Awakenings

by
Beetle

Part Nine

Since the worst of the pain abated, Spike’s just sitting. Has been for fifteen solid minutes.

The letter sits on the kitchen table, unfolded and neatly smoothed. He’s lost track of how many times he’s read it.

Every few minutes, the cellphone in his pocket vibrates. He’d figured out how to turn off the ringer half an hour ago, on the way back to the apartment. If he never hears ABBA again, it’ll be too soon.

And hell, even if the phone’d been playing Blitzkrieg Bop or Rockaway Beach, it’d only distract him from thinking up a way to get Harris to listen to him. Then maybe give him a chance to . . . set things right? Not gonna happen. Let Spike woo him and win him over?

Yeah. They’ll be holding the Winter Olympics in Hell before that happens. I’ve gotta make up for the wronging him twice--and one of those times technically wasn’t even me!

But that kind of self-pitying thought isn’t going to get him back in Harris’s better graces.

Though why he even cares. . . .

When the door to the room opens, Will doesn’t sit up, or even turn his head. He knows who it is.

”Will. . . .”

“Go away, Xander.”

But Xander does not go away. Xander shuts the door and comes to the bed. After a moment of hesitation, he sits carefully on edge of Will’s bed and puts a hand on his shoulder. It’s a comforting touch, a sure touch . . . a brotherly touch, and Will wants so badly for it to be a loverly touch.

But it never will be. Not if the half of what he’s just been told is true. Not if the things he’s done to Xander’s friends, and Xander are true.

“God, how you must despise me.”

“Never.”

Said so fervently, and with a tightening of the hand on his shoulder, that Will turns his head so he can see Xander. In the dim lighting of their hotel room--a double, not the single Will had wistfully wished for; even if Xander could, by some miracle, return his attraction, he’d never ‘take advantage’ of a man with amnesia--he looks very young. Too young to have lost his parents in an earthquake, and his . . . Slayers in an apocalypse.

Not to mention his eye to an evil preacher. And would’ve lost the other, if not for Spike. But one act of selflessness doesn’t mitigate all the terrible things Spike did.

“Why, Alexander?”

“You’re not Spike.”

“He did awful things--”

“He was a vampire. Comes with the territory.”

“Didn’t you hate him for it?”

“Of course, I did . . . till I realized that’d be like hating a crocodile for being a predator. Spike was being who and what he was. I couldn’t keep hating him for that.”

“What did you keep hating him for, then?”

Xander starts to answer, then sighs . . . thinks long and hard, while absently kneading Will’s shoulder.

“Mostly? Buffy. And Anya. But after he saved my life . . . I couldn’t hate him, period.”

“Because he saved your life.”

“And because he’s repeatedly saved the lives of people I love. Not to mention he helped save the world a few times. It'd be kinda petty to hate someone after all that.”

Even if that is the only reason Xander doesn’t hate Spike, it’s better than nothing. If he doesn’t hate a murderous, undead fiend, then he certainly doesn’t hate me.

“But Spike hated you?” If there truly was such benighted a time in my life, I consider myself lucky to have forgotten it.

“In the end, don’t think he did.”

“The end . . . when the First Evil tried to destroy the world. . . .” Will closes his eyes, trying to picture it. He can’t. “How can any of this be true? If it is, why can’t I remember?”

“I don’t know.” Another brotherly squeeze. “Look, I know this is a lot to take in, all at once--”

“You’ve a talent for understatement.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Will sits up on his elbows and Xander’s hand slides down his arm. “Vampires do not exist, Xander.”

“I know, Will.”

“But apparently, before I lost my memories, I was one.”

“Yeah, you were.”

“And I killed people.”

“Yes.”

“And I drank blood.”

“That, too.”

Will sighs and lays back down, closing his eyes again. Xander’s hand immediately returns to his shoulder, comforting and right. “The sight of blood makes me nauseas.”

“You don't have to tell me. My shoes know, firsthand.”

“I was addicted to cigarettes, blood, sex and alcohol. And bad soap operas.”

“Well, since vamps are technically dead, I don’t think they can be addicted to anything. Okay, yeah, the blood, for sure--and maybe sex--"

“That is not comforting, Xander.”

“Sorry.”

Will cracks an eyelid. “But at least I was bloody gorgeous.”

Silence. Long silence. Disheartening silence.

“Well . . . if you consider the chiseled, super-confident, bad-boy type, with penetrating blue eyes and a devil-may-care smirk gorgeous, then yeah, you were a knockout. . . .” Xander mutters, with much clearing of the throat.

“Were?”

Xander shrugs, and looks away. His hand is still comforting, still soothing, still brotherly. “Okay, are a knockout, except for the bad-boy part. But . . . your smile’s way nicer than Spike’s,” he admits.

Hmm . . . not so disheartening, after all. Perhaps not so brotherly, either, Will thinks, looking back up at the ceiling. “That’s better . . . and you’ve a way nice smile, yourself, Xander. . . .”

Spike sighs, rubbing his temples. His head aches a bit, but nothing like the migraine trying to repress the memories brings. “Okay, Mates, these flashbacks are gonna be stopping sometime soon, right?”

No answer. Not that he’d expected one.

The PTB’ve had their say, kept their end of the covenant . . . now, it’s up to you to fix what we’ve broken, William says softly.

Despite Spike’s overall anxiety, muscles that he hadn’t even known were tense relax. Annoying though a conscience is, it’s better than being empty and alone in one’s own head.

“Well, well, Billy . . . and what the bloody hell do you think I can do to fix this?” He picks up the letter and shakes it, as if there’s someone else in the room to see. “After what we’ve done to him, he’d be an imbecile to forgive us, and not even Harris is that stupid!”

With sweet-talk like that, we’ll get him back, for certain.

Spike snorts derisively. “And who says I want him back?”

Tell me he repulses you? Tell me that if he was here, all open arms and silly, lovely grin, you’d run screaming in the other direction?

“For my bloody life, if I was even remotely sane,” Spike sighs. William laughs, long and loud, and Spike realizes something that Dru’s probably known for nearly two centuries: the voices in one’s head are impossible to lie to, impossible to ignore.

“But I’m not bloody sane. I’m love’s bitch.” Spike reads the letter once more. Every word in it fills him with such a tumultuous mixture of anger, remorse, fear, guilt, shame, desire, yearning, sadness, loneliness and--love. “Harris’s bitch. You’ve seen to that . . . but even if he was crazy enough to give me a chance, he’d always be wishing I was you.”

You are me! William insists.

“No, I’m not.” Spike refolds the letter. Wonders how differently this day might have gone had he read it when he found it. “I could pretend to be, but it wouldn’t be enough for him. I’m never enough, and this time won’t be any different.”

That’s only true if you give up without a fight. Please, Spike . . . please. Fight for him!

Spike stands up gingerly, leaving the letter on the table. “Between the two of us, we’ve done more than our fair share of damage to the man . . . it’d be better to just--go.”

William is silent again. Not the silence of absence, but a waiting, weighing silence. It lasts all the way to the front door. Just as Spike’s turning the knob, that silence is filed with white light and noise that resolves itself into another memory:

Long after Xander’s fallen asleep, Will lays there watching him, occasionally touching him, and reassuring himself that they’re both still there.

He’d be content to do that for the rest of the night--the rest of his borrowed life--but there are plans that need to be made, now that things have finally been set in motion. He stretches and rolls out of bed.

Rifling through Xander’s half of the closet--Xander-clothes are always more comfortable than his own--he selects a pair of grey sweats and a Rocket T. Squirrel t-shirt.

