Turnabout

Spike startled awake at the pounding on the door. Damn. He hadn't meant to fall asleep as he waited for Xander to return. He glanced over at the other bed to find it empty. The pounding continued.

Spike stalked over to the door and yanked it open. The duo on the other side immediately brought his gameface to the fore. A slim punk with a Latino sort of look held Xander's unconscious form in a roughly upright position. Spike's eyes narrowed as he recognized the punk's nature. Vampire. His own demon raged to be set loose against someone who dared touch this man, but before he could launch an assault, the vampire tossed the limp form through the barrier he couldn't cross.

"Here. Drank too much tonight." His snide comment stoked Spike's ire.

Spike instinctively reached out to grab the man before he hit the floor, and as he looked back to the door, the vampire was gone. Forestalling the panic that rose at Xander's pale complexion, Spike forced himself to calm down and examine the warmth of the flesh and listen for the slow, but steady, heartbeat. He kicked the door closed as he carefully adjusted his grip on Xander and walked toward the bed. He gently laid his burden down on top of the comforter, kneeling by the bed to examine the man's condition more closely.

As the initial adrenalin rush dissipated, he became uncomfortably aware of the odors emanating from the prone form: whiskey, sweat, cum, and an immediate cause of concern, blood. Xander had a fresh wound somewhere. The smell of blood was fainter than the other odors, so the would wasn't serious, but definitely present. Spike recalled the stale blood he had encountered in the laundry, and his heart sank under the weight of his suspicions. Xander's non-fatal wound and the fact that a vampire returned the man alive to his room connected with the memory of the vamps Spike had encountered in the bar. He gently brushed sweat-soaked locks off Xander's forehead as he watched the man breathe.

"Gonna clean you up, pet. Make sure yer not hurt." He knew Xander would not be able to hear him, but the vampire still needed to make contact to the man and to absolve himself for the certainly unwanted intimacies that cleaning Xander up would entail.

Spike began his ministrations by carefully sliding the slack arms out of the long flannel sleeves. As he pulled the shirt off, unexpected rage shuddered through him as his fears were confirmed. All along the insides of both arms, scars from fangs marred the pale skin. He gently ran his delicate fingers over the marks, pausing as he came to the fresh scabs. His demon howled at the thought of another—many others by the evidence before him—sinking fangs into this flesh, draining the blood, the life and laughter and courage from Xander. His soul railed at the man for choosing this slow death, for giving himself over to the demons that he fought against for so long.

Spike shoved himself to his feet, almost afraid to touch the man while the fury that coursed through him.

"What the fuck are you doing? What the FUCK are you doing? How many bloody apocalypses have you stopped and now yer killing yourself like this?" Spike fumed at the prone figure as he paced. Anger was the safer emotion. It kept despair at bay. What if they're all like this, all of them who survived Sunnydale's last battle? He paced the room a few more times before taking steadying breaths and returning to the bed. Still too agitated to trust himself to be gentle in his ministrations, Spike grabbed at the phone off the bedside table and punched in numbers.

"Information. What city please?"

"LA."

"Yes?"

"Angel Investigations." Spike ground out the name through clenched teeth.

"One moment please."

He paced as the silence drew out.

"The number is (310) 555-1294. Repeat…" Spike cut off the automated voice before dialing the number.

"If you're trying to reach Angel Investigations, our number has changed. You can reach us at 310-555-4696, otherwise please wait for the tone and leave a message. Thanks and have a great day!" Bloody buggering fuck! Spike consciously loosened his grip on the phone before he crushed it and punched in the new set of numbers as he dialed the new number.

"Bloody wanker better not be off saving the world."

The phone rang twice.

"Wolfram and Hart. How may I direct your call?" The perky voice didn't sound like the cheerleader he expected, and Wolram and Hart? What the hell was his Sire playing at?

"Angel." Spike growled.

"Certainly, sir. Would that be Angel Juarez in Accounting or Mr. Angel, the CEO?"

For a brief moment, Spike remained speechless. CE-fucking-0?

"The mighty gelled-one. Hulking brute with the overhanging brow?" He couldn't brink himself to recognize that Angel might be the CEO of a corporation that Spike had heard spoken of with equal parts fear and respect in the demon community. This was starting to seem like a very bad idea.

"Hold one moment please, and I'll see if Mr. Angel is available. May I tell him who's calling?" The operator remained pleasant and professional. No fucking sense of humor.

"Tell Mr. Angel that Mr. William the Bloody would like him to get his poncey arse on the line now."

"Hold please." Muzak played at him as he began pacing again. He longed for a cigarette or a drink. Maybe both. Calling Angel had not been his first inclination on hauling himself back into the land of the living, but after finding Xander in this state, Spike needed to know how the boy ended up here by himself and what had happened to the rest of the Scoobies. The group of humans had replaced the vampiric family Spike had been surrounded by for a century, and he was not going to give this family up. If nothing else, even as a demon Spike had loved and been loyal to those he considered family. With his Sunnydale family reduced to a drunk and half-drained Xander, Spike followed his gut and reached out for his Sire.

"Who is this?" The barely intelligible growl startled Spike out of his introspection.

"Bloody hell, mate. Is the help that bad in LA that they can't even tell you who's rung?"

"Spike?" Angel's voice faltered.

"Nice to hear you too, Peaches." The smirk and rolling eyes communicated clearly over the phone lines.

"But you're. . . she said you. . ."

"Spit it out, mate."

"Buffy. She said you died. In the Hellmouth. The amulet. You burned up."

"Yeah, that." He paused. "I need to know what happened."

