Boglescatverse

by
Witling

Part Seven

"I have absolutely no idea."

Xander shifted and ran a finger through the wet arc of coffee his cup had left on the table. "So what you're saying is, you have no idea."

Giles raised his eyebrows and nodded over the edge of his cup.

Xander traced a star, studied it, then wiped it out with the side of his hand. "None," he repeated.

"Xander, I've had approximately--" Giles shot his sleeve and studied his watch with a short-sighted, slightly pissy frown. "Three hours' research time so far. I'm flattered by your faith in my abilities, but--"

"Right. Sorry." Xander drummed his fingers under the table, then took a deep breath and sat back in his chair. A drop of sweat crawled down his spine. "Maybe I could help out. Paginate, or something."

Giles's smile probably wasn't meant to be patronizing. "You're helping enormously by letting him stay here."

"Right."

"Xander." Giles set his cup down carefully, and Xander felt himself tense. "I realize this may not be the best time, but if you'd like to have that talk now, I'm certainly willing."

Xander stared down into his cup, and forced a half-smile. "That talk. Right."

"Or not. But you probably realize we're concerned about you--"

"I'm fine." As soon as he said it, he thought of Spike, the crappy liar, face-down in the sheets. 'm fine. He looked up and met Giles's eyes. "Really. But thanks."

Giles just looked at him, the slanting sun giving him wisdom wrinkles. He didn't seem to mind the heat. Maybe English people were heat-proof. Xander looked down again.

"It was sucky for a while, yeah. But it's been..." He paused, as if he had to calculate. "Seven months. I'm fine."

And it was sort of true, if you looked at it the right way. He didn't think about her every day anymore. He worked a lot. He was tired a lot. Sometimes he just wanted to watch television for hours on end, and sometimes he opened the refrigerator and realized there'd been nothing in it for a week. But that was normal stuff, bachelor stuff. He'd had sex since. Once.

Giles looked down and rubbed the edge of his cup with one finger. "Willow is particularly worried," he said. "She thinks--"

"Willow used to worry when I ate Pop-Rocks."

"She thinks you're drifting away from us," Giles said quietly. In the silence that followed, he picked up his cup and sipped from it.

Xander sat staring at the wood grain, hating the faint hot prickle behind his eyes. It wasn't fair; he was tired. And sweaty. He couldn't cope with this right now.

"Well, that explains all the hugging lately," he said finally, and slugged some cold coffee.

Giles left a small pause, then got up and took his mug to the sink.

"Buffy's concerned too," he said, turning on the tap. "We all are. If there's anything we can do to help--"

"Giles, it's not like I have lupus." That came out sounding mean, and he smiled futilely at Giles's back.

"Quite." Giles shut the tap off and pulled the dish towel out of the refrigator handle. He turned around, mildly drying his cup. "I think Willow's point is that you seem to have forgotten that fact, yourself."

Xander stared at him, then leaned forward and fiddled with the salt. "Tell me nobody's bought tickets to the Ice Capades."

Giles set his cup down, folded the towel neatly in thirds, and threaded it back through the handle. "All I'm saying," he said, walking back over and laying a hand on Xander's shoulder, "is that we're your friends. And we're here."

Xander nodded. Giles's hand was warm on his shoulder. His eyes were prickling again.

Giles's fingers tightened briefly, then let go, and he walked past and stood in the door to the living room. "The Cacodemon situation is getting worse," he said, glancing away into the living room. "There are more of them every night, it seems. Frankly, we're having trouble disposing of the...husks."

"Huh."

"And the small dog population is dwindling at an alarming rate."

"That's...what kind of small dogs?"

Giles's mouth twitched. "They appear to favor Yorkies and Pomeranians."

Xander nodded thoughtfully. "So, silver lining."

"I'll refrain from relaying your comments to Willow." Giles pushed off the door frame and checked his watch. "I hope to have something on Spike's condition by this afternoon. Do you think he's still asleep?"

"He had a pretty vigorous workout this morning, so, yeah. My guess is he's dead to the world."

Giles studied a ding in the far side of the door frame. "Well, if the chip is indeed causing this, there's very little we can do to help. For now I think it's best to continue treating this as an organic--"

"Wait." Xander spread his hands flat on the table and held himself straight in his chair. "Hang on, rewind. What do you mean, very little we can do to help?"

"We're not neurosurgeons, Xander. If the chip is the problem...we have a problem."

"What kind of a problem? A How do we get him on a plane to the Mayo problem? Or a What kind of urn would he have liked? problem?"

