Cause and Effect

**********
Chapter Twelve
**********

William frowned down at the blood radiating false warmth from the mug he held. He may not be able to see it, but he could smell it -- and it smelled absolutely disgusting. He was pretty sure it wasn't going to taste any better. He set it down and pushed it away. **I'm *not* drinkin' that!** he thought rebelliously. **I can wait.** He had been uncertain about this whole idea from the moment Xander had pulled several bags out of the back of the freezer, talking nonstop as he explained what he was doing.

He could almost feel Xander frown, disapproval rolling off the human, and he shrank down in his chair. Despite that, he still crossed his arms across his chest mutinously. " 'M not hungry."

"Spi-- William, you *have* to eat."

He already *knew* that. He wouldn't continue to heal properly if he didn't drink a lot more than he had already. And he wanted to heal. That didn't mean it had to be *this* blood. Even being able to move without pain -- and *see* -- didn't make the thought of drinking it any more palatable. "Don't wanna," he replied stubbornly.

A flash of irritation rolled off Xander. "Drink it."

William pouted. It wasn't fair; Xander blood would be *so* much better for him -- and Xander sure as hell wasn't drinking any of this vile stuff. Then William almost grinned. "Why aren't you having any of it?"

Xander blinked and his jaw dropped open. When he realized it was hanging there, he snapped it shut so quickly that William could hear the sound of his teeth clashing together.

"Because I don't need it," Xander replied after a long moment.

"I'm not touching the bloody stuff unless you do," William countered, a part of him virtually screaming at him, wondering what the hell he thought he was doing. Defiance was *bad*. That warred with what Xander had told him, though; and he wanted, no *needed*, to see just how far he could push. He desperately needed to know what limits Xander placed on his seemingly ultimate, 'you can tell me anything'.

Xander jumped up from his chair, anger, confusion, and revulsion overwhelming William's senses. The anger had him wincing backward, and the words 'I'm sorry,' hovering on his lips. He bit them back. The revulsion he understood. The stuff *was* disgusting, after all. It was the confusion that he didn't understand, and had him almost reaching out take the hated blood -- pig's blood, Xander'd said.

He held out, waiting for Xander to lash out, to strike him for his disobedience. Hoping that, instead, he'd get to have more of Xander.

When Xander whipped around moving away from him, William's mouth opened in shock. **What?** he thought, desperately wishing he could see what Xander was doing. He was confused now. Xander wasn't behaving like he'd anticipated -- either way. He didn't like being confused. It made him angry, and he felt that anger bubbling toward the surface.

Xander wrenched the door of the appliance open, rattling the contents.

William listened in numb surprise as he heard the rustle of heavy plastic. A drawer was wrenched open, the silver within jangling irritatingly. Liquid was poured -- blood? Xander moved again, then after a brief hesitation stomped back toward William.

Uncertainty warred with disbelief in the vampire. **He'll never drink it. He said it himself; he doesn't need it. So why should he?**

"Pick up your mug," Xander said through clenched teeth.

William almost reached for it automatically, obedience deeply ingrained into him. He stopped, sighed, and reached for the detested mug. He didn't actually pick it up, though. He waited, instead. **No, way. Xander will stop this any second now.**

William flinched as the table beneath his forearms jerked. Loud gulp followed loud gulp as the human swallowed, and swallowed, chugging the viscous fluid down as quickly as he could manage. Then, with one last body shaking shudder that rattled the table, he slammed the mug down, the thud echoing through the room.

"Drink," Xander ordered, the single harshly uttered word razor sharp with tightly held anger.

This time, William did as he was told, drinking the luke-warm fluid as quickly as Xander had. He had his answer. Xander was angry -- very angry -- but he hadn't hurt him.

Xander spun away from him again, grabbing two additional bags out of the fridge and throwing them to William. "Drink those too. I'll be back later," he muttered. As the bags hit the table, he was already striding toward the door.

**He's leaving?!**

"I'm sorry!" William shouted, lurching to his feet, ignoring the many strident reminders of his injuries -- ignoring the counter he bumped into because he didn't remember it was there. Those things weren't important.

