Boglescatverse

by
Witling

Part Three

"Okay. So." Buffy dropped the corner of the sheet and stepped back. "He's sick."

"Yeah," Xander said from his station by the door. "Sorry, did I not mention that?" Willow gave him a look, and he gave her one right back. "He's sick in my bed, if I can petition the court to add a clause."

"Yes, Xander," Giles said quietly. "You mentioned that as well."

"'m not sick," Spike muttered. They all ignored him.

"Did you...eat anything new?" Willow tried. "Or, um, travel?"

Everyone looked at her, and she blinked. Xander gave her a little smile.

"Okay," Buffy said again, sitting down on the foot of the bed. "So, Spike is sick. In Xander's bed. For reasons best--"

"I told you," Xander said. "He was supposed to be on the couch. And his crypt was being fumigated--"

"--best known to himself," Buffy finished, raising an eyebrow at Xander. "And he's been like this how long?"

"I don't know. Since I got home, at least."

"And so far it's just...this?" Giles tipped his head to look over the top of his glasses at Spike. Spike stared back at him with slitted eyes. "Just this...fatigue?"

"Maybe it's mono," Willow said. "Oh! Hey! Maybe he got it from someone's blood, because it can be transm--" She broke off.

"Except he doesn't drink people blood now," Buffy said. She dropped a hand onto what was probably Spike's foot, buried under the blankets. "Does he." Her fingers tightened, and Spike made a strangled sound and tried to jerk his leg free. Buffy held on.

"Buffy," Giles said after a moment.

"What?"

He nodded at her hand, and she looked down at it with something like surprise. "Oops. Sorry." She let go, and Spike immediately yanked both legs up and curled into a ball near the headboard. Buffy looked back over her shoulder at him and sighed. "Okay. So...now what?"

Giles hesitated. "It's difficult to say. Spike himself is best qualified to explain this, and since he refuses to admit there's--"

"'m not sick," Spike muttered again, and Giles waved a hand at him.

"Precisely. Without Spike's co-operation, our options are limited." He crossed his arms and regarded Spike closely. "If you're not sick, Spike, then surely you can dress yourself and clear out of Xander's apartment."

There was a pause, and then Spike started to sit up, bracing himself against the headboard. His arms trembled. When he started to slide his legs sideways, out from under the blankets, Buffy got up off the bed.

"I don't need to see this. Giles, he's sick. Let's let him sleep it off, and if he doesn't get better, we'll--" That went off a cliff, and Xander caught Willow giving him a quick, worried, we're all still on the good side here, right? kind of glance.

"We'll find out what's wrong," Giles said gently. Buffy gave him a tight smile.

"Right."

Spike was still inching out from under the blankets, and Xander waited for someone to tell him to stop. Nobody did. "Uh, we're going to get NC-17 here in a second, if he continues that thought."

Willow got interested in the windowframe, and Buffy turned her back and rolled her eyes. "Spike," she said, "get back in bed."

He paused, braced himself on one hand, raised the other, and gave her two shaky fingers.

"He's flipping me off, isn't he?" Buffy asked Giles. Giles looked noncommital and cleared his throat.

"Spike, Buffy's right. You're not well enough--"

"'m not sick," Spike gritted.

"Quite right. You're perfectly well, but you may be contagious, so if you'd do us all the favor of staying--"

"Contagious?" Xander repeated. "We never discussed contagious."

"Xander, it's fine, just wash your sheets." Buffy looked at Giles. "It's fine, right?"

"Well, given that we don't know what he--"

"Man, I slept with him," Xander said. Was he tired? Yeah, he was. Well, he was always tired. More tired than usual? Maybe. And the Dro-whatever, fuck it, the lamprey bite, it itched. That could be a bad sign. What the hell kind of flu did vampires get, anyway?

The room was very quiet all of a sudden. He looked at Willow, then Buffy, then Giles, and they were all looking at him with more or less the same expression. He held up one finger.

"Okay. Hang on. Napped. Not 'slept with.' And not 'with.' Next to."

"You napped with Spike?" Buffy was looking at him like he'd just admitted to selling The Watchtower in his off hours. "Who, by the way, is he naked and walking around right now?"

Xander glanced over her shoulder at Spike, who'd lost steam with one foot dangling off the bed and the blankets still safely in place. "Uh, no. And, yeah. But not intentionally. He wouldn't move." Giles was still giving him the fish eye. "He was supposed to be on the couch-- Look, forget it. Do I need to go get shots or anything?"

Giles took a deep breath, the kind that meant he was questioning his career choices. "Do you feel ill?"

