Fiction by Lorraine

This is set immediately after the Ats ep "Damage." Xander discovers Spike is alive and comes to L.A. to see for himself. In my world, about a year has passed between the destruction of Sunnydale and "Damage."

Beta: kitty_poker1 All Hail All Hail

“Just tell him,” Xander repeated mechanically, all thoughts of Spike momentarily forgotten. His mouth hung open in shock for a few moments, and then Xander grinned back at Cordelia. He bent to grab her in a fierce hug when he suddenly realized, Oh, shit. The patch. I took it off. Xander backed a step away from the bed, head down, hand scrabbling frantically in his pocket and finally pulling the patch free, only to tangle its strap around his belt buckle. Oh, god, the first thing she sees shouldn’t be this ugly hole in my face. I never wanted her . . . anybody, to see this. Xander willed down the panic, breathed deep and long, filling his lungs and releasing the air until he could control his movements. Slowly, he began to unpick the knot. Xander flinched when Cordelia covered his still slightly trembling hands in her own.

“Xander, look at me.”

When he refused, she tipped his head back and forced him to meet her gaze. Before he could stop her, Cordelia’s fingers were ghosting over the hollow and its scar. He tried to pull away, but Cordelia held him in a much tighter grip than he remembered.

“Xander, you have a lot of things to be ashamed of—your fashion sense, that love spell, making smoochies with Willow behind my back. But not your eye. Never your eye. Like it or not, this is who you are now—not perfect, not ruined. Just Xander.”

The sharp metallic edge of shame began to dissipate, and Xander pulled Cordelia into his arms. He let himself cry, then, the tears that had been threatening to fall since he’d entered the room—great hitching sobs that bruised his throat and soaked the front of Cordelia’s gown.

This is just too much. Spike’s alive, and Cordelia’s miraculously cured from her coma. And she touched me . . . there, and I never realized before how much it’s hurt me to hide.

Xander’s tears tapered off and, for a moment, he just rested, his head buried in Cordelia’s soft curls. “I’m sorry, Cordy. I didn’t mean to freak out on you like that. It’s just, nobody sees my eye. Ever.”

Cordelia smiled sadly. “I know. I’ve been watching you.”

“Watching me? What do you mean?”

Cordelia picked at the hem on her gown and tried to explain. “After Jasmine was born—and wasn’t that a blast?—the part of me that was still me lost it. I’d done the deed with the son of the man—vampire, whatever—I loved.” At Xander’s questioning glance, Cordelia added, “Me and Angel were kinda starting a thing before I slept with Connor and unleashed a hellgod on Los Angeles. So not a cool thing to do. I couldn’t deal. The Powers took me in. It’s their fault that Jasmine could get to me in the first place, anyway. I’ve been helping them ever since, watching out for my guys here in L.A. and all the old Sunnydale gang.”

“So, it’s not just a coincidence that you woke up on the one day the Xan-man comes for a visit?”

“That would be a no. I wasn’t supposed to wake up yet. But I didn’t expect you to come to L.A., and I didn’t want to miss seeing you again, Xander. So, I pulled a few strings, came back early, and here I am with a message for you from the Great Beyond.”

Xander’s heart skipped a beat, and his mouth went dry. The monitor next to Cordelia’s bed made a low and steady whine. The fluorescent light above them flickered once, twice, then stilled. Outside in the courtyard an orderly mowed the lawn, the sweet sunlight smell of freshly-cut grass filling the room and sliding under the bleach and medicine tang of hospital. Cordelia crossed her arms in front of her and kept right on looking at him, something open and frank and teasing and vaguely full of sorrow in her eyes.

“You don’t mean . . . Anya? You have a message for me from Anya?” His voice caught on her name, and Xander shifted his weight from the left foot to the right. He felt hope, like a tiny thing with wings, rustle in his chest.