"Just make sure you drink the rest!" Xander demanded. Then, grabbing his coat, Xander jerked open the door. "Don't leave the apartment, *William*," he continued in a near snarl. "I'll be back later." The slamming door echoed hauntingly through the apartment.

"No," William whispered to the closed door, "I don't want to be alone any more." He swallowed, misery rising up inside him until he thought he might drown in it. This was far worse than if Xander *had* hit him. In fact, he would welcome it simply because it would mean Xander was still there.

He sat, not moving for long, eternal moments, simply staring at the door he couldn't see -- hating it. Hating it because it stood between him and Xander. Hating it for the barrier it represented. Hating it because he *couldn't* see it, because he *wasn't* safe beyond it. Hating *it* simply because he couldn't hate Xander.

He didn't have to stay. Xander had left. Why shouldn't he? He shakily made his way toward the door, wincing as sore muscles protested vehemently. Moving slowly, he didn't stop until he was directly in front of the door.

He reached out a hand, but didn't actually touch the knob. Fingers, curling and uncurling reflexively, hovered over the brass handle. **Brass?**

Dropping his hand without having ever touched it, William sighed heavily. **I don't *want* to leave, yet.** Yes, that was it. If he was going to leave, he needed his strength back. He needed to heal -- at least enough that he could see. He wasn't staying just because Xander told him to. No, he wasn't ready to leave. That was *all*.

He *was* going to leave. He was. He just had to finishing feeding first. **Yes.** William headed back toward the kitchen -- and the blood left for him. Frowning as he reached for a bag of evil vileness . . . vileness? Was that even a word? He wasn't hungry anymore. He really wasn't, but the thought of not finishing it left him feeling vaguely uneasy. He'd been hungry for so long it didn't seem right not to be.

Working mechanically, by feel, William filled the mug back up and popped it into the microwave. It took him a moment to locate it, but he knew it was there. He frowned uncertainly as he closed the d He He knew how to do this. He blinked behind the bandages -- wincing when that too hurt -- then closed his eyes, letting himself just *do* it.

He grinned as the machine came to life. As he listened to the whine of the micro's motor, and he ticked off the time in his mind, William's legs began to ache. Pain began to throb up and down his back. By the time the microwave dinged, and it went silent, William's legs were shaking constantly, sending sharp stabs of pain lancing up his body, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could stand up.

Supporting himself against the counter, he carefully pulled out the mug, glaring distastefully at it as he did so. So he couldn't see it. Didn't mean he couldn't glare at it. It wasn't like it made any difference to the mug.

**

Xander strode away from the apartment building confused and angry. Part of him was utterly certain Spike was playing him for a fool, and that he'd fallen for it hook-line-and-sinker. Another, more sympathetic, part of him wasn't so sure. As manipulative and self-centered as Spike was, he wasn't that good an actor. For the evil-undead, he lied amazingly badly. Added to that, Xander was sure Spike's natural -- irritating -- arrogance would have tripped him up long before now if he was playing some kind of scam. He really didn't think Spike could 'pretend' to this level of . . . dependence if his life depended on it.

Xander sighed, slowing his pace. He just didn't know for sure -- and *that* was half the problem. **Well,** he amended silently, **maybe a quarter of the problem.**

A quiet whisper behind him, followed by a low pitched growl, had Xander spinning around, his sword in hand before he even had time to think about it. His heart leaping into his throat, his eyes widening in shock, he stared at the vampire bearing down on him. Momentum alone allowed him to complete the swing begun on instinct.

The vampire -- obviously not expecting his food to be carrying a broadsword beneath its jacket -- faltered to a stop, surprise spreading comically across his demonic features, but didn't back away in time. The razor sharp blade sliced cleanly through his neck, instantly turning his body to dust.

Xander shuddered as the severed head hit the ground with a wet thud, rocking back and forth a couple of times before it too burst into dust.