Then it’s back to Xander-contemplation. Just watching him sleep makes Will’s heart feel like it’s too big for his chest, and like his lungs just can’t get enough oxygen. If anything, the passage of time has increased the frequency and intensity of the feeling.

“I love you very much,” he whispers, kissing Xander’s shoulder. Xander mumbles something in sleep-talk and rolls toward him, smiling.

Smiles that sweet have to be kissed.

And kissed again.

And again.

And again, until Xander takes the hint, and wakes up enough to wrap strong, warm arms around his neck and kiss him back.

“Hey, baby.”

“Hello, love.” Will kneels on the bed, straddling Xander for better kiss-leverage. “Was afraid I’d put you in a coma.”

“Damn near. How come you’re still awake?” He pulls Will down on top of him and into another sleepy kiss. “Not to mention way over dressed?”

“Got me all wound up, didn’t you?” Will says inthe voice, which never fails to result in an alert, aroused Xander. “Need a hot cuppa to settle me down. Unless you don’t want me settled. . . .”

Xander groans and shoves Will off of him, onto his own side of the bed. “Nuh-uh, sex-machine. Four times is my physical limit. At least on a week-night. So go, be British . . . have fun.”

“Alright . . . but it won’t be as much fun as bein’ here.” Will pulls Xander’s hand to his lap and yes, Xander’s patented, official, Will-tested/Will-approved cocktease still works when the teasee is in sweats and the teaser is half-asleep.

But then, they both already know that from experience.

Xander stops teasing and yawns, smacking Will’s thigh. “Get--there’s a cup of Earl Grey with your name on it just waiting to be poured.”

“Come on, love, one more, for the road. . . .” Will murmurs, more than half-serious, more than half-hard.

“You are a bad, bad, bad, bad, bad man!” Xander rolls away, pulling the sheets up over himself like an aegis. “Go! Make some tea and lemme recover!”

Sighing, Will steals one last kiss--the back of Xander’s head, since that’s all that isn’t covered by sheet--and sits up. “I love you, Xander.”

No response for a couple of seconds, then:

“Stop pressuring me. No means no.”

Thwarted, Will gets out of bed. Again.

Plans to make and things to do.

Five minutes later, steaming, overs-sized mug in hand, he pads into the den and turns on a lamp, making himself comfortable in front of the computer.

He settles in the huge new leather chair--the command chair, Xander calls it, and has called it since one interesting night three weeks ago--turns on their G7 and opens a blank Word document.

Dear Spike. . . .

What does he say next? 'Welcome back, old man! Welcome back to our life!'

Will snorts. Not bloody likely.

But he types it out, anyway, since it’s better than nothing, and he can always delete it later.

The next words that come to him should be the hardest, but they aren’t. Maybe because they’re inevitable, now. He types them with a sense of relief and calm despair.

If you’re reading this, that means you’ve woken up, so to speak, and I have gone to sleep--or disappeared completely.

The words flow more easily, after that. Of course. They’re about Xander.

. . . he is our saviour and our Love and I cannot stress to you that above all else he must not be hurt. . . at least no more than this situation has already hurt him.

After brooding over that last paragraph for a few minutes, he adds: Than I have already hurt him.

Now. How to talk about the deal he made with the Powers? How to inform his other self about a pact he doesn’t rightly understand, except so deep down that to call it instinctual would be to understate?

I’ve always known that time would bring you back, Will temporizes, fingers flying over they keys. Even though Willow, Rupert and Ethan could not. Even though the Powers, for over five years, would not.

Which, I suppose, brings us neatly ‘round to the reason you’re back.

For years, now, I’ve been petioning those authors of my existence, the Powers That Be. For years, they’ve turned a deaf ear to my pleas, until today. I was granted an audience and I made my petition for my memories. For you.

I was successful.

The sacrifice required to secure you is my own; do not be concerned that your return has occasioned a debt that you did not incur and cannot pay. I will pay, in full, what is owed.

This one is on me, as the saying goes. I’m certain you can figure out how I expect you to repay my sacrifice.

Sacrifice.

Will stops and sips his chai, scrolling up to read what he’s written so far. Not exactly Kerouac, but it should hold Spike’s attention for the two minutes it would take to read it.

Despite that infamous temper--which is even more infamous than the facial expressions--Will suspects that, underneath the admittedly thick facade of rage and bloodlust, Spike, the original William, has a solid core of kindness and reason.

But just in case. . . .

I can only hope that you haven’t, in the time between your awakening and the finding of this letter, managed to do some irremissible harm to Xander. Not to put too fine a point on it, old man, but I’ve given up my existence. Not just for you, but because it’s the right thing for Xander . . . for everyone.

I’ve had six years of near-perfect happiness, but I cannot, in good conscience, let you remain absent. Though I doubt that had you not gone to sleep, you would have seen Xander for the Powers-send he is, this life is yours, to do with what you will.

Whether you give our current situation a chance, go haring off after your Sire and wind up re-turned, or resume your hopeless, and rather embarrassing pursuit of Buffy Summers . . . this life is yours. I only ask that you make a calm and informed choice. A life of safety, security and love with Xander, or . . . the alternatives.

Will sighs. The horse isn’t dead yet, but it soon will be if he beats it anymore. Time to move on.

I do not labor under the delusion that my ineloquent desperation has moved the Powers to change their plans on our behalf.

Instead my reason, as steadfast a friend as I’ve ever had, has taken me by the hand and led me to one inescapable conclusion: you are a champion. The world has need of you, and so you’re back, by the grace of . . . Whomever They Truly Are. You’re back, reading this letter--likely frothing with rage at my presumption--and the world has need of you.

The debt will be paid; you are under no obligations. But that does not mean you won’t be called, won’t be given a choice. . . .

Do what you must, Spike. Be who and what you are. But don’t forget me, and don’t forget Xander. Don’t let him walk away from us, or we may never get him back. If we don’t--

Will writes several heartfelt paragraphs about Spike’s likelihood of finding someone who’ll make him half as happy as Xander could, if given a chance. Then he deletes every one of them, settling on:

If we don’t, then I most certainly do not envy you the rest of your lonely life.

Eternally yours, and Xander’s,

William Aurelius Kent

He hits save and leans back in the chair, staring at his own words. All he has to do is print it out and rewrite it in on good paper, in his own hand (digital Copperplate isn’t nearly as nice as his own).

Write it, and leave it . . . where? With whom?

He must talk with Xander about what happened, yes, but the idea of leaving this letter with Xander, or anyone else doesn’t feel quite right. But there’s nowhere he could leave it that Spike would be sure to find it before he does something unforgivable. No place he would go, no former haunts--

Then it hits him like a Godsmack.

He knows the perfect place to put it; the one and only place Spike would be sure to find it, in fact. It’ll take some doing, and Rupert will be curious as to why, after all this time, he wants Spike clothes. More than curious, Will knows. The man’s mind never stops working, and if he doesn’t quite put two and two together . . . Ethan might very well put it together for him.

But it can’t be helped. Or stopped. What does it matter if they figure it out? What does anything that isn’t this last bit of time with Xander matter?

Will logs into his private email account and clicks compose. In minutes, he’s dashed off a sedate, if brief missive to rupert.giles@thenewcouncil.co.uk.

All that remains, is to tell Xander what happened.

Yes, Xander, darling, not only will Spike be restored, but the price of that restoration was my own existence. I’ve chosen suicide over a long and happy life with you, in effect, leaving you to face a life alone, or with a man who’ll probably do his best to hate you. Well . . . now that that’s done with, pass the peas?