“That’s the girl. And you were right, Xander. We get along great. If it wasn’t for Anya, I’d be crazier than Angelus about now. Heaven is pretty freaking boring.” Cordelia stopped abruptly and glanced quickly up at the ceiling. “I mean, it’s serene. Heaven is serene and comforting, and ummm . . . quiet.” She mouthed at Xander Boring. “Anyway, Anya told me to give you this.” Cordelia reached into the bedside table drawer and pulled out a lavender envelope with Xander’s name on the front in Anya’s handwriting.

Xander took it in reverent hands and would’ve opened it right away, but Cordelia stopped him. “I’ve got to get a move on, Xander. I don’t have long on this plane, and I have to deliver a message to Angel. Something’s brewing, and the Powers want their champion back on track.”

The sorrow in Cordelia’s eyes briefly intensified and, with sudden clarity, Xander realized what she meant. “So, this is goodbye?”

“Yeah. Last pit stop on the road to Gloryland. When my mission here is done, this body will die and I’ll go back to the astral plane, for good this time.”

Xander stood, almost crushing Anya’s letter in his agitation. “Why do you have to die, Cordy? We've been the PTB's cannon fodder for eight fun-filled years," he said sarcastically. "Can’t they give us a break? It’s not fair! We do good for all those people out there, sitting down to dinner, playing happy families and never knowing the world almost ended ...again. We lose the people we love most so strangers can keep pretending things don’t go bump in the night. I’ve watched too many people I love die.” Xander stopped to take a ragged breath, and said brokenly, “I won’t lose you, too.”

Cordelia threw the covers off the bed and crossed the cold floor on bare feet, oblivious to the open back of her gown, and held him. Squeezed him in those too strong arms and made soothing noises into his neck. “Xander, I have to go. You’re right, believe me. It’s not fair, but neither of us can stop the inevitable. I’m just glad I got a chance to say goodbye. I love you, Xander Harris. You were the first man I ever really loved, and you loved me right back with a pure and innocent love I was too dumb to appreciate." She thought that over for a moment. "Okay, maybe not so pure and innocent, considering the under-the-bleachers gropage. Thank you, Xander. For everything. As long as you’re living, Anya and I will be looking out for you.”

Xander kissed the top of her head. “It helps to think of you two giving the PTB hell.” They both laughed softly, and Xander took a step back. “Umm . . . Cordy? Your ass is kinda hanging out of that gown. Not that I’m not admiring the view, but . . . “

Cordelia bunched the back of her gown into one fist and snickered. “Damn straight; it’s a fine ass. Now, c’mon, Xander. I may just be a glorified errand girl, but nobody said I couldn’t look good doing it. We’ve got some shopping to do.”

~ ~ ~

Xander settled back into a chair and sipped his beer. Around him, the bar slowly filled with smoke and people, most of whom looked to be the indie crowd from the local college. Everywhere he looked—lots of black plastic glasses and Vans and skirts he’d learned this afternoon with Cordelia were called “deconstructed.”

They spent a couple hours blowing thousands of dollars on Rodeo Drive. “Hey! It’s not like I’ll be around to get the credit card bill,” Cordelia said, right before she loaded up the salesgirl’s arms with a dress and shoes for herself and slacks and jeans and soft button-down shirts for Xander.

After the shopathon, Cordelia kissed him on the cheek and hailed a cab. “Bye, Xander. I love you. Gotta go see about a guy.” Then she climbed in the yellow door, and the taxi sped away down the busy street. Xander watched until he could no longer see the taillights, then went back to his hotel, cracked open a bottle from the mini-bar, and read Anya’s letter.

Dear Xander,
It’s me, Anya. I want you to know I’m doing fine. Heaven’s not exactly what I thought it would be. There’s far too much solemnity for my taste. But I’m trying to convince the PTB to let me open a store, something to provide a variety of austere robes and monastical accoutrement. I don’t seem to be making much headway, though. Apparently the PTB have transcended the desire for money. How do you transcend the desire for money? Despite that minor setback, I’m safe, I have a friend, and not living under the constant threat of mortal danger is kinda nice.

