Turnabout

DISCLAIMER and INFORMATION
Author: ElizaShaw
Archived: My website, http://home.earthlink.net/~elizashaw/ as well as at StepAwayFromMyXander, The Island's Library, and The Wonderful World of Make Believe. Please do not archive elsewhere without asking permission (that said, I am pretty easy, so don't be afraid to ask!)
Disclaimer: All characters and references to BtVS and AtS storylines belong to Joss and Mutant Enemy and all the other folks with valid legal claims. Not mine. No claims on 'em, and no money has ever been made or ever will be made from playing with 'em, but innit fun?
Pairing: X/S, also some A/X and mentions of A/S as we go
Spoiler Warnings: This takes place after BtVS season 7 and AtS season 4--spoilers for all canon up to this point. I started this well before AtS season 5, so I've played pretty loose with setting up the AI folks with Wolfram and Hart.
Summary: After the battle with the First, Xander breaks from the Scoobies and disappears until a resurrected vampire discovers his secrets and calls on his Sire for help. But history entangles the three of them and the future seems nothing but uncertain.

Los Angeles, June 2003

He had heard what happened in Sunnydale, or rather to Sunnydale since there wasn't a Sunnydale to be ‘in’ anymore. Somehow the obliteration of the Hellmouth wasn’t entirely comforting. History indicated that it was always easier to keep an eye on the evil when it kept itself centered in a single locale. Neither was Angel entirely sure how comfortable he was with unidentified legions of slayers roaming the planet. Buffy had assured him that she and Willow would be working along with Giles at rebuilding the Watchers Council with a mind to finding and organizing the suddenly Slayers in order to direct their individual trainings and coordinate their efforts as needed. She had seemed relieved to no longer have the one-girl-in-all-the-world gig.

"It had to be done," she said simply. Sitting cross-legged on his black leather couch, she toyed with a stray string on the cuff of her jeans. She had arrived in Los Angeles one week after the end of Sunnydale, the day before she flew with Dawn and Willow to England to formulate the new and improved Watchers Council. When she had asked to see him, he had offered rooms in the Hyperion for the night. Unlike the Wolfram and Hart building which was staffed round the clock, in his hotel, he found himself often alone, reading, training, or honing his brooding skills in the place that he now fully and legally owned. Having guests for the night appeased the loneliness, distracted him from the gaping hole that the loss of his son created.

"And you're okay with that?" He handed her the steaming coffee mug before retiring to the matching leather chair in the corner of the room.

"Beats trying to save the world on my own all the time." The smile didn't reach her eyes, and she lowered them as she sipped her coffee.

"You were never on your own."

"I suppose not." Her voice hardened as she remembered that desperate night exiled from her friends until Spike had come after her. She tried to shake off the familiar sense of isolation as she reminded herself that she no longer bore the role of Slayer alone, and offered a wry smile. "We'd probably be having this conversation in Hell right now if that was the case."

"I doubt this is the conversation we'd be having in Hell."

She grinned weakly, "No. There'd definitely be more screaming going on. And how wrong is it that we can speak from experience on that?"

"Very.” He answered, ignoring the niggling voice noting that he had more than earned his experience with Hell.

They drank in silence as Angel waited for her to broach the 'something' that she had alluded to in her request to see him before she left for England.

"Angel?" She tried to gauge his thoughts while assembling her own. The mug helped to steady her hands with its warmth.

"Buffy." He held her gaze.

"Everything's changed, you know. Me. You." She gestured to the room around them. "The whole world's changed. No more Hellmouth for me, and you're working for lawyers."

"Technically, they work for me." She appreciated his attempt at levity to help her get beyond the stumbling beginning, but it wasn't making it any easier to broach the final moments in the Hellmouth.

"I told him I loved him. I-I wanted you to know that."

Him. Spike. With a soul. And she loved him. Angel waited in absolute stillness.

"He knew I didn't, but..." she trailed off uncertainly. “And then I left him, there, in the Hellmouth with that amulet you gave me and a horde of vampires. We ran. And then Sunnydale, the Hellmouth, was gone." She stared into the rapidly cooling mug, waiting for his response. She concentrated on letting go of the tension that had built in her shoulders and threatened to wobble the cup in her hands. Telling a Master Vampire that you had left one of his brood to die was hardly the most tranquil conversation to have, despite the animosity that historically characterized the relationship between these particular vampires.

"It had to be done." Angel finally spoke, echoing her words, unwilling to trust any he might come up with on his own. He stood up without looking at her and walked out of the room. She let the tears gather and spill down her cheeks as she remembered the vibrant blue eyes shining at her and urging her to leave him burning alone at the gate to Hell.