Will can only imagine how well that’ll go over.

“Hmm . . . I don’t think that cuppa’s working, ’cause you don’t look anything like settled.”

Will looks up, startled and feeling more than a little guilty. Xander’s leaning against the doorway, wearing the plush green robe Will had gotten him five Christmases ago. “Er--say again?”

“I said I don’t think the cuppa’s doing much to settle you.” Xander strolls over to the desk and Will clicks on inbox. He opens a random email, just as Xander sits on the edge of the desk and takes a peek at the screen. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Just a little inbox cleaning. Apparently a great many spam-bots wish to sell me discount Vicodan and Oxycontin.”

“Sweet. If spam-bots sell it, it must be good.” Xander picks up the mug and takes a sip, then makes a face. “Ew! It’s cold and--you forgot the sugar.”

“Well, dear, if I’d known you were going to be co-opting my chai, I’d have been sure to put in your customary eight teaspoonsful of sugar.”

“It’s ten teaspoonsful, and no, you wouldn’t have.” Xander places the mug out of Will’s reach. “Hmm . . . you know--I’m pretty happy with the size of your penis, so . . . you can just delete this one.”

“What?”

Smiling Xander nods at the monitor, where, in huge, multi-colored letters, someone named Dr. Love-muscle is offering to enlarge his penis by fifty percent, for only $49.99, after shipping and handling fees.

“Oh, and please tell me this not you shopping for my birthday present, ’cause if so? You’re sleeping on the couch, Mister.”

“Bloody spam.” Will deletes the email. The next one is from Andrew and has nothing to do with enlarging one’s penis. Will hopes. “Why are you up? Weren’t you going back to sleep?”

Xander pouts a little. Dawn’s been a horrible influence on him. “I missed you . . . been waiting up for you. In more ways than one.”

“Is that so?” Will puts his hand on Xander’s thigh, then slips under the plush robe. Xander’s indeed hard and, after some patented, official Xander-tested/Xander-approved stroking, he’s even harder. “My . . . is all this for me?”

“Mm-hm.”

Will’s eyebrow quirks of its own accord, as it so often does. “Thought you needed some recovery time, love?”

“So . . . I’m recovered.” Xander shrugs, then stands up, careful not to dislodge Will’s hand or look away. He smiles imperiously. “Shall we continue this conversation in the bedroom, mon Capitaine, or would you rather we have it in the command chair?”

Xander’s Q impersonation is disturbingly good--disturbingly enticing, as is the memory of Christening the command chair, but . . . Will reluctantly stops stroking. “Want you, and in our bed.”

“Oh, where’s your sense of adventure, Picard?” Xander sighs expressively, flamily, but he’s already grinning. “So ix-nay on the am-spay, and come back to bed.”

“Be along in a minute, love.”

“Hurry.”

Waiting till Xander’s out the door and around the corner, Will logs out and restores the letter. After one reread, he selects all and lets his finger hover over the delete button.

A minute later, he presses command-q. A minute after that, he’s in Xander’s arms, trying to forget Spike, the letter, and his own guilt till morning. . . .

“Bugger!” Spike snarls, letting go of the doorknob; his body’s valiant effort at an erection makes the fading pain in his groin flare white hot for a few moments. He leans weakly against the wall, doing his best to stay upright. If he doesn’t make it out the door now, he knows he’ll never make it out.

The hell of it is, he’s not at all sure he wants to make it out.

Let him go, and this is the rest of your life, Spike, William presses his advantage and Spike’s uncertainty. Beautiful, happy memories, followed by intense agony. Time will only make it worse . . . for you and for Xander.

And somehow, the thought of Xander spending the rest of his life feeling like someone kneed him in the goolies--figuratively speaking--is unbearable. It makes Spike’s chest hurt like--

Like he just had another chili-dog.

He reaches for the doorknob, but his hand stops far short. He can feel William, hovering over his shoulder like a better angel, waiting breathlessly.

“It could take years for him to forgive us, you know? Maybe even decades. We may very well die unforgiven.” The realization hurts, makes Spike feel futile and alone.

Got something better planned for the next rest-of-your-life, have you?

Spike opens his mouth to say “yes”, but nothing comes out. It really is impossible to lie to the voices in your head.

Go to him, William whispers, begs, offers Spike any of a thousand wonderful memories as impetus to stay. He’s in there, hurting, hating us and hating himself--we have to make this right--

“Give over, Billy,” Spike grumbles, making his way back down the hall slowly--ignoring some of the really wonderful memories, so as not to cause himself anymore pain. “You had me at intense agony.”

William whoops--does bloody cartwheels in Spike's mind. Between the happy in his head and the throbbing in his groin, Spike doesn't know if he's coming or going. Then one clear thought--whether it's his or William's is anyone's guess--cuts through the chaos like a high-C:

Time to get our boy back.

Part Ten

Xander’s satisfaction lasts only as far as the bedroom.

Once there, it turns back into despairing rage . . . or maybe raging despair.

Will left him. Their big, fairy-tale, light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel, forever-love was just one big lie.

This is the rest of my life, he thinks, flopping in the center of the bed. He left me, and it’ll just hurt and hurt and hurt, till I die.

Right now it sucks to be the Xan-man. In fact, being the Xan-man is much like being a suppurating wound. Add to that, his head is really starting to pound--not that it hadn’t before, but it’s getting noticeably worse, now--and you have one not-fun Xan-man.

The not-fun-iest.

”I’m gonna get back the time you and that selfish ponce stole from me, and then I’m gone.”

So, Spike’s gotten Will’s memories back and . . . he’s not gone yet. At least, Xander doesn’t think he’s gone--but he can’t imagine why Spike would stay.

He’s trying not to care and failing miserably.

“I probably don’t deserve forgiveness, but I’m askin’ you for it. For a chance to make things right between us.”

Those words coming from The Menace Formerly Known As Undead? Funny. Hilarious, even. But the idea itself, that what Will did could be made right, or at least better--made to hurt less--was powerfully seductive. For a moment, Xander had wanted so badly to believe.

But only for a moment. Or so he’s been telling himself.

Because so what if he wants to believe, or maybe already believes a little? He’d also believed Will would’ve died before doing something like this without telling him. What does that say about the nature of belief, or basic trust?

And, as if bringing Spike back without so much as a heads-up wasn’t bad enough, Will’d done it at the cost of his own life.

“Damnit, he’s in here, Harris!”

Right. Sure.

And even if the only difference between Will and Spike is a barrier of amnesia that’d been knocked down . . . so what?

. . . shaking and crying and starting to slide off the kitchen counter. Spike’s chest is warm and solid against Xander’s back and his arms are around Xander waist, partially holding him up.

“And what galls me.” His tone is light and conversational as he backs away and lets Xander go to stand or fall, as he wills. Xander pushes himself upright, relying on the counter to steady him. “What galls me is that you have the bloody nerve to act like you’ve lost something.”

Xander shudders, hunching his shoulders up against the accusation in those words, in that voice--shrinks from Spike’s proximity when he leans in to say:

“I am not your lover, your partner, or your friend. I never will be. . . .

Spike and Will are two halves of the same man?

So. Fucking. What. That just means Xander’s been burned twice by the same person. And this same person had the nerve to try for chance number three.

How’s the saying go? Oh, yeah: fool me once, shame on Will, fool me twice, shame on Spike. Fool me three times, and I’ll get the dullest butter knife I can find and cut your fucking heart out. . . .

