Turnabout

For his part, Spike was happy to be left to his own devices. Being stuck inside meant snooping and maybe finding some explanation for the Xander he'd met last night. He knew this morning's Xander well enough. It was the face that the boy put on over and over during all yea years he'd fought beside the Slayer. The face that said, I'm good, no problems, didn't just get smacked around at home, didn't rip my own heart out by walking out on my wedding day. He recognized the genuine resilience and humour, but it didn't mask the pain, the pain overlooked by others. Spike shook his head as he rose from the bed, guilt settling in over the knowledge that he'd probably been more aware of that pain than anyone else, yet had done less than any of the others to mitigate it as he obsessed over killing or fucking the Slayer. But then, before the soul, exacerbating, not mitigating that pain he so clearly saw had been his agenda. He grimaced as he remembered how well he had done that and how he had reveled in Xander’s responsiveness to his knowing barbs.

He left the car chase playing on the telly and set the beer on the bedside table as he began exploring the room. If Xander had been here a while, he didn't have much to show for it. The bathroom held nothing personal except the typical soap, shampoo, and shaving materials. Spike noted in passing that Xander's preferred brands hadn't changed any. No wonder he still smelled much as the vampire remembered. But nothing else indicated who lived here. Even the towels in a damp mass on the floor were simply the cheap, rough ones provided by the hotel. He glanced over the sink, noting toothbrush and toothpaste, and he quirked an eyebrow at the industrial size bottle of aspirin on the counter. Headaches or hangovers?

The shower beckoned to him, and the longing to be clean quickly overrode curiosity over Xander's living accommodations. Spike quickly slid his jeans off and soon settled under the blessedly warm, though low-pressure, spray from the shower. He decided he had no qualms about borrowing a bit of soap and shampoo. Scrubbing the sand and dust from his hair took several washings, but, damn, it felt good to be clean again. He used the remaining towel folded on the shelf to dry off and then grimaced as he realized that he had nothing to wear but the clothes he had arrived in. But he wasn't keen on revisiting the humiliation that had come from selecting clothing from Xander's rather eclectic collection. He slipped the jeans back on and glanced over at the sink for any sign of hair gel. Apparently not part of Xander's daily regime since nothing that resembled hair care products existed beyond the lone bottle of shampoo. Spike ran his hands over the unruly curls that threatened. Bugger. Gonna look a right ponce. He rubbed the towel across the quickly drying curls once more and shrugged. Wasn't much that could be done about it.

Wandering back toward the main room, Spike stood in front of the tiny closet. A few wire hangers hung from the rack. A worn denim jacket hung on one and another had a belt and two ties hanging from it, but the rest held nothing. The top shelf of the closet was similarly barren. Piled on the floor of the closet was what Spike assumed to be laundry. He hesitantly nudged the pile with a foot, unwilling to paw through dirty clothes, but knowing that the best place for hiding what you don't want found is in a place no one wants to go. So he was unsurprised when his toes brushed against glass. He knelt down and shoved the filthy clothing out of the way, wrinkling his nose in distaste and then concern as he placed one of the odors. Blood, and more than could come from a simple shaving cut. Did it have something to do with what the boy had been on about when he asked for help last night? But the blood wasn't fresh. Spike filed the question away as he uncovered the three unopened bottles of cheap whiskey lying on the floor of the closet. Looks like the whelp's stocking up and keeping it hidden. From who? Not like he knew I'd show up. He shook his head, thought about pinching one of the bottles, but decided against it and pulled the laundry back into place.

The dresser was next, but the drawers were all empty. Apparently the second bed in the room played that role satisfactorily enough. Similarly, the bedside table held nothing more than the expected telephone directory and the requisite Gideon Bible, which Spike carefully did not touch. With the exception of what Xander kept on the bed, everything about the place screamed motel room—temporary living. That left the mass of materials Spike had relegated to the floor the night before. He took a long pull on the now-warm beer before squatting to survey the mess more closely. Another drink. A decision. He stood up and flung the comforter back over the sheets to coverthe the bed before lifting everything from the floor onto it. Might as well keep myself occupied. Gotta earn m'keep or I won't get kept. He grimaced without rancor at the memory of his days living in the Harris basement, and it seemed he was suddenly thinking long-term, or at least longer term than a day or so. He may not remember being gone, but it felt like a bloody lifetime since he had seen anyone he knew, and he wasn't about to give that up. Even if it was Xander donut-boy Harris. Even if? Who was he kidding. Spike snorted at his denial. He had always recognized a kinship of sorts with the boy as a Scooby but an outsider of sorts. Spike's demon status kept him from being fully accepted as much as Harris's humanity separated him from his friends with supernatural power. The simple fact was he had grown to like the boy and seeing him in this condition scared him as much as it drew him. Scared for it it could mean had happened but also compelled by the thought of having someone to take care of again. His dark princess may have been crazy, but he loved her and he loved that he had something to offer her. None of his other lovers had that, especially not Buffy. He never got to just hold her, comfort her until that last night before the First. In those hours, he felt completely himself again, free to offer love without rejection or demands. He hadn't lied when he told Buffy it terrified him to feel that complete, that connected, but he knew as he stood burning in the Hellmouth that it was a one off. Not going to happen again. She didn't need that, and the simple fact was that he did. Spike needed to be needed, and Xander clearly needed someone right now despite the walls he clearly put up to protect himself.