"Huh?"

"Where are they? Slayer? Watcher? Red?" Spike pushed on impatiently, skipping over Angel's inarticulate request for answers.

"Uh." Angel still hadn't wrapped his mind around the fact that his childe lived, that he was hearing the voice he had believed he would never hear again.

"Sire, please. I need to know." Spike's low voice as he made the appeal of Childe to Sire snapped Angel's attention into focus. He didn't question the need, but sought to meet it.

"Buffy and Giles went to England to rebuild the Watcher's Council. Willow and Dawn went with them, along with most of the other new slayers. Faith and some guy named Wood took a few of the new slayers and went to Cleveland to take care of a Hellmouth there."

"That all you know? What about the boy?"

"Harris? He came here with the rest, but he didn't stay. Buffy said he needed to take a break. She wouldn't talk about it much," Angel admitted.

"They just let him go?" Spike couldn't keep the shock from his voice.

"It didn't sound like he gave them an option."

"Bloody bints. Too busy saving the fucking world to notice." Spike ranted to himself.

"Spike?"

"Need to come to LA." Spike made the decision even as he spoke. He could not leave Xander to live in this place, and he needed help.

"When?"

"Don't know. Gonna have to find some transportation." He began pacing again as he considered the easiest way to boost a car and get them headed toward LA.

"Where are you?"

"Huh? Oh, Earl's NiteLife Motel in Gilded Grove."

"I'll be there tomorrow night. I'll leave at sundown and be there in under two hours." Angel's tone brooked no argument.

"It's. . ." Spike hesitated.

"What?"

"It's not just me," he admitted. "‘m with the whelp."

"You're with Xander? Then why did you ask?" Angel felt the familiar confusion that came from talking to his childe.

"Needed to know what was goin' on," Spike muttered.

"Spike, what is going on?"

"Hell if I know," Spike admitted. "But I'm gonna find out." This last was growled out as he glared down at the prone figure on the bed.

"I'll be there tomorrow. We'll talk then."

"Right. Room 102. Best bring some protection. I got a feelin' there are some folks not gonna be too happy about me taking the boy out of here." Spike hung up before his Sire could pursue that statement any further.

He returned his attention to the man sprawled out before him. Xander had not moved in response to either Spike's initial ministrations or his conversation with Angel. Spike focused on the strong heartbeat again and kept his gaze away from the marks that ran up both arms.

"Okay, mate, time to clean up. Then we're gonna put you in detox before you manage to off yourself." Spike ran warm water into the bath, making sure soap, shampoo, and towels were arranged conveniently before returning to the main room. He divested the unconscious man of clothing before scooping him up and arranging the long limbs in the smaller than average bath. The movement elicited a low mumble but no other response from his patient.

Spike worked quickly and efficiently to clean the wasted body. He wondered how many of the boy's meals had been drunk rather than eaten. He would bet a good number of them. The form under his hands contrasted sharply with the tanned robust body he remembered. Not that Xander had let him get very close in the last year. He frowned, remembering the distance that Xander had put continually between them during the year-long battle against the First. Xander had never been particularly demonstrative, but even the pointed quips had tapered off after Spike's brief stay in the boy's apartment. Once he moved into the Summers' basement and begun work with the potentials, Spike had hardly seen the whelp outside group meetings, although he hadn't bothered wondering too much over it at the time.

Once he finished cleaning Xander's legs and torso, he steeled himself to work on the scarred arms that spoke of pain more emotional than physical. Balancing Xander's right arm in his hand, Spike gently wiped the warm, soapy washcloth over the scars before rinsing the skin clean. Older white scar tissue mingled with the newer pink scars, but it was the scabbed wounds so clearly made within the last few hours that held his attention.

Spike could still smell Xander's blood, and it called up his own hunger along with a simultaneous rolling of his stomach to think that the boy willingly fed himself to vampires. Spike knew how erotic the bite would be for the human, but at the same time, it broke something in him to see evidence of Xander reducing himself to mere food for demons. This was not the same man he had watched face down countless demons, a hell god, and the most ancient evil. He stared at the fang marks and stroked the scars with a tenderness that belied the angry despair that he fought to keep at bay.

"Gonna make this right, pet." The choked whisper held a fierce promise.

Spike reached out to remove the eye patch, hesitating at what he knew Xander would find a more intimate violation than being naked under the vampire's ministrations. But he would not be able to wash the man's face and hair with it on, and he was determined to remove every trace of the vampire stench that assaulted his senses.

Infinite care and reverence guided his fingers as he slipped off the eye patch and set it aside. An unneeded breath hitched as he forced himself to look on the lid closed over the sunken eye cavity. Images of Caleb's thumb jammed into Xander's face flooded Spike's memory along with the crushing feeling of being too late, too late to stop the damage, too late to save the boy. He pushed the images away and returned to the mechanical washing. Once he finished with Xander's face and hair, he returned the eye patch, pulled the plug to let the water drain out, and lifted his charge carefully from the cooling tub to dry him with the waiting towels.

Xander began to respond more to the shifting of his body, grunting or moaning periodically, but never regaining consciousness. Spike returned him to the bed before fishing out a pair of boxer shorts from the dresser and slipping them on. Wouldn't do to have the whelp passing out from embarrassment at his nudity when he woke up. He debated adding a shirt, but he decided that he wasn't giving Xander any excuse to avoid conversation about the very apparent scars on his arms. Once his charge was settled back into bed and tucked in under the layers of blankets, Spike screwed off the top of the whiskey, took a swig, flopped himself down on his bed and settled in to wait.