Prawn!Verse

by

Wit Ling

Part Ten

I also want to dedicate this section to fitofpique, because her icons make me laugh and laugh.
Especially her Angel icons. "Kitty!" Ah, Fit. Comedy gold.

The rest of the work week goes by fast, just a blur of loud nights and silent early mornings listlessly reading headlines while the blood and coffee brew. The weather's slowly getting warmer, the nights are shrinking, which means the bar's getting wild. Saturday night just before closing, some idiot shoves a glass in Spike's face and he spends two hours in the break room with Bitte picking bits out and stitching him up. It fucking hurts.

"Fucking hurts," he snaps, when Bitte tells him again to sit still.

"It'll hurt more if I stick this in your eye by mistake," she says, showing him the bloody needle. He scowls and keeps smoking. His hand's covered in blood, there's blood on the cigarette. He feels strangely shaken, almost embarrassed; even though he gets attacked pretty regularly at work, it's been ages since anyone actually hurt him. Last person to do that was Xander, snapping down on his inner thigh. And isn't that a pleasant memory.

Xander's there now, sunk down against the wall by the door where he always sits when he's waiting for Spike after his shift. He's wearing his white T-shirt, and there's a streak of blood down the front that must have come off Spike when he was being walked back here. It was all confused for a little while. Everyone was milling around with bar rags and advice, and somewhere back by the door one of the swamp crew was holding the guy up so Vincent could pummel him. Loud, messy. In the middle of all that, being hustled back here while Bitte harangued him, saying You could have lost an eye with her accent at full strength because she was upset—Yoo koot haff lost un eye—he'd caught a glimpse of Xander. His face white and shocked, staring at all the blood. Like he'd never seen blood before.

"You have to wash this when you get home," Bitte says, glancing away from her needlepoint down to the front of Spike's shirt. "Not with the other clothes, it'll stain." She pauses and looks back over her shoulder at Xander. "Yours too. Cold water right away, or it stains."

"Right," Spike says tightly, through his cigarette. "Will do. Mind finishing that up now, love?"

Bitte turns back to her stitching. "I don't know why I should, if you don't care enough about your face to do this to it."

"I didn't bloody do it. That wanker—" He starts to gesture back to the front of the bar, then gives up. She's just upset. His eye falls on Xander though, who's still sitting there, waiting, staring at his hands. His expression is strangely lost, almost confused. Spike takes the cigarette out of his mouth and says, "You all right?"

For a second or two Xander just sits there, his eyes fixed on his hands as if he's got some kind of puzzle there between his fingers. Then he wakes up and lifts his head, startled. "I'm fine."

"Don't have to watch. Go wait in the car if you want."

"I'm fine."

"You don't bloody look—"

"Stop talking," Bitte says, and stabs him with the needle. He growls.

When she's finally done with him the whole right side of his face feels hot and tight and sore. He brushes his fingers over it and feels the stiff prickle of the stitches.

"You'll be a movie star again next week," Bitte says, wiping her hands on a towel. "Prettier than the rest of us put together."

"Good," Texas says from the doorway. "That's why I hired him." He lowers one hand and passes an envelope down to Xander without looking at him. "First week's pay. Spike, you want a go at this asshole before we dump him?"

He probably should, for form's sake, but by the sound of it Vincent's doing a decent enough job and anyway, his neck's sore. Also, Xander looks ready to keel over. Spike shakes his head and Texas disappears. "Thanks, Bitte." She grabs his hand before he can pat the stitches again.

"Leave those alone. And he drives home." She's looking at Xander. "You drive."

"I can bloody drive."

"Your eye's swelling." She turns, opens Spike's locker, roots inside, and comes up with the keys, which she throws to Xander. "You drive, Piaf."

Xander catches the keys and jams the envelope into his back pocket. "You need anything from—?" he says, standing up and starting for Spike's locker.

"I'm not fucking crippled." That comes out in a snarl, and he pauses to regroup. "Fine, you can bloody drive. Just to keep this harpy off my back."

"He'll need the stitches taken out tomorrow," she says to Xander, taking her own coat out of her locker. "Can you do that?"

Xander looks blank.

"I can do it," Spike says. "Come on, let's go."

"You can't see yourself," she says. "The boy can do it. Yes?"

"Sure," Xander says, not sounding sure at all. "Yeah, okay."