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

With the door to his apartment closed behind him, Angel made for the stairs that led the roof. His only thought to escape the waves of grief and guilt that rolled off the tiny blonde Slayer curled up on his couch. Not another one. Not another one. The thought pounded in time with his feet on the stairs. He slammed the door to the roof open and stalked across the tarred surface. Not another childe. Penn he'd killed, and Connor he had forfeited, but William, his William with a soul had been an unspoken promise, and he was gone. Angel raged silently, unwilling to give up the pain to the night sky. Tears streamed unbidden as all of the explanations, apologies, pleas for forgiveness rolled through his mind. Spike with a soul might have understood and might have forgiven. Angel raged that he could not have that, and he despaired that his childe had managed the redemption, the noble all-cleansing gesture, that Angel himself had never captured.

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


Sunnydale, June 2004

The full moon shone down on the crater, illuminating rubble, creating pockets of shadow. A low breeze blew over the dust as three figures shimmered into a luminous presence. The figures stood circled around an abandoned pack of cigarettes and carefully set a rich purple lilac, white gerbera daisy, and deep red rose in a triangle, bud to stem around the unopened pack. Latin phrases hummed through the air, and the rubble once known as Sunnydale quaked. The earth cracked and dust tumbled down the chasm to fall onto blond locks as a pale hand reached out and gripped the surface. Then two hands heaved the rest of the shaking form up over the edge, and Spike gasped for unneeded breath alone under the full moon.

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


Gilded Grove, California,
several hours later

As he strolled toward the front office of Earl's NiteLife Motel, Spike scented the night air, trying to determine what sorts of demon he could expect to encounter if he managed to get a room. He knew of the place by reputation and always meant to get there someday, but then the whole soul-having thing kicked in, and it lost its appeal. But the bar would have fresh O-neg on tap, and he needed to eat something again soon as he continued to recover from his, well, whatever that had been underground. But he wasn't going to think about that, he reminded himself fiercely. The absolute solitude, the suffocating fear before he clawed his way back to the surface, the familiar and unwelcome abandonment that settled in upon finding the desolation that was once Sunnydale.

Spike shook off the introspection and loneliness that threatened to halt his faltering steps back toward life, or unlife in his case. He didn't want to get caught unawares by some nasty jumping out at him before he got the chance to get himself a room and work his way to the bar. Watching the shadows for movement and scenting the air reflexively, he made his way toward the lighted office where the Vacancy sign blinked. He caught a whiff of Fyarl and a whole lot of vampire as he walked by several of the rooms. Then as he neared the room next to the office, he started. Human. Familiar. He paused outside the door, yearning for that familiarity that washed over him. Spike raised his pale fingers to the number on the door. 102. He touched the wood with his fingertips and scented deeply. His brow wrinkled as he tried to place the smell. Mixed with the human he could smell whiskey, unwashed clothes and body, sex and despair that threatened to roll over him in waves if the door opened.

The whiskey, filth, and pain urged him to keep walking. Humans in this sort of place usually meant take-away for vamp patrons, not paying guests. But the strength of the scent coming from the room meant that this particular human had been here a while. Still Spike hesitated. The underlying smell tantalized in its familiarity. He brought the other hand up and laid it flat against the door before leaning his forehead to rest against the painted blue surface. The possibility of finding a recognizable face shattered the control he had clamped down on the desolation of finding Sunnydale decimated and no trace of slayers or Scoobies remaining. The world was still here, and he knew that meant that the Hellmouth closed in time, but he dreaded the body count. But behind this door existed one body who escaped. Spike inhaled once more and let the scent permeate his mind, depending on sense memory to bring him a face. Mouth open, nostrils quivering, he stood otherwise motionless. Waiting. Eyes closed. Listening as he ignored the niggling voice that suggested he would look the proper fool if the door suddenly opened or someone walked by. He breathed, and then started backwards as the scent clicked into place. Beneath the booze, the filth, and the despair. Xander.

Spike didn't need to breathe, but he couldn't suppress the few gulping breaths. Xander. Here. Clearly making his home at a demon motel as far from the usual types of Scooby stomping grounds as Spike could have ever predicted. Shock gave way to concern, immediate, thick, and pounding. He took another breath to steady himself, and he stepped back to the door, knocked three times, and waited.

Xander shifted his head from the pillow to stare at the door blearily. Someone was knocking. The numbers on the clock glowed green: 3:57. In the morning. It was 3:57 in the morning, and he had been asleep for only an hour after working what he euphemistically called his periodic ‘graveyard shift.’ He groaned as he felt the soreness in his ass and thighs, shoved away the blankets, and swung his boxer-clad legs slowly over the edge of the bed as his head put up a throbbing protest. Another groan in response to more insistent pounding on the door.

