Out of Africa

by
Witling

Part Nine

He was upstairs in his room, lying on his bed, when he heard the front door close and the car pull out of the driveway. The clock on the night table read 8:15. The bedroom window was a soft late summer evening blue. The little birds had gone to bed a while ago. The house was silent.

He had a beat-up Tom Clancy paperback he'd picked up in Johannesburg; for a while he tried to read it, deciphering the fuzzy caterpillars of text as well as he could. Clancy was better without glasses—there were more unexpected plot twists involving fondue—but it was still pretty much crap. He put the book aside with a sigh, spent a few minutes pinching the pain out of the bridge of his nose, then got up and went in search of food.

Packet of Oreos clasped to his heart and glass of milk in hand, he wobbled through the house. There were four bedrooms total—his own little one, two more just like it, and a bigger one that was probably supposed to be the master. He leaned in the doorframe, crunching and envisioning the epic battle that was going to ensue when the Slayers figured out there was prime real estate up for grabs. He'd have to remember to let Spike handle that one.

Spike himself didn't seem to have taken any of the bedrooms. Or he didn't seem to have set up residence, at least. There were sheets on the bed set up in one of the other small rooms, at the opposite end of the hall from Xander's. That must be where Spike was sleeping, although it didn't look very slept-in. There were no other signs of occupancy, either—no clothes, no books, no crumb-covered plates or blood-filmed glasses.

"Are you a cyborg?" Xander asked, shuffling downstairs and glancing through the living room and kitchen. "Am I going to stumble unknowingly into a big closet full of WD-40 and extra heads?"

No, he realized, standing at the foot of the basement stairs with the single light bulb's chain still swinging above him. He was staring at what looked like a junk-yard reject bed frame, sagging and lopsided, red with rust. The mattress on it looked thin and tired and used. The sheets were bunched at the bottom of the bed, as if they'd been kicked there and forgotten about a long time ago.

"Okay," Xander said, looking at the faint imprint of a body still pressed into the mattress. "I guess some habits die hard."

Gingerly, he sat down on the edge of the bed and looked around. Not much down there. The water heater in one corner, the furnace in the other—and looking at its oily black bulk, he wanted to weep with the certain foreknowledge of repairs—the washer and dryer, a couple of dusty lawn-level windows. He leaned over and looked under the bed. A couple of pairs of black boots, neatly lined up with their back seams facing him. Beside them was a cardboard box, which he hooked with one finger and pulled out a few inches until he could see inside it. Folded jeans and T-shirts. For some reason, the sight of them made his throat tight. He started to push the box back under the bed, then paused. There was another, smaller box tucked in along the side. An old cigar box, maybe. He hesitated.

"You don't kill people anymore, right?" he said out loud, setting down his glass of milk and reaching in for the little box. It was light; it almost felt empty. Holding it, he asked himself whether Spike would do this to him. Go into his space, look through his stuff. No. Once upon a time, yes. Without hesitation or a moment's scruple. But now, no. No way. Probably not. No.

He weighed the box in his hand, looking at the bed. Spike lived down here in the basement, kept his stuff in boxes and slept on a junk pile, either because he liked it or because he was still paying on old accounts. And maybe he still owed on those. He'd been evil for a really long time. Although just now it was sort of hard to remember what that had been like—evil Spike. Blonde Spike, bitey Spike. He'd been a real jerk. And a murderer, too. Once upon a time, Xander had hated him.

So maybe it was Spike's own business where he slept or didn’t sleep, and maybe Xander had enough problems of his own without worrying about somebody else's bed of nails. Maybe definitely. Definitely for sure.

He opened the little box anyway, and squinted at what was inside.

Photographs. The top ones were recent, of people he didn't know. A smiling black girl, a moody-looking white girl. He lifted them up and found Buffy underneath, a photo he couldn't remember seeing before. She looked thin and young, her lips already starting to purse in that way she had now, almost all the time. Her eyes already getting that shadowy look. He stared at it for a minute, then lifted it and found one of the three of them—Willow, Buffy, himself. He remembered that one from Willow's mirror in the dorms. Spike must have stolen it at some point. On the back was the year 1999, in Willow's handwriting.