"I'll fucking do it," Spike growls. He's in a rotten mood again now, itchy and sore and generally pissed off. "Get stuffed, Bitte."

"And sleep properly, both of you."

"Sod off, you nosy bitch."

"Bye," Xander says uncertainly, and Bitte blows them a kiss, and then finally, finally, they're getting out. There's barely enough time to get home before light, so Spike propels them fast through the bar, where Vincent's still wiping down his knuckles with a rag, and some of the other bussers are hanging around debriefing.

"He's polenta," Vincent says over his shoulder as they walk by.

"Ta, Vin."

"Any time."

The DeSoto's parked in the alley right outside, but by the time they get there he's got to admit, Bitte was probably right. His eye's closing up and his head aches and he just wants to be home. Still, it's weird to go around to the passenger side of his own car. Xander seems to find it just as weird to be on the driver's side. He sits there for a second, just staring at the steering wheel and the pedals, as if he's not sure he remembers how to drive. Spike opens his mouth to ask, and Xander quickly turns the key, and they're off.

They don't talk at all in the car. Once he's sure Xander knows what the hell he's doing, Spike closes his eyes and checks out. He's tired, he doesn't feel like dealing with any of it. It's just a fucking job. He's pretty sure he felt the glass go in to the bone. But he'll be a movie star again next week, so there's no point dwelling.

The engine stops and he wakes up, startled to find they're already home, parked across the street from his building. The sky's dark blue, lightening to day. Xander's holding the keys in his hand, looking at him.

"Right," Spike says, to cover the fact that he was just asleep. His mouth feels strange and stiff, and his right eye's almost closed now. "Home."

Xander nods and keeps looking at him. He looks fascinated and also appalled. Spike puts his hand out, palm up, and Xander just stares at it mutely.

"Keys," Spike says after a second. Xander gives him the keys, and they get out without another word. Spike leads the way up to the flat, and has to stab the lock a few times with the key before it fits right. Someone's tied lead sinkers to his arms and legs. He drops the keys on the counter, drops the duster on the floor, and starts for the fridge.

"I'll do it." Xander gets between him and the fridge somehow, and pulls out a blood bag. "You want to take a shower?"

"I—no." He stands there in the middle of his kitchen watching Xander pour blood into a mug, feeling useless and irritated and tired. "No, I want to fucking eat something and go to bed. To sleep." He has no idea why he says that, except that for some reason he thought he had to make it clear he didn't want company this morning. He didn't have to say that, it was stupid. He remembers Bitte's advice and yanks his shirt off over his head, catching the stitches. "Fucking hell."

"Here." Xander helps him get it off, then looks at his face and frowns. "You should put ice on it, maybe."

"I should go find that miserable fuck and ram a Tom Collins through his cheek, see how he likes it."

"You're bleeding again. Just a little." Xander's fingers are light and cool on his cheek, dabbing. Behind him, the microwave dings. "Do you have alcohol or something?"

"I'm fine. I just need a kip—" Xander's turning away, popping the microwave open, turning back and pushing the mug into Spike's hands. "Thanks. Look—"

But Xander's walked out, and Spike can hear him rummaging in the bathroom, running water in the sink. He stops in his own room on the way back, and when he reappears he's wearing a different shirt. The bloody one must be soaking in the sink with Spike's. For some reason, the thought of Xander washing a sink full of bloody shirts makes Spike feel miserable. He's exhausted, he just needs to sleep, he'll be fine.

"You don't have alcohol," Xander says, as if alcohol were electricity.

"Don't need it," Spike says. "Going to bed now."

"I think you need to—"

"Going to bed now," he says again, and closes the conversation by walking away from it. His bedroom's dark and quiet and the pillows are cool against his face. He'll be fine when he wakes up. He can take the stitches out by touch.

Part Eleven

When he wakes up that evening the flat's silent and his face is stuck to the pillow. He's bled more during the day, apparently. And he hasn't moved from the position he fell down in: flat on his belly, arms and legs wide, still wearing one boot. Bit pathetic, really. Good thing he closed the door first; last thing he needs is Harris wandering in for a look-see at a time like this.

He pries the gory pillowslip off his face, rolls over, and assesses. His face is singing a high, curdled soprano, and his neck feels stiff too. Definitely went to the bone. And for the first time he thinks about what Bitte said on the way back—Yoo koot haff lost un eye —and winces. Never tried regrowing an eye before. Not completely sure it'd work. The bar job seems suddenly like a stupid, useless thing to be doing, the kind of thing he never should have stooped to. It pays the bills. He shouldn't have bills—he's a vampire. He can walk up walls, for God's sake. He misses rooftops.