"Just a minute," Xander called, grumbling under his breath about hotel managers who had no sense of decency when it came to demanding repairs. He snatched the eye patch from the bedside table and slipped it on. Then he leaned over and slid the empty whiskey bottle under the bed before heaving himself to his feet and shoving his head and arms into a sweatshirt as he staggered toward the door.

"What is it this time?" he growled as he yanked the door open.

Spike stifled a gasp at the figure teetering before him. His instinct told him to reach out a hand to steady the man, but reason advised caution. Xander, bloody hell pet, what happened to you? He searched for the strength and humor he knew--the Xander they all depended on--in the thin figure leaning on the open door, gazing at him with a blank, unfocused look. A look that began to narrow, and Spike could see the wheels beginning to turn.

"Xander?" He grimaced as his voice cracked on the first word he had spoken since crawling from the Hellmouth.

"No." Xander shook his head with increasing violence. "No. You're not here. You're dead. You're gone. You're NOT here." His hands scrambled on the edge of the door, struggling to swing it shut, but it caught on his bare foot, scraping over toes and sending him off-balance.

Spike reached out to catch the man as he fell forward, but his hands slammed into the invisible barrier that he needed Xander's permission to cross.

"Damn it! Xander, invite me in."

"No, no, no, no, no. You're not here. You're not here. You're not here." Sliding down the doorjamb, face averted from the vampire standing in the door, Xander closed his eye and continued the panicked rambling as he reached the floor.

"I'm dreaming. Why can't I just wake up? Stop. Please stop. Leave me alone."

Spike knelt down slowly, bringing his face on par with his friend's. The terror and despair that emanated from the tense figure worried him. At the same time, he suppressed a smirk. Turnabout's fair play, I suppose. I've been nuts, now it's my turn to be caretaker again. Ta, universe. He carefully sat down in the doorway as close as the barrier would let him.

Xander curled in on himself, shuddering. Spike sat silent, eyes raking over the form on the floor. Long locks of brown-black hair flopped over Xander's forehead, nearly reaching his cheeks, and several days worth of stubble covered his face. Layers of stains from sweat and other less pleasant sources marked the sweatshirt and thread straggled from the hem of the boxer shorts. The legs lacked the fullness Spike remembered, muscle eroded to an unhealthy thinness. With the door open, the vampire could see the disorder of the room. Clothes piled haphazardly on one of the beds, the floor, chairs. Empty burger wrappers and abandoned styrofoam cups rested on the dresser top and in overflowing trash cans. Apparently maid service didn't exist or wasn't welcome in this room.

The shuddering slowed. Spike shifted his attention back to the figure in front of him.

"Just a dream. Just a dream. Sleepwalking. No one's here. Just a dream."

"No, pet. No." Spike lulled, cajoling, "Open your eyes." The head shaking started again. "Xander. You're safe. No one's going to hurt you. Please."

Silence.

"C'mon mate. You're letting the bugs in and the neighbors are gettin' a show." Spike raked fingers through his hair and grimaced, "And I could use a shower." A deep, shaky breath came in response to that.

Xander struggled to pull himself from his retreat. The voice sounded so right, but this wasn't the first time he had seen Spike, although Anya usually came right behind or before sometimes accompanied by Tara and Joyce. But she wasn't here, and Spike wasn't hurling the usual accusations of betrayal and abandonment or threatening to eat him. What if Spike was here? If Spike was here, really here, then maybe none of the past year happened. Maybe he was about to wake up from the dream of living in demon motels and losing everything Sunnydale. He raised his head, set his shoulders and tried to prepare himself for whatever the Hellmouth--no, not the Hellmouth, the Hellmouth is gone--threw at him. He opened his eye to meet the concerned face of his formerly dead, and apparently undead again, ex-enemy.

"Spike?"

"That's right, luv. Spike."

"Spike?"

"Still here."

"Spike."

The vampire smirked. "Nice to see your conversational skills are still intact, mate."

The insult elicited a weak grin and a hand reached out to touch the vampire's face. Spike held still and gazed steadily at the troubled man facing him as fingers traced down his cheekbone. The warm pressure sent jolts through him, and he willed himself not to react and break the tentative connection.

"You're really here."

Spike brought his hand up to take Xander's as it moved from his face.

