lunabee34 | Second Edition of Still Untitled Fic

Hey! Here's the next installment of the Spander fic I started last week. I am still searching for a possible title for this piece. Any suggestions are very welcome! Thanks to

eyezrthewindows for her help with the Andrew dialogue!
Thanks to

kitty_poker1 for the, as always, amazing beta.

Pairing: S/X, eventually
Rating: NC-17 (until I get sued for the rating system *g*), eventually; this part has mild drug use
Author's Notes: This episode takes place shortly afte the Angel ep "Damage."

Part 1

Untitled

Xander’s fingers closed slowly around a handful of sand, powder-fine and warmed from the sun. The water that seemed to stretch out in a straight line from his toes to endlessness was blue and green and, in places, a kind of deep purple. The raw feeling he’d carried in his gut far too long eased marginally; he could feel the brokenness inside him wanting desperately to knit back together. Beach noise collapsed into nothingness, while Andrew’s voice magnified to fill the void it left behind.

Xander drew a breath that, for once, didn’t fight its way to the surface through a heavy weight. He smiled, one he thought just might crack the corners of his mouth and answered. “Yeah, I’m here, Andrew. I just can’t believe it’s possible. Whaddya mean, Spike’s alive?”

Andrew snorted. “Well, he’s not technically alive, but ya know, as undead, as he ever was."

“How?” Xander thought he might get up and dance; grab one of those sorority girls lounging on towels just beyond his cover of rocks and swing her around until they were both dizzy and her boyfriend felt compelled to protect her honor from the crazy pirate. Spike is alive. He's alive. He's alive. He's alive he's alive he's alive.

“That amulet he was wearing in the battle with the First sucked him inside somehow. I don’t know exactly. Giles seems to think figuring out the mystery is really important. I can see research-frenzy seriously cutting into my Star Gate SG-1 time."

“Sounds about right.” Xander laughed. “So Giles knows about Spike? Do the others know yet?”

Xander heard Andrew’s throat working furiously again and the tinny clink of glass against metal. When he spoke, Andrew’s voice sounded small and very far away. "That's sorta the reason I'm calling, Xan."

Xander tightened his grip subconsciously on that handful of sand, the grains sliding between his fingers until his nails met no resistance and drew blood in his palm. Andrew had called him Xan precisely three times to date.

The first time--they drank whiskey together in the tiny motel room they shared in Memphis, a battered school bus just visible through the slats of the blinds. Andrew gripped his arm and whispered, “I still feel it sometimes, Xan. The knife . . . just . . . going into him. It—it was easier than I thought it'd be. And his blood was on my hand; the blade...it caught on something inside him. I can't believe it was so easy.” And then Andrew cried until he threw up, the dirty tile of the bathroom floor scoring his knees.

The second time Andrew used that name--he and Xander were helping Giles organize his library in the office building that now served as the new Watchers’ Headquarters. Andrew carelessly knocked a pile of books to the floor, and Giles responded angrily, “Stupid boy! These books are particularly volatile and could cause great harm should their bindings be broken. Pray go pester someone else. I’m sure Robin would love to hear again your fascinating rendition of the ‘Tale of the Slayer of Vampyres.’” Giles took the armload of volumes to the back of the room and began to shelve them. Andrew recoiled from the Watcher’s tone and ran a hand self-consciously through his dark blonde hair. Before he left, Andrew turned sad eyes on Xander. “I’ll—I’ll see ya later, Xan. I know I’m not needed or wanted here. I’m the Star Trek nerd that should’ve realised I was just a red shirt back in Sunnydale. I should’ve thrown myself on Ubervamp’s sword and given Spock’s farewell speech from Wrath of Khan. That would’ve been the way to go out. Not that Anya would’ve gotten it, but maybe she’d be here now instead of me.” Before Xander could even respond, Andrew was gone, jamming his hands in his pockets and walking away with his chin nearly to his chest.

The last time--they were in the desert, smoking hash Xander had bought from the local shaman and laughing at the mini-model of Uncles Owen’s place on Tatooine they’d built from rocks and a desiccated piece of wood. It looked very little like the movie set, but the drugs were good, and they were pleased with the results. Xander rocked back on his heels and grinned at Andrew, his teeth a blinding white in his darkened face. Andrew loaded another bowl of the sticky stuff, starting to smile himself, when the hand holding the lighter shook violently. “Are you okay?” Xander asked, concern pulling him quickly to something resembling sobriety.