He closes his eyes, sighs, and gently palms the stitches. They itch; they'll have to come out soon. Sitting up makes him groan. Feels like he's been hit with the broad side of a wall, all over. It's just a little glass in the face. When did he turn into such a nance, exactly?

He turns to get up, thinking with some small fraction of his brain about the poof, out there helping the helpless with his swirly coat and mammoth head, and charging them for it, so maybe he's onto something after all—and sees a bottle of Tylenol on the night table, next to his cold mug of blood. Wasn't there when he came in this morning. For a second he can't process it at all, and then he realizes what it means. Xander must have come into the room at some point while he was asleep.

He puts out a hand and picks up the bottle. Not his; he doesn't have alcohol, doesn't have Tylenol. Never thinks of the stuff, even though once or twice he's been given pills and they've worked. Vampires don't take painkillers. The bottle feels about half full; the pills rattle inside as he turns it.

He stands up with the bottle in his hand, waits a second for his balance to come back, then realizes he's shirtless. Didn't think anything of it last night, but somehow knowing that Xander came in and saw him like that, asleep like that, makes him feel strange. Embarrassed, almost. That's stupid. He's turning into a neurotic twit, he needs to go back to fucking the kid and calling it rent and full stop, right there.

"Bloody tenant," he mutters, and digs for a shirt in his drawers.

Out in the kitchen, he can hear the flat's empty. There's a smell of fresh laundry, and the week's accumulation of dirty mugs and plates is all washed up and draining on the board. He shuffles to the fridge, pops a blood bag, and sits down at the table with a mug. The newspapers are boring. After a few minutes he flips the Tylenol bottle open and takes a few. Why not.

He's been sitting there about ten minutes, rubbing at a bit of dried blood on the leg of his jeans and putting up with the pain in his face and wondering if Xander's gone walkabout with his little hooker friends, when he hears feet come up the stairs. Xander's feet; no point pretending he can't tell that by now. He finds himself straightening up like a suitor and only just manages to slouch back down before the key's in the lock and the door is opening.

Xander comes in carrying a couple of shopping bags, walking quietly. The kitchen's dark, Spike realizes; he should clear his throat or something so the kid knows he's there. But he doesn't, he just sits there and watches while Xander puts his keys silently down on the counter, pulls his windbreaker off, and rubs his hands over his face. He looks distracted, a little tired. Spike remembers the laundry; probably means Xander didn't sleep well. Hard to think why.

Xander puts the bags on the counter and starts taking things out—milk, bread, a box of Weetabix—then seems to realize he's working in the dark, and flicks the light on with the back of his hand. Spike squints in the glare, makes some little movement that's enough to catch Xander's eye, and suddenly they're staring at each other. Xander's face is surprised, then shocked.

"Oh—wow." He swallows. "Wow."

Spike frowns. "What?"

"That's…got to hurt." His eyes are fascinated, a little impressed, stuck on Spike's face. Spike pulls himself upright and grips the edge of the table. He's not a bloody circus attraction.

"Went shopping," he says, nodding at the bags. Xander's still staring at his face, still got that transfixed look, disbelief and sympathy. Spike looks away and pokes the pile of newspapers irritably with one finger. "Took a little change from my coat, did you?"

For a second Xander just looks baffled; then his face reddens and he shakes his head. "I got paid." He turns to put the milk away, and closes the fridge door harder than he has to.

"You can keep that," Spike says. "Don't have to use it for groceries."

"I eat," Xander says. "You don't. I'll buy my own food."

"Never going to save up like that."

"I don't need to save up."

"Keep your money. It's not like he's paying you enough to get by anyway."

"You get by."

"I don't eat." That's neat, satisfying; it makes him feel like he's just closed the lid on that conversation, even though he's not really sure what it was about. He's annoyed, edgy, looking for something to nitpick. He fiddles with the Tylenol bottle, then holds it up. "You came into my room."

Xander's putting boxes into the cupboard; he looks over, confused again. "What? Oh—" For a second or two he just stares at the red and white bottle in Spike's fingers, and it's like magic, Spike can see the dark anxious tremble start up in him. That watchful look, ready to spark up into fear if you look at him the right way, talk to him sharply enough. The mood Spike's in right now, he actually likes seeing it. He rolls the bottle in his fingers, so the pills click.