Giles just looked at him. After a moment he said, "I understand it's difficult to watch anyone in pain, Xander. But perhaps you're taking this a little too personally."

"Maybe that's because he's in my bed." He paused. "Damn it, that did not come out the way--"

"Xander." Giles regarded him a moment, then sighed. "I do understand what you're saying. And I'm doing my best."

Xander sat there a second, then realized he was supposed to nod. He nodded. "Yeah. I know. Thanks." What was he thanking Giles for? He stood up. "I mean, for everything. The..." He gestured vaguely at the sink, the stunted conversation still hovering over it.

"I suggest you make some plans with Willow," Giles said, turning away and starting for the door. "Before she resorts to potlucks and board games."

"Check." He followed Giles out to the door. "And...Spike?"

Giles paused, halfway out already. "What about him?"

"What do I tell him when he wakes up?"

"Oh." He gave Xander another careful look. "Tell him what we just discussed. And tell him that if there's a fix, we'll find it."

"Right." Xander nodded, and Giles raised one eyebrow, and left. Xander closed the door and turned back to the bright hot living room, the flood of sunshine on his floor. His whites were still crumpled in the chair. Spike's boots were still knocked under the coffee table. He stood for a minute, staring blankly at it all.

"I'm not going to the Ice Capades," he said at last, and started down the hall for a shower.

Part Eight

No insulation and no wiring left him with…not a lot to do, he realized quickly. He could only shower so long, and he only had enough face to make even a meticulous shave last half an hour. While he shaved, he considered cleaning the bathroom. Considered it, but didn’t do it.

He flicked the television on and watched depressing mid-morning television while he folded his whites. The apartment kept heating up. No sound from the bedroom. He started another cup of coffee, picked up the newspaper, stood enthralled for several minutes by a woman who wanted to divorce her husband and marry her Weimeraner. That was what the world was like. It made life on a Hellmouth seem almost…normal.

He was lying on the couch, feeling itchy and hot and wondering how many showers he was legally allowed to take in a twenty-four hour period, when the phone rang. It startled him, and he grabbed it before it could ring again, sending a quick glance at the bedroom door. Giles, or Willow. Even if it meant going without coffee cake, he wanted it to be Giles.

"Hello?"

Silence. He waited, expecting to hear fumbling and tweed, imagining Giles pinning the receiver between ear and shoulder, the cord pulled taut across the room as he verified one last reference. They kept meaning to chip in and get the man a cordless.

"Hello? Giles?"

Nothing—and then, he realized, not quite nothing. Breathing. Quiet and low, contemplative. He took the phone from his ear, looked at it skeptically, then listened some more. More breathing.

"Listen buddy, I think you’ve got the wrong—"

Click.

He stared at the receiver again, until the idiot tone started, then hit the cutoff with his thumb. On the television, the Weimeraner woman’s husband was talking about his feelings of abandonment.

Sometimes, the whole world was on drugs.

He got up and dialed the volume down on the phone, so it wouldn’t be such a lively experience when it rang again. Thought about the air conditioning. Thought about Spike’s fingers trying to dig grooves into the hardwood floor. Thought about Giles saying if.

Went back to the couch, lay down, slung his arm over his eyes, and tried not to think.

The phone didn’t ring again until almost two o’clock. He was suffocating on the couch, heat-bludgeoned into a restless half-doze that kept backsliding into scrabbling hands and knotted legs. Twice he’d heard hard choking, a cracking sound, and leapt up with a pounding heart. When he got to the bedroom door, he found one sorry motionless lump of Spike. He’d dreamed it, that was all. When the phone rang, he almost fell off the couch.

"Hello?" He was thirsty, and his forehead was damp, and if it was the mouthbreather again, he was going to *69 the fucker and ream him a new one.

"I think I’ve got something," Giles said. "We’re coming over now."

Hallelujah.

He went to the bathroom and washed his face in cold water, noticed that he looked slightly insane, and headed back to the bedroom, pulling his shirt off over his head. He’d sweated through Sunnydale U. Behind him, Spike shifted.

"Giles is a genius," Xander said, chucking his shirt onto the laundry pile and pulling a fresh one out of the drawer. "They’ll be here in a few minutes."

Spike said nothing, and Xander turned to look at him. Spike was staring at him with a strange, weary expression.

"That’s good news," Xander clarified, and then paused. "You…feeling okay?" God, not again. Please.

Spike nodded and let out something like a very small sigh. He braced one hand on the mattress and got exactly nowhere. Xander swallowed and yanked the shirt on over his head.