Beneath those were more he didn't recognize. A couple of those old square photos from the seventies, with the rounded corners—a white-faced woman with black hair, pouting. Something so blurry he couldn’t make it out at all. A Polaroid of sunrise or sunset. Just a red ball on a black horizon. Under everything, one so old it felt like it was going to crumble in his fingers. It took him a minute to recognize Angel with long hair.

He looked at them again, then put them carefully back in the order they'd been in. He put the lid on the box and slid it back into the carton, then slid the carton back under the bed. When he stood up he brushed the edge of the mattress off automatically. He felt strangely subdued. Not rebuked, not guilty. Just sad, and sort of helpless. As if he'd just been told about some minor tragedy that had happened to someone he didn’t know.







Spike got back a little after midnight, just as Xander was starting to think about packing it in. His clock was slowly resetting to L.A. time; he was tired. His head throbbed and his foot hurt. Still, the sound of the car in the drive gave him a little kick, and he sat up on the couch, rubbing his eye. On the television, Denzel Washington was losing his cool.

The front door opened and closed, and Xander looked at the door to the hall. After a minute, Spike appeared. He was in the same dark blue T-shirt and jeans he'd been wearing all day. Xander thought of the carton of neatly folded clothes shoved under the basement bed.

"Hi," he said. Then he felt weird, as if he'd said too much.

Spike didn't seem to notice. He was holding out a small paper bag, the top folded neatly down. "Here," he said. "Picked 'em up on my way home."

Xander leaned forward and took the bag, which weighed almost nothing. Inside was a pair of non-prescription reading glasses, the kind they sold at drugstores.

"Cheaters," he said, opening them and peering through the glass. "Cool."

Spike shrugged, his gaze on the television. "Might help till you can get real ones."

"Plus, I'll be the snazziest-looking geriatric on the block."

"I can take them back."

Xander paused, studying the frames. "No, they're fine. They're great. Thanks."

Spike stared at the television in silence for a few moments. Then he shrugged, shook his head, and turned to go. "I'm off to bed."

"Hey." Xander found himself leaning forward, the glasses in one hand, the bag in the other. He had no idea what he was going to say, but he didn't want Spike to go. Something felt unfinished. But now Spike was looking at him, and he had no plan.

"Just," he said, and smiled nervously. Spike waited. "Nothing."

Spike stood in the doorway, staring at him, until the silence turned painful.

"Nothing," Xander said, folding the glasses closed and slipping them back into the bag. "Good night."








He'd had sex with one man, one time, just once in his life. It had been in Angola, in Luanda, his first year in the country. He'd been lonely, homesick, fighting a flu. The Council was still paying attention to him in those days—when he got sick, they checked him into a good hotel. He was their man in Africa, they didn't want him dying of malaria six months after making landfall. Later on he got sick, got beat up, got robbed, got shot at, and the Council gave slightly less than a metric damn. They had men all over Africa by then, and bigger fish to fry.

He checked into the good hotel, one with white guests, and spent two days sweating into his sheets and listening to the Portuguese couple next door have sex. By the third day he was pretty sure he wasn't going to die, and he was in a strange new headspace he'd never been in before. Everything felt heightened and dreamlike. The angle of the sun on the bed was like a revelation. He felt like he was approaching some kind of understanding about humanity, about tragedy and comedy and how it all fit together, and how everyone was part of everyone else. Also, he was thirsty.

The waiter who brought bottled water to his room was a young man, an Angolan, with blue-black skin and deep brown eyes. He was as concerned and solicitous as a woman. Pouring a glass of water led to hands, and to mouths, and from there to the rumpled, stuffy-smelling sheets. It was quick and it wasn't. More than anything else, in retrospect, it reminded Xander of dropping honey from a spoon. Slow and fast at the same time, and irreversible. And sweet.

Afterward, he panicked. It hadn't been even a little bit safe. The waiter was long gone. It was Africa, of all places. He was going to recover from the flu and die of AIDS. He freaked out and called Willow. She freaked out. He got tested. It came back clean. Six months later, clean again. He kept testing, neurotically, self-punishingly, for two years. He didn't have sex with anyone for almost all that time. By the time Fernanda rolled around, he'd finally managed to believe that he wasn't infected, that he was clean, that he was never going to do anything that stupid ever again. She stole his wallet, his water filter, the rest of his condoms. He was fine with that.