"You came into my room while I was asleep," he says, and now there's a little fear in the air. It's a sharp, acrid tickle and he likes it, he does. Xander should be afraid of him. Should remember that day he got tossed into the wall and stop toeing around playing nursemaid to a fucking vampire. "Don't remember inviting you in."

"I just thought you'd want—" Quiet voice, shoulders up around the ears. Good, that's how he should look.

"Come here." He points at the floor between his feet and Xander hesitates, one hand still clinging to the cupboard as if it's some kind of safe harbour. Spike tips his head and stares, and Xander lets go and walks quietly over to stand in front of him.

"Get down." He points at the floor again, for clarity's sake, and Xander stands with his hands loose at his sides, a hopeless look on his face. There are circles under his eyes, and he smells like fabric softener. Spike's stomach tightens, and he points again. Xander drops to his knees. "Look."

He turns away as if he's going to pull something from the newspapers, but it's just so he can go to game face with his expression hidden. Because it hurts. Pops a couple of stitches, actually, and is probably overall a really stupid thing to do right now, but he feels better for it. He never uses game anymore, except as a tawdry flash at the bar. Feels like showing his dick for a living, sometimes.

This hurts and feels realer, feels like something he's just remembering how to use, and it feels even better when he looks back down at Xander kneeling between his legs, and sees that he's scared. Shrinking away, lips pressed tight and fingertips finding the floor, like he wants to sink straight through it. Heart hammering. That's good. Things have been getting confused lately; it's time he straightened them out.

"I don't need these," he says, holding up the pills in one hand and then, while Xander stares, crushing the bottle. "Vampire, pet. Remember?"

Xander gapes, and Spike lets the bottle go, so it hits the floor with a hollow plastic clatter. Not as good an effect as breaking glass, but it'll do. No more chasing after Xander fucking Harris, hoping to make him laugh or quip or cry a single, perfect tear. No more giving a damn about what Xander's thinking and feeling and dreaming about at night. This has all gone on long enough, and he might have a soul but he's still a creature of the night. He's tired of this.

"All right then," he says, and he's about to say Now get those fucking clothes off when a drop of blood hits the linoleum beside his foot. They both notice it. Then a second one hits Xander's knee, and they both look at that. "What the—?"

Xander looks up at him and frowns. "You're bleeding," he says, and reaches up gently to touch Spike's cheek. His fingers come away red and wet. "Hang on, I bought Bactine."

Part Twelve

He's tired all weekend, and he tells himself it's just the healing but he knows there's more to it than that. He feels strangely passive, almost depressed. Nothing ever goes the way he wants it to. Not like Angelus, who'd have broken your hand before he let you touch his game face without asking. But then, look what happened to Angelus.

Spike's starting to feel some sympathy for Angel. This really is depressing.

He spends his days quietly, sleeping and reading and watching television with half an eye, taking a couple of long solitary showers that end with him sitting down half-asleep under the spray. He lets Xander take the stitches out of his face, inch by bloody inch. By the time they're done, Xander looks pale and his hands are shaking, but he wipes up the mess on the counter efficiently enough, and gives Spike a clean towel for blotting. He doesn’t try to offer Tylenol again. Things haven't got that bad, at least.

Nights, Spike says he's going out drinking and follows along on the rooftops like a bloody superhero while Xander trots across town to the diner and his friends. After a couple of trips, Spike starts to recognize the core members of the group. There's the little brown-haired tart, a blonde, and a couple of boys who seem to be a matched set. They come and go together, turn up with home dye jobs at the same time, always sit next to each other, practically in each other's laps. When Xander's sitting with them they're like ducks in a row, three skinny white boys with too much black hair and eyes too big for their faces. Xander's the best-looking, Spike decides. Not that he gives a damn.

When Xander puts money on the table the first night, the rest of them make a big deal about it, picking the bills up and checking them over, poking him, crowing for more eggs they won't eat. Spike can see him explaining about the job, can see the reception that gets. Sort of quiet. The little brown-haired one grins at him, though. Got a smile a bit like Red's.

When she goes out for a date a little later, he argues with himself for a few seconds, then follows along. More interesting than watching the rest of them loosen the tops on the salt shakers, is all. And he only sticks around till he sees her get into a car that's waiting at the curb a few blocks up, because once he's seen that the driver has a reflection, it's her lookout.

