Unacceptable Losses

Neville Worthington parked the black Mercedes behind the Chambre de Sade and grabbed his briefcase. He snapped it open and removed a single sheet of paper. Levering himself out of the car, he entered the club through the back door and walked briskly to the reception desk.

“Mariah.”

“Mr. Worthington,” the receptionist nodded her dyed-black locks deferentially.

Neville handed over the page. “I need to be contacted when this young man returns.” Mariah absently noted the impeccably manicured fingers as she took the paper.

“Alexander Harris. Yes, Mr. Worthington. Can we reach you at your regular number?” She pulled a post-it note and held her pen poised over the yellow square.

“Yes, Mariah. Thank you.” He turned on his heel to leave before she finished writing the memo for the rest of the reception staff.

Neville strode quickly through the club and back to the parking lot. He sighed in relief. Last one. He looked forward to washing his hands of this job. While Mr. Havisham paid better than well, the job had taken months longer than he sighed on for. His employer’s particular tastes and initially undisclosed methodology irritated him, but he focused on the money and counted down the days until his involvement in the project came to an end. Perhaps his next client would merely request a virgin to sacrifice. Ah, for simpler times, he reflected as he pulled out of the parking lot and pointed the car toward Havisham Manor.

********************

After Lorne’s descriptions of the violence that greeted all comers when they entered the apartment, the stillness that greeted them when he opened the door felt even more ominous.

Spike stepped over the threshold. “Nobody here.”

“The agency hasn’t been able to get a tenant to sign a lease, let alone move in,” Lorne peered cautiously through the doorway. “But there’s definitely somebody here.”

“So what exactly are we gonna do?” Xander stood with arms crossed over his chest. He had voted for staying in the car, citing his uselessness with the non-corporeal crowd, but vampire vigilance meant he had to stay within eyesight. So where goeth Spike, goeth Xander. Of course, that didn’t mean he had to be particularly pleased about it. He stomped into the room and immediately shuddered as the air around him chilled over his skin.

“Gah-ah!” He jumped back toward the door. “Okay, so who’s on board with letting sleeping ghosts lie? I’m thinking Dennis was here first, Dennis gets to stay. Not that he wouldn’t make a great roommate, I’m sure, what with phantasmic air-conditioning. And I’ll just be outside now.”

He glanced frantically at the concerned stares from his companions. “What?” he demanded. “Didn’t anybody else feel that?”

“Feel what, mate?” Spike approached him slowly, as though to keep from spooking him further.

“Fucking cold ghost-ness.” Xander rubbed his arms vigorously to get rid of the chill bumps.

“Hmm.”

“What ‘hmmm?’ There is no ‘hmmm.’ Just a minor wiggins.” Xander stared wide-eyed at Lorne.

“It’s just that, well, everyone else Dennis has come in contact with got contusions, pumpkin, not just a shiver or two.”

“This place stinks of grief, of loss and pain.” Illyria spoke with disdain. Before anyone could respond, however, she shuddered and the blue leather look faded into sweet Texas t-shirt and jeans.

“Uh, Spike, wanna tell me what’s going on here,” Xander moved closer to the vampire and away from the shape-shifting ex-hell god.

“Spike? Lorne?” Illyria/Fred looked around, confused. “Why are we in Cordy’s apartment? Did something happen?” She wrapped her arms around herself.

“Fred?” Lorne reached out but stopped short of touching.

“I don’t remember…how did we get here?”

Xander risked a glance toward Spike to see tears glistening in the vampire’s blue eyes. But before he could ask, a low growl came from the vampire and his expression shifted to one of suspicion and anger.

“What the bloody hell are you playing at, Blue?”

The air fairly snapped around the slight figure as jeans and t-shirt became leather and blue hair once more.

“This place is for the dead,” she announced shakily. “I will not remain here.” With that, Illyria exited the apartment and rapidly disappeared from sight.

“Ooookay. And the weirdness just keeps getting weirder.” Xander stared at the open doorway.

“Do you think…” Lorne let the question trail off, afraid to voice the hope that Fred could be returned to them.

“I dunno, mate.” Spike met the troubled red eyes. “But I doubt Blue’s gonna come back here voluntarily to let us find out.”

“Find out what?”

“Nothing. Right now we’ve got a ghostie to deal with.”

“Actually, I’m thinking we don’t.”

“What d’ya mean we don’t? Yer the one who got us started on this.” Spike looked at Lorne incredulously.

“After what we just saw, can you really tell me that you want to do anything to change this apartment? Think about it, sweetcheeks. Whether it’s Dennis’s presence or some other cosmic oogly-boogly that has that effect here, I’m not willing change anything until we know for sure.”

Xander decided that the only information he was going to get directly from the discussion between Lorne and Spike was a distinct lack of information. In light of that, he turned his attention from the conversation to explore the apartment. The spooky chilled feeling had dissipated, and the architecture drew his eye as he took in the archways between the rooms. The place felt welcoming and homey in its set up. Clearly the agency had cleaned after the last episode with Dennis because the furniture stood clean and neatly placed. He closed his eye and imagined Cordelia here. He could see her fitting in perfectly in the space, ghostly roommate and all. His heart jerked in sadness. Another woman he had loved lost to the cause of truth and light. Fucking waste. He felt a comforting hand ghost across his shoulder, only to turn and see Lorne and Spike standing near the doorway where he had left them. He shivered, but didn’t speak, mourning alongside the insubstantial presence.