"You’re going to be menacing Girl Scouts again in no time," he said, and without thinking about it, went over and took hold of Spike’s shoulder. "And, hey. Bright side? You’re going to owe me big-time."

Spike muttered something incomprehensible, and Xander pulled him gently upright, propped the pillow behind him, and tugged the corner of the sheet up to the high water mark of modesty. "Well, bright side for me, anyway."

Spike nodded, his gaze lowered. Slowly, he lifted one hand and touched the back of his head. Xander watched, his relief crumpling.

"Hey." He took hold of Spike’s wrist and pushed it back down to his side. "Enough with the negativity. You’re going to be fine." Spike’s hair was standing straight out where he’d just fingered it, like feathers disarranged, and Xander smoothed it down without thinking. There was a lump there, under his fingers.

Spike was looking at him, he realized. Not with his whole head, just with his eyes. Xander jerked his hand away, and stepped back from the side of the bed.

"I’ll go put some blood on."

He walked out quickly, not waiting for the teeny tiny inevitable Poof. It was just…like Giles said. It sucked to watch someone, anyone, in pain like that. It made him feel sick and helpless and he’d really had his fill, thanks. More than his fill. Someone else’s fill on top of his own.

He watched the blood go around and around, waiting for the ding or the knock, whichever came first. Ding by a nose. He was pouring the stuff into a cup, trying not to smell it, when the knock came. He carried the cup with him to the door, and held it out as he opened up.

"Coffee?"

"Yes, very clever," Giles said, walking past with a quick glance at the cup. "He’s in the bedroom, I take it?"

"Yeah, but he’s just finishing up. He’ll do the bathroom next, and then—" Willow walked in with a smile and a little wave. "Hey, Wills." He glanced at the cup in his hand, and offered it. "Coffee?"

She peered into the cup and wrinkled her nose. "Ew."

"Transylvanian Blend. Great stuff, but you’ll be up all night."

She smiled and he made a fangy face at her. They started for the bedroom.

"How is he?"

"The same. He had another—" He shook his free hand in midair. "This morning."

"Oh boy."

"Yeah. Giles knows what it is, though, right?"

She gave him an uncertain look. "He thinks he has something, yeah. But he’s not—"

They were at the bedroom door, and she trailed off and leaned against the frame. Xander reached around and put the cup on the dresser. Then he used his index finger to push it as far away as he could.

Giles was sitting on the edge of the bed, turning Spike’s eyelids inside out. Spike’s mouth looked aggrieved, and he had one hand on Giles’s wrist, fumbling to get a grip. Giles was ignoring him.

"—then we haven’t got a chance," he was saying. "On the other hand, if there’s something you’re not telling us, it’s unlikely we’ll figure it out on our own. There’s very little written on vampire illnesses." He let Spike’s eyelid go and shook his wrist free. "Vampire existence seems overall to be fairly Hobbesian."

Whatian? Xander mouthed to Willow.

"Meaning," Giles said over his shoulder, "that when vampires fall ill, they seem either to go away and get better on their own, or else be killed in very short order."

"Hobbes," Willow whispered, in an explanatory tone.

"Ah," Xander said. He reached back around the doorframe and poked the cup another inch away.

"So I’m working largely from tertiary sources and conjecture," Giles said. "And if there’s anything you ought to tell us, Spike, you really ought to tell us now."

There was a pause. Spike raised his hand slowly and touched his eyelid. Then he lifted his head. His face was drawn and haggard.

"Ow," he whispered.

Giles stared at him a second, then turned and opened a case he’d brought in and set on the bed behind him. "Right. Well, given that we have no idea what’s causing this, we’ll have to proceed by trial and error." He took out a Ziploc bag of white powder and a set of measuring spoons. "Xander, will you bring me a glass?"

"I will if you tell me that’s not cocaine," Xander said.

"It’s not cocaine."

"Or protein powder."

"Xander."

"Because that stuff’s scarier than drugs."

Giles turned and looked at him, and over his shoulder, Spike was staring at him too. His eyes squinty and hard, but the corner of his mouth turning up slightly.

"Bringing," Xander said, and headed out.

He had to rummage to find a clean glass, and the sink was full of bloody mugs. When Spike got better, he could start working on his tab by doing some dish.

"One glass," he said, handing it to Giles with a flourish. "And if what you’re about to do with it is even remotely toxic, it now belongs to Spike."

"No, no," Giles said, setting it down and opening the bag. He paused and glanced back at Xander. "You may wish to mark it, though."