And when the voice in Xander’s head starts sounding like pre-rehabilitation!Faith, it’s time to take a step back. But back to what? Will had left him without so much as a good-bye--chosen to limit his existence to one small corner of Spike’s diseased memory banks, over their life together. Nothing to step back to there.

And Spike--

“Want me to take care of you, love. . . .?”

Yeah, Spike’d taken care of him, alright, in ways that gave new meaning to the term ‘bad-touch’. Just remembering makes Xander angry and hard, sad and embarrassed. At no point in his life had he ever felt more used, dirty and worthless than he did this morning, And it’s as much his fault as it was Spike’s . . . more maybe.

If he’d just spoken up as soon as he realized what conclusions Spike was jumping to--

“If, if, if . . . if ‘If’s and ‘Buts’ were candy and nuts, then every day’d be Christmas,” Xander says out loud, in a more than fair imitation of his late mother.

It’s more than enough to make him shudder--possibly even enough to drive him to drink--but hell, he has to give credit where credit’s due. Jessica’d had the right of it; life’s ‘if’s mean doodley and squat. Spike had been determined to blame someone for those lost years--and Xander was the zeppo who’d gotten drafted.

Then, Spike had read the letter--admittedly, after the bad!wrong!hot!counter-sex--and he’d known the amnesia was no one’s fault but the PTB. He’d still left.

Knew.

And then left, anyway.

That says it all, doesn’t it?

Xander curls up on his side; fetal position seems to be the theme of this day--of the rest of his life. ‘Cause it’s always gonna feel like this. Time won’t make it better, won’t make it fade. There is no such thing as emotional distance when it comes to losing the love of your life.

He reaches out to Will’s night-table and picks up the picture of the two of them at Dawn and Connor’s wedding. They’re smiling at each other in a way that’d be sappy, if it wasn’t so damn sincere.

Why hadn’t he proposed when he’d had the chance? Maybe Will would’ve been happier, would’ve felt more whole if Xander’d given him a big fancy to-do of a wedding, cemented their love and vows in front of all their family and friends . . . and the PTB.

Maybes and ifs. The absolute worst things hindsight has to offer.

“He looks happy in that picture . . . you both do.”

His eye starts to sting and burn--the picture starts to blur. Xander puts it back on the night table and closes his eye. Even the best memories are tainted by Spike.

And speaking of hard-headed, should-be-long-gone assholes. . . .

“You’re still here,” he says, surprised and obscurely pleased at the cold steadiness of his voice.

Spike shuts the bedroom door. Unfortunately, he’s still on the bedroom-side of it, from the sound.

“Like a bad case of herpes, me.” His voice is cocky, easy, unperturbed. “Always show up when I’m least wanted.”

More like a wind-up toy. . . . “So, now that you’ve been caught, you’re giving up on being sneaky and switching to bravado? So predictable, Spike.”

“Not so predictable, it’s just that you know me . . . know m’ ways.”

Spike crosses the room in a familiar creak-swish of duster; in seconds, the mattress is dipping under his weight. Xander can smell leather and--very faintly--cigarette smoke and blood. Also . . . chilidogs. Then a tentative hand lights on his shoulder. He doesn’t care enough to shrug it away. At least according to the official propaganda going around his brain.

The unofficial rumors going around his heart, however, aren’t exactly towing the party line.

“Did a real number on my wedding tackle, pet.”

“Yet you followed me into my lair. How . . . stupid of you.”

“Still angry, I take it?”

Xander’s a big believer in conservation of energy, so he doesn’t waste any on a “duh”, or a dirty look.

“Not that you don’t have every right to be.”

“Was kneeing you in the balls not enough of a hint? Am I gonna have to break out the flashcards and sing a little jingle? Just to make sure you retain the salient points of fuck off?”

“Look, bein’ human sucks, pet, and I suck at it.” Spike’s bold enough to knead and squeeze Xander’s arm, once he realizes he won’t be actively discouraged. His touch is slow and sure. “I don’t know how to fix what I did to you--how to atone for it, but I’m gonna try.”

“You know, I hear if you ignore your conscience long enough, it starts to atrophy and eventually, leaves you alone entirely. It’s old hat among lawyers, politicians and other professional slime-bags.” Xander’s grimace feels more like something found on the face of a man who’d died unhappy, than a smile. “Should be no problem, for you.”

“Ouch.” Spike doesn’t sound particularly upset and the hand on Xander’s arm doesn’t so much as lose a beat. “I deserve that and a lot more. And I’ll take it all without complaint, ‘cause I know if you’re still mad at me, you still care. You haven’t given up on us.”

“There is no us, Spike!” He opens his eye and the damn picture is directly in his line of sight. Why hadn’t he turned it face down, or away, or just dropped it into the waste basket? “There’s just a bunch of worthless memories that don’t mean shit to anyone anymore.”

“They mean everything to me.” The kneading turns into absent-minded petting. “You mean everything to me.”

“Which’d make you a few inpatients shy of a bloody asylum, wouldn’t it?”

“No . . . me thinkin’ I have a shot at being forgiven makes me a few inpatients shy of a bloody asylum.”

“At last, something we both agree on. I feel much better, now. Good-bye.”

“There’s no excuse for what I did, pet--I was cruel.”

“No, there isn’t, and yes, you were. Now go away.” Xander yanks his arm away, cradles it to his chest as if Spike’d tried to break it. Unfazed, Spike kneads his shoulder and upper back, now. Xander’s tense, tired muscles are relaxing without his say-so.

“I thought you and Billy had decided to play Keep-Away with my shanshu.”

”Already figured that out.” A few tears run down Xander’s face; he silently curses his traitorous tear-ducts, and his traitorous body for not differentiating between Spike’s touch and Will’s. “Of course, by the time I did figure it out, you had me bent over the kitchen counter and three fingers up my ass.”

The petting slows out of rhythm, but only for a moment.

“I’m scum for the way I treated you--for a bunch of other reasons, besides, but especially for that. I’m sorry I hurt you. Gimme a chance to prove it, to prove how much I lo--”

“What’s to be sorry for?” Xander cuts Spike off before he can say the l-word. It’s a word he’s never had much of a defense against. “Giles used to tell Buffy: Spike will only get away with what you let him get away with. He was right. It’s in your nature to take advantage of people and hurt them. I was the stupid one for expecting better of you.”

“You’re not stupid, you’re--too trusting and too bloody good for me, but you’re not stupid. And I know you hate me right now, but--”

“You don’t matter enough for me to hate you, Spike.”

It’s a direct hit; Spike finally stops petting, and removes his hand entirely.

Now, he’ll leave, Xander thinks, equally torn between bitter satisfaction and the forerunner of worse pain to come. It’s the death-throes of some brighter sensibility that Xander can afford to hold on to about as much as he can afford to let it go. He’ll go, and it’ll hurt even more, but at least I’ll be able to respect myself.

According to Aretha, respect is of the good, but it’s only making Xander feel hollow.

“Darling Xander. . . .” such a soft, concerned, deeply missed voice. The voice of a liar. “I made a mistake, not confiding in you, not trusting you.“

“Stop it. You’re not--you’re not him.” Xander’s voice cracks and more traitor-tears escape, like death-row inmates going over the Wall. “Get out.”

“Look at me, love.”

“I told you not to call me that, and I already know what you look like. Fuck off.”

“I said look at me, Alexander.”