“Harris!” The irritation in Spike’s voice indicated that this wasn’t the first time he had tried for Xander’s attention.

“What?” He turned to find both Lorne and Spike looking at him expectantly.

“Bloody hell, mate. Have you heard a word we said?”

“Um, no?”

“It’s like this, nummikins,” Lorne interrupted before Spike’s tension could lead to reprimands that would undermine their goal. “We can’t do an exorcism, and the agency won’t go for that solution because they need to rent this apartment. So unless we can find someone to stay here…”

“I’ll do it.” Xander interrupted.

“Pet, are you sure about this?” Spike made to protest. He hated the idea of Xander being out of his sight, but Angel had been serious about removing the man from the hotel. He also didn’t feature Xander staying in a flat with an unstable ghost. The whole place gave him the wiggins. At the same time, watching Fred emerge apparently unintentionally from Illyria threatened to ignite the hope that his friend still existed in that shell. And if she existed, they might be able to get her back.

“I’m sure. Look, no matter how you wanna argue against it, Angel threw me out. I needed a place to go anyway. Might as well be here.” He looked around the apartment. “It’s a great place, good structure and layout, well-constructed. And, yeah, ghost, but it’s like,” he struggled to find the words, “like getting to be alone but not really or something.” What he left unsaid was that the suffering presence of the ghost, while admittedly a bit oogy, resonated with his own grief. Somehow that honest suffering felt more tolerable than staying in a hotel surrounded by people getting on with their lives, getting over Buffy’s death, moving on. He had no desire to move on, and Dennis was hardly going to force that on him.

Spike watched the emotions flit across Xander’s face. Resignation and despair registered most clearly. He struggled with the need to pull Xander out of this place of pain and loss. Illyria was right about the atmosphere of the flat. But he knew that he couldn’t take the man back to the Hyperion.

“Ok, sugarcakes. I’ll give the agency a call and get you squared away.” Lorne flashed a worried smile, clearly pleased to have the situation resolved, but concerned for the tension that sang back and forth between the vampire and man. He pulled out his cell phone. “Be back in the proverbial two shakes.”

Spike stepped closer to Xander as Lorne walked outside to make his call.

“Don’t like the idea of you here by yourself,” he admitted in a low voice.

Xander rolled his eyes. “Would you be happier with me and Angel at each other’s throats everyday? Forcing Dawn and Faith to live with that constantly? They don’t need me there. I don’t need to be there.”

“And what about me?” Spike asked ambiguously

“What about you? This lets you off the hook. No more Xander-sitting. Go have an unlife.”

“Xander,” Spike spoke seriously, “Can I trust you?”

“Trust me with what?” Xander crossed his arms defensively, fearing what the vampire would ask of him.

Spike huffed in frustration. “Dawn asked me to look out for you. No secret about that.”

Xander nodded carefully, stomping down on the resentment that threatened in the face of the manipulation he felt.

“This,” he gestured at the flat. “Having you here, me there. It don’t work so well for me looking out for you, pet.”

“Spike,” Xander struggled to hold onto his temper, “Clearly, you haven’t been paying attention. I don’t want you to ‘look out for me.’ In fact, being away from you and that place, away from this whole life would pretty much make it so that no one needed to look out for me, don’t ya think?”

“Don’t give me that shit, Harris. Your mission of self-destruction has nothing to do with this life, with the Hyperion.” He advanced on Xander until the man’s back hit the wall. “This is about Buffy.”

Xander closed his eye against the knowing menace in Spike’s gaze. He swallowed hard, squeezing his arms tighter around his chest to keep from lashing out. In the end, he needn’t have bothered. A cold wind rushed between them, knocking Spike away.

Launching himself from the floor, Spike flashed into game-face and growled at…nothing. Xander stared. Then he couldn’t help himself. He giggled. He tried to stifle it, but Spike looked so funny growling at the air, head whipping around in search of his phantom assailant.

Spike shook off himself back to human features to glare at the mirthful human. However, he couldn’t maintain the glare in the face of Xander’s smothered laughter. How long had it been since he saw humor grace those features? Something softened in his heart even as it broke to recognize a Xander he had thought never to see again.

The vampire looked away and shrugged his duster closer around him.

“Get your kit from the car. Might as well get you settled in.”

Xander pushed himself off the wall and skirted around the vampire who still stood half-suspiciously watching the empty space around him. At the door, he turned.

“I know you told Dawn you would take care of me.” He shuffled uncomfortably as he stared at his feet. “But I’m a big boy. It will be better for them to have me away.” He flashed an uneven and unconvincing grin, “Besides, this frees you up for nights of mayhem and the ever popular kitten poker.” He turned and headed out to the car for his bag.

Spike watched until he was out of sight. “Okay, mate. I’m not sure what you’re up to, but I’ve been a ghost myself. I remember what it’s like not bein’ able to touch or talk to anyone. So yer not showing me anything I ain’t already been and done.” He turned in the empty room as he spoke. “You pushed me off of the boy, so I’m takin’ that as you protecting him. Now,” he said pleasantly, “if I’m wrong about that, I will be back. And anything happens to my boy, I’ll be back with every exorcist in the city. You got me?”

A slight breeze flowed through the flat, gently ringing wind chimes that hung in the window.

“Take that as a yes.” He nodded thoughtfully. Maybe it was time he had some help. Xander might say he would be better away from the Hyperion. Hell, he might even think it. But this was nothing more than another attempt to run from the pain. Until he stopped to face it, the man’s path led to nowhere good.