lunabee34 | Finally, huh, people!!!!!!!!

Title: Shadowlands Part 9
Email: lunabee34@yahoo.com
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Spike/Xander
Disclaimers: The Buffyverse and all its characters belong to Joss Whedon & co. The story is mine.
Summary: Set immediately after the Ats ep "Damage." Xander finds out Spike is alive and comes to L. A. to see for himself.
Beta:

kitty_poker1 Thanks so much!!!!!

Okay, people, I know it's been forfuckingever. You've probably forgotten all about this. I know I had. *g* My muse thought it would be funny to run off with the circus and see the world, but she came back, a little underfed but slightly more limber.

Previous parts play strip poker HERE

Shadowlands Part 9

Xander shrugged. “What do I want, Spike? I wanna stop being so lonely. I wanna be happy. I really think I wanna kiss you again.”

Spike smiled, almost shyly. “That’s a tall order, Harris, but I think I can help you with that last bit, at least.” Spike leaned in towards him, grabbing a handful of Xander’s shirt to pull him closer and shuddering when viscous zombie gore squished through his fingers. He eyed Xander as if only then noticing the state of his clothes. “I can’t believe I licked your neck before, what with all this shit on you.”

Xander looked himself over critically. Blood was drying in the hairs on his forearms, tugging at his skin and making it itch. His shirt had lifted away from his chest with a sickening wet sound under Spike’s fingers and fallen again, heavy and cool, when Spike released him. So glad Cordy’s not gonna be getting that credit card bill. I can’t believe this shirt didn’t even last a day. Guess Michael Kors really isn’t the best choice for Scooby apparel. Spike looked even worse. Smears of something green and white ran down both legs of his pants and flaked off in large slivers when he shifted his weight. A severed finger had tangled in the laces of his Doc Martens, a grey lozenge of flesh shrouded in black thread.

Xander wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Okay. Minor revision of the plan. I think showers are the first order of business. Cleanliness before horniness, or something like that.”

Spike raised his eyebrow and leered, somehow making the streak of blood just under his left cheekbone seem sexy, an observation that only slightly disturbed Xander. He blushed. “Look, Spike, I know we have to talk about this, but can it wait until we’re not shellacked in zombie innards?”

Spike nodded as he brushed clumps of hardening brain matter from his shirt. “Fair enough. But can we go back to your hotel, Harris?”

“Ummm…yeah. Sure. But why? Your place is bigger.”

“I don’t feel right about that flat anymore. It’s just another bloody trick Lindsey used to get to me. I can’t believe I’ve been that git’s puppet all this time.” Spike didn’t look at Xander, just kept picking at his clothes, then his nails, turning his hands over and over. “Told me I was a hero, same as Angel. Better than Angel, even.” Spike glanced up at Xander briefly before looking down again. “Can’t tell myself that lie anymore.”

I don’t know what to say. There isn’t really anything to say; nothing Spike’ll believe, anyway.

Spike bent down and gently tugged at the digit tangled in his laces; the finger refused to budge, and with a noise of frustration, Spike ripped it free, the tatters of his shoelaces trailing out on either side of his boot. Behind them, the containment cage for Wolfram and Hart’s secret weapon finally rested flush with the floor, completely closing with a metallic thud that reverberated down the long corridor.

~ ~ ~

Xander sat at the foot of the hotel bed and rubbed his damp hair with a thick, white towel. Over the low drone of the television, he could hear Spike singing in the shower. Aaah, the Vaselines. I haven’t heard “Monster Pussy” since Sunnydale. Spike was singing that in Buffy’s shower the day before I lost my eye.

They’d stopped at Spike’s apartment for clothes and a carton of cigarettes and ended up hauling the Playstation, Spike’s small collection of video games, two bottles of Glenlivet, some packets of blood and half a dozen CDs back to the hotel room. Spike had set up the Playstation while Xander was in the shower, and the rest of Spike’s things were scattered around the room in random piles.

Spike came out of Xander’s bathroom clad only in a pair of jeans, his hair a wild, wet corona around his head. He sat behind Xander and leaned back against the taupe wall, slouching down a little to clear the Van Gogh print centered above the bed. The morning sun was just beginning to send cold, grey light through the slats of the blinds, so Xander got up and drew heavy drapes across the window. He came back to the bed and sat down beside Spike.