“Will that get you outta here? Me looking at you? Fine.” Xander wipes his eye and rolls onto his back, turning his head just enough to see Spike. Maybe it’s his own yearning, or the damn tears, but those are Will’s deep blue eyes shining down at him. Will, wearing Spike’s clothes--a bad-ass bookworm in leather and denim.

Will, who looks as brittle and uncertain as Xander feels.

No, it’s Spike. And even if Will’s in there, it doesn’t make any difference. It’s over. There’s no going back.

“Okay, I’m looking. You happy, now?”

That’s definitely Will’s gentlest, fondest smile. “In raptures of ecstasy, beloved. You?”

Which startles another brief laugh out of Xander.

“You’re always beautiful, Xander, but never more than when you’re laughing,” Spike says, reaching out to caress Xander’s face. Trained to lean into that touch, Xander does, hating himself and Spike for every shiver that touch still causes. “So very beautiful.”

“And you’re so very full of shit. Everything you say is a lie.” Xander looks up at the ceiling. It’s better than looking at Spike and feeling the last struggles of hope or whatever it is that’s making his heart skip beats and his stomach churn.

“I should’ve told you about the audience--should’ve told you that I’d started petitioning Them again,” Spike says, running the tip of his index finger down Xander’s temple and cheek, to his jaw. “By the time I had the courage to tell you what I’d done, I didn’t want my last words to be something that would hurt you--”

“Why are you doing this, Spike? Is this payback for me stealing four years of your life? ‘Cause, newsflash, asshole: I didn’t!”

“I know. Didn’t before I walked out, though--got mad and crumpled the letter up before I got to that bit.”

“Now there’s a revelation that doesn’t change a goddamned thing.” The ceiling definitely needs to be repainted. Hey, now that Will’s not here to talk him out of it, he can finally stencil in some glow-in-the-dark Star Wars art on the ceiling.

Really, if there’s a lesson to be taken away from all this, it’s that every cloud has a silver lining.

“I remember the moment Andrew took this . . . how handsome you looked and how happy I was.”

When Xander glances back at Spike, he’s holding the picture--really close to his face; obviously he’s not wearing Will’s contacts--and smiling wistfully. “I remember wishing that you’d ask me to marry you right then and there, and knowing that you wouldn’t. Hoping that we’d always be as happy as we were at that moment . . . and knowing that we wouldn’t. That I’d eventually get an audience, get the memories back, and--everything would change.”

“Two fucking years ago, and you were trying even then?!” Xander asks, batting Spike’s hand away from his face and sitting up on his elbows. His own shock, and the look of guilty misery on Will’s--Spike’s face is chipping away at the tenuous control Xander has on his body. Crying, screaming and homicide are imminent, and not even in that order. “God! How could I have been so fucking blind?”

“You were happy and in love,” Spike says softly, reaching out to touch Xander’s arm. He sighs when Xander bats his hand away again. “I was careful, and you saw what you wanted to see. What you needed to see.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault that my boyfriend was a lying, secretive bastard?”

“That’s not what I mean, love, and you know it.”

Xander ignores another sad, Will-ish sigh--”We are going to talk about this, Xander . . . soon”--and his own regrets. “I don’t have to listen to this--and certainly not from you--”

“That’s your whole bloody problem, right there!” Spike explodes, drawing back like he’s going to hurl the picture at the wall. But at the last second growls and slaps the picture down on Xander’s chest, hard enough to sting. “You won’t listen--especially when you’re happy! You’re so bloody afraid you’ll hear something that’ll take you out of your nice little comfort-zone and strip away your precious illusions!”

Spike gets up and paces to the armoire, the closet, the bathroom and then comes over to the bed glare down at Xander. When the response to his words and glaring is nothing more than a stunned, stubborn silence, Spike sits on the edge of the bed again. He picks up the picture, lays it face down on the night-table and visibly tries to calm himself before speaking.

“I admit I was wrong to let you walk away, time and again, because it was easier than telling you what I had done. But what was I supposed to do? Tie you to the bed and make you listen to me?”

“What you were supposed to do was leave well-enough alone,” Xander tells him. Blinking away the ever-present tears makes Spike’s face sharper, harder, definitely not Will’s. “And you were supposed to stay gone.”

Xander’s only seen Spike look like this once, seen his face quiver like a crystal that’s about to shatter. It’s a face that tugs painfully on Xander’s heart and memory--makes him remember a girl he’d still been half in love with, dead at the foot of a tower. Makes him remember a girl he’d been all-the-way in love with, dusty and bruised, but still alive, with a heart still unbroken.

It makes him remember Will’s face after Giles and Buffy had told him who he’d been before the shanshu and amnesia.

And that also makes him wonder how he, Xander Harris, had gotten the power to make Spike look like that--how he’d gotten the power to hurt Spike this much. It’s not a power he wants. He doesn’t want the guilt and pain that come with it.

He shakes his head. He doesn’t want the man that comes with it. “It’s over, Not-so-dead-boy. Get that through your head.”

“You don’t mean that, love--”

“Now who’s hearing what they wanna hear?” Xander lays back down. He figures there’s plenty room for Luke, Leiea, Han, Chewwy, Sir Alec Guinness!Obi-Wan . . . Yoda, of course, and Vader. Maybe even R2 and C3PO; but no Jawas, Ewoks, storm-troopers or Imperials, though. There’s a thin, shifty line between War-head geek and Troika-hopeful. “You say you wanna make up for what you did? Prove it. Stop hurting us both and just go.”

“No.” Spike’s face appears over Xander’s own; it’s tired, unhappy . . . and effectively blocks out all efforts at visualizing a swanky new Jedi-ceiling. “We still love each other--”

“There’s no we! There was me and Will, and then Will fucked it up. He didn’t believe me when I said he was enough.”

Spike’s eyes are shining, and wet with--unshed tears? “Maybe Will was enough for you, love, but--he wasn’t enough for himself. He wanted--”

“What about what I wanted?” Slips out, before Xander’s brain can rein his heart and his mouth in.

“You wanted him to feel whole, and be happy.” Spike smiles and there are tears in his eyes. That’s just wrong . . . Spike, and tears. Two unmix-y things, or so Xander’s always thought. “Well, we’re whole. We have all the pieces; but the happy bit’s up to you.”

Xander blinks back his own tears, forces away the yearning with resentment. “Don’t you dare . . . don’t you make me feel like the bad-guy in this. I never thought Will was missing pieces or less than whole--that was always his fucking trauma. He was the one who walked away from me!”

“But I came back!” Spike swipes frustratedly at his eyes. “Because I love you!”

“You came back, because you love me?” Xander laughs. “The PTB didn’t give Will Spike-memories. They brought you back, then gave you Will-memories--”

“Which do you think woulda been better? Givin’ a man who’s one hundred-plus years old memories of six happy years, or giving a man who’s six years old one hundred-plus years of bloodlust and violence and carnage?”

Touche. But so what?

“Yet another revelation that doesn’t change a goddamned thing.” Xander closes his eye again, before he succumbs to the urge to brush away Will’s--Spike’s tears. That’s not his job, and never will be. “My point is that the PTB could cram Dawn’s memories into my skull, but that wouldn’t make me her. You’ve got Will’s memories, Spike . . . but you’re not him.”

“I’ll be whoever you need me to be, Xander: friend, lover, sin-eater, punching-bag, good-guy, bad-guy, Will, Spike--hell, Randy-bloody-Giles! Doesn’t matter to me, just--” now Spike’s voice is cracking. “Just don’t give up on me.”