On his way back, he wonders whether Xander's warned them about things that go bump in the night. Or whether they'd even care. Maybe he's not the only monster whose currency has been devalued. It's a bizarrely comforting thought.

He sees Xander home, goes back out and wanders around a bit, resisting the urge to scratch his healing face. When he can't stand city views anymore, he goes back to the flat and creeps off to bed like a good boy, like an unmarried daughter, like someone who doesn't have anything better to do or any reason to hate himself for not doing it.

It's another week before he sees the little brown-haired tart in the line to get into the bar. He's taking money, stamping, smoking a cigarette with one hand and keeping an eye on a couple of Luftmenschen pushing each other back and forth on the sidewalk, working themselves up to scrap. He's not paying attention, and then suddenly there she is. Holding up a tenner in two fingers and staring up at him with big grey eyes like he's going to ferry her to the promised land. Can't weigh more than a hundred pounds soaking wet. And wearing a duffel coat over a sneeze and a prayer, by the look of it. He stands there frozen, stamp in hand, staring down at her.

"I have I.D." That's a mistake, talking first. Someone ought to tell her that. It gives him a chance to snap out of it, blink, and pretend she's nobody. He shakes his head and waves her off. The Clixor behind her presses forward and she stumbles, then catches herself. "Wait—I can pay…" She's fiddling with her purse now. Jesus Christ.

"No slags," he says, and takes the Clixor's money, stamps its mucous pod, lets it through. The Luftmenschen are heating up; there's foul language now. Misbegotten adoptee of an unlicensed distillery franchiser. Villainous misuser of public beachfront, frogspawn hide of a twice-flayed actuary. In a minute he's going to have go to down there and put a stop to it.

"Please." She's still there, holding up twenty now, trying to get him to meet her eyes. He won't. "Please, I just want to get in—"

"You don't want to get in here," he says. "Not your kind of place, love."

"I just want to see a friend—"

"You don't have friends here," he says, and pushes her gently but firmly out of the line, then chains the door and goes down to sort out the Luftmenschen.

She's persistent. She turns up the next night, and the next, then skips a night and turns up the Saturday with a black eye. Holding up fifty now. He stares at her, standing there in her cheap knee-high boots and her tiny skirt, hair uncombed, bruises around her mouth. Holding up the single bill, folded the same way Harris folded his fifty, might even be the same bill except he knows it's not because he's still got the one Harris gave him. The one he had to pull out of his jeans. It's sitting on top of his dresser at home, like a letter he hasn’t found time to read yet.

"What happened to you?" He says it before he can stop himself, before he can even think. It's busy, wild, there are people drinking and singing in line; he's distracted. And he's so used to seeing her now, he almost feels like he knows her.

She doesn't say anything. Just keeps holding up the fifty, staring at him with hard eyes and a hard mouth. Red could look like that, too. Like if you said another word she was going to Latinate you into a fireplug and walk right around you to get where she wanted to go.

He stares at her a second or two longer, then shakes his head. "Can't, love."

"Why not?"

"Policy." He's making a mistake, talking to her so much instead of just telling her to fuck off. He has a bad feeling he's getting himself into more trouble here, and he drops his head to count the bills in his hand, even though he knows perfectly well what's there. If he doesn't have to look at her, maybe he won't bend.

"What's the policy?" she asks.

"No slags," he says automatically. "Sorry, not my rule. Can't have you doing business in there."

"I'm not here to do business," she says. "I'm here to see a friend."

"And I told you, you don't have friends here."

"I do so."

"Look, love." He gives her a long, steady look, willing himself not to blink. Maybe this time it'll stick. "This is not a good place for you to be. These are not your kind of people."

"I know what kind of place this is." She shoves the fifty toward him, and he holds his hands away from it. "Look, I just want to go in and say hi to my friend. Ten minutes. That's all I—"

"Not your kind of place," he says again, turning away from her to the next creature in line. "Bugger off home now, love, that's a good girl."

He takes money and stamps hands and turns the other night's Luftmensch away, and when he looks up again she's finally gone.

Sunday night, he stays home and watches telly with his feet on the couch, flicking rapidly and irritably through the channels. Xander sits on the floor by his feet, hugging his knees in silence. The clock on the stove ticks over, eleven o'clock and then midnight. There's fuck all on. Xander doesn't say a word, but he checks the time and sends quick glances in Spike's direction.