"No."

"Tired? Disoriented?"

"Well, yeah."

"Headache?"

"Uh-huh."

"Stiffness in the joints?"

"God, yes."

Giles pushed off the dresser and gave him a quick, sympathetic look. "You'll live."

"Why don't you take the night off tonight, Xander?" Willow said. "You've been working a lot lately, and you look kind of...tired."

"You do," Buffy said, in the tone of just having noticed. "You look sort of...Algebra 11."

"I'm fine," he said quickly. "And there's that whole cacodemon thing we've got going on--"

"We'll be all right," Giles said. "Willow's right, Xander. You're tired, and it hardly makes sense for you to keep on in this state. Get a good night's sleep, and let us know if anything develops with Spike."

"What, like he pays me back that twenty bucks he owes me?" Xander stood sideways in the doorway so Buffy could get past. "And why do I have to keep the sick vampire? Can't he convalesce at someone else's place?"

"He can't walk,, Xander," Willow said, as she went past. "It's not like he's hurting anything by being here."

"Easy for you to say. You're not the one with hemoglobin-fresh pillow cases."

"I'll do some research when we're finished with the patrol," Giles said. "Tate and ffolkes has a fairly thorough section on vampire physiology, and the DDSM IV may be of some use--"

"Fascinating," Buffy muttered, pausing at the door. "You going to be okay with him here, Xander?"

"Only in the most grudging, inhospitable sense."

"Okay." She gave him a light, quick hug. "Get some sleep. And call if he acts up."

"Or...you know. Acts any more down." Willow hugged him too, and he had to admit, it made him feel better. Sometimes girls rocked. Giles didn't hug him, and that was best for all concerned.

"We'll see you tomorrow," he said, and then led the way down the stairs. Xander watched them get to the landing, then closed the door and stood for a minute with his forehead pressed against it. He could still hear their footsteps, and Buffy asking something he couldn't make out.

He sighed and started for the bedroom, pausing on the way to pick up Spike's T-shirt, which he'd left on the couch. Spike's boots were still out there, too, from the night before when he'd bedded down where he was supposed to.

"Well, thank you for contributing just a little more suck to my life," Xander said, walking into the bedroom and tossing the shirt onto the floor. "Now my friends think I'm sleeping with a--"

Spike was sitting bolt upright on the edge of the bed, staring at him with a look of pure, brainless panic. Xander opened his mouth. Spike's eyes rolled white, his jaw snapped shut with a crack like a stick breaking. His head dropped back and he lost his balance, toppled, and slid off the bed to the floor. His skull made a heavy smacking sound. His fingers jerked and clenched.

Xander stood frozen, staring, and then Spike started to shudder and shake, board-stiff, his face waxy and hard, his back arching up off the floor. He was making a choked gasping sound. His heels rucked the rug.

"Holy--" Xander took one step forward, his hands out, then spun on his heel and ran to the door. Please don't be gone yet. He got it open, thundered to the landing, and yelled, "Giles!"

There was a sound of rapid feet in the lobby, and then the three of them were starting up the stairs, Buffy in front, one hand already in her pocket.

"Xander?"

He put both hands up--harmless--and gasped, "Spike--it's Spike. He's...seizing."

They came up the stairs fast, faces grim and worried, and filed back in. The drumming sounds were still coming from the bedroom.

"In there," Xander said, unnecessarily. Giles was already heading in, and they followed behind and stood in the doorway in a gaggle. Willow gasped. Buffy took her hand out of her pocket.

Giles was taking his coat off and kneeling down. "Get those blankets off the bed," he said, and when nobody else moved, Xander pushed through the girls and hauled the blankets off. He stood behind Giles with them in his arms, trying not to look and completely failing. Spike's eyes were open, and his face was terrified. He was jerking like something snagged on a hook, like something someone was trying to get rid of. His chest bucked up, the ribs hard as an engine casing, and his throat convulsed, gurgling.

"Give them here," Giles snapped, and Xander held the blankets out. Giles took them and dropped them over Spike. He kept thrashing under them, but the sounds of bone bruising were muted.

"What do we do?" Xander asked. "Do we--aren't we supposed to put something between his teeth?"

"No," Giles said shortly. "Just keep back and let it run its course." He sat back on his heels and glanced around, then reached out and moved the water glass off the bedside table. Willow made a little sound, and Xander glanced back. She and Buffy were standing close together in the doorway, watching silently. Willow's face was pale and shocked. Buffy looked...the same, but harder.