“Will gave up on me. Lied to me for years--”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t take it at all well, if I told you! I can see now how wrong I was to think that.” Spike’s voice sounds strange, muffled. “Never mind that every time I tried to bring it up, you wound up maxing out a credit card at Home-bloody-Depot.”

“Fuck my credit cards, and fuck fucking Home Depot!” Xander snaps, mostly to drown out the voice in his head telling him shoulda-shoulda-shoulda. It’s been running its mouth since morning, but until a few minutes ago, it was easy to ignore. “The bottom line is you--Will just did whatever the hell he wanted to do, without coming to me first.”

“Well, Will wasn’t aware he needed your permission, pet.” That genteelly despairing voice has turned chilly and flat.

“Not my permission, but he wouldn’t even let me be there for him . . . he didn’t tell me what he was doing, or warn me that one evening I’d look across the kitchen table and see--” but if he looked at Spike now, Xander isn’t sure who he would see.

“What? A stranger?” Spike’s tone is more bitter than any Will ever used, but once again soft, cultured . . . pure Will. “A monster? Something you can’t love, or trust?”

“Will was the one who looked and saw someone he couldn’t trust. You looked and saw someone you couldn’t love. You both left me.” Xander’s unable to stop the words because this is Will . . . even though it’s not. So he does the only thing he can, and turns onto his side, so Spike can’t see the toll this little tete-a-tete is taking. “I’m not the sharpest bulb in the shed, but even I can follow that logic.”

“Logic, huh?” There are two hollow thunks as an empty pair of Doc Martens hit the floor. Xander remembers that distinctive sound from their roomie-days, seven years past. “Can’t argue with logic, I guess. That’s never been my area of expertise.”

“Really? I think I’m gonna have a heart attack, and die from not-surprise.” Xander knows he’s scraping when he turns to Disney movies for appropriate sarcasm. But snark takes work when his heart’s not in it.

There’s a sibilant whisper of leather and a rasp of denim as Spike makes himself comfortable--makes the same sighs and settling-in noises Will used to make when laying down for the night.

“What in the name of electro-shock therapy do you think you’re doing?” He demands, wanting to glance over his shoulder, but also not wanting to give Spike the satisfaction. His worst suspicions are confirmed when a possessive hand squeezes his arm briefly, links with his own.

“If there’s one thing I know, it’s when to follow my instincts,” Spike whispers, his breath stirring the hair on Xander’s nape. He spoons up behind Xander--thankfuly, it feels like he’s only taken off duster and Docs--body curving and conforming so there’s--

--contact all down the length of their bodies. Slightly sharp teeth nip a tingling trail up his neck, to his ear and whisper:

“Wake up, Alexander.”

And he does. To a neat bedroom that’s not his own, weak, winter sunlight and a slow, but purposeful handjob. He grins and snuggles back into Will’s arms. “Okay, I’ve been awake for, like, three seconds and already this is the best day ever.”

“Good morning to you, too.” Will chuckles, kissing Xander’s neck and pressing his morning-wood against Xander’s ass. Which should be wiggy and strange, but is actually . . . guh! “Did you sleep well?”

Xander shifts onto his stomach little and draws one leg up as close to his chest as he can get it. “Had good--oh, Jesus--good dreams and everything.”

“Hmm.” Stroke, nibble, grind . . . stroke, nibble and hello! Fingers in naughty places! “I’m glad. Glad you slept well, glad you’re here.”

“Me, too.” Xander’s blushing all over, like he hasn’t had more than Will’s fingers in his ass--hadn’t had the biggest orgasms of his life, then fallen asleep being kissed and cuddled and complimented. “So . . . The Big Gay Sex, hunh? I mean, wow! We had it, and it was indeed big and gay--”

Will chuckles again. “Xander, relax . . . last night was amazing.”

“Really?” And that’s not a quaver of relief in Xander’s voice. It’s a quaver of confidence. “‘Cause I’ve never . . . you know. Been with a guy before. Never wanted to, till you.”

“You’re the first lover I’ve taken since before the shanshu--” Will patiently waits for Xander to return from the happy, magical land that two fingers and an unerring sense of direction have sent him to. Then he goes on almost timidly. “And the only person I want to be with like this.”

And that warms places in Xander that are nowhere near his prostate or his groin. Places that’ve been cold since he walked out on Anya and the wedding-that-wasn’t.

Am I falling in love? Xander asks himself giddly, as Will does a tongue-in-ear thing that’s probably illegal in all fifty states, American Samoa and Guam. I can’t even remember what that feels like. All I know is that this--whatever this is, has been happening since the moment he woke up, and smiled at me, like he . . . oh, God, this is the real deal, isn’t it?

And on the heels of that: Please don’t let me screw this up.

Xander feels empty for a few seconds when the Fingers of Wonderfulness reluctantly disappear, but he knows they’re about to be replaced with something a lot larger, which actually does kinda wig him out a little. But the discomfort? So brief, and so worth the pleasure that comes with it.

“Now, I’m not an expert on morning-after etiquette, but. . . .” a shallow thrust and Will’s inside him one scant, teasing inch. “Would it be terribly forward of me to say that I want to be inside you again very soon and very, very badly.”

“N-not terribly forward. . . .”

“I want to be inside you again, Xander.” More tongue and another inch. “Very soon and very, very badly.”

Xander shivers, closing his eye to shut out everything that doesn’t begin and end with Will. “Please--”

He hasn’t finished stammering out his assent when the teasing turns into a thrust that fills him in so many ways, all of them scarifyingly good. Being with Will takes his breath away, makes him think words like love and forever before it eradicates his ability to think altogether.

It’s not long before Xander’s coming, tears running down his face as he shouts Will’s name.

Will comes a few seconds later, gasping yess and Gods to the steady beat of angry-neighbor-pounding-on-the-adjoining-wall. . . .

“Stop it.” Xander tries to shrug Spike off him, but Spike just latches on tighter, like the former-leech he is.

“Don’t think you want me to,” he says, all reason-y Will-voice. “What you want has nothing to do with logic, and everything to do with what’ll make you happy.”

“Will made me happy, and you’re not--”

“--not Billy, yes, so you’ve said. You’re right. I’m not.” Spike yawns and shifts around, cracking jaw and vertabrae in one fell swoop. “I’m not Billy inasmuch as I don’t actually give a shit if there’s someone better for you, or deserves you more. You’re mine, and that’s the end of it. I’m never lettin’ you go again.”

“You don’t actually have a choice, Spike--”

“No, you’re the one who doesn’t have a choice, pet.” Strong hands maneuver Xander onto his other side and he doesn’t fight them. He’s too tired, doesn’t have the energy, doesn’t really want to be let go of.

When Xander’s facing Spike, he gets that same radiant smile that Will always saved for him, and him alone.

“You’ve seen how I love,” Spike says, brushing his thumb across Xander’s lips, then across his cheekbone. That radiant smile doesn’t lose wattage, but it gains an edge that’s . . . predatory. And there it is again!

A fleeting flash of hungry gold in eyes that should be pure, human blue.

What the hell? Xander thinks, searching Spike’s eyes for hints of the demon. What he finds are hints of Will, and a sharp watchfulness that’s all Spike.

“I can’t promise I’ll never do something stupid, or thoughtless, or reckless ever again--still me, after all--can’t promise I’ll never break your heart again. But I will never lie to you again, and I will never. Ever. Leave you.”

Spike punctuates each sentence with an aggressive, open-mouthed kiss . . . like Xander’s token resistance, and half-hearted evasion is futile.

