, fuck the neighbors. I'm tired." Tired, sore, headache - sick to death of Spike already and why in fuck had he thought bringing the ex-vampire, ex-champion, ex-pain in the ass back here was a good idea? *I need a fucking drink.*

Spike managed to undo the seatbelt and follow Xander inside, hitching at the sweats Xander decided were his now. He sure as hell didn’t want them back. Somebody at the hospital had cleaned the coat - some awe-struck idiot candystriper, Xander guessed, who'd believed his story about Spike being a vet. The same idiot who'd got Spike a razor and helped him shave and Xander was secretly glad of that, because the scruffy-bearded look was just too...weird.

Inside the house it was chilly, the air still and slightly stale. Xander hung his keys on the little peg-board by the door and went straight upstairs. The downstairs was where the kitchen was - the big living room and the office and three bedrooms that had housed Slayers.

Xander didn't live downstairs. He lived up. Two bedrooms, bathroom, and one big room across the back of the house with a little kitchenette in one corner and all his electronic stuff in the other. Empty middle space where he did...stuff. Tools and workbenches and things along the wall and three tall windows that framed trees, train tracks and the river.

Xander dropped his carry-on and briefcase at the top of the stairs - stepped out of his shoes and walked straight to the middle window.

"That some sort of Zen thing? Yoga or somesuch shite?" Spike's voice was less slurred now - a little clearer and a lot meaner.

"It's windows, Spike. Even you should be able to see that." Xander finally surrendered to the burning irritation of sweaty cotton and too-tight elastic and took the patch off - shoved it into his jeans-pocket. He rubbed absently at the side of his face, blinking. Wanting to turn away when Spike shuffled up beside him.

"Here - how in fuck - why in hell d'you wear a patch, Harris?"

Spike's face was soft with surprise, his eyes wider and his mouth open and Xander sighed. Rubbed his left eye and looked out the window again, waiting for his vision to focus and settle. The sky outside was a soft, deep purple, shading to navy along the horizon. There were lights here and there scattered like points of static flame and the last, ruddy beams of the setting sun glinted carmine and prune-purple and turquoise off the river.

"It's a long and fucked up story and I really don't wanna tell it right now." At Spike's sour look, he added: "Why are you alive?"

"Because the world's a fucked up place, that's why," Spike muttered, and walked away - walked over to the shelves where the DVDs lived and started poking through them. His hands were shaking and Xander sighed again.

*Probably needs another hit. Really don't want him doing the withdrawal thing up here... Fuck.* "I'm hungry - I'm gonna order some food." Spike didn’t say anything and Xander shrugged - went over to the junk drawer in the kitchenette and pulled out the delivery menus. Tonight, he felt like ribs. Big, greasy ribs with corn and home fries and coleslaw - slabs of buttery Texas toast. Carbs and fat and dead animal flesh and maybe he could shake the nauseating buzz of a day's worth of travel.

Forty minutes, they said, so Xander took a shower and put on flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt - shrugged into his ratty hoodie that he kept on the back of the bedroom door and shuffled his feet into fleecy slippers. Willow's idea of a joke, last Christmas, and even when their old-man aura made him wince, he'd been happy to have them when the temperature had dipped below zero.

When he came out of his bedroom, his carry-on was open and his toiletries bag was up-ended on the top of the stairs, contents scattered. And Spike was curled up on his couch, fleece throw pulled haphazardly over his legs. Xander cursed, looking over the mess. The bottle of pills was gone. *Fuck. Need to know how many he took. Last thing I fucking need is him ODing here...shit...should have thought...* Xander went over and roughly shook Spike's shoulder. Spike jerked away from him, batting weakly at Xander's hand.

"Where in fuck are the pills, Spike? How many'd you take?"

"Jus' a couple, Harris - f-fuck, they're on the - sink." Spike waved a thin hand toward the opposite corner and Xander glanced over - saw the bottle sitting there, lid off and a glass sitting next to it.

"Don't fucking take my stuff, Spike. Not without asking." Spike blinked at him, slow as molasses and only halfway there and Xander wanted to shake him again, if only to get that look of idiot confusion off his face. *Like he's not even all fucking there - not in there even without the damn pills...* "I ordered food -"

"M'not hungry," Spike said, and burrowed down into coat and cushions. Xander stared down at him for a minute and then shrugged.

"Well - good. More for me, then." He scooped up his stuff and put it all away, pills going into the drawer in the bedside table.