Taking several deep breaths to calm his racing heart, Xander quickly wiped the fine coating of vampire dust off the blade of his sword and easily slipped it back into its sheath within the folds of his coat. The street lamp glinting the the metal just before it disappeared from sight sent Xander's mind hurtling back in time -- to the night he received the sword.

**
**

"But you're going to need a sword, Xander, a good one."

Xander opened his mouth in immediate protest, another zinger all ready, but Angel stopped him with an upraised hand.

"Please, Xander, let me finish. I'm not trying to *give* you anything." He laughed sourly, and shook his head. "If I tried, you'd probably just throw it back in my face."

"Good guess," Xander sneered.

Angel blew out an explosive breath, and turned to leave.

Xander sighed in relief. He wanted to be left alone, not constantly reminded of his new 'status' in life. Unfortunately, it seemed Angel was going to pick tonight, out of all nights in the universe, to suddenly decide he stubbornly wanted to talk. The vampire turned back and faced him squarely, this time locking eyes with him.

"I'm not even doing this for you," Angel snapped angrily, obviously finally losing his temper. "I'm doing it for Buffy, and Willow, and Cordelia, and anyone else who might be upset if you died -- permanently. I want to *loan* you a sword, Xander, until you can get a good one of your own."

"I don't want anything from--"

"From me," Angel interrupted bitterly, " yeah, I know. But guess what? It doesn't look like you have a lot of options."

Xander shook his head, not sure himself, even, if he was agreeing that he had no options, or denying what Angel was saying.

"Damn it all, Xander," Angel shouted, then winced slightly, continuing more quietly. "You won't 'owe' me anything. You won't be 'indebted' to me. I told you, I'm doing it for them. Think of *them*, Xander."

When Xander didn't reply, merely turning back to face the window instead, Angel sighed and turned away, heading toward the door as silently as he'd entered.

**I'm an idiot!** Xander thought in angry frustration. **Ever hear of the phrase 'cutting off your nose to spite your face', Harris?**

"De--Angel?" he said quietly, turning to find that the vampire had stopped in the doorway at his call. He swallowed, more to shove down his stubborn pride than from any true need to clear his mouth or throat -- Angel had even offered in such a way that he *could* keep his pride. "Thank you."

**

Xander stepped into the room, and froze in the doorway. Even Giles' collection of weapons couldn't compete with this. "Wow!" he breathed, finally stepping further into the room, allowing Angel to do the same.

"I've been collecting a long time," Angel replied evenly, shrugging away Xander's awe.

Wandering around the room, checking out one wall at a time, Xander's eyes were glued to the myriad of weapons on display. Most were swords, but there were axes of all descriptions, and staves, -- he hadn't known there were that many different kinds -- as well as several weapons that looked like they belonged in a martial arts museum, though he had no name for most of them. Even he could tell they were worth a small fortune. He laughed quietly. It was more likely they were worth several small fortunes. Coming to a stop back at the beginning, Xander shrugged rather sheepishly, not willing to meet Angel's gaze. "I love swords, but I don't really know anything about them," he said, waving a hand vaguely towards the walls full of weapons. "I don't know which one would be best."

Angel nodded once, and stepping around Xander, he efficiently drew down three slightly different swords. To Xander's inexpert eye, they all appeared very similar in style, each varying mainly in size.

"You're not a small man, Xander," Angel said, returning to his side carrying all three weapons, "and you've put on on quite a bit of muscle in the last year. I figure a broad sword would be a good one for you, but you'll want to start with one of the lighter, slightly smaller styles, and work your way up to the larger, heavy style."

Xander nodded. It certainly made sense to him. "May I?" he asked, pointing to the smallest of the three.

Angel nodded, holding out the scabbarded sword.

Xander grabbed hold of the hilt and carefully withdrew it from Angel's hands. The tip dropped down immediately. It was quite a bit heavier than he'd expected it to be.

Angel grinned. "All three of these are made from good Damascus steel -- they're solid and strong."