“Yeah. I’m okay. I got hit with some mojo two months ago. One of the new Slayers Buffy found in Rome was a witch. Nothing to rival scary, veiny Willow, but a pretty powerful witch all the same. Long story short, she didn’t want to play the white hat so she zapped me. I still get shaky sometimes.”

Xander took the pipe from him then and, holding it to his friend’s mouth, lit the ball of hash. Andrew blew thick smoke down on Uncle Owen’s igloo and said, “I met a guy that same trip. A nice, normal guy who teaches English at a language school just outside Vatican City. He came to the hotel to pick me up for dinner right after WitchBitch sent about a bajillion volts through me. Buffy was all powerful and firm and didn’t even let him in the room. My clothes were charred; I smelled like Porky’s Barbecue minus the yummy sauce. He must’ve seen past Buffy, though, ‘cause I never heard from him again.” Andrew stared at his hands as the shaking reduced to a tremble, then an occasional twitch. “How do we start over outside Sunnydale? At least on the Hellmouth, everybody knew that things really go bump in the night. Even the ones who pretended not to see knew there just aren’t enough rabid dogs on the whole planet to account for all the people who die from ‘canine’ bites. People out here don’t know. Really don’t know. I just want somebody to understand all the freaky shit I’ve been through and love me anyway. Xan, I’m so lonely.”

Xander felt an icy wash of apprehension threaten to overwhelm the first moment of joy he’d felt in what seemed like years and forced himself to concentrate instead on what Andrew was saying. “Giles sent me to L.A. for the psycho Slayer, but also to deliver a message. Angel and his team of Scoobie-clones have joined forces with Wolfram and Hart, this empire of lawyers that have their demonic fingers in evil pies all around the world. Angel’s CEO of their California office now, and he’s trying to do good with their resources, but the Council is afraid he’s being, um, corrupted. The seers in the Council seem to think something bad is coming and that the L. A. gang will be involved. They want no part of whatever, and I quote, ‘misery they bring on themselves.’ Giles even made me memorize a little speech—‘Nobody in our camp trusts you anymore. You work for Wolfram and Hart. Don’t fool yourself . . . We’re not on the same side.’ I didn't really have a problem with this scenario. I’d go, get the Slayer, deliver the message, come home, and be playing WarCraft again before two days had passed. So, I waited in the conference room for Angel, but when the door opened, it was Spike.”

Andrew laughed then, a genuine belly laugh. “I was just so shocked to see him. It was like . . . he was resurrected for being such a real hero. You know? I was so nervous I babbled—‘You’re like Gandalf the White, resurrected from the pit of the Balrog, only more beautiful than ever.’ That's what I said. I think he was happy to see me too. He didn't throw me off when I started hugging him, even though, I kinda snotted on his shirt, I think.”

Xander laughed too, despite the feeling that Andrew had other, more unpleasant things to say. “I would’ve gone with the Search for Spock metaphor, myself, and wow, I think I really hit the top of the geek threshold with that comment."

Andrew giggled. “I just couldn’t help myself, Xander. You know how I feel about him. He’s like Han Solo and Worf and David Bowie all rolled into one. He's just so amazing. Anyway, I realized right off that Spike is working for them, with them. I’ve come to chew out these people I don’t know, just like Giles told me to, and instead I get to tell the guy who saved my life—the whole world, really—to s-s-sod off.”

Xander smiled internally at Andrew’s choice of words. The new Watcher often peppered his conversation with British slang, but Xander couldn’t tell if Andrew did it for effect or if the change in his friend’s speech patterns was the unconscious result of living in London. “What did you do?”

“What did I do? What did I do? I acted like a total loser; that’s what I did. It's like I went back in time and turned into that geek everyone knew and distrusted back in Sunnydale. I couldn’t stand to face Spike the way I am now. I’ve changed so much, Xander. I didn’t want to look at him with my true face and tell him that we’re leaving him to sink or swim. So I played the part. I told Wesley that I was more of an expert on the paranormal than he is and implied that Giles still has doubts about him. I told ‘The Tale of the Slayer of the Vampyres’ and could feel their eyes on me. The looks on their faces said it all. They weren't impressed even a little, just like back at Headquarters. I chomped on a pipe and generally made a huge ass of myself in front of everybody. It felt easier that way, less of a betrayal somehow.”