Spike shook himself from his reverie. He glanced over at the television. The car chase had ended, apparently without disaster. He flipped off the set and strode over to the clock radio. The sorting task in front of him called for music. Preferably of the ear-splitting variety. Country twanged through the room. Bloody fucking hell, Harris. Not exactly the kind of ear-splitting he was hoping for. He turned the dial, hoping for something familiar, but the choices seemed limited. Finally, he resigned himself to a station claiming to play "Modern Rock." At least it was a step up from country, though what he wouldn't have given for a little Sid right now.


"Clothes first," he spoke the direction to motivate himself. A knock at the door interrupted him. Mindful of the motel's nature, he refrained from ordering whoever it was to come in. Instead, he yanked the door open, careful to stay out of the deadly rays of sunlight that angled through. A young guy in jeans and t-shirt stood in the doorway holding a bag.

"Um, hello?" The young man peered into the room. He took a step inside, just enough out of the sunlight for Spike to grab him and hold him off the ground, feet dangling.

"C'n I help you, mate?"

"Room service?"

"Are you askin' me or tellin' me?"

"Um, sorry. Kinda caught me by surprise is all. Xander asked Margie to send over some of her best stock, and she sent me." The man didn't seem overly concerned to be suspended above the floor.

"And you are?"

"Carl. I'm technically the busboy, but things are a little slow in the bar this time of day. So Margie sent me over. I mean, we don't normally do room service here or anything, but since it was Xander who asked, and like I said, it's slow so she didn't mind if…"

"Got it," Spike cut off the ramble. He set the man down and took the bag. "Off you go."

"Okay, enjoy. I'll tell Xander that you got it, okay?"

"You do that." He closed the door on the boy and looked in the bag. Four pints of blood. He opened the lid on the first container. Human. For a minute the soul rebelled, but then hunger reasoned that if Xander sent it, no guilt needed. Xander sent it. Xander thought of him. The warm feeling inside came from more than the blood.

Meal consumed, Spike returned to his project. He had never been the most conscientious housekeeper, but if he was going to stay in this bed, he was not going to share it with all of Xander's worldly possessions. He quickly pulled out shirts, jeans, and flannels—apparently the entire variety of the man's wardrobe—and sorted them into piles before folding each item neatly and tucking it in the dresser. No doubt Xander would accuse him of hiding them, but what the hell. That left newspapers, magazines, and assorted rubbish. He tossed the rubbish near the already overflowing garbage can by the dresser, wrinkling his nose at empty take-out containers, crisps packages, and candy bar wrappers. This place suffered in comparison to the basement, a feat that only served to increase Spike's concern. Clutter never sd tod to bother Xander, but trash was a new level of décor. He moved on to shifting the magazines into one pile, noting that with the exception of a couple of Mad Magazines and a single one from the tits and ass genre, the rest were all news magazines of some sort: Time, Life, Newsweek, US News, and even People. That left the newspapers. Spike began shoving them together with the intention of scrapping them all, but he noticed that some of the pages were clearly cut out, not just discarded after the day's read. Examining the pages more closely, he began to detect a common theme, and he rifled quickly through the papers until he confirmed his initial observation. Every paper related to Sunnydale. LA Times, Daily News, National Enquirer, the source didn't matter. The content seemed to be the focus: each article covered Sunnydale in some form. He quickly looked back at the pile of news magazines and found the same trend. All had articles on the mysterious and complete destruction of the city and the fate of the survivors, but some included historical perspectives or possible future planning for the site. Spike shuffled through the pages in confusion. Clearly Sunnydale still had a hold on Xander, but what prompted this obsessive need to collect news stories? The vampire carefully gathered the articles and magazines together, looking for a place to put them now that he knew not to throw them out. He drew his hand across the top of the stack lost for a moment in the memory of Sunnydale—the factory, the mansion on Crawford, his crypt, the Slayer's house, Harris's basement, the Sunnydale campus, and—less pleasant—the Initiative, the high school basement. All those places were gone. He began to wonder if this is what Xander was trying to hold on to. All the places, people, events that made up Sunnydale. Was this why he was here alone? He seemed to have stayed as close as possible to Sunnyhell. Spike shook his head. Daft git. Sunnydale was gone, and it was time to move on. Why was the whelp still here by himself? A chill ran down his spine as he wondered again if Xander was the only Scooby left.

