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

"Harris? Xander? What’re you doing here?”

Outside the illuminated arc cast by the streetlight, the sidewalk faded into deep blue, then black. The street was thick with traffic and sound, and the corner where they stood was far from deserted. Behind them, rounds of applause spilled through the door of the bar when it opened and closed around a steady stream of patrons.

But Xander noticed none of these things as they stood in that circle of light, Spike’s hand still on his shoulder. Instead, Xander noticed the way Spike’s hair made a diffused halo around his head in the harsh fluorescence, the golden warmth lent to Spike’s skin by that unnatural light, the sharp angle of cheekbones grown sharper since their last meeting.

When Xander didn’t immediately answer, Spike asked again, “Why are you here, Harris?”

“To see you.” Xander ignored the surprise in Spike’s eyes and pushed the vampire’s coat and shirt-sleeve up to his elbow. He ran his fingers lightly over Spike’s wrist, over that juncture of arm and hand. No scar or seam met his gentle touch; nothing indicated a recent wound. Spike didn’t flinch or jerk away as he might have long ago, once upon a time, in a basement far, far away. Instead, he stood quietly as Xander examined his hand, and then suddenly wrapped his arms around Spike in a crushing hug.

“You probably don’t do hugs, Spike, but humor me just this once. I thought you were dead. Gone. Then Andrew called and said you were here in L.A. and some psycho slayer had chopped your hands off.” Just a few more seconds, then Xander pushed out of the arms that had tentatively returned his embrace and asked, trying desperately to keep the hurt from his voice, “Why didn’t you let us know you were alive?”

Spike reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, avoiding Xander’s eyes. He shook one from the box and lit it, inhaling deeply. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yes. It is that simple. You pick up the phone. You call.”

“How was I to know any of you lot cared to hear from me, especially you? ‘S not like we were best mates or anything.” Spike took another drag, and then flicked the spent cigarette down the sidewalk in a skittering of sparks. He looked at Xander, his eyes dark and unreadable.

Xander sighed. “I know. And towards the end, that was my fault. Not yours. At the time, it made sense to hate you. Now, I think I’d rather have been your friend.”

Spike’s jaw dropped, and an almost cartoonish look of shock appeared on his face. Just then, a large group of students exited the bar, crowding Xander and Spike closer to the curb. Spike reached out automatically to steady Xander when one of the students stumbled, knocking into Xander’s blind side. Xander nodded in thanks, squashing down embarrassment at Spike’s tacit acknowledgement of his disability.

When the crowd had passed, Xander suggested, “Hey, Spike. Wanna take this conversation off the street?”

“Yeah. I got a flat two blocks over from here.” Xander smiled, embarrassment forgotten, and fell in step with Spike as he led the way to his home.

~ ~ ~

Xander followed Spike into his apartment and sat on the couch while his host fetched two beers from the fridge. “Oooh, Golden Eye. Classic,” he said, picking up a game cartridge from the coffee-table. “You got Bond-Invisible yet?”

Spike reappeared with two Bass and shook his head. “Nah. Haven’t even played that one. Still working on Vice City. Bloody brilliant game, that is. You can beat prostitutes to death on the street, then steal their pimps’ cars, all to a fabulous soundtrack.”

Xander grinned and rolled his eyes. “Sounds fantastic.” He looked down at his beer, not really sure where to take the conversation from there. He wanted to tell Spike about Cordelia, about the trouble the Powers sensed brewing in L. A., about Angel’s son. But sitting in Spike’s apartment, on Spike’s couch, watching him fidget restlessly with his Zippo, Xander wanted nothing more than to hang out with the vampire and drink beer. Maybe play some video games, watch a movie. Forget for an hour that people he loved were still dying. Searching for small talk, Xander commented, “So, you’re a poet now?”

Spike grimaced. “Always have been. I fancied myself quite the writer before Dru turned me. Course, everything I wrote was overblown, treacly rubbish.”