And Xander’s futile resistance? Is very token. In fact, when Spike breaks the kiss, Xander follows him, trying to put off the moment he has to feel anything other than want. But Spike seems determined to look him in the eye and make promises he probably won’t keep.

To try and drag promises out of Xander that he doesn’t know how to give, anymore.

“I can make you happy, if you’ll let me,” he says. “The alternative is both of us bein’ miserable for the rest of our lives. Is that what you want, just to spite me?”

“What do you want, Spike? Really?” Because you can’t want me. You left me twice, and I may be dumb, but I’m not stupid.

“What do I want?” Spike smiles a little. “I want you to give this--us a chance. Take a leap of faith. You deserve more than I’ll ever amount to . . . but no one’s gonna love you more, or make you as happy as I can.”

“Dig you with the refreshing modesty.” Xander rolls his eye and Spike shakes his head.

“Don’t, love--no more snark. That’s not us, anymore.”

Xander subsides, laying his head on Spike’s chest. It’s a purely for comfort, but what’s not comforting? That Xander doesn’t have to pretend it’s Will he’s drawing that comfort from.

“Then what are we, Spike? We’re not friends, we’re not lovers. We don’t even know if we can stand to be around each other without hurting each other and now you’re telling me that we’re soulmates--?”

“Never been sure what-all a soulmate is . . . all I know, is I am still missin’ a piece.” He pets and smooths Xander’s hair. “I’ve still got a hole and it’s . . . you-shaped.”

Xander blinks.

Xander blinks again.

Xander starts laughing.

Long, hard, uncontrollably. Till there are tears running down his face, wetting Spike’s shirt, and snot-bubbles threaten to do the same.

And Spike . . . obviously doesn’t know how to take this new development.

“Oi, what’re you laughin’ at?”

“Your hole is me-shaped?” Xander cracks up again, his face hot and his jaw aching.

“Yeah.” That tone? Means Spike is pouting. Xander remembers it well enough from their halcyon basement days. “‘S how I feel. Like I’ve got a Harris-shaped hole in me--”

The pictures that conjures up are hot, hilarious, and so wrong. “Oh, God, stop, before I have an embolism!”

“I’m pourin’ my bloody heart out, here, and you’re brayin’ like a jackass!”

“Spike . . . your hole is Harris-shaped . . . yeah, I think I remember a line like that in Romeo and Juliet.” Xander snorts and he’s off to the races again, his face pressed against Spike’s chest to muffle the laughter. Spike sighs and relaxes, wrapping his arms around Xander.

“You just have a dirty mind, is all,” he says loftily, tracing small figure-eights on Xander’s back. “Not that I’m complainin’. A dirty mind’s just the thing for a proper Consort--er, boyfriend to have. And I can’t say as I’m averse to having my Harris-shaped hole . . . filled.”

The laughter--which really was getting uncontrollable, and possibly about to turn into hysterical sobbing--tapers off. Xander wipes his face and looks up into Spike’s eyes; there’s no gold, just dark, somber, sultry blue.

Holy, crap, he means it.

“Um . . . never imagined the big bad bottoming for anyone.” It’s stalling, until his brain can get over its shock and start telling him exactly how he should be responding to this.

Spike takes Xander’s hand and pulls it to his . . . surprising lack of erection. “You’re not just anyone, love.”

“Uh--” think, brain! Think! “Spike, not only aren’t you hard, but I’m guessing that after the kitchen, getting hard is kinda gonna hurt.” Another big jolt of dark satisfaction and even darker desire . . . and the tiniest twinge of guilt.

“Kinda.” Spike shrugs dismissively. “Not a vamp anymore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like a little pain with my pleasure.”

“Is that so?” A firm squeeze makes Spike’s eyes widen, then he nods, holding Xander's gaze.

“Try me.”

Rub, squeezes, stroke . . . it doesn’t take long for Spike to get hard--then wince and groan. There’s a golden flash in his eyes as he bucks up into Xander’s hand, but he’s even paler than ever.

“I think you’re hurting more than kinda.” Xander removes his hand, uncertain which disturbs him more; the fact that Spike-in-pain makes his cock ache or that Spike-in-pain makes his heart ache. “After everything that’s happened, you’re not really gonna let me fuck you?”

The gold doesn’t flicker or flash . . . it smolders. “There isn’t much I wouldn’t let you do to me, and not just for atonement’s-sake. I mean that,” he adds, when Xander’s brooding has gone on for long enough to worry him.

Xander reaches up to trace the little frown-line between Spike’s eyebrows. It immediately smooths out. “I know. And that's the scariest thing anyone’s ever given me.”

“Don’t mean to be scary . . . I love you,” Spike says for what what must be the hundred millionth time. Xander doesn’t know whether or not he believes it, but he’s pretty sure Spike does. He’s just not sure that matters, or if he wants it to. “I’ll do anything to prove it, whatever you want.”

“Spike . . . I ‘m not--I don’t want to hurt you just to get proof that you love me.” Xander lays his forehead on Spike’s chest for a moment; tries to marshal his thoughts before looking into Spike’s eyes again.

But his thoughts are like wild stallions--or wild mustangs. Wild some kinda horse, because they refuse to be marshaled. The few thoughts that are limping by slow enough to understand--just because this feels right, doesn't mean it is, and he's lying, or he's too confused to know what he wants . . . but it's not this--don't stand a chance, once Xander actually looks up.

There’s no desire in Spike's eyes, no gold. Just concern, misery and fear.

It’s the fear that decides him.

The same fear he thinks must've been in his eyes whenever Will brought up Spike; the fear of losing, and of being left alone. It's the one emotion from Spike Xander can almost trust.

You really are this stupid, aren’t you? His common sense asks, throwing up its hands and stomping off towards the exit. I'm through, dumbass. You’re on your own!

Xander sighs.

“I dunno how I’m gonna feel when we wake up tomorrow morning, Spike. I dunno how I’m gonna feel the next day, or the day after that. I can’t promise you anything, and I may not be able to for a long time. I’m still fucking pissed at Will--and yeah, at you, too. And there’s a part of me that’s telling me I deserve whatever I get for wanting to believe the things you say. . . .”

Xander falters under Spike’s intense scrutiny and looks down at his t-shirt. The black is still deep, hasn’t faded since the day Spike--Will--they were found in the alley. “Jesus, I don’t even know you, or what to call you--”

“You know exactly who I am, love . . . and you can call me whatever you like.” Even avoiding it, Spike’s gaze makes Xander feel naked, makes him wish he was naked, makes him want to put on every article of clothing he owns and hide in the linen closet, makes him--

“This probably won’t work out,” Xander tells the t-shirt. “I don’t see how it could. But just in case it does--” Xander takes a deep, shaky breath. His throat is as raw as the cyclone of emotions whipping through him. It’s a leap of faith time, and Xander left his parachute in his other life. Oh, well.

“Just in case it does, if you’re gonna get itchy feet or have second thoughts about being a long-haul guy . . . please do it before I can’t live without you?”

Right. That was unexpected, Spike thinks, watching Xander stare holes into his t-shirt.

“Love?”

Xander looks at him again, warily, and the part of Spike that's still very much William wants to give yet another heartfelt assurance, and make yet another sincere promise about never leaving.

But in the end he just nods.

Xander smiles, small and timid, then leans in to kiss him on the lips. It’s a shy kiss, lacking in tongue, and sweetly awkward . . . a first-kiss sort of kiss. It makes Spike shiver, and ache in many places for many reasons.