Spike decided he was too exhausted—and utterly unwilling—to pursue that line of inquiry too far. He swallowed the last of the beer and decided to crawl in and sack out for the daylight hours, delaying any consideration of what to say to Xander when he returned. He looked around the room in satisfaction at the clean-up job, both pleased at the improved state of the room and vaguely concerned about Xander's reaction that he had sorted through his belongings. At the same time, Spike felt the pull of loneliness at his heart again. Never a solitary creature, he felt the emptiness weighing down on him. No matter that he hadn't known how long he had been gone and didn't have memories of that time, the sense of desolate isolation remained. Now he found that loneliness oppressive as he stood in Xander's room but without Xander's presence. Mocking himself as a pathetic wanker, he grabbed one of Xander's pillows and exchanged it for one of the pillows on his own bed. He then crawled back underneath the covers, head on his own pillow, but arms wrapped around Xander's, breathing deeply of the man's scent as he settled down into the still sleep of the undead.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Seven P.M. Xander squared his shoulders as he stood outside the door to his room. He knew Spike would still be on the other side of the door, and he couldn't get a handle on his emotions. Since Buffy, Willow, Dawn, and Giles had left for England with the new set of slayers, he hadn't had any contact with any of the Scoobies or anyone else from Sunnydale, and part of him yearned for the familiarity of someone who had been there while another part needed to bury connections to a past that was gone. God, he needed a drink. Fortunately, it wouldn't take much to talk Spike out of the room and over to the bar if he was the same guy Xander remembered. He grinned at the thought of the hyperactive vampire being cooped up in a single room all day. He buoyed himself with that thought as he slid the key into the lock and pushed open the door.

"Hey ya bleached menace, I'm home!" Xander slung his toolbelt on the chair just inside the door. He stopped dead as he took in the state of the room. Both beds were made up, no sign of clutter on the beds or floor, and a clearly bored vampire smoking and pacing in front of the television.

"'Bout soddin’ time, pet," Spike smothered his grin with a growl. It wouldn't do to let the boy know how much being alone had set his nerves on edge.

"Um, Spike?"

"Yeh?"

"Where's my stuff?" Xander scanned the room.

"Cleaned up a bit. Couldn't sleep on that mess." He watched Xander's reaction from underneath hooded eyes. "'Sides, I needed something to pass the time." He took a long drag on the cigarette. "I didn't take nothin' if that's what you're worried about."

"Oh, yeah, `cause you look so good in my clothes," Xander smirked. "C'mon, let's hit the bar. You can get a pint of blood, and I can get a beer."

"Bloody bril, mate." Spike could feel the hunger gnawing at him again. He grabbed his duster from the closet, shrugging it on as he brushed past Xander to the door. Xander stifled a grin and followed the vampire into the night and across the parking lot to the bar. Spike had cleaned for him. He shook his head. Back from the dead and the first thing he does is clean my motel room. His life had an unpredictable vampire in it again. It almost felt like being back in Sunnydale. Tears welled up before he shook them off, laughing at himself as he picked up the pace to catch up with Spike.


Xander pushed open the swinging doors and led Spike to the bar.

"Hey, Margie," Xander flashed a grin at the mostly-human shaped purple demon behind the bar.

"Alexander! Who's ya friend?" She eyed the blond vampire appreciatively.

"Margie, Spike. Spike, Margie."

"Usual?"

"Yeah, and a pint of the best blood you got for my friend." As he leaned forward to snag a handful of pretzels from the bowl in front of him, he missed the surprised glance that Spike shot him.

"Coming up." Margie's four arms moved gracefully as she stretched to fill their orders. She slid Xander a double shot of JD and a draught beer. With another hand she handed a pint of rich warm blood to Spike.

"On the house for the first round, honey." She leered at Xander suggestively, enjoying the man's flush.

"Thanks, Marg," he mumbled before tossing back the whiskey. He picked up the beer and gestured to Spike, indicating they take a vacant table in the corner of the bar.

"Cheers, luv," Spike lifted his glass toward Margie. She winked back at him with her double-lidded eye. He followed Xander through the sparse crowd to join him at the table. He noticed that Xander made sure to sit with his left side to the wall, protecting his blind side. Spike made sure to sit directly across from him and well within his line of sight. They settled in and drank in silence for several long moments. Spike glanced around at the clientele. He recognized most of the demon types and recognized that a good half of the patrons were vampires. Only a few humans aside from Xander appeared to frequent the place. He surreptitiously glanced over at his silent companion. Xander was steadily sipping at his beer, already nearly half tgh. gh.