Xander, I want you to know I forgive you for everything that happened between us. From up here, I can see why we didn’t work out. As much as we loved each other, we weren’t meant to be. Your destiny intersects with someone else’s. I want you to remember when you find this person that you have my blessing. And no matter how difficult it may prove to let yourself love again, don’t give up, Xander. This love you’re meant to find won’t be easy but, I promise you, it will be worth it. I love you, Xander, and, as the kids say, I got your back.
Anya
P.S. There’s a matchbook taped inside the envelope. Be there at 8:30 sharp this evening. You don’t want to miss this.

So, there he was, sitting in a dive, in the nicest pair of pants he’d ever owned, wondering why Anya had sent him to this particular place and trying desperately not to feel the ache in his heart that came from knowing she’d given him permission to love someone else. Someone new. Someone not Anya. Xander jumped when the metallic whine of a microphone interrupted his thoughts.

A young man with long, emo-boy hair, a velvet, thriftstore blazer hanging from his thin frame, cleared his throat and blew into the mike. Raising his arms, he said, “Yes, ladies and gentlemen. It’s that time again. Welcome to Free Verse Night at Finnegan’s Wake!* We’ve got a multitude of poets lined up for your listening pleasure—some old favorites and quite a few newbies. Many of you know our first poet of the evening from Thursday’s Night of Forms. This man is positively Petrarchan with a sonnet, smashing with a sestina, and just plain wicked with a villanelle. But tonight, he’s offering something a little more twenty-first century. Everybody give it up for William!” The bar erupted into applause as a blond-haired man in a leather coat took the stage.

Xander inhaled a small mouthful of beer and coughed quietly into a napkin, hoping not to attract attention to himself. Spike. His hair’s a little different, curlier, not as crunchy, and he’s wearing, gasp, a blue T-shirt instead of the standard issue black, but that’s the famous duster. And that’s definitely Spike. Anya must know I came to L.A. to see him. Xander slumped down further in his chair, hoping that Spike wouldn’t notice him until he’d finished his performance.

Spike pulled some papers from the inner pocket of his duster and began to read.

“This first one’s titled ‘Avalanche,’ and it’s dedicated to B.

Avalanche
I found your photograph
In a cardboard box in a magazine
I can’t remember you, remember us or anything
I taught you how to feel, but you just feel numb
They taught you how to feel, but you just feel numb
She comes apart in the avalanche
Fades out like a dance
Crawls back into bed when it’s over
And it’s over

I watch the window and listen for the sound of cars
I can’t remember the last time that it was yours
I taught you how to feel, why do you feel numb
They taught us how to feel, but we just feel numb
She falls apart in the avalanche
Fades out like a dance
And crawls back into bed when it’s over
And it’s over” **

Xander shouldn’t have worried that he’d be discovered. Spike looked out over the audience as he read, but his eyes were empty, far away, and Xander knew he was seeing a girl with golden hair and a brilliant smile who'd never really loved him. When Spike’s voice caught on that last line, Xander felt as if he’d accidentally caught him naked. The rest of the audience saw a man reading a poem; Xander saw a friend, a comrade in arms, a brother he’d supposed fallen mourning the death of something he’d never even had. Suddenly the pain was too palpable, too right there, and Xander stood up, his chair making a loud scraping sound on the floor. He threw some money on the bar to cover his tab and held his breath until he was outside in the L.A. night.

He stood hunched under the streetlight, staring at his shoes, lost in thoughts of Anya. Spike. Cordelia. Sunnydale until a hand tapped him on the shoulder. Xander turned. He knew who it was; he knew, and then he was looking into puzzled blue eyes.

Spike said, “Harris? Xander? What’re you doing here?”

TBC


*the bar is named after the title of a crazy-ass novel by James Joyce that plays with the boundaries/confines/limitations/possibilities of language; in short, a hugely pretentious name for a bar

** “Avalanche” by Ryan Adams on the album Love is Hell

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