"Yes, pet. Really here. With you. Right here. Sitting in a bleeding doorway, hoping for an invitation sometime before sunrise kicks in." He clasped the fingers gently as another shudder ran through the human.

"Invitation?" Xander's weary mind clutched at the concept.

"Vampire. Still need an invitation." Spike paused. “You're in control here. I'm asking to come in, but you get to decide." He sensed that Xander needed every security he could get. He waited, watching Xander consider the situation. With Xander closer, Spike could distinguish the general scents of the room from the man himself, and he found himself bewildered by what seemed like a nest of vampire scents surrounding the man. On top of that, it seemed that Xander had had sex with at least one of them, although through the other scents, he didn't detect any trace of Xander's own essence, and he did remember that smell from the days in the basement of doom despite the boy's efforts to conceal his sex life from his undead guest. He could feel his demon begin to rage that someone else had touched one of his humans. He may not have been the Master of Sunnydale or have had minions in years, but the slayers' bunch had become a modified version of the vampire clan his demon still yearned for.

"Spike?"

"Yeh mate?" Spike managed to avoid a possessive growl.

"Can you help me? If you come in, can you help me?" The pleading man searched the vampire's face.

Spike fought to keep from averting his gaze from the naked pain, the despair generated by the countenance and the question. His demon yearned to grab, take, and reclaim the man through blood and cum, but Spike clamped down on the impulse and went with the soul's impulse to coddle and protect.

"Yes." He whispered, hoping he wasn't lying. "If you let me in, I’ll help you."

Xander considered again.

"Okay." Pause. "Okay." He took a deep, calming breath. "Spike, please come in."

Spike reached his hand through the doorway to touch Xander's face, trying not to wince as the man cringed away. He watched as Xander pushed himself up off the floor and moved back from the door, gaze riveted on the blond figure slowly unwinding to stand on his doorstep. Spike hesitated, but the invitation had been issued, and as much as he didn't want to become again the figure that had terrified the man, he intended to take advantage of his ability to cross the threshold.

"I'm steppin' in now. Just inside the door. Not comin' any further, mate.' Spike stepped one foot over the threshold, watching for reaction. Xander just stared. Spike took the next step and stood inside the room. "C'n I close the door?"

Xander hesitated before nodding sharply.

"So. Missed the basement so much, you brought the decorating scheme with you, did you?" That garnered another near-grin from the human, and Spike latched onto that. The past seemed an easier starting place. He felt at a loss to understand Xander without knowing what had happened since they'd fought the last apocalypse together, so the past seemed safer.

"I don't know about you, but I'm knackered. C'n I sit down before I fall down?" Spike gestured to the bed covered with clothes, newspapers, magazines, and other less identifiable items. Without waiting for a response, he gently shifted the clutter until there was space enough for him to sink down onto the bed. He hoped the gesture would make him less threatening, and at the same time, he really did want to get off his feet after walking for hours.

"Come 'n sit, luv." Xander started. "Not with me. Over there. Your bed. In your own bed."

"Sorry." Xander mumbled as he shuffled back to the bed and climbed in. "It's kinda a lot right now, ya know? I'm not. . . I'm not. . . "

"What, pet? You're not what?"

"Still not sure you're real. Not sure any of this is real. Not sure I want it to be. Not sure I can bear for it not to be." He curled onto his side away from Spike.

"That's a lot of not's you got goin’ on there. Let's not worry about all that now, shall we? I woke you. Didn't think about that when I pounded on your door." Didn't think about anything but home, family, Xander. "So maybe it's best for now to let you get back to it, and we'll leave it to morning to get sorted."

Silence answered him.

Spike wondered if the man in the bed across from him had already drifted off. The breathing and heart rate indicated otherwise, but Xander didn't seem inclined to speak or to argue with his proposition. He began to undress, taking off his duster and boots and unbuttoning his shirt. Clearing off the bed became the next task, and he did it with as little noise and motion as possible, carefully piling the clothes in one stack and everything else in another on the floor at the end of the bed.

"Spike?"

"Hmm?"

"Will you be here in the morning?" The question asked just loud enough for Spike's vampire hearing to make it out.

"Yes, luv. I will be here in the morning. Now be a good boy, and go to sleep." He yearned to offer some gesture of comfort, but prudence dictated keeping his distance for the moment. At the same time, he abandoned any thought of getting blood from the bar tonight. Now that he had gotten his invite into the room, he wasn't risking getting closed out.

Spike slowly climbed into the opposite bed and leaned over to switch out the lamp on the table between the two beds. A soft click, and they were enveloped in darkness. The vampire lay still, listening to the human heartbeat, letting it lull him as Xander slowly fell asleep.