Spike held the copy of Lady Audley’s Secret Xander had left on the nightstand; it fell open automatically in his hands: I’ve had my wound, Bob; I carry the bullet still, and I shall carry it into my coffin.* Spike touched the underlined words lightly, then paged through the novel, stopping here and there to read Xander’s marginalia—a word defined, a “yay,” a “sneaky bitch!!!!!” or two in cramped script.

“Well, this is new. Didn’t peg you for a closet Victorian novel lover, Harris.”

“I started reading them in Africa. Andrew sent me a box with all kinds of books in it, but when I read A Tale of Two Cities I was hooked. I was supposed to read that senior year,” Xander admitted, “but it kinda seemed less important than, oh say, not being strangled to death by Faith. ‘Course, if I’d realized the best Star Trek speech ever comes from that book, I might’ve paid more attention.”

Spike closed his eyes. “‘It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.’** Last thing I remember thinking before everything went up in flames.”

Xander hesitated, then asked the question that had popped into his mind. “Do you regret coming back? I know Buffy didn’t want to come back from her rest.”

Spike opened his eyes, deep blue eyes like a storm-darkened sky, and looked at Xander. “I don’t know where I went, but it wasn’t to any kinda rest. I don’t think my lot get to have that, Harris. My money’s on hellfire and brimstone.” Xander started to protest, and Spike cut him off. “Yeah, I know. I saved the damn world. Big fucking whoop. And to answer your question, I did regret it at first. Been regretting it less since you showed up in town.”

Xander couldn’t help but smile at Spike’s words. He took Lady Audley’s Secret from him and placed it on the other bedside table next to the clock. “I guess it’s time for that talk now, huh?”

Spike cocked his head to the side and took a deep breath before answering. “You know what, Xander, I don’t think so. You wanted to kiss me, and you did. I wanted to kiss you back, and I did. I know it’s not simple as all that, but it’s been more than twenty-four hours since either of us slept. I think ‘the talk’ can keep ‘til morning . . . er. . . night. Whatever.”

Xander felt some of the tension in his body dissipate. Oh, thank god. This gives me a little more time to figure out what the hell I think about all this before I try and explain it to Spike.

Lost in his own thoughts, Xander almost missed Spike’s next comment. “But before we crash, I seem to recall owing you a kiss.”

Xander’s heart started racing, and he barely remembered to breathe. When they’d kissed earlier, lives had been in mortal danger, and they’d both been filled with the manic energy of battle. But here, on Xander’s bed, Spike’s blue eyes fixed on his single brown one, his fingers reaching out to gently cup Xander’s face—this was deliberate. Premeditated, even. And what that means, hell if I know, Xander had time to think before Spike’s lips were brushing against his own. Unlike their previous kiss, this one was slow and tender, and by the time Spike pulled away they both were flushed and trembling.

When Spike finally spoke again, his voice was gruff and low. “And now, Harris, we’d better get to sleep. Another kiss like that, and this is liable to go a lot farther than you bargained for. I’ll not be accused of sullying your virtue.”

Xander snorted. “How chivalrous of you, Spike.” Spike just grinned at him and turned down his side of the bed. Xander did the same and climbed in between cool sheets.

“You sleep in that thing, Harris?” Spike gestured towards Xander’s patch.

“No. Not usually. I just thought . . . I mean. . . “

With gentle fingers, Spike lifted the patch from Xander’s face and tossed it onto the nightstand. Wordlessly, he softly traced the outline of Xander’s ruined eye and placed a chaste kiss on Xander’s temple. Then, Spike turned off the lamp and pulled the covers up over them both.
~ ~ ~

Xander balanced the Styrofoam boxes of takeout in one arm and slid his keycard into the slot on the door. “Hey, Spike. Wake up! I got Indian food—curry and butter chicken and rice with these thingies . . .” Xander’s voice trailed off when he saw Spike sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a lavender piece of paper in one hand and a matchbook in the other. Oh, shit. Anya’s letter.

Spike looked up from the letter, his eyes narrow, his lips pressed tightly together. “What the hell is this? Were you ever gonna tell me Anya has us practically married? Is that why you offered me a place to stay? Why you’re being so damn nice to me? Cause the fucking PTB told you to? I’ve had about enough of those wankers screwing around with my life! Thought you’d give me a little test drive, did ya, see if you could stomach being shackled for life to the Big Bad?” Spike’s anger was palpable, his words raw and cutting, laying Xander open.