"This bloody country," Spike says finally, and tosses the remote onto the coffee table. Xander sits up straighter, ears perked. Spike feels a twist of something sharp in his chest. Xander's hardly said a word all night, hardly said a word all week. They don't see each other at work, and they sleep separately. He rubs a hand over his cheek, the healed one. That’s when all this started going so wrong, when he took the glass in his cheek. Or maybe before then. He can't remember now.

"Right," he says. "Guess I'll take a nap, then." Xander's face falls. Actually falls, like his battleship's just been sunk. Then he seals it over fast and just nods, but it's too late, it's fucking obnoxious is what it is. Before he even thinks about it, Spike reaches out a foot and shoves him in the shoulder. Hard. Knocks him sprawling sideways, half into the couch, head on the carpet.

He scrambles upright again immediately, swallows, and sits looking sideways at Spike. His heart's going a mile a minute. Spike lies still, not sure what to say or do. Can't pretend it was a love tap; too hard, and besides, they're not in love. But he can't very well say what it was, either. That he's—what, jealous? That's fucking stupid.

"Come here," he says, realizing as he says it that he's half-hard. So maybe it is just all about sex, in the end. Maybe he's kidding himself, thinking it's anything else.

Xander sits still, just staring at him, his heart hammering. His face is flushing, he's sweating a little. Spike frowns.

"I said, come here."

Xander stares at him a few more seconds, then very slowly gets to his feet, turns his back, and starts to walk out of the room.

For once Spike knows exactly how Angelus must have felt, all those times he was disobeyed. It's a strange thing, it's like a license. Xander knows what he wants, knows what he is. Might not know how frail a leash the soul is, but he's had plenty of clues about that so far, so there's really no excuse. Might not know exactly what's filling Spike's chest and head right now, the heat and bleed of it, but that's too bad, that's what he's going to find out.

Takes less than a couple of seconds to get behind him, slam him up against the wall and pin him there. He makes a high breathy sound as the wind's knocked out of him, and it's so familiar that Spike has to stop himself from the automatic sequence, the bite. His head's burning. Got his face in the kid's shoulder, his neck, breathing in hard while his hips jolt against the kid's ass.

"Spike—"

"You didn't do what I said," he says into Xander's skin. "Why didn't you do what I said?"

"I didn't mean to, I didn't—"

He puts one hand over the kid's mouth and starts with his other to work at the fly of the kid's jeans. He feels drunk, senseless, furious and hot. Just like that first night, the only night he really did what he meant to do, really did anything right. He's hard, he wants to fuck. Wants to smell blood and fear and come, wants silver cups and bended knees and rooftops, everything he's owed. Wants to just take, for once. Xander should give this to him, should want to give it.

There's a little strangled whimper behind his hand, and he realizes Xander's fighting. Twisting, trying to push Spike's hand away with both of his. He pauses. Xander tries to turn his head but can't. Spike leans back onto his heels and for a minute just stands there holding him, looking at him. His jeans half off and his shirt rucked up, his ribs showing white under his skin when he heaves for breath. Sweet curve of his ass, tight line of his neck. Spike puts a finger out and touches the knobs of his spine, one two three four and so on up to where it disappears under his shirt. He's still breathing hard, but he's stopped struggling. Waiting.

Spike leans in again, breathes beside Xander's ear, close enough that his cock presses Xander's ass through his jeans. Both of them with closed eyes, just standing still like that. Xander's heart slows down. After a while he gives a low, quiet moan through Spike's fingers. He's getting hard. Spike buttons him back up, pulls his shirt down, and steps away.

"Sorry." He's not sure what he's doing, not sure what he's supposed to say or whether what he just did was a disaster or a blip. His head's buzzing, he has to test with his fingers to make sure he's in human face. Xander stands facing the wall, breathing in short shuddery gasps. Slowly tucking his shirt back in. When he turns around, there's a red spot on his cheek and forehead where he must have hit the wall. His eyes are glossy, black, a little blind. His mouth is wet.

"I—" Spike says, and Xander blinks at him like an addict. Then he turns and walks slowly out, down the hall to his room. Spike stays where he is, trying to think of what to say next. When Xander comes back down the hall, he says, "Look, I didn't mean to—"

But Xander's got his coat on, and it's as if he doesn't hear a word of it. He just walks straight to the door and out, closing it quietly behind him without a backward look.