“Good night . . . Spike,” Xander murmurs, looking Spike in the eye for all of a second, before laying his head on Spike’s chest again. His face is warm and dry, sparking a thousand memories of being Will, and laying with Xander exactly like this.

Someday, Spike promises himself and Xander silently. I'll make you happy, and you'll remember how to trust me again. Someday.

They lay there--Xander thinking so loudly, Spike can almost hear his thoughts, and Spike soothing shapes and letters into Xander's back--comfortably for a long time. After awhile, one of Spike's hands drifts up to Xander's too-long, silk-soft hair. There are already a few strands of grey mixed in with the sable-brown, something which quietly terrifies Spike until William's murmur ghosts through his mind like a soft breeze.

I know how silly it would be, asking you not to fret over his mortality--our mortality. But for the moment, just be with him. He sighs in Spike's mind, and it's the oddest sensation Spike has ever felt. Right now, he's alive and whole. Don't waste that worrying about the things you can't change.

When the man's right, he's right.

So Spike runs gentle fingers through Xander's mostly dark hair, and across Xander's scalp till neither of their thoughts are as loud . . . till Xander's breathing slows and evens out.

He's fallen asleep in Spike's arms. It's more than a bit of trust, more and sooner than Spike would've expected.

*'A perfect falcon, for no reason, has landed on your shoulder, and become yours', William points out, then rolls his mental eyes. Your hole is Harris-shaped, is it?

Spike smiles. What can I say, Billy. Making him laugh is half-way to winning his heart . . . you should know that better than I do. That one laugh did what all the begging and pleading didn’t: got us Xander.

William concedes the point huffily. Yes, well, don’t get too cocky. Xander can be forgiving, but he has a long memory, when he sets his mind to it. Even if he forgives us, he may never get past what we've done. What I've done . . . be ever-so-careful with his heart, Spike.

Spike nods again, his vision blurring just a little from tears or tiredness. Nevermind that his heart feels like it’s going to grow wings and take flight. He cautions himself about getting his hopes up--it’s no surprise to him that Harris could hold a grudge with the best of them. Who knows what emotional storms the morning would bring?

And ‘good night, Spike’ is, after all, no ‘love you, baby’.

No, it’s not . . . but it’ll do. For now, William tells him, and Spike agrees. For now, ‘good night, Spike’ will do quite nicely.

“Rest well, love," Spike whispers around his heart, which seems to have relocated to his throat. Xander doesn't stir.

When sleep takes Spike, it moves fast: it's got a schedule to keep, and no time for backtalk, arguments or negotiations. It closes his eyes for him, in the middle of his last conscious thought:

Tomorrow morning had better bring its A-game, and sod off, till then. Better--

Epilogue

It's another Friday night in the Harris-Kent household.

Xander's sitting at the kitchen table, flipping through the L.A. Times. Across from him, Will sips his chai and stairs serenely into space.

‘Space’ being whatever direction Xander’s in. Will literally can’t help himself; it’s been this way since as far back as he can remember, pun very much intended.

Six years. Strange years. Wonderful years.

Blessed years, that he wouldn’t trade for anything, made more lovely and poignant by the ephemeral nature of . . . everything, most especially himself.

Spike . . . such a life you have to look forward to, such love, he thinks, without fear or regret. I give it to you freely, lucky to have tasted even so small a sample of it.

And that’s when it starts.

A ringing sensation in the back of his brain--or maybe from the depths of his soul--like church bells on Sunday morning.

Time to keep his end of the covenant. At last.

Watching Xander frown down at some article or other, Will feels the faintest stirrings of panic and opens his mouth to confess everything. At least as much as he can in the few moments he has left.

“Alexander!”

Xander looks up, distractedly. “Yeah, babe?”

“I--”

did something for which you'll probably never forgive me

never meant to hurt you

was only trying to do what's best for us both

only regret not being brave enough to tell you

”--love you.”

That earns him a bright, easy smile. “I love you, too. But not enough to sit through the Stiffler adaptation of The Importance Of Being Earnest. Even true love has its limits.”

I don’t know where they’ll send me, or if I’ll even exist as more than an occasional ripple in Spike’s memory banks, but . . . I will always love you, and, if I have any say in the matter, so will Spike.

Will returns the smile, hoping it looks normal enough to pass muster. “Well, if you’re going to be adamant about it, read me the other movie listings, won’t you, love?”

“No problem-o . . . ‘kay, let’s see. . . . ” Xander turns some pages and makes a face. “Ugh, whaddaya think? Jay and Silent Bob’s Most Odious Escapade or Batman VIII: Clayface’s Revenge?”

I think I’m leaving just in time.

Will wipes the tears from his eyes before they can fall. Wouldn’t do for Xander to be any more alarmed than necessary. Or Spike, for that matter. There must be no tears. He has fears, yes, and regrets; but he will not yield his life in a flood of tears.

Though I would have liked to see Sean William Scott in a period piece . . . would’ve liked to make love to you one more time, Xander. . . .

He gasps as light, warm and golden eats away at the edges of his consciousness. It sort of tingles, like static electricity in his brain . . . or maybe his soul. . . .

“Yeah, I’m not too crazy about the choices, either.” Xander doesn’t even look up from the paper. “But what can we do? And we’re not sitting through Miss Congeniality 5: Dressed To Kill. I learned my lesson with Coiffured And Lethal, thank you very much.”

Xander’s voice, comforting and beloved--always beloved--follows Will

down

into

sodding

buggering

hell.

His heart racing--racing!--Spike looks around the painfully tasteful, earth-and-sepia-toned kitchen. He blinks a few times, but the kitchen remains.

What happened to the alley? Where’s the demons and Blue and the bloody Marines--? How the hell did I--?

Bugger . . . I’m in Hell, aren’t? One of them, anyway.

Spike knows he was very badly gored--was a few minutes away from dust when he shanshued. But the bleeding hadn’t stopped just ‘cause he shanshued, nosiree! He’d bled and bled and hurt, till pain and bloodloss blacked him out, and then--

Here.

I’m dead and in Hell, that's where I am. I saved the world for those buggering Bastards That Be, and got sent to Hell!

This hypothesis is confirmed with another glance around the room and at it’s only other occupant, who is none other than--

Oh, yes. That clinches it. This must be a hell-dimension. And so far, the scariest thing about this particular Hell is that there’s a demon that looks exactly like Xander-bloody-Harris yapping at him.

And bloody hell, even hell-dimension!Harris can’t shut his gob for longer than it takes to suck in a bit of oxygen.

“What is it?” Hell-dimension!Harris asks, seeming as confused and thick with it as human!Harris had been. Only . . . human!Harris had never looked so concerned and solicitous. At least not toward Spike.

Which Hell is this and how many of you blokes do I have to eviscerate before I’m runnin’ this place? Spike means to snarl, but something about the way Harris is looking at him banishes all thoughts of ruling in Hell.

Makes him start thinking he may be completely wrong about the metaphysical direction in which his soul has travelled--

“If you wanna see The Importance of Being Earnest that badly, we’ll see that." The look on Harris's face is one of dread and determination. "But I’m tellin’ you: with Sean William Scott as the director and star, we’d be payin’ our money and takin’ our chances.”

--at least until he's really listening to what Harris is yammering.

Huh.

So much for the heaven-dimension theory. . . .

*That line is way too good to be mine. Props to Rumi, for kickass poetry that fits any occasion.

The End

Teaser for The Sequel

The Art of Staying

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