Xander set the takeout on top of the television, his hands shaking slightly. “No. NO! It wasn’t anything like that, I swear. I didn’t even realize Anya meant you until that patrol at the car dealership. I wasn’t just using you, Spike. I wasn’t! I was just so . . . I just wanted to know . . .” Xander ran a finger under his patch; the strap suddenly felt too tight on a face hot and flushed.

“I knew something was off about this. Makes it easy to switch teams when you’ve got a decree from on high, doesn’t it? Dammit, Xander, it’s not fair when you’re the only one with the inside information.”

Xander sat in the desk chair across the room and bowed his head. “I guess not.”

Spike’s face changed, softened. “Anya’s got me pegged for your destiny, your god-damned one-true-love. Can you imagine, Harris? William the Bloody as Prince Charming to the White Knight? I can’t do that again. I tried it already and, much as I loved Buffy, I knew it would never work. I’m not that daft. She’s too good for me, and you’re made of the same stuff, Harris—life and sunshine and hope. We’re like oil and water.”

Xander shook his head. “I’m not Buffy, Spike.”

“No, you’re not. You’re actually my friend now, something she never was until it was too late. In case you hadn’t noticed, Harris, I don’t really have many friends. I don’t want to fuck that up.”

Xander swallowed miserably. “I don’t either.”

“So what do we do now?”

Before Xander could answer, the hotel phone rang, startling them both. Xander lifted the ivory receiver from its cradle, listened for a moment, and handed it to Spike. “It’s Angel,” he said.

Spike took the phone and nodded at something Angel said, a wasted gesture that Angel couldn’t see. “Right. I’m on my way.” Spike hung up the phone and shrugged on his duster.

“What was that? Do I even wanna know?”

“Nothing for you to worry about. Just a piece of Angel’s past coming back to bite him in the ass. Someone he turned during the Second World War made a show tonight. Left Peaches in a bit of a mess.”

Xander watched him shove a pack of cigarettes into his pocket and search through the piles of his belongings for his lighter. “How will you get there? It’s still light outside.”

“Angel’s sending a car.”

Spike found the lighter under a Dead Milkmen CD and pocketed it, along with one of the bottles of Glenlivet. He crossed the room and stopped with his hand on the door, his back to Xander. “Angel wants you to be there tomorrow at Caritas after sunset.” Then he left, shutting the door carefully and quietly behind him.

~ ~ ~

Xander lay on the hotel bed, the sunset turning LA red as blood through the curtains he’d opened to watch Spike dart from the hotel lobby to a black limousine. He turned on the clock radio, suddenly unable to bear the silence in the room.

“If the walls in the room could talk
I wonder to myself, would they laugh?
It’s like some kind of jail
Beams of light
Fall through the curtains onto the bed
I’m all alone now; I can do as I please
I don’t feel like doing much of anything
True love ain’t that hard to find
Not that you will ever know
Would you leave for awhile?
Please do not let me go
Please do not let me go”***

Oh, great, Xander thought. What is it? Suicidal depression hour on the college radio station? But he made no move to change the music and instead burrowed back under the covers, yanking them over his head.

This is completely hopeless. Anya must’ve gotten her wires crossed on this one. Wouldn’t be the first time. Me and Spike? It’ll never fucking work.

But Xander could remember waking up with a leg draped across Spike’s thigh, one arm thrown carelessly across Spike’s stomach. He’d slept for nine hours straight, the first night of dreamless sleep he’d had in months. Xander had woken up hungry, and he’d carefully slid out from under the covers, hoping not to disturb Spike. Before he left the hotel room, Xander had put his eye patch on, the strap resting snugly against the place where Spike had kissed him.

If me and Spike is such a shitty idea, then why does it hurt so much that he just left?

Xander turned on his side, the tinny music of the clock radio slightly muffled by the thick blanket over his head.

“You were sweet enough to sing
Oblivious to melody
Red suitcase full of clothes
Washed up on a shore of memories
I’m all alone now, and I feel just fine
I don’t feel much like doing anything
True love ain’t that hard to find
Not that either one of us will ever know
Would you lay here for awhile?
Please do not let me go
Please do not let me go” ***

TBC

*Lady Audley’s Secret by Mary Elizabeth Braddon
**A Tale of Two Cities by Dickens; concluding lines
*** “Please Do Not Let Me Go” by Ryan Adams on the album Love is Hell