"I bet!" Xander replied, an excitement growing inside himself despite everything. Then, he looked from the three swords, which were obviously going to be a far heavier burden than he'd imagined, to the door.

"I'll help you take them to your room . . . if you like."

Xander nodded his acceptance. "Yes, and. . . ." He paused a moment, then continued sincerely. "Thank you."

Angel smiled, and Xander was startled to note that it changed the souled vampire's entire look. "You're welcome, Xander."

**
**

**Angel!** Xander bit his lip, frowning. He and Angel still weren't on the best of terms. They hadn't even spoken since the night the vampire, Cordelia, and Doyle had left Sunnydale to go home -- though they'd actually parted on reasonable terms. He could just picture calling, and having Angel hang up on him; it wouldn't exactly be the most heartening thing to have happen.

Unfortunately, he was out of ideas.

Shoulders slumping, Xander shoved his hands in his pockets and trudged toward the nearest phone. He could go home, he supposed, but he just wasn't ready to do that. Going home meant facing Spike -- facing what he'd done *just* to get Spike to drink. **And can I take a moment here to say *EWWW*. I drank blood!**

Xander shuddered, and hunched forward, wanting nothing more than this day to be over. No, scratch that, he wanted to wake up and find out it had all been a dream.

//If it's a dream, that means you didn't find Spike.//

**And that's a bad thing, how?** Xander asked himself sarcastically, knowing instantly the thought didn't ring anywhere near true. He'd stopped hating Spike a long time ago. He sighed.

**Yep, that's my life on the hellmouth. Damned if I do, damned if I don't.**

The phone booth loomed in front of him, and Xander slipped inside. Hand on the receiver, he paused. What was he going to tell Angel? That Spike was acting strangely?

Xander snorted; that would go over well. When did Spike *not* act strangely.

Leaning forward, Xander rested his forehead against the cool glass wall of the booth, and tried to sort out what had happened since he'd found Spike.

**Okay,** he thought, taking a deep breath, proceeding to mentally list every odd thing that had happened. That the list included him cutting himself to feed Spike not once but three times, and that he'd drank a cup of pig's blood -- **And again eewww!** -- to encourage Spike, was playing merry havoc with his thought processes. He couldn't seem to move beyond that.

Of course, there was the strange, very strange, way Spike was clinging to him -- like he was the second coming, or something. Of course, if that was the case, Spike would most likely be running the other way; so that probably wasn't a very apt description. He groaned; even his thoughts were babbling. That was *so* not good. He didn't even want to think about the way he wanted to curl Spike into his lap like he would a child and rock him until all the vampire's fears were soothed away. Nor did he want to think about the way he felt the urge to open a vein every time he realized just how injured and starved Spike -- strike that, William -- really was.

With another heart-felt sigh, Xander picked up the phone, absolutely no closer to knowing what he was going to say -- how he was going to explain -- than when he started.

Information first. He didn't know the number -- and right now that disturbed him. He should know it. If not because of Angel, then because that's where Cordelia worked.

Scrambling for something -- anything -- to write on, and with, when information supplied him with the requested number, Xander quickly scribbled the number into the phone box itself, using the tip of his small knife. Hanging up, he jerked the phone back to his ear, and quickly depositing all the change he could find, dialled the new number before he could lose his nerve.

It rang several times, and Xander nervously shifted his weight from side to side, switching the receiver to his other ear as he waited impatiently. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. As far as he knew, Spike and Angel hadn't talked any more than he and Angel had. He was just about to give up when the distinct sound of the phone being answered came over the line. He gasped, resisting the urge to slam the phone down. He *still* couldn't believe he was going to ask *Angel* for help -- even if his overworked brain told him it was a good idea.

"Angel Investigations. We help the hopeless."

"Angel?" Xander asked, though he already knew the answer to that; he couldn't fail to recognize the voice on the other end of the line. He just hadn't expected Angel to answer the phone. He was 'the boss' wasn't he?

"Xander?" Angel asked incredulously.


TBC
Kiristeen
Feedback craved and deliciously treasured. : )
Kiristeen@kiristeen.com