The thuds were waning, and he looked back and saw that Spike was slowing down. His throat clenched, corded, and went slack. His jaw worked. He blinked, and his eyes rolled, focused, and found each of them in turn. He swallowed.

Giles sat holding his glasses in one hand, rubbing his eyes with the other. "This hasn't happened before, has it?"

"No." Xander wanted to step back to the doorway with the girls, but it didn't seem right to leave Giles there alone. Or Spike. "Is he--done?"

Giles put his glasses back on and gave Spike a thoughtful look. Spike lay still, his eyes half-closed, his jaw working steadily. "He may be. We won't move him just yet, though." He eased back onto the balls of his feet and stood up. "Do you have any blood here, Xander?"

"Uh--" He couldn't think clearly. He kept seeing Spike's belly, the ridges of muscle like the plates of a turtle's shell, locked solid and yanked by invisible strings. Kept seeing his fingers scrabbling at the floor, the look of terror in his eyes. "I'll check."

That gave him an excuse to get out of the room, and he stood staring into the freezer without any memory of the rooms in between, thinking, Blood, blood, blood, and totally ignoring the frosty red bricks under the peas until Willow came up and touched his shoulder. Then they both jumped.

"Gah! Will--Jesus!"

She gave him an apologetic look, and glanced back over her shoulder. "Giles says to heat it up and see if you have any straws."

"Straws." He pulled a blood bag out and shut the door. "Check. I have none." He tossed the blood into the microwave and hit defrost. "Is he...okay?"

"Kind of woozy. He's back in your bed." She glanced back over her shoulder, toward the bedroom. "What do you think it is?"

"No idea. But I'm really hoping it's not contagious."

"Yeah." She gave him a crooked smile, and he smiled back, and they both watched the blood go around and around under the dim microwave light. When it dinged, he took it out and poured it into a cup.

"You think he can drink?"

"If he can't, he's replacing the sheets."

They made a procession of two, Xander in front with the mug. The bedroom was dark except for the light from the hall, and Buffy and Giles were having a whispered conversation by the window.

"I got an order of blood," Xander said. "Who gets it?"

"He's sleeping," Giles said quietly. "Give it to him when he wakes up. And see if he can think of anything--anything at all--that may have caused this."

Xander stood still, holding the mug at arm's length. "Wait--he's staying here?"

"He's not in any shape to move," Buffy said. "I know it's not exactly a good time, Xander, but he has to stay somewhere--"

"What if he does that...thing, again? And did we ever finish that conversation we were having about the contagious?"

Giles crooked a finger and led the way back out to the hall. They all trooped out; Xander got halfway out, paused, turned, went back and set the mug down on the dresser, then went out again.

"If he has another seizure," Giles said, "do exactly what we did just now. Try to cushion it with something soft, but don't interfere. Don't touch his mouth, whatever you do."

"And if he bites his tongue off, how long does that take to regrow?"

"He won't bite his tongue off, Xander. Get him to drink that blood when he wakes up, and see if he can tell you anything useful. I'll go back to the shop and start researching this; Buffy and Willow will patrol as usual."

Xander looked at Willow, who was looking at Giles. Buffy nodded at no one in particular.

"We'll figure it out, Xander. Don't worry. Just don't let him Aerosmith your place too much."

"Yeah, thanks." He had the usual sinking feeling that that was it; there wasn't really any further conversation to be had. "When I start carpet-boogying like that, I want a wooden spoon between my teeth, all right? None of this laissez-faire sit-back-and-watch-it-happen crap."

"Yes, very good," Giles said, starting for the door. "I'll make a note of it."

"You have enough blood?" Buffy asked. Xander thought of the couple of bricks still in the freezer, left over from a baiting project they'd tinkered with back in the fall.

"I've got a few bags, yeah. But I'm not going to need them, right? Because you're going to figure this out, right? And he's going to be out of my place--"

"Right," Willow said firmly, turning in the doorway to hug him again. He hugged her back.

"Call if you need us," she said.

"Spoon," he reminded her.

And then they were all just footsteps, heading back down the stairs.

Part Four

The phone rang halfway through Letterman, and he picked it up without lifting his head from the arm of the couch.

"Giles says no joy," Willow said. "And he wants to know if you can stay home from work tomorrow."

Xander closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Uh huh."

"Was that, uh huh, can do, or uh huh I saw this coming?" She sounded tired too, and he shelved the answer he was going to give her.

"He didn't find anything at all?"

"Well, some German monk wrote a treatise on vampires with Tourette's, which actually sounded kind of like Spike. Just normal Spike, I mean. And there were some conference proceedings on lactose intolerance. But...no."