"Uh huh," Xander said.

"And you should wash it thoroughly."

"Spike, you own a glass."

"Hardly necessary," Giles muttered, in a peeved tone, and Xander raised his eyebrows at Willow. She raised hers back, subversive for a second, and then Giles said, "That blood—may I have it, please?"

"Something else that Spike can keep." Xander handed it to Giles, who set it down on the bedside table by the glass. He opened the Ziploc bag, measured a careful tablespoon of powder into the glass, and then poured a few inches of blood over it. The blood turned pink.

Xander stared at the glass, then glanced at Spike, who was staring at it too. He looked tense and suspicious. The words trial and error seemed to hang heavy over the bedside table.

"So…" Xander looked sideways at Willow. "A little closed captioning, here?"

"It’s mostly plants," Willow said. "With a tiny little bit of…well, just a fraction…it doesn’t matter."

Spike’s head turned sharply toward her.

"Uh, Wills?" Xander cleared his throat and made a yes….? gesture. She tucked her chin into her neck and shook her head fractionally. Later, her hand said.

"Now, this may burn a bit going down," Giles said, lifting the glass to Spike’s mouth.

Spike sat rigid with his mouth clamped shut, staring at Willow with hard sharp eyes. Willow studied the ceiling.

"Smooth," Xander muttered out of the side of his mouth. She colored slightly.

"This is for your own good," Giles was saying to Spike. "For God’s sake, don’t be a child. All it is is…well, it’ll help with the fatigue, and it should stop the seizures completely."

"Plus, think of the starving vampires in Calcutta," Xander said.

"I worked all day to decoct this, and you pull faces at it." Giles tried to tip the glass, and Spike turned his face away.

"Maybe if you try the choo-choo—"

"Xander." Giles lowered the glass and turned back to stare at him. Spike immediately tried to tip the glass out of his fingers, and Giles transferred it to his free hand without looking at him. "I was under the impression you wanted Spike out of your apartment."

"Well, yeah."

"Then perhaps you could refrain from making schoolboy remarks while I try to attain that goal."

Xander shifted slightly against the doorframe, feeling his heart kick up. "I just think you should tell him what’s in it," he said. There was a pause. "I mean, he’s the one who has to drink it."

Giles glanced at Willow, then looked down and swirled the glass, coating the sides with pink. Xander cleared his throat and stared at the floor. His cheeks felt hot.

Giles sighed, and Xander looked up. Giles was giving him a weary, strained smile. "Of course. You’re quite right." He turned back to Spike. "I’m sorry, Spike. The main active agent is vermiculated bogle scat."

There was a second’s pause while Spike took that in.

"Bogey shite?" he croaked in outrage, and Giles whipped the glass around and tipped it into his mouth.

"Don’t mind the tingle." He kept a hand clamped beneath Spike’s chin until they all saw his throat work.

"Fucker," Spike spat, as soon as his mouth was free. Giles peered into the glass, then held it out for Xander to take.

"Once every four hours, for the first twenty-four hours. Then twice a day after that."

Xander took the glass gingerly. "Um, days? Didn’t you just cure him?"

"Not at all." Giles was looking at him as though there’d been a serious misunderstanding. "No, this is just the best I could do under the circumstances. We still have no idea what’s causing this."

"No, right, I just thought—"

"It should stop the seizures," Willow said, looking from Xander to Spike. "Which is very yay, right?"

Spike wiped his mouth with a shaking hand and frowned at the sheets. Xander watched Giles order the measuring spoons and set them on the bedside table, out of Spike’s reach.

"What if it’s the chip, though?"

Giles paused, then sealed the Ziploc bag and set it beside the spoons. "As I said, if it’s the chip, there’s nothing we can do." He closed the case and stood up. "I think it best we assume it’s not the chip."

"So we’re just going to—"

"Xander." Giles pinched the bridge of his nose. "We’re doing the best we can."

Xander subsided against the doorframe and stared into the pink glass. "Yeah. Sorry."

Giles walked out, and Xander and Willow glanced at each other. Then Willow looked at Spike.

"He really did work all day, making it."

Spike wiped his mouth again, and looked sideways at her.

"And stayed up until two o’clock, researching."

Spike looked grim.

"When you feel better? He likes Glenlivet." Willow smiled and went out. Xander watched her, then turned back to Spike.

"And she’s supposed to be in Psych 211 right now," he said. Spike rolled his eyes. "I’m just saying."

He pulled the door quietly closed on his way out.