He woke up in darkness and silence, his heart beating in his ears. He was standing up, barefoot. He was supposed to get to the airport. He had a ticket on a flight to Johannesburg, then to Paris, then to Los Angeles. If he missed the flight he was screwed. Stuck in Africa for another five years. He was not going to miss the flight.

He took a step and his bare toes connected with something hard and cold. He yelped and stumbled back, and there was a sudden violent creaking sound, and then something grabbed him around the throat. Hard. He flailed blindly. Nothing—he'd lost his bag of tricks, he didn't have any stakes. He struck out and connected with something, hurting his knuckles. He could hear his own breath rasping desperately in his windpipe.

Then the hold on his throat loosened and he took the opportunity to yank himself free. He was just finding his feet when a light clicked on. It was too bright; he couldn't see anything. He squinted and shielded his eyes with his forearm, trying to get his bearings.

"Fucking hell," Spike said. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—I'm sorry." He sounded almost frightened.

Slowly, Xander straightened up. He was in the basement, under the single swinging light bulb, wearing the T-shirt and boxers he'd gone to bed in. It took a couple of seconds for that to sink in. He was in L.A. In the house. He'd made the plane.

"I'm sorry," Spike said again, on an endless agitated loop. "I didn't know—sorry."

"It's okay," Xander said inanely, looking around. The metal bedframe was still there, sagging under the sad mattress. Spike was in washed-out grey pajama bottoms. His jeans and T-shirt were folded on the floor beside the bed.

"I didn't mean to do that." Spike was staring at Xander's throat, where he'd grabbed it. His hands were twitching at his sides, as if they were remembering a long-forgotten pastime. As Xander watched, the skin of his forehead rippled and smoothed. Somewhere in there still dwelt an ornery demon.

"It's okay," he said again, taking a step back and feeling his throat. "I mean—sorry. I didn't mean to freak you out."

Spike gave a nervous half-laugh. "Then we're even."

"Yeah." Xander swallowed experimentally, and coughed. Spike looked instantly contrite.

"You want…a glass of water?"

Xander started to nod, then realized he wasn't wearing the eye again. Jesus. He raised his hand to his face and cupped his palm uselessly, automatically over the socket.

"It's not bad," Spike said quietly.

"Is there absolutely no booze in this house?" Xander asked, letting his hand fall.

"Got half a bottle of whiskey in the car."

"That is what I want," Xander said, starting for the stairs. "That is exactly what I want a glass of right now."






Xander took the couch and Spike took the living room floor, the little bare spot he'd staked a claim to in the middle of all the junk. They were close enough to pass the bottle back and forth.

"So," Xander said, swigging. "You're more or less bunking in the basement."

"Yeah."

"We do have bedrooms."

"Yeah."

"Which you scorn."

Spike reached for the bottle. "Not scorning anything. Just…not going to be here long."

"Right. Why be comfortable in the short term?"

Spike gave Xander a dark look, and drank.

"Don't mind me," Xander said. "I'm just the crazy blind drunk guy who lives upstairs. But I have to say, I thought you'd moved past the crypt-dwelling."

"It's not a crypt."

"It's a reasonable facsimile."

"It's easier," Spike said. "I'll get kicked out when the girls get here anyway." But he looked shifty, toying with a mutilated plastic shelf support. Xander chewed the inside of his cheek.

"Okay," he said at last. "I know this is five kinds of stupid, but…was there anything you wanted to talk about?"

Spike's stare was flat and unrevealing.

"I'm just thinking," Xander said, "it's great you've got this Slayer house gig, but maybe it just, uh, raises some stuff for you." He held out his hand for the bottle. "Emotions. You've heard of them."

Spike's eyes narrowed. "I've done this, thanks."

"You have?"

"Sure." Spike thumbed the mouth of the bottle, then handed it back. "Went crazy, came back. Wrote some shitty poems. Talked to the Council lackeys about my mum."

"To the…" Xander paused with the bottle halfway raised. "What, like therapy? With the Council?"

"They offered." Spike shrugged, bending the shelf support absently between forefinger and thumb. "Some of it was all right."

Xander swigged from the bottle and pondered the idea of Spike lying on a couch with a Watcher taking notes by his head. It was one of the weirder images he'd entertained in his life.

"Wow," he said. "Okay. Well, that's…good. But the point is, you're still sleeping with the laundry detergent. And I'm just wondering whether that means there are some unresolved—"

Spike snorted. "That's rich."