"Tomorrow's Friday," Xander said, opening his eyes and staring at the ceiling. He'd turned the lights out, and the television volume was low. With the back cushions off, the couch was almost comfortable.

"Yeah. And oh gosh, I should have asked. He's okay, right? No more--" She trailed off, and he imagined the worried pinch between her eyes.

"Not so far. All is quiet on the vampire front."

"Good. And you're still okay with this?"

"I'm fine." He glanced at hall to the bedroom. He could just see the edge of the bedroom door, pulled almost to, just a thin line of black running up the frame. "How was patrol?"

"Cacodemons are...crunchy." He smiled at the audible ick face. "And we need to figure out where they're coming from. It's Cacopalooza out there."

"It's the Zagat's listing. Brings them in every time." The television switched to ads and he muted it. "Just make sure Giles doesn't slack off the vampilepsy research too much, okay? I really don't want to see that show again."

"I'm pretty sure Spike doesn't want to give it, either."

He paused, examining the remote. "Yeah."

"So you'll stay home tomorrow?"

Again he paused, and glanced back at the bedroom door. Quiet in there. Hadn't been a peep since they'd left.

"Yeah."

"Thanks, Xander. You want coffee cake tomorrow?"

"Yeah. No. You have classes."

"I can skip."

"Nah. Thanks, I'm fine. I'll sleep late, read the paper, snap at the help. It'll be very."

"Okay," she said. "And hey, maybe he'll be fine when he wakes up."

"I'll keep an ear open for a lively string of expletives, yeah." He had a quick flash of Spike's throat, white and knotted, spasming. He looked at the television. Ford Explorer. He had to get one of those.

"Night, Xander. Call us if you need anything."

"Satellite. And a hoagie."

She paused.

"Kidding, Will."

"I knew that."

They hung up and he lay there for a few minutes, watching Letterman without sound. Without really noticing Letterman. The apartment was very quiet.

Finally he got up, chucked the phone back onto the couch, and started for the bedroom. His mouth was dry and the back of his neck prickled. The line of blackness between the door and the frame seemed very, very black.

He pushed the door open with one finger and stood on the threshold, peering into the darkness. Television light didn't go far. But that was probably good; if he was sleeping, there was no point in waking him up. Especially since a sleeping Spike seemed less likely to vividly demonstrate the tonic-clonic relationship.

Still, Giles had said to give him the blood when he woke up. Xander squinted and made out a faint bundle near the top of the mattress, close to the wall. Too dark to see whether he was awake.

He cleared his throat and said quietly, "Spike?"

Silence to the count of three, and he started to ease back on his heels and turn around. His shoulders were loosening, and his mouth tasted like relief. Maybe Willow was right, and Spike would sleep it off. Tomorrow morning he might be fine, and they could talk about that twenty bucks.

There was a faint shifting sound, and he paused. Even in the darkness, he could see Spike uncurl slightly. It stapled the tension back between his shoulderblades, and suddenly Letterman seemed a galaxy away.

"Are you--" He hesitated. "Are you awake?"

No answer, but a slow sound of a body on sheets, and he watched a kind of faint dim unfolding that took a minute to fall into place. Then he realized that Spike was bracing a hand on the mattress, pushing himself up to a sitting position. It was an even slower process than it had been the last time.

"Okay," Xander said. "Giles says you should drink something." He took a step forward and stopped. "There's a cup on the night table."

Still no answer, and he realized he wasn't really expecting one. He wasn't really expecting this to be easy. He just didn't know what to do. Or he knew, and didn't want to do it.

"That was a pretty lively show you gave," he said, taking another step forward. "I was expecting pea soup and crucifixes." Another step, and he could see Spike's arms shaking under his weight. "You sore?"

Spike lifted one hand and slowly touched the back of his head. The spot where it had hit the floor, and Xander heard the heavy crack again and winced. "Yeah, I guess that's a stupid question."

Spike lowered his hand to his face and looked at his fingers, then rubbed them together lightly. His other arm was shaking badly; as Xander watched, it suddenly buckled and Spike landed sideways on the mattress.

"Whoah--" Xander moved forward without thinking, hands out. He pulled up just short of touching Spike, and then just stood there, one hand out, hovering over his shoulder. "You okay?"

"'m fine." Spike's voice was thin and weedy, a trickle of piss. It made things more normal to hear him talk. Xander took a breath and reached for the lamp.

"I'm turning a light on. Watch your eyes." He waited, then clicked, and Spike already had his hand up as a shade, his mouth a thin bloodless line. His fingers were shaking. Xander tipped the lamp even farther away, so it was just a glow against the sheets.