When the food came, Xander ate steadily until every last bit was gone, then he washed up, locked up, and went to bed. He spared a thought for Spike on the couch but then dismissed him from his mind. Spike was out, Xander was tired and fuck it. There was other stuff in the bathroom and if Spike wanted to OD then Xander could just drag him down to the river and topple him in. *And hello, morbid-me. Haven't seen you in a while.* Morbid-Xander just flashed a blood-flecked grin and Xander downed the last of his whisky and went to bed.

He woke to the sound of something breaking and was awake and on his feet, heart pounding, before he even remembered Spike. Too many years of life-and-death in the dead of the night and he sagged back onto the edge of the bed for a moment, catching his breath. Listening to random bumps and bangs and then Spike's voice, cursing.

"Fucking - hell -" Spike sounded shaky - desperate - and Xander jerked on his clothes in the pale grey-blue of nearly-dawn, kicking the edge of his door and hissing in pain as he struggled into his hoodie - strode out of his room and into the kitchenette. Where half the cabinet doors were open - plates and cups and pots and things shoved around or stacked on the counter.

"What the hell are you doing?" Spike was kneeling on the edge of Xander's kitchen counter, head and shoulders deep in the cabinet that held - well - Xander didn't really know what it held. Something breakable, 'cause it was on the floor in pieces.

Spike jerked around at Xander's voice, clutching at the edge of the cabinet. Stripped down to sweats and t-shirt, his knuckles bloody and his face pale and sweating. "Looking for the god damn pills. What the fuck've you done with them?"

"I put 'em away since they're mine, you asshole." Xander hated being jerked out of sleep like that - he felt cold and shaky, only half awake. He hugged his arms around his ribs, yawning.

"Well, I bloody well need one. Need soemthing to - fucking go away," Spike shouted and jabbed furiously at thin air - at the wall. The wall didn't dent but Spike's knuckles did and he cursed and sucked at them, glaring at Xander.

"You need to get the hell down from there. What'd you break?"

Spike looked down at the floor, twisting on his knees, the soles of his feet clean and white, his nails too long but oddly white, too. "Dunno. Some kind of big - bowl."

"Oh." The punch bowl. He'd bought it for a Christmas party two years ago - hadn't touched it since. *No big loss. Except he doesn't need to be up in my fucking cabinets breaking my stuff. Looking for drugs, for Christ's sake.* "You owe me. Now get down."

"Where'd you put the fucking pills, Harris?" Spike twisted around more and sat - pushed off the counter and landed inches from razoring glass and Xander finally noticed that his workbenches were ransacked - his DVDs and CDs all pulled out onto the floor - everything gone through.

*Oh, you fucking did not -* "You complete motherfucker! Look what you did!"

Spike followed Xander's waving hand with an indifferent - narrowed - gaze. "It's not that bloody bad, I'll put it back, just gimme -"

"No. You don't get shit. Except maybe locked up. I should never have brought you back here."

Spike sucked in a breath and glared at Xander, arms locked around his ribs. He was sweating a little, a fine dew of it on his upper, lightly-stubbled lip. "I didn't bloody well ask you to, did I, you sanctimonious prat! Was doing fine on my own."

"Yeah, in jail -"

Spike pushed his hands back through his sweat-tendriled, too long hair, digging in and pulling in a way that looked damn uncomfortable. "They would have let me out! Don't have money to fuckin' keep me there, didn't have any damn beds and I only got pissed and broke a window." Spike's hands slipped down out of his hair and dragged over his neck - shoulders - arms. Where nails met skin, he left marks behind.

"Don't -"

"Thirty days, maybe, and I'd have been out with some new clothes and some - some drugs from one'a the other b-bastards in there and - and - fuck, it's fucking hot in here, it's - god damn bugs, Harris, you've got -"

"I don't have bugs, you idiot, it's you. You've got the - DT's or whatever."

Spike just stared at him, his eyes too wide and too dark - more pupil than anything else. Scratching his arms again - longer, deeper and a little more frantic and Xander felt his gut curdling, watching the skin redden and then split under the ragged edges of Spike's broken nails.

"Spike, look -"

"God damnit, fucking hot - Jesus, filthy fucking house -" Spike twisted, clawing at his stomach - ripped the t-shirt up and off and raked his chest, a look of growing panic on his face. "What the fuck are they, what've you - Harris, damnit -" Spike was jerking, now - twisting and scratching and kicking - blood smearing across his ribs and the sweats slipping down - showing a bruised, too-prominent hip bone and a dark curl of hair.

Jittering not quite in place and Xander put his hand out, looking around for the broom. "Spike, damnit - just stand still! You're gonna -"

"Fuck! Fucking - god damn -" Spike took one step too many and his foot skidded through the shards of glass, leaving a glittering ruby trail over the varnished floor. "Jesus - Christ!" His voice went high and shrill and he reeled back into the cabinets and hit, hard. Slid down the pale wood, his hands gripping his ankle. He was back to the shaking - back to sweating and looking like he might puke at any moment.