"I'm just—" Xander paused. "Wait, what?"

"Nothing."

Xander hugged the bottle to his chest. "Fine. Be the C.H.U.D. See if I care."

To his surprise, Spike smiled. It was a lazy, almost fond smile, a foreign smile, a smile that clearly belonged to a self-satisfied male model in Beverly Hills, and that had somehow been misdelivered to Spike's face. It was a handsome smile. Without thinking, Xander smiled back.

"I guess it's good," he said, buoyed by the sudden warmth in his chest and belly. "That way we've got the house covered. In case the convict Slayers try to sneak out and go hair-hopping or anything."

Spike's smile turned small and mysterious, and he leaned forward with his hand out. Xander held out the bottle, but Spike's hand went to his knee instead. The contact was electrifying. His heart jumped.

"Did you want--?" he started to say, proffering the bottle again. In case the hand on his knee was just a mistake, in case Spike had suddenly lost all depth perception and motor control.

Spike shook his head, rose gracefully up onto his knees, and leaned forward. Xander had just enough presence of mind to meet him halfway. They kissed softly, and some part of Xander's brain noticed that Spike's lips were cool.

It only lasted a couple of seconds. When they drew apart, Xander sat still, the bottle still in his hand. Spike sank back down to the floor and regarded him.

"Did that just happen?" Xander asked after a moment.

"I thought it might help to get it out of the way."

"Oh." Xander rubbed his forehead. "Get what out of the way?"

Spike frowned. "Thought we were heading that way."

"What way?"

Spike's frown grew. "Fuck. Sorry." He gathered his legs under himself to stand. "Forget it."

"Whoah—" Xander reached out and grabbed Spike's shoulder, holding him down. His skin felt cool and taut, the bones and muscles just barely contained by the skin. "Whoah, hang on. There was a way?"

"I thought so." Spike was looking abashed now. "Doesn't matter, I'm off my game is all." He tried to stand again, and Xander held him down.

"This way of which you speak…it's a kissing way?"

Spike looked uncomfortable.

"You and me," Xander clarified. "With mouths."

"Look, I said I'm sorry—"

"Did I say no?" Xander set the bottle carefully down on the floor. "Did I say it was crazy? Because it is, it's hella crazy—"

"Right, I get it—"

"But I'm not saying no."

Spike paused.

"I'm not saying yes either," Xander said hurriedly. "I'm not saying anything. I'm just…" He searched for something to follow that up, but his mind was hung up on the totally unaccustomed feeling of lips on his. Spike's lips. Which were cool.

"Sorry," Spike said, shaking Xander's hand off and getting to his feet. "It's late." He started for the door.

"Spike," Xander said, getting up too. "Hang on, okay? I'm just a little…I'm surprised, that's all." He was and he wasn't. He'd had his thoughts, here and there. The surprise was in the suddenness, the realization that he now knew what Spike's mouth felt like. A few minutes ago he hadn't. "I'm not trying to be a jerk."

"You're not a jerk." Spike gave him a brief, tight smile. "It's my fault."

"I didn't even know you swung that way," Xander said without thinking, and instantly regretted it. Spike's shoulders went up an inch and he left without another word. His footsteps went through the kitchen and down the stairs to the basement. A profound silence settled over the house.

Xander stood in the middle of all the instruction pamphlets in the world, with no idea what to do.

Part Ten

"I don't know what to do," he whispered, glancing at the bedroom door, which was closed. He was in his room, Spike was in the basement. There was no way Spike could hear him, right? No way. Hot air vents be damned.

"I don't think you can do anything," Willow said. "I mean, you didn't lead him on or anything, did you?"

"Um." Xander closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. "No. Not exactly. We've been getting along pretty well, but I figured it was just because he'd stopped being such an asshole."

"Well, that's good. Good for him." She sounded proud, all the way from London. "Maybe you've both grown up."

"Enough to start necking?" he asked morosely, staring at his taped foot. Was foot-taping a turn-on for vampires? Or for him? A moment's panicked self-scrutiny confirmed that no, for him it was just a pain in the ass.

"I don't know what to say," Willow said. "If you're not interested, just tell him and I'm sure he'll understand. He has a soul now."

"Right," he said. "Okay."