"So." Spike didn't know where to begin, but he was determined to get the boy talking. Xander glanced at him before his eye flicked back down to his drink.

"So," he echoed tonelessly.

"Been here long?" Spike tried to keep from gulping his drink as he felt the blood surge through his entire being.

Xander reddened and let out a harsh laugh. t's t's one of the worst pick up lines I've heard in a while!"

"Huh?" Clearly this wasn't going to be easy.

"Sorry," Xander's tone turned sheepish. "Not used to having actual conversations here." He paused and both men continued drinking.

Spike waited. Patience was going to kill him, but he didn't feel comfortable pressing Xander without knowing more about the situation left in the wake of Sunnydale's destructio
Xa
Xander jerked his fingers through dark, tangled locks and let out an exasperated sigh. "I guess I've been here almost a year. I ended up staying here after. . ." His voice trailed off before he picked up again, "Earl needed a handyman. I happened to be around and offered. It got me the room and access to the kitchen as long as I stay out of Margie's way."

"A year?" Spike wanted to ask about the others, what happened to everyone while he was burning out in the Hellmouth, but he could feel the tension radiating from his companion despite the easy tone. The man practically vibrated, and Spike didn't want to ask the question that would shatter him.

"Yeah." Xander didn't offer more. He chugged the rest of his beer and glanced at Spike's empty glass.

"Another?"

"Make mine a beer this time." Spike held out his empty to Xander, noticing that the man didn't flinch as he took the blood-streaked glass.

"Back in a minute." Spike watched Xander weave his way through the patrons as he made his way backthe the bar. A tall woman draped her arms around Xander's shoulders and pressed her breasts against his arm. Spike growled. Vampire. She leaned closer to whisper in the man's ear, and though Spike was too far to hear, he recognized the blatantly suggestive look she offered. He watched with concern as Xander shrugged her off roughly, nearly shoving her. She let out a tinkling laugh and winked before sashaying her way to another patron.

"Friend of yours?" Spike drawled as Xander returned with the beers and slid back into his seat.

"Huh?"

"Chippy at the bar."

"No."

"Not someone you want to talk about?"

"No." The regression to monosyllabic response almost made Spike yearn for the hyperactive teenage babble. Xander glared into his beer before taking a long drink. The tension continued to flow off the man but this time tinged with rage and a bit of desperation. Spike narrowed his eyes to study his companion, waited for him to return to his recounting of the time since they had made the last stand in Sunnydale.

Xander looked up to catch Spike's clear stare before looking quickly away.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"S'alright. You wanna tell me?"

"Where were we?"

"You here. Earl. Handyman." Spike recapped.

"Right. Your turn. How did you end up here? Where've you been? Buffy said you were dead. Burned out in the Hellmouth saving the world."

"Buffy said? She made it out then?"

"Yeah. She made it out."

"The others? Red? Bit? " Spike spoke without thinking, cursing himself for needing to know when he intended to go slow and let Xander direct the telling of what had happened that day and after.

A haunted look passed over Xander's face quickly before he settled his features back to the closed, straight-forward expression he had been wearing earlier. Spike bit back an apology, but could not retract the question.

"Yeah, `most everybody. Buffy, Dawn, Willow, Giles, Faith, Wood, most of the potentials. Probably all but the ones you saw get taken out down where you were. Even Andrew made it out." He gave a harsh laugh. "We won. Hightailed it out of there on the bus as the place went down."

Spike ran through the names in his mind, caressing faces, giving thanks to whatever gods watched over Slayers and their ilk. A grin began to cross his face, and he looked over to share it with Xander, but dark locks hid his companion's gaze as his head bowed over his beer. Spike ran through the names again, trying to catch a niggling thought. Buffy, Dawn, Willow, Giles, Faith, Wood, Andrew. Anya. Xander wouldn't have accidentally left her out, especially not if he included that annoying prat Andrew.

"Xander?" Spike didn't want to ask, but they had come this far.

Silence.

"She didn't make it, Spike. She died protecting Andrew. You didn't make it out, and Ahn. . ." his voice hitched over her name, "Anya didn't make it out."

"I'm sorry." Such inadequate words, and Xander flinched from them.

"Yeah, well, we all knew going in what the cost could be." Hard and bitter, his mouth twisted as he spoke and then sucked down the remainder of his beer before setting the glass on the table and standing.

"Look, I gotta go. There's someplace I need to be tonight. Here's the key to the room. Just don't lock the door behind you so that I can get in later, okay?"

"What?" Startled, Spike took the key by reflex.

"You can stay here if you want. I'm sure Margie will be glad to serve you. I just… I got someplace to be. I'll see you in the morning." Xander turned and pushed his way through the crowd and out the front door, leaving a somewhat stunned vampire sitting at the table.