Xander leaned and snatched the broom from the crack between 'fridge and counter - did a quick one-two-three sweep at the glass, grimacing as the bristles smeared the blood. "Sit still, just - lemme look -" He went to his knees, taking Spike's ankle in his own hands and lifting his foot, squinting at it. Spike twitched in his grip, hands absently clawing at this thighs and Xander spared a moment's thought that at least he couldn't draw blood through the thick sweats.

"There's a piece of glass in here, I gotta get it out - hold still -"

"Fuck, fuck, buggering - fuck, will you leave me alone?" Spike tried to jerk his foot away and Xander jerked back hard, ignoring the sudden shift of Spike's tone from 'pissed off' to 'panicked'. "Just leave me the fuck alone! Please, please, please!"

Xander looked up sharply, scowling - ready to snap something but Spike wasn't looking at him - wasn't looking at anything. Was twisting his fingers in his hair again - leaning forward and then bang. His skull connected hard with the cabinet behind him and Xander jumped, his hand squeezing hard around Spike's ankle. Probably hurting him. "Knock it the fuck off!" Spike ignored him - didn't hear him - and bang again. Bang, bang, bang, harder and faster. "Stop it - stop it -"

"Out, out -get the fuck out -" Spike slammed himself back hard enough that the cabinet door cracked and Xander just stood up and yanked - jerked Spike down the cabinet and onto his back and then sat on him, Spike's leg pretzeled up toward his face and Spike's bony hips digging into Xander's ass.

"Hold fucking still and let me get this fucking glass out!"

"Lemme go - Harris, stop it, just - fucking stop it - ow - ow!" Spike twisted and clawed Xander's back - flailed out with his fist and hit the broken cabinet and Xander tossed a bloody, two-inch shard of glass into the sparkling little blood-spattered pile in the corner. Spike's torn t-shirt was by his knee and he picked it up and shredded it a little more, wrapping and tying and watching the blood start to seep through.

"Christ. You're gonna need stitches, this isn't stopping."

Spike convulsed under him, gasping, and his other foot skidded on the floor as his hands pushed uselessly at Xander's back. "No - no, I don't - just let me - Harris, let me the fuck up, just -"

"You need stitches -"

"I'm gonna be sick!" Spike yelled and Xander stood up fast - reached down and yanked Spike up by his arm and the waist of his sweats and shoved him hard toward the sink. Spike yelped when his foot hit the floor and then he leaned over the sink and threw up hard - hard enough to make Xander reach up over the stove and grab the bottle of scotch he kept there. Not his favorite drink, but fuck, he needed....

*Need a little calm around here. Jesus. Need to get him the fuck out of here. What the hell was I thinking?* Spike gagged again, the sound raw and horrible, nothing coming up but bile. He reached and fumbled the faucet on - put shaking hands under the stream and rinsed and rinsed his mouth - slicked a handful of water back through his hair and then hung there, breathing. *Breathing. Damnit. Breathing and bleeding and puking and having bugs in his eyes or whatever in my damn kitchen, in my damn house... in my damn life.*

Xander took a long drink from the bottle - coughed and wiped his mouth and then held it out. "Here. Get the taste out."

Spike looked around slowly, water beaded on his face - on his lashes. Dripping from the ends of his hair onto his shoulders and Xander watched his hand reach for the bottle and miss it. Reach again and Xander moved it and Spike's fingers curved around the neck. Brought it to his mouth and clattered the glass against his teeth and Xander watched a drop of water run down the side of Spike's throat and pool in the deep indent of his collarbone.

"Thanks." Scratched-thin voice, barely a whisper. Exhausted slump to his shoulders and the shaking in his hands was moving up and out - shivers that seemed to start somewhere in Spike's bones. He hunched in on himself - took another drink and coughed, wiping his wrist over his mouth and then wiping it under his nose. "Fuckin' mess, me."

"Yeah, just like my fucking house. Shit." Spike's blood was dripping through the t-shirt and Xander turned abruptly and stomped toward his bedroom. Turned around at the door and stared back at Spike who looked like a ghost, standing there under the too-white fluorescent light. "If you freak out or puke in my car or do or say anything fucked up at the hospital I'm gonna tell 'em you're suicidal."

"Fuck you, Harris!" Spike yelled, and tipped the bottle up, gulping. Xander got dressed, knowing the smile on his face was a mean one. He didn't care.

Continued here.

Tags:

spander,
tumble

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