“I don’t know much about poetry, Spike, but what you read tonight didn’t sound like rubbish to me.” Spike shifted on his end of the couch, a pleased smile gracing his lips. “If you were so awful before, why’d you start writing again?” Xander asked, honestly curious. He’d never heard Spike talk so candidly about his past.

Spike took a long pull on his beer and answered. “Never really stopped. A century of practice is bound to improve anybody’s writing. Even Angelus liked my poetry after awhile.”

“Angelus likes poetry?” Xander tried in vain to wrap his mind around that one.

“Angelus always liked a spot of verse to commemorate the raping and the pillaging.”

Xander nodded. “Ah, makes much more sense now. You were like Gabrielle to his Xena, recording Angelus’s evil exploits for generations of little vampires to come.”

“So many things wrong with that analogy, mate. A long wooden stick—really not my weapon of choice. And can you see Angelus in a leather bustier? Plus, those bints are always mooning over each other, nattering on about their feelings and holding hands, when you know they’re dying to skip all that shit and just shag each other senseless. Right. Maybe that analogy’s better than I thought.”

Xander nearly choked on his beer. “You had sex with Angel?”

“No. I had sex with Angelus. Worlds of difference, Harris.” Spike leaned back in his chair and smirked, obviously enjoying Xander’s discomfort at this revelation.

“Okay. So not interested in the details of your freaky vampire incest. Moving right along here. Oh, wait. Did Buffy know about this?” Xander was sorry the instant the question left his mouth. Damn it, Xander. What is wrong with you? You heard that poem, for fuck’s sake. The last thing he needs is you bringing up Buffy.

Spike tensed, all the mirth leaving his eyes. “No, and I’d like to keep it that way.” He absently peeled the label on his Bass with nails painted black and asked quietly, “How is she?”

Xander rubbed at the skin under his patch and wondered how to answer that question. “She’s good. Dawn too. They’re safe and happy. I don’t know much more than that. I don’t keep in good touch with any of the Scoobies anymore. Well, except Andrew, but he never really was a Scooby.”

Spike snorted, a little of the tension leaving his body. “That tosser? You don’t talk to Red or the Niblet, but you keep up with Andrew?”

“I know Andrew didn’t make the best impression, Spike, but he’s not really like that anymore. He was so embarrassed that the Council isn’t helping you guys that he acted like a dumbass to cover it up. He’s been a good friend to me,” Xander finished, a touch defensively.

Spike seemed to notice and changed his tack. “Well, I will say this for the ponce; he was the first and only person besides you to act like it wasn’t an utter tragedy that amulet spit me back out.” He lit another cigarette and moved closer on the couch to Xander until their legs were nearly touching. “Andrew told me about Anya. I’m sorry, mate. I know how much you loved her.”

Xander swallowed the lump in his throat that rose at the mention of her name and resisted the urge to hug Spike again. “Thanks, Spike. I miss her. A lot.”

“Harris . . .” Spike hesitated a moment before finishing the sentence. “Xander, I’m sorry for what happened between me and Anya. I had no right—”

Xander interrupted him. “Spike, it took me a long time but I’m not mad at you, or her, anymore. You were hurting; she was hurting. You needed each other. I still don’t like it, but I understand.”

Spike nodded once and crushed his cigarette in the ash tray. Xander reached into his pocket to pull out Anya’s note; he wanted to show Spike that she had found some measure of happiness in the afterlife. Before Xander could find the note in the collection of receipts and travel vouchers he’d stashed in his coat pocket, someone knocked on Spike’s door.

Spike opened the door and let a man inside. Xander thought he looked to be about thirty, with lighter brown hair than Xander’s own and blue eyes. He seemed surprised and slightly nervous when he realized Spike had company. Spike went to the kitchen to fetch his guest a beer, calling over his shoulder as he opened the fridge, “Xander Harris, this is Doyle.”

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