"Okay. So, can you sit up?"

Spike's lips tightened even more, and he didn't move.

"If I help?"

A long pause, and then something that might have been the most fractional of nods. Xander swallowed and slammed the blast doors on everything that wasn't brisk and impersonal and Giles. "Okay, hang on. I'll grab a pillow."

He harvested one from the kicked-off pile at the foot of the bed, and stood it against the headboard. "Upsa-daisy."

Spike's skin was cool and firm, the muscles taut beneath. He was lighter than you'd expect. Lighter than a guy ought to be. He kept his head down, his eyes in his lap, while Xander propped him up against the pillow. His lips moved minutely, and Xander paused.

"What?"

Spike raised just his eyes, and looked at him. His head wavered on his neck. "Poof," he murmured.

Xander jerked his hands back and straightened up. "Yeah, okay. Blood's on the table, and if you need anything else, please fu--"

Spike was shaking his head, so faintly he didn't notice at first, then harder. It seemed like tiring work.

"Me," he said, and twitched the fingers of his left hand back toward his chest. Xander blinked.

"Oh," he said. Then he herded his wits and said gracelessly, "No. No, you're not a poof. You're just sick."

Spike stared at him, his eyes grim and bloodshot. After a minute, he repeated, "'m sick."

"Yeah. And I probably don't need to add the clause about my bed, do I?" Xander turned to the night table. "So, here's a cup of what I'm going to tell myself is tomato soup." He picked it up and held it out, ignoring the little voice in the back aisle of his brain. "It's kind of room-temperature now. Sorry."

Spike turned his head loosely, bobbling for a second like a dashboard dog, and stared at the cup without comprehension. Then he smelled it, or figured it out, and his gaze sharpened. He started to lift a hand, and his whole arm shook. Xander stood still, trying to ignore the voice. Spike narrowed his eyes and tried again, and this time the tips of his fingers touched the base of the cup, pushed at it, and fell away.

"Okay," Xander said. Brisk and impersonal was rapidly translating into false cheer. Spike looked shocked and humiliated, and...scared. But now was not the time to think about that. "Okay, I'm thinking you're not quite up to this. How about just the drinking part?" He gestured vaguely with the cup, and Spike looked at him. Confused, not tracking yet.

"Just--sit back," Xander said, and when Spike started to lift his arm for a third try, he pushed it gently down. Again, cool skin under his fingertips. He didn't think about it, just pressed Spike's shoulder back into the pillow, and it was ridiculously easy to move him around. Ridiculously. Disturbingly.

"Giles is working on figuring this out," he said, just for something to say, as he sat down on the edge of the bed. "Here." He put the cup against Spike's lip, and Spike closed his eyes. They sat there like that a moment. Then Spike seemed to settle his shoulders and make a decision. He opened his mouth, and Xander tipped the cup carefully, just the smallest bit.

"Nothing yet. But he's. You know. Working." Just the smallest sip, not even a sip. Spike's mouth was open and the blood ran in, a little rill. He had to swallow, so tip the cup back. His throat worked, pale as paper. There was a dot of blood on his bottom lip. Xander put the cup to it, and Spike leaned forward, lips open.

"I wouldn't worry. He's...Giles." Spike's mouth was eager now, and one hand was rising, trembling, the fingers curled weakly. He made a small sound in the back of his throat. Sounded like protest, like need. His throat clicked and Xander lowered the cup again and looked away.

The room was stifling. He felt flushed, overheated. Spike shifted and breathed, more, and he lifted the cup automatically, turning back to make sure he got the angle right.

It was half empty now, and Spike's head was tipped back, his eyes closed and his hand reaching feebly. He was making clumsy wet sounds, mouth sounds. His throat was stretched long, the back of his head sunk in the pillows. Xander tipped the cup higher, and Spike angled with it, lips to cup, until they were vertical, nothing left. Then he bit the rim of the cup, and Xander jumped.

He took his hand back, and Spike sat with his eyes closed, his head still pillowed, licking his lips. There was a red thread running down his chin. Xander put the cup down on the night table, paused, then looked back, reached out, and carefully wiped the thread away with his thumb.

He could feel his pulse through his entire body.

Spike opened his eyes and looked at him. It was a serious, considering look.

Xander wiped his thumb on his trousers and picked up the cup. "Get some sleep," he said. He clicked the light off and went out, pulling the door almost shut after him.

He ran cold water in the cup and left it in the sink. Then went to the couch and lay in silence, not watching the television, not thinking.