"It's really good to hear your voice."

"You too," he said honestly. "I miss you, Will."

"Me too." She gave a little sigh, a sigh that spoke volumes about life in London, life in the adult world, life in general. "So when do you get Sla—"

"One thing," he said quickly, "just before we move on to saner topics."

"Yeah?"

"What if I am?"

"What if you are what?"

He paused, staring at the space beneath the bedroom door. "Interested."

"In what?"

He didn't answer; after a second or two, he heard her long inhale, beamed from satellite to satellite, her mouth to his ear.

"Well," she said at last, as gamely as she'd ever said anything. "Then I guess you should probably tell him that too."








He lay awake the last few hours until morning, twiddling his thumbs, watching the window lighten by degrees. He kept replaying the moment of Spike's hand settling on his knee, the moment of their lips touching. Even now it put a spark in his belly to think of it. He'd leaned forward to meet the kiss. He was no innocent bystander.

And what Spike had said, about there being a way, about thinking they were on it—in retrospect, it was kind of true. It was a weird, jerky, awkward way. It was low on cards and flowers, and high on non-prescription reading glasses, morphine derivatives, and irritation. But it was a way. Kind of. Maybe.

Frustratingly, hypocritically, his body wouldn't let him think it through without input, and by the time his window was pale blue he had a sturdy early-morning hard-on. He'd learned from his last mistake though, so he took it to the shower and dealt with it there, as quietly as he could. Maybe it was morally wrong to think about how Spike's shoulder had felt beneath his hand, or about how Spike's hand had felt on his knee. It was definitely wrong to think about Spike in rumpled, stuffy-smelling sheets, in African light, his ass raised and his mouth wet. Very, very wrong. So wrong he thought his legs might give out.

He staggered downstairs with a wet head, a sore foot, and a dry mouth. He needed sleep and two Tylenol. And a Coke. But first, he needed to talk to Spike.

Who was, conveniently, in the kitchen when he walked in. Sitting at the table with all the blinds drawn, studying the packet of forms from the Council.

"Hi," Xander said, trying to sound like a normal human being. "Listen, about last night—"

"This needs doing," Spike said, holding up the form he was looking at. "Right away."

"Um, okay. But I wanted to say—"

"No," Spike said, with greater urgency, shaking the paper. "This should have been done days ago."

"I thought you said those were stupid."

"They are, most of 'em. But this one's important." He held it out and Xander squinted at it. The bag with the cheaters in it was on the counter behind him, so he grabbed the paper out of Spike's hand and turned back for them.

"Listen, Spike, I wanted to say I'm sorry." He found the bag and slipped the cheaters out, glad of something to do with his hands. "About last night. I was just kind of surprised. But not really. I mean, I've been thinking about it—"

"Read that," Spike said, suddenly at his elbow. Xander jumped and grabbed his chest. Spike didn’t notice. He was stabbing his pointy finger at a dense block of text at the top of the form.

"Jesus," Xander muttered, peering through the cheaters. "Is there some kind of soul warrant I overlooked when I signed on?"

"Worse," Spike said grimly.

"What the…" Xander trailed off, reading as quickly as he could. "Okay, fine, house of Slayers, in locus parenti, yadda yadda…" He paused, frowning, and re-read. Then he re-read again. "What does that say?"

Spike leaned in and squinted too. "'Recidivism.'"

"And that?"

A pause. "'Aggravated assault.'"

Xander nodded. He read the rest of the paragraph, then put the paper carefully down on the counter.

"So what that says," he said, taking the glasses off and turning to face Spike, "is that this is not a Slayer house, this is a..." He raised the paper and squinted at it again. "A juvenile intensive supervision program."

"Yeah."

"Juvie hall."

"Yeah."

"For Slayers."

"Guess those two from Tempe should have been a tip-off."

Xander nodded. "And unless I want to handle six juvenile delinquent superheroes by myself, I need to complete this form and submit it to the London office by—" He glanced at the clock, which read slightly before ten. "Nine o'clock this morning."

"Right."

"Okay." He folded the cheaters and put them on top of the form. "Okay. Got it."

There was coffee in the freezer; on automatic pilot, he headed that way. Behind him, he heard Spike pick up the form again.

"They'll send you someone," he said, sounding as if he were trying to convince himself. "It's just a bloody form. You could say the fax was down."