“I’m sorry, Andrew. Really sorry they sent you to do a shit job. But Giles obviously didn’t know Spike was alive, or he wouldn’t have . . .”

“That’s just the thing,” Andrew interrupted. “He did know. Whoever called him from L. A. told him Spike was alive. He knows, and he just doesn’t care.”

“What?! I don’t understand. Spike went up like a Roman candle for the good of all mankind, and Giles doesn’t think that deserves some consideration? He thinks something bad is going down soon in L. A., and Spike doesn’t get a heads-up?” Xander drew a ragged breath and thought Calm calm calm calm calm. He looked out at the sea and willed the rage welling up inside him to subside. He focused on the sailboats dotting the harbor, the salt drying on his calves, the tiny waves folding in on themselves and merging to dash like lemmings against his feet.

“It gets worse, Xander. Angel’s gang doesn’t seem to care, either. About Spike, I mean. Psycho Slayer cut both his hands off . . .”

Xander shot to his feet, all pretense of calm abandoned. “His hands! She cut off his fucking hands!”

“Hey, Xander, breathe, my friend. Some demon doctor on the Wolfram and Hart payroll reattached them, and he’s good as new. The point is, no one on Angel's team seemed to give a flying crap. They had Spike patched up, but nobody went to the hospital to check on him or acted like they really cared about what had happened to him. It was so sad, Xander. He was all alone and hurting and couldn't even move his fingers and . . . he was so alone. Most of the time I was in L. A., everyone treated Spike like...well, like how I'm treated. And he doesn't deserve that. I know what I am, what I was and . . . he doesn't deserve that. Not after all he's done. I don’t think he wants to stay there but he’s afraid to leave. He doesn’t want Buffy to know he’s alive. I think he feels like he has nowhere else to go.”

Something warm and full of regret broke in Xander’s chest. Nowhere to go. Why would he think we want him? After all the things we said, I said . . . “Do you think Angel really is being corrupted?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Harmony is his receptionist!”

Xander snickered. “Good one. I’ll bet Cordelia is just eating that up with a spoon.”

“Oh, God. That’s the other thing. Xander, Cordy’s in a coma.”

Suddenly, Xander felt numb. Apparently a body doesn’t forget the proper way to respond to tragedy, after all. He’d felt like this after Jesse died, after Ms. Calendar died, after he’d become the hyena, after they’d put Buffy in the ground. His lips twisted in a wry parody of a grin. Nope. No breaks for us. Nobody ever really escapes the Hellmouth, I guess.

“For how long?” Xander demanded. “Will she get better?”

Andrew sighed. “I don’t know. Months, maybe. Since before Spike turned up. No one would say. They almost seemed confused about what happened to her. I did a tiny spell in Angel’s bathroom to check for magical residue. I think their memories are being controlled somehow, like in that new cool new movie with Julianne Moore. Only, you know, not really cool so much as...twisted and weird. Except Angel and Spike. Their auras are clear. The only ones that are, actually.”

Xander sat back on the sand and let a long, companionable silence grow between them. Silence had cemented their friendship in the first place; their willingness to share the same space and not say anything was a precious commodity. He could hear the Slayers on Andrew’s plane laughing and giggling. He heard Andrew pour another drink.

Finally, Andrew spoke. “You’re going to L. A., aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I owe it to Spike and Cordelia. I can’t just leave Spike where he’s not wanted. And I have to know what happened to Cordy and if she’s in any danger.”

“I thought you’d go.” Xander could hear the wistfulness in Andrew’s voice and thought again how deeply his friend’s charade must’ve hurt him. “Call me when you get there?”

“You bet. Thanks, Andrew.”

Xander hung up the phone. At some point during the conversation the wine bottle had tipped, spilling a wide arc on the sand. The stain was deep reds and browns like old blood. Xander dragged a finger through its wetness and made a call to the Council’s travel agent.