Xander shrugged. He needed coffee. Without coffee he could go no farther.

When the machine was belching contentedly to itself, filling the room with the smell of life, he pulled a mug out of the cupboard and leaned against the sink. Spike was still reading the form, as if he could make it say something different through sheer force of will. It was dim in the kitchen, and his bare feet were white as chickens. He really was a small guy, Xander reflected. The duster, the big boots, the dye job—all that made more sense now. Spike had probably had the crap kicked out of him a lot in school.

"Anyway," Xander said quietly, as if he were picking up a conversation they'd actually been having. "About last night."

Spike looked up, his expression pinched. "Forget it," he said. "Doesn’t matter."

"What I was going to say, was." Xander took a deep breath. "Um. That thing about the way, and being on the way, I think maybe you weren't totally wrong, there."

Spike gave him a funny look, as if he were trying to foresee the punch line. Xander felt sweat gather on his upper lip.

"I think maybe you were kind of right," he said. "About the way. I mean, I don't think I was really thinking of it like that, but I'm just the crazy blind guy, what do I know?"

"I don't know," Spike said slowly, putting the paper down on the counter and pinning it with one finger. "What do you know?"

"I know I liked that," Xander said, feeling urgent and stupid. "Last night, I mean. I'd do that again and you wouldn't even have to pay me." He had no idea what he was saying.

Spike smiled thinly. "You'd do what again?"

"Kiss you." There was a pause, while Spike seemed to consider that. "Jesus, could you hang me out to dry a little more, please?"

"You don't have to be nice, Harris."

"When have I been nice?" He laughed, a short dry bark. "I'm not nice. I'm nasty. I haven't had sex since the Pleistocene. I'm moments away from humping your leg."

Spike's expression cleared; now he looked interested. "I thought so."

"Well, you don't have to be a dick about it."

"I'm not in love with you, if that's what you're looking for." That was firm, and enough of a non sequitur that Xander realized it was important. Important to Spike, at least. They weren't supposed to be in love, fine. He could live with that.

"I'm not in love with you either," he said, taking the carafe out of the machine and pouring himself a cup of goodness. "I can tolerate you, though. And isn't that what all good relationships are based on?'

"Something like that," Spike said. He crossed the kitchen floor and took the coffee cup out of Xander's hand.

"I'm going to need that back," Xander said. Spike nodded seriously, and kissed him.

It was slow and fast at the same time. Like honey dropping off a spoon, like late afternoon sunlight on the foot of a bed. There, and then gone. But while it was there, Xander's heart leapt up, and his palms found good homes against Spike's ass, and his dick awoke and struggled to break down his zipper. He felt nervous and giddy and horny and unafraid. The eye didn't matter. He didn’t think of it at all.

They were still kissing, pressed to the counter in front of the burping coffee machine, when the knock came at the front door. Spike drew back and glanced that way, then looked at Xander. Up close, his eyes were bluer than blue, clear enough to see through to his soul. His soul looked…worried.

"They're here," Xander surmised, pressing a hand against his hard-on and wincing.

"Third rule of running a Slayer house," Spike said, stepping back and plucking at his own jeans with a grimace. "Don't let them catch you having sex."

"Terrific." He brushed himself down automatically, as if had sex lint on his clothes. The tape on his foot was looking worn and a little grimy. He hadn't shaved. He needed the cheaters. All of a sudden, everything was going too fast. "Listen, is there any way I could convince you to stick around for a while? Just until they decide how they're going to murder me?"

Spike smiled. It was an insinuating smile.

"We're not there yet," Xander said, grabbing his coffee cup and starting for the door.

"No more bloody furniture-building," Spike said immediately, following along behind.

"Done."

"Thank Christ."

Through the frosted glass beside the door, he could see figures jostling on the porch. More than one. Several. He heard a squeal. He stopped walking and swallowed. "Spike."

"Yeah."

Xander just stood there, staring at the shadowy shapes on the porch. Another Faith, another Buffy. And now he was the old one. He'd thought getting old meant you knew more of the answers.

"Go on," Spike said gently, laying a finger on the back of his arm. "Let's see what these ones are like."

For a moment longer Xander stayed where he was, feeling Spike's finger on his skin. Then he stepped forward and opened the door to chaos.

The End